Adjudication

Smoke On the Horizon

"This is absurd, Pansy," he'd said, moments before. "Oi, you reek, summabitch!" He stood and shrugged his Auror robes off and folded them carefully into quarters before draping them over the back of the chair. Briskly he rolled up his sleeves and rubbed his hands together in a show of mock glee. "Fine. We'll do it my way this time." And with that he plucked her right off the bench -- a stinking, festering ball of pure rage -- and tucked her under his arm at his side, as if he were carrying his broom to the Quidditch pitch. "Let's go."

"Put me down, you cocksucking, motherfucking sonofabitch!" She struck out blindly, writhing angrily.

"Jesus, Parkinson, language. For sod's sake, I think you're attracting flies." Steadfastly he marched down the corridor, the two surprised guards who'd been stationed outside the interrogation room scampering after them. "Where's the staff washroom?" Ron barked at them, wincing as Pansy's teeth sunk into his forearm. "Knock that off, would you?"

"It's just down there, sir, but prisoners aren't allowed-- oof!" Pansy had managed a kick to the guard's chops. "Bloody hell," he winced, clutching at his jaw. "You can't take her there, sir!"

"Bollocks, I can't," Ron said, marching onward; he'd managed to thread his fingers through the hair at the nape of her neck; as she'd neglected brushing it for yonks, there was a lovely, nice rat's nest there for him to grab onto, and he clenched it viciously, disabling her from snapping at him with her teeth. "Make no bones about it, I'm lodging a complaint with the Minister of Prisons tomorrow, for you lot aren't providing even the most basic care to this prisoner."

"What'd'you care 'bout that?" the other guard objected gruffly. "She's just a bloody fucking criminal, mate, up to no good!" He put his hand out, practically growling. "Ain't no poor soul who's fallen into Azkaban by mistake."

Ron wheeled and Pansy gave a yelp as her arse hit the wall. "What a load of bullshite," he thundered, offended by their attitudes, thinking of Sirius so long ago. "In this great country of ours, prisoners are afforded the benefit of the doubt until proven otherwise, yeah? Even when it seems pretty fucking obvious they're here for good reason. Now I'm taking this prisoner for a bath, so if you'll kindly step aside, perhaps I will rethink including your enlightening comments in my report for tomorrow." The guards fell silent and stepped back, regarding him resentfully, and Ron seriously wondered if the preceding sentence had genuinely come from him. It sounded so . . . official. "Much obliged," he said stonily, turning around to walk to the washroom.

He entered the room and locked the door behind them, Pansy still under his arm; she managed to bite him again while he was using his wand. "Stop it," he said shortly. He marched across the room and tossed her straight into the large tub in the centre of the bath; as he watched her disappear into the water, he folded his arms over his chest, grimly satisfied.

She came sputtering to the surface, about as happy as a swirly cat in the loo. "Fuck you," she screeched, striking out for the side of the tub. She clutched at it, making to pull herself out. Without compunction, Ron stomped on her fingers; she fell back into the tub.

"Wash," he commanded, conjuring a bar of soap, shampoo, and two towels. "Right now."

"I won't!" she tantrumed, standing miserably in the water, fists balled at her sides. Already she was starting to shiver. Ron flicked his wand again, until steam began to rise from the water.

"Wash!" he said again. She didn't budge. "For sod's sake, Pansy," he hissed, gritting his teeth. He regarded her a bit longer, and then sighed, resigned. "Fucking shite." He undressed down to his shorts and lowered himself into the hot bath, and waded toward her. "Come on," he said, quietly this time, taking her arm. "Come on."

It was hard to peel wet clothing off a person, especially when they weren't particularly helping in the process, but he managed to get her undressed down to her bra and knickers before stopping. "I'm not doing your underthings," he said. There was a split second where he thought she wasn't going to help, but then she hunched down and fiddled under the water, and suddenly her knickers were floating on the surface of the water, and then she was reaching behind her back. "Toss them over there," Ron directed her, pointing. He swam sideways and collected the shampoo for her. "Here." When she just looked at him numbly, he flipped the lid open and squeezed an overly generous amount onto the top of her head; it dribbled over her crown and down the length of her hair like a cracked egg. "Go on, then. Wash." He was vaguely elated when her arms lifted tentatively, and then her fingers scrubbed into her scalp. "Very good," he said, and tread backwards until he felt the side of the tub against his back; he stretched his arms out along the side of the pool, clutching at the lip, and kept an eye on her.

He was viewing her clinically, objectively. She was still incredibly petite, but the overt youthfulness was gone from her body. She'd filled out in the past ten years, the lean, coltish quality her limbs had once had now fully transformed; she was nicely curvy and well-proportioned, and of course her face had matured into adulthood, and her features suited her. When he was positive she was going to follow through with the bath, he eased himself from the tub, lifting himself backward to sit on the side of the pool, and leaned sideways to collect his wand before standing. Drying himself and his shorts with a pair of quick charms, he pulled his trousers back on, and then stooped down for his socks and shoes. He made for one of the benches to the side of the tub, still watching her as he pulled them on and worked the laces, and he thought maybe her face looked rather peaceful. Not many people were impervious to a well-timed, hot bath, Pansy Parkinson not withstanding. He reached for his tee-shirt and pulled it on, then his buttondown, tucking them both neatly back into his trousers.

"Don't forget to wash your bits," he said, disbursing Molly's favourite bathtime advice.

She managed a withering look. "Thanks for that amazing tip."

"And you'd better shampoo twice, I reckon. Your hair's likely a bloody petri dish by now." He thought she'd tell him to sod off, but she surprised him by speaking normally.

"Have you got any conditioner?"

He conjured some straight away, encouraged by her sudden request. "Right here."

"Can I have it?"

"Yup." He tossed it into the tub. "Look, I'm just going to make some notes while you finish up, all right?" He looked at her for a long moment. "You don't have to rush particularly."

"All right," was all she said, and Ron turned his attention to his notebook, trying to make sense of the jumbled events he desperately needed to somehow piece cogently together.

---

He let her stay in the tub for over an hour, but finally his time constraints intruded. He was expected back at the office before the end of day, and he had hours of paperwork ahead of him to boot. He stretched and rose from the bench, pocketing his quill and notebook. "Pansy, time to get out."

"Just a couple more minutes?"

"'Fraid not," he said, reaching for the towel he'd left on the floor; he unfurled it with a snap. "Come on." With their history he didn't necessarily feel the need to avert his eyes as she lifted herself from the tub, as one might exit a swimming pool. Her feet made light slapping sounds as she padded over to him. Instinctively, he put the towel over her front and turned her by a touch to her shoulder to wrap it around her; something caught his eye. "What the--" He wiped at her lower back, clearing the suds clinging to her skin away.

A dark, angry series of black and blue streaks wrapped up her side from the base of her spine, like someone had drug their fingers through heavy indigo chalk dust, and then up and over her pale skin.

He knelt down, reaching behind her for the other towel he'd conjured before, and wiped at her backside. As her bruises emerged, Ron was stunned. They were in various shapes and state of healing; some were deep and purple and blue, others faintly yellowish-green. Some looked like the impressions fingertips might make when someone was-- "Who did this to you?" he asked abruptly, turning her again, and looking up at her.

She stared down at him dully and just shook her head.

He stood again. "Who did this to you?" he repeated, remembering with a jolt the lumbering, slow way she'd moved across the interrogation room the day before.

Carefully she wrapped the towel around her body. "Do you think you could get me extra knickers to keep in my cell?" she asked. "I like to change them daily, you know. Any civilised person would."

