Adjudication

Secretly

Is there anybody out there?

Pansy woke abruptly after midnight, her heart pounding and her eyes wet and burning, an excruciating sense of longing screaming through her. She dreamt of Draco every night, and waking from the dreams where he was happy and shining and alive had become more dreadful than the shock of his murder, for there was always that one second of forgetfulness between dreaming and sleep, that one second where she didn't remember that Draco was really dead, that he was never coming back, that she would never see him again in this world, and this terrified her because Draco had always vehemently insisted that once one dies there would be no afterlife. That's it, he'd liked to say. Heaven's for Muggles, and Muggles are -stupid-.

It was now an entire week since he'd been killed, and there was only one thing that kept Pansy from offing herself -- if there was nothing after death, that meant no Draco; yet, there was no Draco here either. Besides, she figured, maybe she was already dead.

Almost everyone she loved was dead.

She didn't fear the dementor's kiss -- which, she knew, she was slated for sometime this week -- for she viewed it as some kind of tangible representation of what already was: her soul was gone. When Draco's life had bled out in a silent crimson tide, so had hers.

An unexpected wave of nausea rose in her, and she whipped her covers back and half fell, half stumbled from her rock-hard bed and across her cell. She'd started feeling queasy right after dinner the night before. She lunged for the toilet and fell to her knees in front of it, and vomited violently into the bowl. Thing was, she couldn't remember the last time she'd had anything substantial to eat, so she was quickly overcome with dry-heaving. She arched over the bowl miserably, terrified when the nausea didn't abate after several minutes. The last time she'd been sick enough to spew up her guts, Draco had brought her tea of peeled ginger steeped in boiling water served with a lovely sliver of fresh Jamaican sugarcane in the cup.

"Aww, 22621. Did dinner not agree with you, your Majesty? What a damn shame."

Pansy couldn't move; she felt miserably ill. Barely able to turn her head toward the guard now standing at the bars of her cell, she looked at him, and even though all the colour had drained from her face, save a sickly greenish hue, not even a flicker of sympathy showed in his face. She fought down another wave of nausea. "Could you--"

"Speak up, 22621," the guard barked, trailing his wand across the bars; it clanged hollowly, like a strange, lonely xylophone. "I can't hear you."

"I--" Pansy gripped the bowl in front of her tightly, her knuckles fading to white; the nausea was not abating, and her stomach lurched again. Leaning over she spit into the toilet several times, trying to stave off another round of the dry heaves. "I'm sick."

The guard clucked in a way that let her know he was mocking her. "So very sorry, love. S'pose the Queen isn't accustomed to week-old mutton." He drew his wand back over the bars again, giving a snort of laughter when Pansy gagged into the loo again after hearing the word 'mutton.' "'Course maximum security infirmary hours aren't until after breakfast -- that's six hours away. More's the pity, eh 22621?"

"I really think something's wrong," Pansy said weakly. "I've been poisoned . . . "

"Bollocks." She heard the locks turning in her cell's door. "You've not been poisoned. Stomach flu never killed anyone." The guard was in her cell now and he crossed the small area in several quick strides, and hauled Pansy to her feet; she gagged again, but he just laughed. "Doesn't matter. You've nothing to toss up anyway." He marched her across the cell, plopping her down onto her thin, plastic-covered mattress.

Pansy was actually grateful to lie down again, but the miserable nausea was just there. "Take me to Madam Hortense," she groaned, curling into herself. "Take me to Madam Hortense . . . " She almost wept when she heard the locks once again turning. He was undoubtedly savagely happy to leave her here, heaving and alone, just to be an arsehole; however, she lifted her head sideways when she felt him sit down on her bed, by her feet. Warily, she considered him. "What are you doing?"

"It's such a shame Azkaban is so rule-driven, wouldn't you say? So regimented. So scheduled. Imagine -- you're ill, and you can't just pop down to the hospital when the need arises. It's all part and parcel of being a prisoner." He was looking at her, an unreadable expression on his face, and a shiver crawled up Pansy's spine. "You know, 22621, you're the only prisoner here who hasn't made friends with at least one of us guards. Why is that, do you suppose?"

A stab of anger went through her. "Maybe because you lot are a bunch of uneducated Neanderthals? What shall we discuss first, then? Philosophy? Or art history, perhaps? Right, enthrall me with your sophisticated and learned nature."

A shadow passed over his face and he frowned slightly. "It would be to your benefit to work out an arrangement with at least one guard," he said nonchalantly. "Take myself, for instance. Here we sit -- you, ill and in need of medical attention, and me, able to provide you with medical attention, but at present unmotivated to do so. Surely we can find a way to compromise."

Pansy considered him silently; she didn't want to move, to sit up, to respond, and she suddenly felt . . . hunted. "Compromise," she parroted, stalling. "I'll take it under advisement." Just go Just go Just go . . .

He gave a light chuckle. "Oh, no. You don't get to issue the terms. Take it, or leave it."

Her stomach lurched again and her mouth started watering profusely; with a gagging cough, she brought up a teaspoon of frothy bile onto her blanket. "What do you want?" she croaked.

"The question is what do you want?"

"What?" She felt too shitty and nauseated to follow what he was saying.

"What did you ask me to do? Just now, that is?"

Pansy thought dully, trying to lick at her dry lips; her tongue felt like cotton batting. "To take me to Madam Hortense," she said, finally.

"That's right," the guard said, his tone overly congenial, and Pansy's heart began beating with dread. "Maximum triage isn't until after breakfast -- security reasons, you know. But I've the power to do an override if I see the need. You want to see Madam Hortense? Sure. Not a problem." He leaned in to her and she felt his cold fingers slide up her calf. "It could certainly be arranged."

Pansy didn't know what to say, how to respond. She'd never once been in a situation like this, and although she'd certainly heard of pathological coercion, she'd never thought herself weak enough to actually be preyed upon. By anyone.

"Well?"