He rolled his eyes at this. Nevermind the fact she hadn't washed in a bloody month, likely. "Don't do this," he warned. "Don't avoid my question! Who's hurt you like this?"

She looked at him for a long while. "I'm not telling you," she said finally, and then paused. When she spoke again Ron could hear the forced tone in her voice, as if she were convincing herself of her next words more than anybody else. "Besides, I'm all right with it."

"Okay, that is hands down the most outrageous lie you've ever told," he said, poking his finger into her shoulder. "And that's saying something. Give me a sodding break, Parkinson! If anyone'd ever laid a hand on you at Hogwarts, you'd've carved their arse like a roast beast and served them up to the high table for dinner!"

"That was then," she said, turning away, and he was sure he saw her shoulders sag a touch. "This is now."

Ron didn't know what to say, exactly. "This is now? What d'you mean by that?"

"Nothing spectacular. Just . . . this is now."

---

"Well, you smell better anyway," he noted. They were back in the interrogation room, and Pansy was sitting across from him, her hands in her lap. "Are you peckish for anything?"

"No."

"Stomach's better, though?"

"Madam Hortense cleared it up straight away, yes," she said, looking at him.

"Fancy a sweet?"

"No."

"You love sweets."

"I don't want any goddamned sweets, I said!"

Ron reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a photograph. Slapping it onto the table, he pushed it across the steel top towards her. "So . . . was he a fifth year in this photo, or a sixth?" He sat back and watched her reaction.

"Oh . . . " she breathed, touching her fingers to her bottom lip as she reached with her other hand to pull the picture toward her. "Oh," she said again. "He's smiling. He hated smiling for photographs." And then her shoulders were shaking and she hunched over, curling into herself.

"Tell me about Mal-- Mal -- " He took a deep breath, cursing silently to himself. When he spoke again, he'd attempted to adopt his most cordial tone, so as not to make Pansy suspicious. "Tell me about Draco," he said, fairly neutrally.

She looked at him through her tears. "You tell me about Draco!" she spat, suddenly seething. "What'd'you know about Draco? You don't care about him!"

Crap. She wasn't going to buy it. He leaned forward. "All right," he said, as patiently as possible. "What do I know about Draco? Draco wasn't marked, for one thing."

"How do you know that?" she asked, clearly not thinking logically.

"Were you strip-searched, photographed, blood-sampled, spit-sampled, swabbed, poked, and prodded, and plucked for scalp and pubic hair samples when you arrived in Azkaban?" he asked glibly.

"Obviously," she said, warming under the humiliation of the memory.

"Well, so was Mal-- Draco," Ron said, raising an eyebrow. "Surely you know in a body search bloody thorough enough to topographically map an arsehole, the Dark-fucking-Mark wouldn't exactly go unnoticed, yeah?"

She sighed then. "No, he wasn't marked."

"Was he a Death Eater anyway?"

She refrained from responding.

"You're not marked either," he said, giving her a hard look.

She turned the photograph over in her hand. "This was fifth year," she said stonily, and tossed it back at him.

"What about this one?" He put another down onto the table.

"Um." She regarded it, turning it around so it was rightways up to her. "Um." Ron could see how hard she was working at not totally breaking down; she closed her eyes for several moments, and her sanity was clearly hovering around her, circling and diving erratically like an invisible swarm of gnats. "He's-- he's twelve there."

"So he was a second year," Ron confirmed, remembering the disastrous slug incident with a wave of irrational embarrassment. Fecking dumb, piece-of-shite Spellotaped wand.

"Yes."

"What's your first memory of Draco?" he asked, thinking he'd catch her off guard.

"How he tasted," she said, and Ron could see her swallowing thickly. "His taste." She glanced at him miserably. "Not like that," she clarified, almost primly, her eyes shining again. "We were just babies." She looked at him then, a strange mixture of defensive haughtiness and guilt. "I was an early teether, you know."

The idea of Pansy gumming madly on Malfoy's evil baby toes didn't seem much of a stretch to him, to be honest. "What's your favourite memory of Draco?"

She shook her head. "I'm not telling you that," she said, turning away. "It's private."

"Know what mine is?" he asked, throwing down another photograph of a white, tumbling blur. "Draco Malfoy, the amazing, bouncing ferret."

She flicked a cold glance his way. "And his of you? Your dress robes fourth year," she said waspishly, a bit of her former self seeping forth. "Methuselah. He absolutely loved the look of sheer humiliation on your face that night. He thought it suited you fully."

"Methuselah's still around, you know," he said, ignoring her unpleasantness.

"I'm sure," she sniffed, hoisting her chin. "Fossilisation is typically permanent."

"Oh, no," he said blithely. "Methuselah's as soft and as clean as the day my Mum made him."

"Him?" she asked. "How can a cloak have a gender?"

"Because I'm a he, and Methuselah is mine, and I say so."

"That's the dumbest reasoning ever!"

Ron threw another picture onto the table. "Methuselah'll be crushed to hear you don't approve. What about this picture?" he asked. "Do you remember this?" She froze, and for a moment Ron almost felt guilty for what he was doing to her emotionally. Almost.

"Why are you doing this?" she whispered, picking up a picture of her and Draco at the Yule Ball. "Where are you getting these?"

"I've my sources." Oh, did he ever.

---

"Creevey?" Ron had called out the day before, the bell on the photography shoppe door tinkling lightly as he pushed his way in. "Oi, Creevey!"

Colin popped out from behind the curtain leading to the back of his photography shoppe, where the portrait studios were, and his darkroom. "Hey," he said easily, wiping his hands on his jeans before extending one to shake Ron's. "All right, Ron?"

"Yeah, good," Ron said, pulling out a chair from the viewing table to the side of the front door. "I need your help, though."

"My help?" Colin looked like Christmas had come early. "God, yes! Absolutely! What can I do? Whatever you and Harry need, Ron, just say the word, and I'm there--"

"Whoa," Ron said, unable to resist smiling in the face of Colin's pervasive enthusiasm. He put up his hand. "Slow the boat down, tiger. Deep breaths. I just need to know if you have an archive from Hogwarts? Maybe just some candid shots you took while we were there?"

"Oh, you betcha, Ron!" Colin beamed, turning on his heel. "Have I ever! I'll get them -- it'll just take me a minute here."

Half and hour later Ron was enclosed in a tower of boxes; Colin'd built a fortress of storage around him, and when Ron next heard him shuffle out from the back room, he knocked vigourously on the wall of cardboard. "Oi, Creevey! Give a bloke an emergency exit, would you? You got enough crap here, mate?"

"Who're you looking for in particular, Ron?" Colin asked brightly, directing boxes around with his wand, letting Ron out.

"Draco Malfoy."

Colin halted. "Draco Malfoy?"

"Draco Malfoy," Ron confirmed. "Look, I'm sure you probably don't have any. Totally understanda--"

"Oh, I've tonnes," Colin said, still elated to be of help.

"You've tonnes of pictures of Malfoy? What the sod?"

Colin regarded him seriously, the smile fading from his face. "Don't you get it yet, Ron? Pictures are what I do." And then he was all smiles again, sorting and opening boxes with a practised efficiency. "Let's see . . . Slytherin, your year . . . Slyther-- here we go!" He extracted a pile of boxes from the main one. "Malfoy, Draco. Yes, here you go." He handed Ron a heavy box.

Ron opened the box; it was chock full of photographs. He looked at Colin like he'd started juggling babies. "These are all of Malfoy?!" he questioned, incredulous. "Holy crap!"

"Malfoy was actually fairly photogenic," Colin said, shrugging. "I've pictures of everyone. Here," he said, pushing a second box at Ron. "Here's Pansy Parkinson. I know you're working on her case, and there's pictures of her and Malfoy together in here -- maybe it'll help?"