It occurred to Pansy that it really didn't matter. Nothing mattered without Draco, so why bother taking umbrage? If she could just stop vomiting, she'd be able to stand the rest of her days, for there weren't many remaining, and Pansy was far more comfortable with mental torture than physical. "Sure," she said dully.

"You've made the right choice," he said, a sinister grin snaking across his face. "Oh, the places we'll go." And he crawled up her body to take her by the shoulders. "Come on, then. Sit up." He pulled her upright, shifting away as she gagged again; nothing came up.

The guard stepped closer, straddling her knees, and stared down at her. Slowly he lifted his hands and wove his fingers through her hair, jerking her head back as he squeezed tightly. "Mmm," he hummed, making her skin crawl again. "Don't you have a pretty little mouth . . . " And he reached down to undo his trousers.

She tried desperately to keep her eyes shut the entire time, but he wouldn't allow it. He tugged at her hair viciously, guiding her head, bobbing her up and down his length. He smelt sour and unclean, and he was too thick for her mouth; she thought surely he'd tear her open at the corners of her lips. And then he was going so deep that Pansy couldn't breathe; he'd pulled her face to his groin and deliberately pinched her nose shut, and she couldn't draw in a breathe as he rocked slightly, groaning. Thirty seconds passed and it was literally as if someone had corked her airway; desperately she pushed at his hips, frantic for oxygen, and she felt his fingers tighten in her hair once again, practically scalping her. "Look at me," he rasped, thwapping her painfully between the eyes with a flick of his middle finger. "Yeah, that's right. Look at me, you bitch, and suck my Mudblood cock . . . " Pansy's vision was fading from oxygen deprivation, and shimmering dark spots began to bleed together into a curtain of blackness. "Oh yeah . . . mmm, yeah!"

Abruptly he pulled away and Pansy recoiled instantly, inhaling sharply, but managed to not topple over. Logically she knew she should be offended, aggrieved, but she only found herself appreciating the oxygen filling her lungs. Her nausea surged and she touched the back of her wrist to her mouth, pressing it there. She lifted her watery eyes to the guard, who was zipping up, a cold, hard expression on his face. "Madam Hortense?" she whispered, her stomach giving another violent lurch.

He snorted, and then grasped her by the elbow, drawing her up. "First lesson of Azkaban, 22621," he said, a smug malevolence in his voice. He pulled her closer and turned, forcing her around with him, away from the bed. "Never pre-pay." He shoved her brutally then, sending her back across the cell, and she cried out when she crashed against the hard side of the loo, and a burning sensation seared through her ribs.

"Oh God," she groaned, tears of pain filling her eyes. She sucked in another breath and once again cried out as her sides expanded painfully. "Oh God. Oh God." She looked toward the guard; he was letting himself out of her cell. "Wha--? Don't leave me here!" she cried, her panic exploding in her voice. "No, no, oh God, no, don't leave me here . . . "

"Let it be a lesson learned," he said; the sound of the locks turning for the third time was the most despairing thing she'd ever been subjected to.

"No!" she pleaded, so bloody sick, and now in pain to boot. "You promised!"

"No, actually, I didn't. You just assumed what you wanted from inferences in our conversation." He gave her a long look. "Look, you just need to get used to things around here, is all. You may be thinking that I'm a bloody fucking bastard, but you should really be thanking me. No one else is going to show you the ropes. Oh yeah, your Majesty, I'll take care of you."

As his footsteps echoed down the corridor, Pansy became aware of the residual metallic taste coating her mouth, and suddenly saliva was pooling around her gums again, and she heaved, retching up his come into the toilet water below. It took a full five minutes to stop the vomiting this round; when her stomach finally eased a touch she rested her arms over the open bowl and laid her cheek on the cold porcelain rim. After it finished flushing she watched the ghost of her reflection rippling in the clear water; she swirled her fingertip in the surface there.

Is there anybody out there?

Is there anybody out there?

She thought probably not.

---

"You look like shite."

Pansy looked up across the table at Ron; they were back in the holding cell.

"Seriously, Parkinson. You can't go on like this." When she didn't answer, he continued. "You've got to take care of yourself. Wash. Do your teeth. Brush out your hair, for sod's sake! I know for a fact things have changed in Azkaban -- prisoners are required to bathe . . . " Ron left the fact that this requirement was ostensibly to prevent Chizpurfle, mite, and lice infestations unsaid. A long moment passed; leaning back in his chair, he dug into his robes pockets. "I told you I had something for you." He placed a bag of toffees on the table and pushed it toward her with his fingers.

Pansy's gaze barely flicked toward the sweets; lifting her chin, she turned on her stool and drew up her knees, snubbing the bag on the table; in fact, she covered her mouth with her hand. Ron re-pocketed the toffees and fished around again.

"How about this?" he asked, placing a brand new book between them. He'd asked Hermione for her help in picking out reading material, guiding her as best as he could from his impressions and memories of Pansy at Hogwarts. Unfortunately, 101 British Bitchfight Techniques was now out of print, so they'd settled on Salazar Slytherin: An Unauthorised Biography by Kitty Cauldron, knowing how dearly Pansy had always fancied vicious gossip and outrageous lies.

But she wouldn't even look.

"Okay," Ron said, gritting his teeth. "Maybe tomorrow you'll feel more like reading." He slapped another object down. "Dark detector?" The red yo-yo spun lazily on the steel tabletop -- he'd saved it all these years. Still she said nothing; however, after a long, tense moment, she reached out very slowly and spun the yo-yo one more time, catching the worn, dirty string in her fingers. Ron could tell she was thinking, calculating, and a sudden vision of her hanging from the bars of her cell by the thin string of a yo-yo flashed through his mind, and he clapped his fingers over her own, prying it away. "Sorry, bad choice. No strings," he said.

"You fucking arsehole," she whispered hoarsely, hacked off to be thwarted, and once again she turned away from him. After a moment she dismounted her stool and shuffled stiffly across the small space. Ron's brow furrowed as he watched how laboured her movement was, which wasn't like her at all. Pansy had always been a zippy little sprite, quick and light on her feet. It took her several minutes to lie down on the cold, hard bench carved right from the stone of the island of Azkaban, which jutted from the wall. Naturally, she settled with her back to him.

"All right." God, she was difficult. "I'll just read to you, then. How's that?" Ron licked his thumb and made a pointed effort to shuffle through Pansy's official Ministry file as loudly and as obviously as possible; the file itself was new and crisp, and not very thick. An open and shut case. Drawing the pages up, he folded them under the back of the file, one by one, until he found the document he was looking for. "Dear Draco," Ron read clearly, without pause. "Would it surprise you if I said I've wanted nothing more than to see you succeed, and to be by your side as you realise your full potential? Surely not. I've watched you all your life -- our lives, really -- and I've put all my efforts into helping you in any way I can. Without consideration to anything, other than the following information is something you may desperately need, I offer you the following for your cause. Do with it what you will."

He paused then, to look up at her. He couldn't gauge her expression, as her back was to him; she didn't respond.

"During my time in the castle, I have deduced there is an elusive and secret group, which Headmaster Dumbledore once called the Order of the Phoenix, but which is now called the Brethren -- I've had this confirmed to me by Phineas Nigellus (the greatest headmaster Hogwarts has ever known, whom I am aware is also a distant cousin of yours). The Brethren has an exclusive membership, which I will detail for you in the next section of this letter. The headquarters have gone undetected for many years, owing to the exact location of said headquarters being Unplottable. I can give you the following address: 12 Grimmauld Place. Take note the Brethren's headquarters are protected by the Fidelius Charm; the Secret Keeper, I believe, is Headmaster Dumbledore himself." Ron paused, and looked up from the parchment; she still hadn't moved. "It will disappoint you to learn that Dumbledore survived, which is a ruddy lot better than your Dark Lord managed." He couldn't help it -- he was still bitter and raging inside; yeah, Dumbledore'd survived, but just barely. Even he had his limitations. "He will always survive." He stood and crossed over to where she was laying, and with a great flourish took a seat next to her head. Looking down, he noticed her eyes were still open, and he was moderately gratified that she wasn't feigning sleep. She knew enough about him to understand that being ignored -- feigned, or not -- was a definite hot button for him.

---

Almost a month before, the Brethren had been hit, and hard. A quarter of the members had been viciously slain in a highly synchonised, expertly executed plot that had multiple targets brutally attacked at once. The blitz was so thorough, so unexpected, that the mere idea that it wasn't an inside job was at first incontrovertible. It wasn't until Dobby -- still ever loyal to Dumbledore and Harry -- had come forward with the letter, which he had found under Michael Corner's bloodied body in the upper floor of 12 Grimmauld, after the first wave of attacks while he was being removed to St. Mungo's for triage. Thoroughly blood soaked, the letter had required extensive forensic restoration in which Muggle techniques had actually been employed, as Evanesco and like charms would have removed the blood and the ink, and they had to be able to read it -- it was the only clue available.

"You know Draco Malfoy," Moody had rumbled, his one good eye red and bloodshot from lack of sleep; they'd been up for thirty-nine hours. He'd shoved the restored parchment, protected by an encasement charm, into Ron's hands. "Who wrote this?" Ron'd sat bleary-eyed at his desk, Harry reading over his shoulder. "Well?" Moody clomped around the desk to face them.

Ron and Harry'd looked up at the same time. "Parkinson," they'd said together, noting the scrawled signature at the bottom.

"Yeah, yeah," Moody grumped, rolling his magical eye impatiently. "I see it there. The Parkinsons are a huge family, though. Old E.C.'s got thirteen brothers. You thought you had a touch of overcrowding in the Burrow, lad? It's nothing on the Parkinson clan."

Ron still winced when Moody called him 'lad' -- he was twenty-seven, for sod's sake! "I don't reckon the bloody Parkinson clan's all living in one house though," he said. "Doubt they have a damn mental ghoul in the attic either." Professional ghoul removal cost a ruddy bomb, yeah.

Moody barked out a laugh. "Trust me, son. The Parkinsons have more than ghouls in their attic."

"Have you talked with E.C. yet?" Harry asked, his brow furrowing. "Because . . . " His eyes flicked to Ron; an unspoken understanding passed between them as they held one another's gaze for the smallest of moments: The past is the past. This is now. "Because," Harry continued, speaking slowly, "if the letter's to Malfoy, well it's only logical . . . " He glanced at Ron again.

Ron was examining the handwriting intently. It was choppy and rife with ink spots and drips, almost as if the author had deliberately and painstakingly written with his or her indominant hand. "This isn't Pansy's handwriting, Harry," he'd said, feeling more and more uncomfortable.

"Exactly what E.C. said," Moody noted. "Graphology's determined the letter was written using the right hand. As well, Pansy Parkinson can't be excluded as the letter-writer, based on handwriting samples we've managed to dredge up."

"Pansy's left-handed," Ron countered, realising he was increasingly uncomfortable for he was having to reveal exactly how many trite details about Pansy Parkinson he'd come to know, to recognise intrinsically. It was a topic he refrained from openly acknowledging with, well, anybody, but particularly with Harry. Nine years later it was something they still had never really discussed.

"But look at the style of the writing, Ron," Harry'd pointed out, logically. "It clearly looks like someone wrote it with their wrong hand. See how it's not smooth, not fluid?" He'd looked up at Ron, leaving the conclusion to him. "It's choppy -- like someone was not only using their wrong hand, but like maybe whoever wrote it has, I dunno, some kind of physical limitation?"

"Ah, an excellent observation, Harry," Moody said, rummaging in his breast pocket for a small notebook and a self-inking robin's feather quill he always kept on hand; he made a note.

"Have Pansy and Malfoy been brought in for questioning?" Ron had asked. He reiterated Harry's question. "Have you spoken with E.C. yet?"