"Don't make me spew, Creevey! Malfoy was not sodding photogenic," Ron said, standing and brushing off his trousers, and then accepting the second box Colin was offering. He extended his free hand. "Seriously, thanks, mate. These'll come in handy for sure."

Colin clutched onto him and pumped arm enthusiastically. "Excellent!" He showed Ron to the door. "Hey, how's Harry, then?"

"Harry's good, yeah."

"All right, then? Will you tell him I said hello?"

"I would, but the restraining order's still in effect. Remember, there's to be no third-party contact!" He almost felt guilty at Colin's stricken look; good-naturedly he cuffed him on the arm. "I'm having you on, Creevey! Kidding, kidding . . . "

"There's not really a restraining order, is there?"

"No, mate. I'm just being an arsehole."

"Oh," Colin said, relieved; he smiled cheerfully. "Right, then! Let me know if you need anything else, all right?"

"Shall do."

---

Luna had quite a stash of photographs of Malfoy herself. Ron'd looked at her quizzically. "What'd'you have all these for?"

"Oh, I crushed on Draco Malfoy during school," she'd said, waving her hand dismissively.

He blinked. "Excuse me?"

"What?"

"But, I thought-- but Hermione always said you fancied--"

"Who, you?" Luna asked, smiling a bit slyly. "Well, I did fancy you, of course. Yet, there was something utterly fascinating about Draco Malfoy."

He couldn't believe he was hearing this! "What?"

"What?"

"What the sod?!"

"Ronald," she soothed, squeezing his hand. "It was a long time ago. Draco Malfoy was the type of boy who girls like to think about in class, and wonder what it might be like to snog him, or have him pay attention to you." She nodded sagely, and snuggled up to him, resting her head on his shoulder. "You know, the kind of boy who didn't give two shites about anything, so when you saw something he did notice, you wondered endlessly why that particular thing was special. And then you wondered if maybe you could be special in that way too, if you could just figure out what the secret was exactly."

"Now, why would you want to do that?" He ran his fingers through the soft hair at her temple and kissed her forehead gently, feeling protective.

"Oh, I don't know. Girls can be strange. Every girl occasionally likes to fantasise that she might be the one to make the bad boy say nice things."

"Why don't girls just want to hear nice things from nice blokes?"

"Sensible, yes?"

"Crazy bird," he said, smiling slightly.

"I don't know . . . Why'd you take up with Pansy Parkinson?" she asked rhetorically, shrugging again. "You blokes are the same as us girls."

He snorted. "I took up with Pansy Parkinson because she let me!" he objected, avoiding her eyes. "I was tired of wanking!"

"Oh, pish," she said. "That's not your style. You wouldn't take up with any girl just to shag."

Luna was right. "Still," he said, "she did let me."

"So? I let you too." They stretched out on the sofa, Luna's photos of Draco abandoned to the coffee table. She rucked up his tee shirt in the back and rubbed him there lovingly; he relaxed into her touch, closing his eyes. "Is Pansy okay?" she asked, after a moment.

"No," he said, simply.

"She was a crazy little nutter, she was."

"You can say that again." Who was he to argue?

"I can see what Malfoy saw in her. What you saw in her." Ron remained silent, so Luna continued. "Pansy was very exuberant. Also? She didn't give two shites what others thought of her. Oh, to have that gift of freedom, yeah? She was clever and hedonistic and loud and demanding -- she took what she wanted."

"Too right," he said vehemently.

"I'll bet she was a wild shag."

Ron smiled into her hair. "Yeah, she was."

"Wilder than me?"

He pulled back and considered her, gazing seriously into her clear blue eyes. "Yeah, in a way, but she was the first, you know? But I never felt with her like I do with you, and even though, you know, shagging was, oi, fucking crazy back then--" He shook his head. "--it's not like I'd ever go back."

Luna smiled and pulled him close. "I know you wouldn't," she said, not at all fazed by his honesty. "Pansy really loved Draco. You could always see that. Even when we were small."

"Yeah, I know she loved him."

"She still does, obviously," Luna said, giving a contented sigh. She was quiet for several moments. "She must be in a terribly awful lot of pain."

"Yeah," he conceded, "she is."

"You are helping her, right?"

"I'm trying."

"I don't mean just do your job," Luna explained patiently. "Help her."

"I don't know how," he protested, lifting his hand from her back in a helpless gesture.

She slid her hands up the front of his chest, under the soft cotton of his tee. "It'll come to you," she said, tipping her head up to kiss him. "Help her find herself again."

"Yeah?" he asked, brushing his lips over hers affectionately. "What's to find?"

"Perhaps it's time to suss that out, Ronald. If you didn't think there was something, you wouldn't have kept that High Priestess card all these years."

He furrowed his brow; sometimes Luna was just too spot-on for comfort. "Yeah?"

She rubbed the tip of his nose with her own. "Yeah," she said, a smile playing at her lips.

---

"You know?" Ron said, the next day, watching Pansy carefully. "We never finished reading your letter aloud."

Pansy was eating like there was no tomorrow. He'd brought every possible edible he could recall her ever mentioning -- taffies, chocolate, rare roast beef, baguettes with butter and mayonnaise, omelets made from egg white, black coffee, and butterscotch biscuits -- and inexplicably she had accepted his offering. Bribery's more like it, he thought, watching her stuff her face; however, with her stomach flu cured, it was encouraging to him to see she was interested in food at all. "I'm sure you've memorised it, so no need for recitations on my account," she said, talking through a mouthful of sandwich, inadvertently projecting several crumbs onto the tabletop. "D'you have any jam?"

"Oh, reading to you's no skin off my back, Parkinson," Ron said, ignoring her request for condiments. "Lessee, where'd we leave off? Ah, yes. The part where you name Dumbledore specifically." He gave her a pointed look. "12 Grimmauld Place belonged to the Black family, Draco. As you may know, with your Aunt Bellatrix once again incarcerated and your Aunt Andromeda deceased, your mother should be heir to this property, as Sirius Black was the last of his family. Sirius Black is a criminal, though, and has lost claim to his property. Have your mother lay claim to 12 Grimmauld Place as soon as possible. The house comes with an elf -- Kreacher -- who knows all its secrets by now. More than I could ever hope to glean, anyhow." Ron looked up at Pansy. "Is that why Narcissa Malfoy and her solicitors turned up in January, then, laying claim to 12 Grimmauld?" Pansy leaned back in her chair, still mawwing on a chunk of baguette.

"What about the jam?" she asked.

"There's no jam."

"Do you have any crisps?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Is anything ever enough for you?"

She paused, then gave a derisive snort. "You know, I might ask you the very same question," she said, calculating, her instincts still razor-sharp. "Let me postulate the following: you've your own flat in a reasonably fashionable section of London. You've a wardrobe full of nice clothes, some pieces quite expensive. You've a nice broom, natty furniture, quite a lot of the right things -- things that help you more easily forget what you are. You hope desperately that nobody will remember, but just so you know? Everyone remembers -- they just don't say anything to your face. So keep that in mind the next time you're hobnobbing amongst the elite, and you're struck with the appealing, yet utterly disillusioning, thought that maybe, just maybe, you actually belong there now." Her eyes glittered triumphantly, black and malevolent.

Ron stared at her for a moment. "I'd ask if you've lost your bloody mind if I didn't already know you've never had one to begin with. You want to talk about remembering? All right! Sure, not a problem." He jerked at the pages in her file, his face warming despite himself, continuing with a clipped tone. "I regret to inform you that our illustrious Head of House, Severus Snape, is himself a traitor, a double-agent if you will. For years he has served Dumbledore, the Order of the Phoenix, and now the Brethren, all whilst feigning allegiance to our fine and noble house, our ancestry, our traditions, our goals." He looked at her. "So, Pansy, are you right chuffed now that Snape's dead because of you? Because of your continued blind allegiance to some half-blooded, dead dark wizard?" She watched him sullenly until he couldn't take it anymore; he rose abruptly. "What the fuck is the matter with you?"

She was silent for a very long time, her face growing pensive as her anger ebbed. "Snape was an excellent head of house," she said finally, turning in her seat and covering her mouth with her fist; Ron could see she was fighting to keep from crying. "He taught me practically everything I know about potions."

Ron banged the table again. "Then bloody well do right by him!" he barked, incensed. "Do right by him!"

"How?" she asked, her voice distant and drained, having quashed her emotion. "And what good would it do? Snape's dead." She took a great, shuddering breath, releasing it slowly. "Draco's dead. My mother's dead and--" She paused for a moment. "--I'm dead to my father. Draco's mother's dead; she was always like a mother to me, did you know? And Lucius Malfoy--" She caught herself then, and shook her head at him, as if he were exceptionally pathetic and dense. "Snape would never expect anyone to do right by him. He was who he was, and he accepted things as they were. It's not like it is for you for us, Weasley. We do right by ourselves, come what may, and do you know why? Because fucking no one else will, that's for bloody damn sure."

"Goddamnit, Pansy!" he roared, rising reflexively, so angry he glossed over the important clue she'd dropped. "The world isn't just about you! Life isn't just about you!" He leaned across the tabletop, his fingers pressing into its cool steel top. "Other people bloody well matter, you selfish hag!"

"Oh, aren't you just so noble," she sneered, rage and frustration pooling darkly in her eyes. "You make me sick, Weasley! Just shut up with your fake, selfless fucking rhetoric, all right? Go and dish out curry to the scum in Knockturn Alley, or something equally as self-servingly pretentious, if you want to go about on your high horse!"

"What the fuck's happened to you? Where are you?!" The moment the words left his mouth he knew it was the wrong approach. "Check that. I didn't--"

"That you even have to ask speaks volumes," she said, cutting him off. Her eyes had frozen over, and there was no trace of any emotion anymore. "Just fuck off, all right? Leave me be. It's only a few days until the Kiss, and then nothing will matter anymore. Because I can't live like this." She held his gaze; when she spoke again her voice was dull and matter-of-fact in a way that made Ron feel like panicking for some reason. "Everything I've ever loved has been taken from me. I've been stripped of my magic; I've been stripped of my dignity; I've been stripped of everything, goddamnit. And even if I were to be set free tomorrow? I'd have nowhere to go." She was still looking at him. "Everything is dead. Everyone who'd have had me is dead. I'm done with this life."

Her words stung a bit, and Ron couldn't figure out why at first, but then it dawned on him. Everything I've ever loved has been taken from me. She had never loved him. And while he'd never loved her either -- 'cos come on! This was Parkinson! -- shouldn't she have loved him just a little, just a smidgen, just . . . because? Quickly he shook his adolescent umbrage away. Ixnay on the shagging equaling love, yeah.

But still.

"You are lying," Ron hissed, turning his back on her and running his hand through his hair with angry frustration. "Lying, Parkinson! Like I said before, you'd have offed yourself if that were really true." He turned back to her again, determined. "Well, hear this, yeah? I'm going to find out what's keeping you here if it's the bloody last thing I do for your sorry arse, and you know what else?" He planted his hands on either side of her, edging into her space until she was forced to look up at him. "I'm not letting you get away with what you've done. That's right! If you won't answer to those you're responsible for having obliterated from the face of this earth, then you'll bloody well answer the fuck to me." He could see a myriad of emotions whirling in her eyes as he spoke, but he was far too incensed to suss out their particulars at that moment. "You're not going anywhere," he finished bitterly. "You've too much to atone for. If it's the last thing I do, I will find a way to keep your sorry arse right here, until you admit what you've done!"

Pansy's eyes shimmered with tears as she stared silently at him, and her cheeks reddened angrily as they considered each other. "You're nothing against a dementor," she said finally. "You won't win this, Weasley. I always get what I want."

"Which is a huge reason why you're such an insufferable excuse for a human being," he said, holding her gaze, utterly disgusted. He ignored the hurt that passed over her face at this pronouncement. "Now. What was that you were going to say about Lucius Malfoy?" He almost had her, he could tell. He'd moulded her verbally, plied her emotions relentlessly, and exhausted her. Come on Come on Come on . . . Ron knew the aura of a prisoner about to spill his or her guts; it filled the room with raw anticipation, with relief, with finality, and she was there. He could see it in the sag of her slight shoulders, the faraway look in her eyes as she contemplated the fact that she was an insect trapped in his web, and that she had nothing to gain by her silence. Justice shall prevail! Come on Come on Come-- Pansy looked up at Ron and he knew he had her; then she glanced away a final time, and his heart sunk to his feet as he saw her straighten herself almost imperceptibly, and then gaze forcefully back at him.

"Fuck. You." She turned away from him, lifting her chin stubbornly, leaving him burning with frustration.

Denied.

---

He lamented the situation to Luna that night. "--so she says she has nobody, and no reason to live, and she'd rather die."

Luna propped herself up on one elbow and looked down at him. "Do you think she's wrong?"

"I dunno," he sighed, frustrated. "I s'pose not. But why's she hell-bent on getting kissed? Why's she not offed herself instead?"

"Well, first off, logistically, it's not easy to commit suicide in Azkaban," Luna said, "especially without magic. I mean, hells! Prisoners aren't even allowed to keep a toothbrush in their cell, lest they file it down into a weapon or somesuch."

"Yeah," he said, his brows furrowing in thought. "I suppose you're right."

"Perhaps she's exacting punishment in her own way," she suggested.

He glanced sideways at her. "How so?"

"Giving herself what she thinks she deserves? Maybe she feels she's deserving of the dementor's kiss. Look, I know the Slytherins have always talked a big game about how they're only loyal to themselves, but honestly, Ronald? Can't you see that's just not true? Look at how painfully she misses him." Luna turned onto her side, letting her fingers draw lazy circles on his belly. "I mean, seriously -- that letter! How could she not feel like killing herself after such a thing came to light! Look what happened -- it got Draco Malfoy killed. It makes sense that Pansy's exacting a pound of flesh on Malfoy's behalf; she's just extracting it from herself, and that's because she obviously feels that's where it should come from." Her brow knit together. "Question is, why?"

Ron had a lightbulb moment. "Wait a minute," he said, catching Luna's chin between his fingers and looking into her eyes. "You don't think she wrote that letter, do you?" he asked, incredulous.

Luna shrugged. "It doesn't really make sense that she would've," she said. "Especially in such a blatantly stupid, obvious way."

"But, see here," Ron said, parroting the consensus reached earlier that week at the Ministry. "She signed it even -- right there at the bloody bottom of the page: Parkinson. She even tried to disguise her handwriting, using her right hand instead of her left -- as if we wouldn't find out?" Luna shrugged again, saying nothing, and Ron fell into a state of dark concentration as she raked her fingers gently through his hair. What Luna said made sense: the letter was too obvious. He'd thought so from the beginning, and he knew Moody'd felt the same way; however, Harry had been happy to take it at face value, and Ron began wondering if this had more to do with a sense of personal vindication on Harry's part, at the downfall of his school-aged nemeses than it had to do with the search for the honest-to-God truth about the events of the past two months, and quite honestly Ron could understand this on a logical level. "I think Harry's just happy to see Parkinson and Malfoy in their places. He's not had much interest in this case, yeah?"