Moody didn't answer straight away; he rubbed at a worn spot on his wooden leg with the tip of his wand, an ingrained habit. There was a dipping, smooth groove there, where his wand had carved away the surrounding wood over the years, much like a river patiently coaxes a canyon from the rock. "E.C. insists it couldn't be his daughter." His magical eye roved, meeting both Harry and Ron's gaze. "But for all intents and purposes, the lass isn't exactly behaving like an innocent person would. Kingsley and his crew went to collect her and Draco Malfoy for questioning and found their flat deserted, and deserted in a way that appeared a hasty exit was made. In fact? The place was a damn wreck."

Surprisingly, Draco Malfoy's Ministry file was thinner than Pansy's. Malfoy'd maintained respectable appearances since Hogwarts, completely eluding any obvious or open allegiance to Voldemort. The contact he'd maintained with his Slytherin housemates after school was hardly suspicious, not anymore than, say, Harry or Ron maintaining friendly relations with Seamus, Dean, or anyone else from Gryffindor. Malfoy had few friends he visited with on any regular basis -- just Blaise Zabini, Greg Goyle, Theodore Nott, and Aaron Warrington from the year below them. Surveillance had revealed Pansy favoured socialising with Blaise Zabini as well, when she wasn't with Malfoy; she didn't have any female friends, aside from Millicent Bulstrode, which was odd. At Hogwarts she'd practically had her own coterie.

Harry'd fulfilled the prophecy, of course: Either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives . . . In a surprising turn of events, however, the Death Eaters had continued their activities even after Voldemort's death, and had turned their attentions, and their brutality, to the separation movement, which had always been a pet topic of the more exclusive pockets of pureblooded society. "Imagine their embarrassment, their shame, at the irrefutable revelation of Tom's heritage," Dumbledore had said at a Brethren meeting, several months after Harry's victory. "Undoubtedly their activities arise from their rage at having been duped so thoroughly. If purebloods are legally separated from half-bloods and the Muggleborn, there's less a chance for a repeat of history." Dumbledore'd raised an eyebrow around the table. "Not that they'd ever admit such a thing."

The Brethren worked for integration and equality in the wizarding world. Both Ron and Harry found it a worthy cause, and were proud to be members. Within the past six months there had been a huge influx of Separationist propaganda -- pamphlets, full-page adverts in the Daily Prophet, even social clubs which openly boasted of class differentiation: Purebloods Only was the most obvious post-script, but there were far more subtle attempts at purveying the message through the names of the clubs themselves, such as Ten Generations, Founders Hall, or, creepily, Gemmules.

The violence had started subtly as well, so as to appear random. Just this October past had found Arabella Figg dead in her front yard, seemingly untouched. The police would have called it natural causes if it weren't for one thing: her house had been ransacked thoroughly. Ultimately her death had been chalked up to a Muggle robbery, and it had caused a massive amount of distress amongst the Brethren and the Ministry to have to allow the Yard jurisdiction, for Petunia Dursley, already quite familiar with the Obliviateing powers of the Aurors had penned and posted six letters to The Sun; it'd made the papers before Petunia'd even been interviewed. Tonks had taken her statement. "Oh, I know all about you lot," Petunia had blustered shrilly. "You mean to modify my memory. Well, I'll be having nothing of that. Let the world see the depravity, the abnormalcy, that your kind bring into our fold!"

Arabella's murder remained unsolved to date. It was the first in a string, the latest being Amelia Bones, Susan's auntie.

And then the propaganda had really rained down. It was well orchestrated, they'd give the Death Eaters that much. The pamphlets were attractive, rich-looking. The clubs gave away more goods and services than they took tickets for. There was a boon in ancestral purchases, from family crests, to genealogy kits, to an official pureblood registration book housed, oddly enough, in the Ministry itself. They lured, they culled, they tempted. "Always a new fight," Moody liked to say. "People like getting something for nothing. Damn fools."

Ron often wondered whether these thuggish residuals from the past were even truly passionate for their cause, or whether it was merely a convenient way for channeling their brutality and sociopathy in a less vulgar manner.

---

"Well?" Ron demanded, staring down at Pansy. "Proud of yourself, then? You and your shite husband managed to get a ruddy arseload of really good people killed!" He touched the letter to her cheek, drawing it downward lightly. A white line appeared in her skin, then faded. "It's all right here, Parkinson. How could you have been so stupidly unsubtle?!"

"When . . . " She trailed off. Drawing arms up she folded her hands under her chin and sighed. Ron watched her breathe for a moment, her sides puffing gently, rapidly, like a rabbit's.

"When what?" he prompted.

"Just . . . when's the kiss? Please, just tell me when the kiss is?" She looked up at him, her dark eyes dull and so very not alive.

Fuck, he thought to himself. How'm I going to -do- this? "Few days, I reckon."

"Be more specific."

"Five days. Saturday."

"Is it Monday, then?"

"Yeah."

She looked paler than he'd ever seen her before. Slowly she shifted over, until her back was against the wall, and the next time she looked up at him there was a spark of something there. He wasn't sure what. "Good," she said, and without elaborating she lurched forward and vomited over the side of the bench, down his leg, and onto the floor with an abrupt, sickening splat.

---

"Ronald, you smell vile."

"Yeah, well, you can thank Miss Piss for that."

"The interview didn't go well, then?"

"Nope," he said, undressing right there in front of the Floo. "It was a dismal failure. She gave up nothing." He wadded his clothes into a sodden, smelly wad on the hearth. "I'll wash these later. Do we have anything to eat?"

Luna prodded through the pile of clothes with her wand. "Don't let them sit too long. You know how acidic vomit is -- it could mar the fabric, and this is good wool."

"Yeah, yeah. Say, what've we got to eat?"

"Oh, whatever," Luna said breezily, waving toward the kitchen. "Sandwiches, if you'd like. Or a knish from Mrs. Schwartz -- meat and potato."

"Knish? Oh, hell yeah!" He padded toward the fridge, then rummaged through it. "Excellent." He heated it with a tap of his wand and ate standing in front of the open refrigerator, stuffing his face. "How's your day?" he managed, through his full mouth.

"Lovely!" she smiled. "I repotted flowers instead of working, which was a poor choice seeing as I've a deadline tomorrow." Luna shrugged. "But Hermione's here now, so we're working on it together." Luna and Hermione shared space in the Charms and Transfiguration research department of the Ministry.