"You mean Harry's not investigating this as thoroughly as you are?" she asked.

"Well, I can bloody well understand where he's coming from," Ron said defensively, a familiar protective prickle rising.

"I'm not judging Harry," Luna clarified calmly. "Everyone has their own tolerance threshold, Merlin knows. But are those made miserable by their own deliberate prejudices and choices somehow not as deserving of justice when they themselves are wronged?"

He contemplated this sullenly, his adult conscience duelling fiercely with his inner Weasley, the Slytherins' King.

Luna continued, her rational words soothing him. "Draco Malfoy was an ineffectual, trite bully at Hogwarts, Ronald. You've told me yourself he didn't have any overt ties to the Death Eaters, or any ties at all, so it's not like he grew up to become the next Dark Lord. When the attacks on the Brethren went down, where was Draco Malfoy? Where was Pansy Parkinson? Running, that's where. They left everything behind, and they ran. And really, isn't that typical?"

How Ron loved her. Every once and a while, such as at moments like these, he couldn't help but berate himself for not seeing her while they were both still at Hogwarts; she'd hidden herself behind her various oddities, under the brims of her roaring hats, within her dreamy, ethereal gazes, and amongst list after list of Have You Seen My Things tacked haphazardly to the empty corridor walls; all Ron could see at eighteen was Hermione over Pansy's shoulder.

He peppered Luna's face with tender, fluttering kisses, squeezing her to him tightly. "Ah, God, you're so fucking brilliant," he said. She had a way of discussing people in an insightful, yet incredibly detached way, which lent her an unbiased air. She wasn't disparaging Malfoy or Pansy with her comments; she was merely reporting the facts.

She'd pulled up her nightgown and was now tugging at his pyjama bottoms. "Mmm," she sighed. "Aren't I? But let's talk about something else."

---

When Ron arrived at Azkaban the next day, he was surprised and not just a little put off when the guard at the visitors station told him he'd have to wait.

"She's got a visitor," he explained, shrugging helplessly. He pointed to his left. "There's chairs there, sir."

"What, is Harry or Moody here?" he asked, confused. "'Cos I could just--"

"No sir." The guard cut him off. "It's a civilian visitor."

"I've a schedule to keep, mind you," Ron said tightly. Who the sod would be visiting Pansy? "This prisoner's maximum security besides. She's not allowed civilian visitors, and you bloody well know it. Who's your captain?"

The guard was unimpressed. "Armbruster," he said, reaching under his desk. He came up with a piece of parchment, and put it on the desk's top. "It won't do you any good to lodge a complaint, sir. He's got an order from the Minister himself."

"He?"

"Yes, sir."

Ron looked at the order closely -- there was no getting around it, that much was clear. It was a tight document. Bloody fucking hell. "The Minister?" he repeated, dumbly.

The guard quirked an eyebrow. "Of Magic? Perhaps you're familiar?" he asked dryly.

"Tonnes funny," Ron said witheringly, handing the order back over. "Well, whoever it is'll have to pack up. I'm sorry, but I haven't got much time." He swept down the corridor toward the holding cells. "She's in the usual one?"

"Yes, but--"

"Thank you." He pulled up short in front of cell G and glanced through the small square window at the top of the steel door, which only someone as tall as himself could make any use of. He stared for a moment, a tad taken aback, and touched his wand to the door -- "Auris" -- until he could hear perfectly.

"Tell me-- tell me-- tell me again--" Pansy was crying so hard her voice was ticcing. "Tell me-- tell me-- tell me--"

"Tell you what?" The man's voice was low, silky. Soothing. Crisp and inflected. Ron caught a glimpse of his profile, which was vaguely familiar; he drew his eyes over the stranger, noting his impeccable dress, his beautiful, elegant features, and his perfect hair.

"Tell me-- tell me-- tell me--"

"Tell you about what, Pansy?"

"Tell me--" And when she continued, her words gushed, as if she were forcing herself to get them out in one breath. "Tell me about that place you go after you die! Tell me where the Muggles who sin go! Tell me!"

"I should much rather speak to you of absolution, than Purgatory," he said quietly, and Ron bristled then, for he knew exactly who it was.

"No!" she wept. "No no no . . . I can't talk about that!" She clung fiercely to his leg, her head right above his knee.

"Then," Blaise Zabini said, ignoring the circle of tears soaking the fine wool of his trousers, "let us talk of contrition, Pansy, for yours is quite obvious -- can you not feel it?"

"It's not enough! It'll never be enough!" She wept bitterly. "How could it possibly be enough?"

"It's been but days," Blaise said, in that even, rational tone of his. "It will not always feel this raw."

"It has to!" Her voice filled with panic. "Don't you understand? It has to, or I'll not have loved him enough . . ."

Blaise Zabini was beautiful; Ron, in all his straight, heterosexual glory, was more than able to recognise the male ideal when it presented itself, and here the sod it was. He could only imagine what an utterly pompous swot Mr. Enigmatic Slytherin had grown into, and he fought the urge to enter the room for the sole, juvenile purpose of painting an ink moustache on the ruddy git.

Blaise took Pansy's messy, snotty face in his hands and looked down at her. "Cara mia," he said tenderly, invoking his childhood term of endearment for her and Millicent Bulstrode. Oh, for fuck's sake, Ron thought, rolling his eyes. How smarmy can you get? Fucking Italian. "Say it again: how long has it been?"

"Just days." Her voice was barely audible.

"And what did you promise Draco way back when, hmm? What did you promise him you'd do, should he die before you?"

"That I would only live a minute longer," she sobbed out, childish and weepy. "How'd you know about that?"

"I know because he told me," Blaise said patiently. "He found it quite extraordinary. He knew from that moment on how profoundly he was loved."

"But I'm still alive!" she wept. "Oh God, I'm still alive, and he'll not know! How will he know?! He'll never know!"

"Bollocks," Blaise said, thumbing the tears from her cheeks. "Pansy, you've already broken your promise. You broke it the moment the clock's hand ticked past the first sixty seconds, following Draco's death. So, don't you see? It's all relative, cara. Sixty-one seconds or one hundred and sixty years -- neither now matters any more or less."

"It matters to me," she said blankly, her face puffy and red, having been slightly calmed by Blaise's words. "It matters to me . . . "

"And you matter to me, Pansy. Have we not always been friends?" He gathered Pansy up into his arms, shushing her. "Draco was proud of you, and you've too much to do yet." He made her look at him again. "Don't give in like this. You are not alone--"

"Finite," Ron said, tapping the glass, cutting off Blaise's voice. He pushed open the door and entered the holding cell. "Zabini," he said curtly, not looking fully at them. "So sorry to interrupt your reunion, but we've necessary business to attend to." He placed his things on the table, his leather bag next to his chair.

"Weasley," Blaise said, inclining his head. His voice betrayed nothing. "Of course I shall be more than happy to accommodate your need; however, a word, if you will?"

Ron glanced up then. Pansy was clinging to Blaise's robes, rocking slightly, her lips moving in silent incantation; Blaise was regarding him coolly, one hand still smoothing Pansy's hair. "Fine," Ron said, motioning toward the door with a jerk of his head.

"Cara," Blaise said quietly, stroking her hair, her face, soothing her as her panic rose again, and she began to weep. "I'll be back. Every day, I promise. Will you stay strong? If you will, I shall come back tonight. Is it a deal?" She nodded hesitantly and allowed him to lower her back to the bench where they'd sat together; she stretched out along its length, turning her face to the wall. Blaise stood then, smoothing down his robes. "Shall we?"

They stepped outside, Ron making sure to close the door behind them; he kept an eye on Pansy through the window.

"Reckon it's mighty grand of you to come, Zabini," Ron said coldly, folding his arms over his chest. "Seeing as she's been incarcerated for near three weeks."

Blaise considered him evenly, pulling on a pair of fine, chocolate-coloured calfskin gloves. "I came as soon as I heard," he said. "Which was this morning."

"How could you have not heard until this morning?"

"That remains not your concern. Business takes me to unplottable locales, Weasley." He lifted an eyebrow at Ron. "Which I'm sure you're aware of, doing what it is that you do. Perhaps I have a file in your office as well? I rest, assured it is empty."

Insufferable prick. Indeed Ron was absolutely aware of Blaise Zabini's activities. He dealt in rare magical artifacts, spells, and books, and the historical dark arts; he'd been featured in the Daily Prophet just the summer past for surviving an excursion -- Muggle-styled -- to Mt. Everest in the Nepalese Himalayas. "The air atop Mt. Everest doesn't allow for Apparation," Blaise had been quoted as saying. "Yet my research had led me to conclude the Horn of Khumbu would be found just below the south summit." Who the sod needed a horn that allegedly summoned the dead? Ruddy dumb, smelly sheep's horn thingee.

"Don't you read the Daily Prophet?" Ron asked.

"I don't take the Prophet while I'm traveling," Blaise said. "I've found it goes to waste, as I've other things to attend to. As well, it tires my owl needlessly."

"Oh, that's bloody convenient."

"I'm expected to take the paper whilst traveling, on the off chance my friends may be unexpectedly arrested and detained in Azkaban?" Blaise asked, clearly amused. "Believe of us what you may, Weasley, but I will say this is the first time such a thing has happened."

Goddamnit if the sodding prat wasn't right. "Yeah, well, maybe, but I doubt that's because you lot are innocent lambs or whatnot."

Blaise shrugged elegantly. "Who can say? I attend to myself. What others do in their leisure time is not my burden."

"Again," Ron said, dryly, "how extraordinarily convenient."

Blaise ignored this, instead shifting his gaze to the tiny window in the cell's door; clasping his hands behind his back, he rocked forward on the balls of his feet, rising to catch a glimpse of Pansy through the dirtied glass. "It is good of you," he said slowly, "to demonstrate your caring toward Pansy."

"Oi!" Ron said, surprised, pulling a face. "Excuse me?"

Blaise stepped back and leaned against the wall, and sized Ron up. "You know, after the incident during the blizzard our seventh year, I saw how you looked at her for the rest of the year," he said, matter-of-factly. "I don't exactly know what went on between the two of you after that, and I won't ask, but I am--" He took great pause. "--grateful you are working with her now, here, in this situation, for anyone else in your position would have long ago written her off."

Quite frankly, Ron didn't know what to say to this. Warily he remained silent, and he and Blaise locked eyes, for here was a person whom he'd always thought was his nemesis simply by default of their Sorting. It occurred to him that perhaps he knew nothing of Blaise at all.

Blaise's expression was unreadable as he continued. "I regret I did not know of this situation sooner, Weasley. I understand time is our enemy now." He gave Ron a knowing look then. "As opposed to other things. What can I do?"

"Do?"

"What can I do to assist?"

"Assist?"

"Assist, yes," Blaise reiterated patiently. "It would indeed be a terrible shame, were her life to be snuffed out like a candle. For, despite her recalcitrant ways, she really is a rather fine and clever woman."

Ron remembered his cruel words to her the day before with a pang: It's a huge reason why you're such a miserable excuse for a human being . . . He breathed in deeply, drawing himself up. "That's debatable," he said, sullenly. He couldn't help himself.

A small smile played at Blaise's lips. "Understandable," he said amiably. "Pansy can sometimes be difficult."

"Difficult?" Ron gaped at him. "Is that the best you can do? Understatement of the year, much?"

Blaise sobered. "She will have to learn to live a different way. Draco and she were birds of a feather; they fed each other, fed off each other. She doesn't know any different way to be, to act. Not yet, anyway."

Ron remained silent. It was odd to get to know someone intimately by proxy, and he was suddenly struck with . . . was it regret? Regret he had not been able to discern much about Pansy for himself back when they'd been at Hogwarts, just like he'd been oblivious to Luna. Ten years gave a lot of perspective; he'd not had the capability of sussing these things out at eighteen, and he'd never been overly amenable to navigating the shades of grey in life to begin with. For Ron, handling ambiguity was a learnt skill, not an innate one.

"Weasley," Blaise said, "did you know Pansy has collected contributions for the National Alliance for Squib Witches and Wizards since she was a little girl? She thought it unfair squibs aren't allowed magical educations, at least in the more theoretical subjects. Potions, Herbology, History of Magic -- these courses do not always require a wand or magical incantations. In fact, they seldom do." A ghost from the past flitted through Ron's mind as Blaise paused: As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic . . . I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even put a stopper in death . . . "Draco didn't agree with her view on squibs, of course. She also has a great love for magical creatures. She's on the board of the British Wizarding Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Creatures of All Kinds. Or at least she was. I don't know if they'll have kept her on after this."

Ron remembered Pansy's warren of rabbits.

Blaise fell silent then, and once again glanced through the window at Pansy. "When is she scheduled for the dementor's kiss?"

"Saturday, at 12:01 a.m.," Ron said. "It's tradition."

Blaise nodded. "I should like to be there for her when the time comes."

"You were just talking a minute ago like you thought it wouldn't happen at all."

"I think that's entirely up to Pansy," Blaise explained. "And I can't fully gauge her intentions right now."

"'Spect it would be all right if you attend. I'll put in a word," Ron said, a black feeling of resignation settling over him. At that moment, he didn't doubt the kiss would come to fruition.

"I shall remain most appreciative." For a moment Ron wondered if Zabini would offer his hand, but he did not. "I'll be back tonight, then. I do hope you will be able to make some progress with her. Like I said before, hers is not a light ready to burn out." Blaise looked back at Ron over his shoulder as he retreated down the corridor. "Whether she thinks so or not."

Breathe it in
and breathe it out . . .

It's not a habit
it's cool
I feel alive.
If you don't have it
you're on the other side.
I'm not an addict
maybe that's a lie
I'm not an addict . . .

---

It wasn't like they then embarked on some mad, passionate shag-a-thon either.

Afterward, they hadn't said much -- Ron didn't know what to say. I hate you, but thanks for the shag! didn't seem exactly fitting, so he'd zipped up his trousers and tucked his shirt back in, and then he'd thumbed toward the stacks asking her, "So, um, did you check the Runes section, or should I . . . ?"

Thank God Hermione hadn't been in the common room when he'd returned from rounds; he couldn't get up the stairs fast enough, and when he'd made it safely up to his room he'd sat on the side of his bed, sure 'Hi! My name is: Ronald I've-fucked-Pansy-Parkinson Weasley' would crop up on his forehead any second, in angry, permanent sneak spots, much like had happened to Marietta Edgecombe during his fifth year. His roommates that night had thankfully been preoccupied, and despite all five of them being in the room it had been comfortably silent after they'd exchanged cursory greetings. Seamus, Harry, and Neville were revising Charms, and Dean was reading some Muggle serial on his bed. Can they . . . smell me? he'd thought, panicking; it was far too late for a shower. He never bathed this late at night; it would be strange. Can they smell her? He should could, and as much as he wanted to be revolted so as to reinforce his hasty promise to himself to stay the sod away from her, it was an intoxicatingly heady scent, a scent of lust and youth and sex, and he knew within minutes of sitting on the side of his bed, toeing idly at the worn oriental, that he definitely wanted to do it again.