"Oh?" He wandered into the next room, calling. "Oi, Hermione?" He found her in the dining room he and Luna never used, books, parchment, ink scattered around her; some things never did change. "Hey," he said, forking jokingly at her crazy hair.

"Hey yourself," Hermione said, too focused on her reading to swat the fork away; Ron took the opportunity to twirl it in her hair, like a plate of spaghetti. "Quit it," she said, finally looking up. "Nice outfit. What's the special-- ew, what's that smell?"

"Parkinson, Pansy," he replied, taking pause to cram the rest of knish into his piehole. "Prisoner 22621, still bitchy, still insufferably horrid, still a drama queen of the highest calibre, and, apparently, suffering from a right wicked case of the stomach flu. She horked all over me during our interview. Figured it was time to call it a day after that."

"Ugh, how typical," Hermione grimaced, rolling her eyes. "God knows every time that bint opens her mouth at all, something foul spews out. Mind you take a bath, then, Ron." She placed her parchment aside. "Did you get any information?"

He shook his head. "Naw," he said, the feeling of frustration still there. "Nothing. Hey, thanks." He paused to look up at Luna as she brought him a lager -- he liked it cold, heathen that he was. Taking a long pull he leaned forward and rested his arms on the table, tapping lightly at the pint glass. "She's . . . bloody hell, it's like she's not even there anymore. Gone. Finite, know what I mean? Aside from her being a heinous bitch, there's nothing to recognise of her from before."

"What, there was ever more to Pansy Parkinson than her being a heinous bitch?" Hermione said, rather cattily. "I doubt it."

Ron considered his lager darkly, ignoring Hermione's dig at Pansy. He'd never told her. Never. He lifted his eyes to Luna; she was watching him neutrally, twisting a strand of her long hair around her finger. "Well, anyway," he continued, "she only wants to talk about Malfoy, and how much she misses the twisted git, and whatthesod ever."

"Figures," Hermione said, already flipping through another book. "Go on, I'm listening."

"I dunno," Ron said. "It's . . . kinda creepy."

"Exactly how do you expect Pansy to be right now, Ronald?" Luna asked lightly. "After all, she'd had Malfoy all her life, and, well, you know how they are." She corrected herself. "Or were, rather. Didn't you tell her that she'd see him again? That would've helped her to feel better."

"I wasn't going to tell her that shite!" he objected. "When a person's dead, they're dead. That's it." He made a slicing motion across his throat to emphasise the point. "There will be no Priori Incantatum, if you get what I'm saying."

"Now, that's really rather closed-minded of you," Luna said, furrowing her brow. "Besides, if you want to achieve your goal of gathering information, you're going to have to work for it. Do whatever it takes." She poked Ron's knee under the table with her toe. "Tell her what she wants to hear."

"That's the thing. She doesn't want to hear about anything at all." He paused. "Well, nothing except Malfoy."

"Then talk to her about Malfoy." Luna made everything sound so simple.

"Now I think it's my turn to spew," Ron said darkly, gazing into his pint. The things he did for his bloody fucking job. "Fine, then. Luna, d'you still have all those boxes of photos?"

"I do. Shall I fetch them for you?"

"You have any pictures of Malfoy?"

Luna fixed her wide blue eyes on Ron. "I've pictures of everyone," she said evenly.

---

"Wait."

The guard turned at Pansy's voice. She'd stopped at Malfoy's cell; the door was slightly ajar. "Cut the shite," he said. "I took you to the bloody surgery, so let's go."

"One night."

He turned again, considering her silently.

"One night. Give me one night in Draco's cell." Pansy swallowed thickly and looked into the guard's eyes. "I--I'll do whatever you want."

"It's not been cleaned yet. Was technically a crime scene, you know."

"I don't care."

"There's no blankets," he noted, a smirk crawling across his lips. "Not even a mattress."

She shook her head. "It doesn't matter." It took every ounce of humility she had, which wasn't much to begin with, to beg. "Please?"

He was looking at her through hooded lids. "Anything I want?"

She took great pause at this. "Within reason."

"Define 'reason'."

"Just tell me what you want."

"I sure did like fucking your mouth."

She couldn't quite manage haughty whilst shackled. "Forget it."

The guard traced a path up her arm with the tip of his wand, giving a snort of laughter. "I might like to bang me a piece o'you, too."

"Fine," Pansy said coldly. "But only from behind."

"Ah, you like it wild?"

She wanted to spit on him. "Not exactly. I just don't want to have to see your beastly face."

He lifted an eyebrow at her. "A shag and a blow job. Take it, or leave it."

"Fine. But no suffocation this time. You have to keep moving. Take it, or leave it."

He was smiling fully now, and he reached down to undo his trousers. "All right. Let's start with--"

"Tomorrow," she said coldly. Never let it be said she was incapable of learning a lesson. "Only tomorrow. And you aren't to bother me until then."

"Well, well, well," he said, letting his hands drop away from his crotch. "Taking charge. I suppose I have to give you credit for being a quick study." He stepped around her and pushed the door to Draco's cell open and led her to the stripped bed. He spared her the torture of his insipid comments as he worked at her restraints, and Pansy stood silently while he undid them. She refused to look at him when he was done, turning her back until she heard the locks turning, locking her in. "Until tomorrow, then," the guard said, and she remained motionless until his footsteps faded down the long corridor, and she heard the heavy iron door at the end of the cellblock echo.

Is there anybody out there?

She couldn't look down, because she'd seen the blackened shadow of Draco's blood on the floor when the guard had led her in, and when she stepped forward there came a faint ripping sound from the floor where her soles came unstuck from the blood as she moved through the dried pool.

She could tell it was enormous, that pool of blood.