For weeks afterward Pansy let slip absolutely nothing. They'd conducted several prefect rounds in almost total silence, efficiently patrolling the castle and helping one another out with a formal, false air of congeniality. Her eyes betrayed nothing -- not during class, not whilst on rounds, not at meals, not at Hogsmeade, nor at the Gryffindor/Slytherin Quidditch match three weeks after their tryst. Ron hadn't been able to help himself; he'd checked her out thoroughly while swooping and darting past the Slytherin stands, his Quidditch goggles providing necessary cover, but her gaze had been firmly fixed on Malfoy the entire time, in a shining, enraptured way that indicated to Ron that she wasn't doing it just to feign indifference. She really adored Malfoy, and it was clearly mutual, for he once pulled a Wronski Feint straight at her, pulling up at the last second and showering her with a glittery shower of cool silver sparks as she shrieked happily, ducking.

In hindsight, Ron'd concluded later, feigning indifference would've likely been a better choice, for after Malfoy'd distracted Ron by raining silver stars down on Pansy, Harry'd abruptly started yelling at him. Ron! Turn around! Bloody hell, turn around, mate-- The last thing Ron remembered was jerking his head around, and going cross-eyed as the Bludger closed in on him; there was a crack!, and then the darkness had enveloped him.

---

Madam Pomfrey'd had him stay overnight owing to the concussion he'd given himself, and he slept poorly despite her administration of Dreamless Sleep. His dreams were fitful and restless, and imaginary noises stirred him awake throughout the night as he unconsciously anticipated an arrival that never came, remembering how the last time he'd been here he'd awoken to her slipping into his bed and how her feet had been smooth and cool against his own, but try as he did he just couldn't smell the lemon verbena.

---

"I was in hospital, you know," he said, randomly, as he and Pansy picked their way around the Divination Tower two days later.

"I know." She turned, running the tip of her wand down a row of Professor Trelawney's teacups, perfectly arranged and waiting for the next class to fill them with crumpled tea leaves and steaming water. "It's your own fault, though."

He snorted. "'Scuse me? How's that, exactly?"

"Don't be stupid," she said, tossing a withering glance in his direction.

"Stupid? How'm I stupid exactly?" he snapped, his brow furrowing. He held up his hand as she opened her mouth to reply. "Wait. Don't answer that."

"Look," she burst out, in a way that indicated she'd been thinking the situation over for a tick, and finally looking directly at him, "just . . . just don't get any silly ideas, all right?" Her voice was strange. "You can't do that! You can't . . . get distracted! Just shove it away, yeah?"

"'Fraid not," he said, wondering exactly how she got to be so ruthless when it came to matters of the heart. Check that, he thought, backtracking. This was not a matter of the bloody heart. No effin' way. "Reckon I'm not as mental as you in that way." He stepped up to her; slightly flustered, she turned her back on him again and began casting dusting charms; her elbow brushed against his stomach. Ron paused for a moment, and then reached over her head and plucked the wand right out of her hand. "You know we're not required to do any cleaning during rounds, Parkinson. You don't really strike me as the scullery type."

"Hey! Give that back!"

He poked her in the back of the neck with her wand, and vaguely he wondered what it was made of. It was a dark wood -- rowan? Walnut? Something like that, yeah. "What's your wand core?" he asked, lifting her wand up high, out of her reach.

"None of your sodding business!" she said, jumping for her wand; he stood on his tiptoes.

"Mine's unicorn tail."

"How spiffingly masculine for you." She leapt for her wand, swiping at his hand and missing.

"Innit?" he smirked, twirling her wand through his fingers. He felt strangely campy; she couldn't hack him off tonight! "What's your wand core, Parkinson?"

She glared at him, hands on hips. "If you really must know, it's also unicorn."

"Wasn't so hard, was it?"

"My wand, please?"

Ron debated -- she had said please, after all. Coolly he slipped her wand into the inside pocket of his robes. "Maybe later," he said, a note of challenge creeping into his voice. Ha! She wasn't the only one who could manage a savage, unbalanced victory!

Pansy stepped forward, her ire rising; she met his gaze and stopped. Ron could see she was thinking, calculating, and then she dropped back. "Fine," she said, in a falsely bright tone. "Later, then." And she turned her back on him and marched across the Divination tower to the tall, reaching windows and began yanking the draperies shut. "Professor Trelawney likes her curtains drawn at night," she said amiably. "Shall we?" Ron trailed after her, unsure why he was compelled to initiate any kind of interaction with her other than prefectly business. He watched her silently, rather liking the way the muscles in her calves clutched up when she rose on tiptoe to work at the windows, and he wanted to say something to her; instead, he drew her wand out from his pocket and began poking lightly at her back, bugging her. Just . . . He didn't know what the hell his problem was. I'm here, goddamnit!

Quick as a flash her arm whipped backward, and she caught the tip of her wand in her fingers. With a jerk, Ron drew back, saving the wand from her clutches, and he laughed when she stamped her foot and gave a hacked-off toss of her hair. "Ha!" he said.

"Quit harassing me, Weasley, and help me draw the curtains."

"Oho," he snorted, prodding at the back of her knee. "Nope. Sorry. Not a drapery man, myself."

"God fucking sod," she groused, rolling her eyes. Steadily she worked her way around the room, her fast little hands working exactingly, and Ron followed along, completely slacking off on his prefectly duties with unabashed amusement. He bothered her mercilessly, teasing at her with her own wand (she tried two more times to grab it back, but he was too quick on the retreat) until she whirled on him yet again, confused. "What is with you tonight? Knock it off, Weasley!"

"What'sa matter?" he said lightly, lifting up the back of her skirt slightly with the tip of her wand. Oh, he was adventurous tonight indeed! "Don't you have a sense of humour, Parkinson? Thought you might, what when we were stuck back in that ruddy cave together."

"What do you want?" she asked snippily, smoothing down the back of her skirt, and Ron took great pause at this. What is it that you want. . . ? He stepped up to her, folding his arms and looking down at her. Crossly, she met his gaze. "Well?" she demanded.

What? What. What did he want? He wanted to dissect what'd happened between them, that was what, because it certainly wasn't as if it hadn't happened. After he'd recovered from the initial shock of having managed to actually get shagged, he found he couldn't stop thinking about their encounter as the subsequent weeks passed. Some days he was mired in revulsion; other days, he practically wanked his way around Hogwarts with the memory, ducking out of class or away from dinner for a fast, furious toss in the loo, and at night he was filled with visions of her floating above him, silent and frowning, always just out of his reach as he thrust his hand down the front of his pyjama bottoms. He didn't know what he wanted. He wanted to . . . he wanted to . . . Reaching up he jabbed her swiftly in the shoulder with the point of her wand, feeling warm under the collar and not just a little curious.

"God!" she huffed, smacking him on his arm. "Shove off, prat!" She stalked away, the shelves of teacups rattling ominously in her wake. "Just-- just-- just go sort out the crystal balls!" Huffily she grabbed a bin from next to Trelawney's desk and began gathering pack after pack of tarot decks. "Do something useful."

Ron sauntered over to the rows of squashy round tea tables, each with a crystal ball atop it, securely nestled in their small wooden stands. "Scourgify," he incanted lazily, aiming his wand without care. "Scourgify. Scourgify." After his third incantation he heard Pansy clucking disapprovingly; he looked up. "What?"