She knelt on the hard surface of the stone shelf jutting from the wall -- Draco's bed. When he'd slept here, had he still thrown his arm over his head like he'd always done? When he'd whispered to her at night -- for they'd been the only two prisoners in this cellblock; now she was alone -- had he closed his eyes and imagined their tents on the beaches of Greece, fashioned from Narcissa Malfoy's summer home's window dressings? Did he imagine carving his initials into her warm, sun-kissed skin with the nib of his quill just one more time? The first week they'd been here, he'd whispered to her of the fantastic creatures he'd buy for her when they got out, and of foie gras on water crackers, and tea services, and he'd tease her about her feet. "They're freakishly small," he'd said imperiously, insulting them until she'd sobbed out a weak laugh.

When he'd whispered to her, he'd known she was scared; the grey silence in the wake of his death writhed around her, taunting and bleak. He would have never left her to this.

She wondered if he'd had time to be surprised when Goldstein had slit his throat.

She trailed her fingers up the wall, searching, looking, and scooted closer. The blood there was so fine that she at first missed it, but then her fingers brushed over the light arterial mist that had settled about the cell. Licking her finger, she rubbed at the smooth granite wall until a white line appeared, a pristine streak through the blood, shining and restored. She licked her thumb and repeated the motion, rubbing Draco's blood from the wall. A frantic urge swelled inside her, and hurriedly she pulled off her prison-issue scrub top. She spat on the wall and rubbed furiously with her shirt, ignoring the chill that settled against her skin now that she was clad only in her tank-styled undershirt.

She scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed, as far and as wide as she could reach, the gleaming white granite she coaxed from under the stains of Draco's blood an odd contrast, like the dusty, swathing trails left by an eraser on an otherwise clean blackboard. And when she couldn't reach up the wall any further, she slid from his bunk and down onto the floor, spitting and rubbing her way closer to the dark edges of the dried pool of blood, but when she got there she found she couldn't spit.

She rolled her tongue around her mouth again and again to no avail, and actually tried to blow even a small bit of saliva out, but nothing came. A blistering, white hot anger welled inside her, and she keeled forward slowly. Clutching her gut as her forehead slid across the encrusted, putrefied stain of Draco's blood, her mouth opened in a silent, wordless cry of pain and rage, the stone floor digging painfully into the crown of her head as she rocked, doubled-over. Her diaphragm clenched so fiercely in her chest that she hoped she might never breathe again. Her fingers curled and scraped at the floor, her top abandoned and stained rusty, and she tasted salt and metal when her tears and his blood met.

How could you leave me this way?

I’ve been biding my time
Been so subtly kind
I’ve got to think so selfishly
’cos you’re the face inside of me . . .

I’ve been biding my days
You see, evidently it pays
I’ve been a friend with biased views
Then secretly lust after you

Trying hard to think pure
Bloody hard when I'm raw
You talking out so sexually
'bout boys 'n girls and your friggin' dreams

You had to do someone else
You should've been by yourself
Instead of here with me
Secretly . . .
Secretly . . .

---

Of course Malfoy beat the ever-loving shite out of Ron the next day; Ron didn't know what the sod Pansy had told Malfoy, nor did he care. He didn't even fight back really, thinking perhaps getting the crap kicked out of him by the Ferret was fairly well deserved after what he'd done. It wasn't so much that he gave a fig that Pansy might have been wounded in some way; he knew she'd be okay. It was more that he just didn't do things like that. He didn't behave like that. He'd disappointed himself, conducted himself like a fucking animal. And that, he knew, was the burden he'd take from it all.

"Oh my God!" Hermione exclaimed when he limped back into the tower. "What's happened now?!"

He sunk into one of the puffy chairs in front of the fireplace, not answering. He didn't know what to say. How could he explain? Malfoy kicked the bejeezus out of me. Why? she would ask. Because of Pansy. What about Pansy? she would ask. What happened with Pansy? Looking into her face now, Ron knew he could never tell Hermione about Pansy, and he was so ashamed. He decided to opt for glowering anger. Crossing his arms huffily over his chest, he glared into the fireplace, jiggling his leg in what he hoped was a I'm far too agitated to converse right now manner.

"Let's go to Madam Pomfrey straight away," Hermione continued, fussing about him, touching her fingertips to the blue swelling on his cheek; at least Malfoy had missed his nose, which was still a touch tender from Goyle the week past.

"I--" He didn't know what to do. Again he felt compelled to wear the bruises, for surely he'd earned them. But there was the fact that people would ask after them. What happened? Who did that? Why? "I-- yeah, okay." Ron felt even shittier than before; what a fucking coward he was.

"Come on," Hermione said, pulling him up by the elbow.

---

The following Tuesday Ron had prefect rounds with Pansy. They conducted their duties in uncomfortable silence most of the evening.

"Um," he said, breaking the silence finally. "We're to do the outside and the storage towers up in the furthest spires tonight."

"I know," she said, not looking at him.

"Which one d'you want to take?"

"Outside."

"All right. I guess," he pointed toward the stairs, "I guess I'll do the attics then."

"Fine."

"Um . . . "

She looked at him. "What?"

"So, that'll leave the library, yeah?"

"Obviously," she said snottily. He supposed it was obvious.

"Right. Er, I'll just meet you in front of the library at . . . at--"

Pansy flicked a glance toward her shiny watch. "Forty-five minutes?"

"What time'll that be? I don't have a watch." He looked at her, flushing inexplicably. "Um, yeah. S'pose you know that."

"Of course you don't have a watch," she said, but not unkindly this time. "Nine o'clock, give or take."

"Right." He looked at her questioningly. "You'll be all right out there? It's dark--"

"God, Weasley, I'll be fine." She walked away, dismissing him with a wave of her hand. Pausing, she looked over her shoulder. "Besides, what lurks outside isn't waiting for me. It's probably better I do it anyway." And with that, she disappeared.

Ron didn't so much mind pulling a shift in the Hogwarts attics; they were full of amazing things: antiques, treasures, old magical devices, books, costumes, etc. At the third attic, he encountered a blubbering group of firsties, who'd become lost in the maze of climbing stairwells. Two Slytherins and two Ravenclaws were huddled together, clinging to one another's robes.

"There's ghosts up there!" one of the Slytherins cried, pointing up the stairwell.

"There's ghosts everywhere in this castle," Ron said, ushering them safely to the seventh floor landing.

"Sarah's still up there!" a Ravenclaw girl worried, glancing back up the staircase.

"And Eva, too!" said the other Ravenclaw.

"And so's--" one of the little Slytherins made to speak.

"All right, all right," Ron held up his hand, cutting the little squawkboxes off. "I get it. There's firsties lost in the attics. I'll find 'em, but you lot are past curfew, so get on, yeah?" He shooed them toward the stairs. "You've all got five minutes to be in bed."

"But--" One of the Ravenclaws tried to object, gesturing frantically toward the stairs leading up to the attics.

"Go on," he said, perhaps a tad too gruffly. "Five minutes." He ignored the Git prefect! one of them bunged at him on their retreat, and sauntered back upstairs. He found Sarah the firstie weeping inside a suit of armour.

"I don't even know how I got in here!" she sobbed, as he released her.

"Nevermind that," Ron said, directing her toward the stairs, explaining the proper directions to her. "Just get off to bed. Which way did the others go?"

"Eva wanted to try on fancy hats, that's all I know!" Sarah said before trotting down the stairs.

"What about the others?"

"I don't know!" Her voice was growing fainter. Dumb firsties, he thought, shaking his head. Didn't know their arses from their armpits. He checked two attic rooms, finding nothing. After letting himself into the third room, he turned and instantly rolled his eyes.

"Aww, for sod's sa--" He stopped, though, for he recognised the Mirror of Erised in that instance. It hadn't been here the last few times Ron had patrolled this area of the castle, and he realised what a major pain in the arse it must be for Dumbledore to keep having to move the ruddy thing about, to keep people away from it.

Pansy's cousin Catherine was sitting cross-legged in front of the mirror, her hands folded loosely, unconsciously, in her lap, and raw, unfettered longing was plain upon her face as she stared into its reflection. Just over the mirror's ornate frame, the Bloody Baron floated, silent and dreadful, keeping watch.

Noiselessly, Ron stepped up behind her, glancing into the mirror. For a split second he saw the image of Catherine's deepest desire: a vision of Catherine herself, standing alone, and tall, and grown. Then the image dissolved and Ron recognised his own image was beginning to form in Erised's smoky depths. Quickly he stepped away, not wanting an ickle firstie to be privy to his heart's deepest desire, and, quite frankly, deathly averse to seeing what his heart's desire might actually be at that particular juncture. He didn't want it displayed anywhere, for anyone to see.

"Parkinson?" he asked rather quietly, trying not to startle her.

She didn't answer right away. "What?" she finally said, in a lonely voice.

"Come on, let's go. You don't want to get mixed up with that mirror." He moved over to her side, just out of the mirror's frame, and looked down at her. "It's past your curfew."

She didn't respond.

"Catherine," he said, trying to command a more serious tone. "Seriously. Come on. You can't stay here. Besides," he said, nudging at her, the toe of his trainer disappearing into her robes, "it's not real. So don't get caught up in it, yeah?"

She trained her enormous dark eyes on him. "I know it's not real."

"Then get up, and let's go." He repeated himself. "You can't stay here."

Thank God she stood then; Ron was surprised she didn't tell him to sod the hell off. She looked up at the Baron. "Are you coming, Sir?"

Of all the Hogwarts ghosts, Ron most hated the Baron. Not only for the obvious reason that he was Slytherin's ghost -- which was, of course, reason enough -- but also because he was incredibly sinister-looking. The Baron gave Ron the shivers indeed. "Aren't you scared of ghosts too?" he asked Catherine. "All your friends were whinging like babies: There's ghosts up there, oh wah!" he mocked lightly, imitating their childish whinging.

"No," she said haughtily, pulling a superiour face. "I'm not afraid of ghosts, you ruddy dumbarse! What a stupid thing to suggest!"

Now this was more like it. "Well, you ought to give your little friends lessons, then, on not being afraid of ghosts." He ushered her out of the room, making a mental note to tell Dumbledore to move the mirror again. "Also? No need to grow up so fast, Parkinson, my mum always says. You'll bloody well get there eventually." He felt a cold rush of air against the back of his neck as the Baron passed them by, stopping to float against the ceiling, watching still.

"Yes, well, your mother also bought you ancient dressrobes with lace, so you'll understand if her advise is bollocks to me."

He snorted. "Go to bed, Parkinson," he said, pointing toward the stairwell. "Now."

"Fine," she sulked, frowning. "But just so you know? I always find the mirror again. Oh, and Eva's in the fifth room down trying on Victorian dressrobes." With that, she spun on her little heel and pranced down the stairs, singing Weasley Is My King at the top of her lungs, the Bloody Baron drifting along after her.

"The little shite!" Ron groused to himself, making toward the fifth attic room.

---

Pansy showed up outside the library at a quarter past nine, smelling of the outdoors in that stark, nighttime sort of way, and was not at all talkative, which Ron couldn't decide whether it was good or bad. There was a variety of things the prefects did to help Madam Pince shut down the library for the evening, so Ron went for her ring of keys while Pansy headed back toward the Herbology section, where she always picked to start in.

"Madam Pince? Could I get the keys?"

"Oh, yes, yes." She fished them out of her pocket and handed them over. She seemed in quite a hurry. "I'm having to leave early, Mr. Weasley. There's an application for a librarians conference I mean to get off in the post tonight. I thought I had another week, but, alas, it must be postmarked tomorrow. Will you and Miss Parkinson please return the keys to my desk when you're done with your duties?"

"All right," he said, taking them.

"And lock the main doors behind you."

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'm off, then. Goodnight, Mr. Weasley."

"'Night," he said, watching her leave.

He checked the loos, the Muggle Studies section, straightened a billion chairs, and made sure the Restricted Section was locked up tight. With his wand lit, he reached through the bars of the gates enclosing the Restricted Section and shined it about; whenever he did this it seemed as if the books were looking back at him, their spines glittering with life, with secrets. It creeped him out; he never liked patrolling the Restricted Section at night.

The lights in all but one section of the library had been dimmed. At least she's not slacking off tonight, he thought, going to find Pansy. She was back in the stacks, re-shelving a pile of books that had either been dumped there by a lazy sod, or had fallen from the shelves above. Ron leaned against the shelf and watched her.

She was short, so she had to come down from her stepladder each time she shelved a book, for she couldn't reach them just by stooping alone. After several rounds of her doing this -- stepping down, grabbing a book, climbing back up onto the stool, shelving the book -- he stepped up and scooped several volumes and began handing them to her silently, and she accepted them without argument and shelved away.

He felt like he ought to say something, to acknowledge what had happened during their Herbology practical. He felt he was required to apologise, but he wasn't sure if he was sorry, and if he was sorry, it wasn't because of anything having to do with her on a personal level. Yet it had continued to bother him that he'd done what he'd done, that he'd acted that way, and he figured she was judging him as well, again not because she was likely offended by his actions, but because he was a Gryffindor, and Gryffindors were noble and good, and what he'd done was neither noble nor good. It had only felt good, and that was merely pure animal instinct and not anything more.

He collected the last three books. "Uh--" He cleared his throat nervously.

She turned her head and looked at him without speaking.

"Parkinson?"

"What?"

"Uh . . . " He looked at her, held her gaze, willing her to get the message without him having to actually speak the words: I shouldn't have done that. Naturally, she wasn't going to let him off that easy, not like Hermione or Harry might. It's okay, Hermione or Harry would've said at this exact moment, were it either of them he was facing. It's okay. And that would have been that.

But, not Pansy. No way she'd let him off.

"Er . . . " Still she said nothing, but only looked at him, and he fought the urge to strangle her and flee. He rubbed at the back of his neck, an ingrained habit, and glanced away. "About Herbology, yeah. Right. Um?" He looked at her again, wanting to just drop dead. This was horrible, but it needed to be done. "It's just that, you know, I've never . . . " He trailed off, and a surge of anger at his utter inability to express himself welled up. She shifted, book still in hand, and Ron let his eyes look at anything but her face -- her straight, dark hair. Her black velvet headband. The silk, knotted cords of her robe clasps. Silver and green shimmered in his periphery, swam everywhere, colouring his world just for that moment. She inched forward and he caught a glimpse of her pink knee peeking out from under her robes, almost hidden between her skirt and stocking. He met her gaze again and found her regarding him openly, curiously, and her unguardedness burned straight through him. "Um? What I mean to say is--" She cocked her head, prompting him silently to continue. He was quiet for a full minute, paralysed. The front of her robes brushed against his as she shifted again, closer to him, and then she was fingering the clasps holding his robes shut, touching the threadbare cotton cording there, and his heart started to race. "I--" Her hands moved up to his face, and he was shocked as she touched him gently there, as if she were memorising his features. "I shouldn't've done that," he said finally, blurting it out. "I shouldn't've done it. I shouldn't've done--"

Pansy was kissing him then, cutting him off, and Ron felt his breath catch in his throat, for it was a good kiss, warm and soft, and then his brain melted and he nipped into her, once again catching her bottom lip in his teeth, and then they were a hot tangle of tongues, and her arms were around his neck, and his were around her waist, and then they were on the floor writhing against one another.

"Holy shite," Ron moaned, grinding into her, through his trousers, through her knickers, and his erection throbbed, hot and heavy. He fumbled and shrugged off his robes, and she wiggled free of her own underneath him, and tore off her tie and unbuttoned her blouse. "Yeah," he muttered, "I want to see you." And then her body emerged, and Ron bit down on her nipple right through her bra, thrusting so hard against her he thought he might actually succeed in fucking her right through the layers of their clothing, and her hands were moving everywhere, pulling his shirt free from his trousers, weaving his tie through her fingers, touching his face, his neck, his hair.

"What'd'you want?" she breathed into his ear, nipping at the lobe there, tonguing gently.

He buried his face in the crook of her neck, sucking here skin there. Fuck, it felt so good rubbing and grinding against her, and he gave a shuddering, muffled groan when she drew up her leg, opening herself up to him further. He slid his hands under her skirt, grazing his fingers across her, and for the second time in a week, he found himself tugging her knickers down; reaching behind him, he brought her leg down so he could get them completely off, and when he'd tossed her knickers aside, he pushed up her skirt, bunching it over her belly, and looked down at her, drawing in a shaky breath. "Holy fucking shite," he repeated. She was moving restlessly, grasping frantically at him, and he trailed his fingers up the inside of her thigh and slid them against her, and her mouth fell open slightly and she made a noise.

"Tell me what you want," he said, circling there.

"Um, that's fine, actually," she squeaked breathlessly, and then she moved back against him, and he slipped and slid his way around her until he made her come hard, and when she cried out and he felt her throbbing, he realised he didn't even know what the fuck he was doing, but he'd gotten her off and good, and that same animalistic urge took over him again; he couldn't get his trousers undone fast enough. He pulled her against him, and he felt himself tingle as he settled into her.

"I want to fuck you," he breathed raggedly into her ear, holding onto her head so that her chin was resting on his shoulder, buried in the wool of his jumper, and his fingers were woven tightly through her hair. "I just want to fuck you . . . "

"Lemme take off my skirt," she said, her voice low and faraway.

"No," he said sharply, feeling his orgasm coiling. "Leave it on. I gotta do this . . . "

And she let him.

He felt her feet snaking up the backs of his legs as she spread herself open under him, and he ground against her wildly until he felt himself catch in some kind of hot, wet space; he thrust forward and fucked his virginity into oblivion with five rough, ragged jerks of his hips. He arched up when he came, and couldn't help calling out, for it felt so fucking brilliant. And then they were kissing hot and deep and his fringe fell in a feathery, crimson gash over her pale forehead, and for the first time Ron noticed Pansy had a light smattering of freckles across her nose too.

He came to regret a great many things over the course of his lifetime, but oddly this was never one of them.