"Stop that!" she said, hurrying over, her bin of tarot tucked against her side. "That's too abrasive a spell for the crystal balls. Here, hand it over." She set her bin down on a table and reached out, gesturing impatiently. Ron handed it over, taking care to keep his eye on her for any sudden moves toward where he'd secured her wand. "Watch," she instructed, grabbing his wand away before he could object. "Astriona." Ron watched as a quick, glowing mist swirled around the crystal ball on the table, and then cleared. It was brilliantly clean. He raised an eyebrow at her, shrugging. He'd never been one to become overly excited about ruddy cleaning charms, that's for sure, even though it was clearly a superiour charm to Scourgify. "Use that," she said in a clipped tone, slapping his wand down to the table's top and sliding into a seat there; swiftly she emptied the tarot decks from her bin into a mountain-shaped pile.

He gave a snort of laughter. "Why'd you give me my wand back?" he asked, fingering hers idly through the fabric of his robes. "Seeing as I have yours?"

She wouldn't look at him. "I don't care to spend all night here with you. So get on with it, then. Finish those balls." She was sorting the tarot cards, her hands moving swiftly and precisely. Ron watched as she separated the cards into different piles, re-matching the cards dutifully. "Ruddy third years," she muttered, dealing the cards surely. "They're always leaving the cards a frightful mess. It doesn't do." When she realised Ron hadn't moved at all, she fixed an exasperated look on him. "What is your problem, Weasley? I said I don't want to be stuck here all night, and I bloody well mean it!"

"Why?" he asked. "Got plans or somesuch?"

"Maybe I do."

"For what?"

"None of your business, thanks."

He cocked an eyebrow at her and slouched down comfortably in the spindly tea chair. "What, plans with Malfoy?" He couldn't help the note of . . . whatever it was creeping into his voice.

She paused, meeting his gaze. "Probably the first thing you should understand about me," she said slowly, not wavering a bit, "is that I always have plans with Draco, all right? Got it? Good."

"What's the second thing?"

"What second thing?"

"The second thing I should know about you?"

"Nothing," she said cattily, picking up with her tarot dealing again. "There nothing else I want you to know about me."

"Just--" He trailed off, not knowing how to proceed, and watched her as she worked. She'd not worn her school robes that night, or her jumper, although the weather was hardly warm yet. "Why're you half-dressed?"

"Why are you a nosy sod?" she shot back.

"Where's Santorini?" Oh, shite.

"Excuse me?" she drawled coldly, sweeping her eyes up once again, and Ron momentarily panicked; he did his best to keep his face neutral and held her gaze. "Look, arsehole--" And Ron realised she was-- bloody hell, if she wasn't scared! "--it's done. The thing in the cave, I-I don't . . . it's over. So mind your own sodding business, and leave me alone, and so help me God if I find out you're asking after me or being a bloody obvious prick or whatever--"

"Or what?" he challenged her abruptly, not giving a shite at that moment. He leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees. "Or fucking what, Parkinson? What're you going to do? Lodge a complaint with Snape?" He mimicked her voice as he continued, "Ooo, Professor Snape! I shagged the Weasel and now he's being a right prat about it!"

"Shut up," Pansy said, fixing a flat gaze on him, and if looks could kill, Ron'd definitely be pushing up daisies. "Santorini is in the Mediterranean," she said finally, in a formal, clipped tone.

"I've never been to the Mediterranean," Ron said neutrally, plopping down into the chair next to her. "Reckon it's nice?"

"Of course it's nice. And of course you've never been."

He could hear the sneer in her voice; his brow furrowed slightly at her obvious jibe, and he fell silent. She sorted the tarot, ignoring him.

A heavy silence hung between them, Ron slung low and gangly in one of the too-small divination parlour seats, picking aimlessly at a bit of thread poking from his trousers, Pansy dividing the various cards by style and origin. Glance. Shuffle. Toss. Expertly she had the cards piling up into tottering piles, the cards' worn corners peeking out at haphazard angles, smudged and well-thumbed. Glance. Shuffle. Toss. "Bugger," she said, as a card overshot the table and fell to the floor. She ducked under the table and Ron quickly snaked his wand out, prodding the bottom of the tallest pile of cards she'd sorted. As they rained down onto the floor, Ron stuffed his hand into his armpit, concealing his wand behind his back, his arms crossed. "Goddamnit!" She jerked upright with a glare; a card was stuck in her collar. "Don't!"

"What?" Ron asked, feigning innocence.

She plucked the Crowley Thoth card away from her blouse and slapped it on the table's top before disappearing below again. Stealthily, Ron reached out again, quick as a wink!

"God!"

"What?" He arranged his face neutrally. "Clumsy bint."

Her head popped up. "I know you're doing it, Weasel," she seethed; a piece of hair drifted down into her eyes; impatiently she blew it away. "Leave off, already!"

"Dunno what you're going on about," he said, surreptitiously pocketing his wand. "So we're back to 'Weasel'?"

"We never left 'Weasel'."

Ron snorted. "Sheeyeah. Right."

"Whatever!"

"Yeah," he said, leaning forward and pulling his chair toward the table. He settled on its top, elbow on the table, cheek in palm. "Whatever, Parkinson." He poked idly at the tarot cards as Pansy resumed picking up the fallen ones, and then turned one over and studied it. "What's this?" he muttered, mostly to himself.

The card featured an enormous golden lion with the face of a man. On the lion's back perched a woman, perfectly starkers; she was reaching for the sky, a brilliant jet of warm honeyed light flowing upward from her fingertips. As Ron pulled the card in closer he realised the lion's tail was in fact a serpent, writhing wildly.

Pansy took it from him, looked, then rolled her eyes. "Figures you'd pick the Lust card," she said. She turned it face down, shaking her head. "Perv!"

Ron pulled an indignant face. "Perv?! What the sod?!"

"Wanker!"

"Oi!"

She slipped into her seat, plopping down the piles of cards she'd recollected from the floor, and began resorting them. "Oi yourself," she said, but not in an invested way.

"Well?" Ron demanded abruptly.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Well what?"

"Are you going to give me a reading or not?" What the bloody hell was he saying? He hated Divination with a passion! God fucking damn Pansy and her dumb self and her insidious womanly evil that was vexing him so. "Er--"

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because," she said coolly, "I don't feel like it."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't! God, can't you do something already? Help out! I don't want to stay here all night."

Why not? He didn't say it aloud, though. He settled back into his chair again, his brow furrowing slightly as he was filled with a sense of restlessness. He didn't understand her; conversely, he didn't really want to understand her, and it hacked him off that he couldn't set everything that'd happened between them aside in his mind, like she apparently could. He was compelled to seek understanding, information, but he didn't exactly know how to do so smoothly or directly. Disgruntled, he grabbed a stack of the cards from table where Pansy was sorting. She glanced at him sideways.

"What're you doing?"

He fanned them open. "Just looking, I reckon."

"Well," she said, her cheeks pinking slightly, "mind you don't mess them up."

"I said I'm just looking," he groused, watching her tug at her collar for a moment. "What's wrong?"

"What?"

"You're all pulling at your blouse and whatnot," he said. "And you're all splotchy and stuff."

"No, I'm not!" She took a deep breath and fanned at her face. "Just a touch stuffy in here is all." She loosened her tie and undid the top two buttons of her blouse.

"Yeah, well, it'd help if Trelawney didn't burn her stinky stuff all the time," Ron said, rifling through the cards in his hand aimlessly. "That crap gives me a headache."

"Mmm," Pansy said, noncommittally.

"Hermione says its 'cloying', whatever that means."

She took pause, as if she were refraining from saying something about Hermione; in hindsight, Ron would come to recognise this as an unspoken effort on her part to be amiable. "I myself don't care for sickly-sweet scents either."

"Like what?"

"Jasmine. Spicy scents. Rose," she said briskly, not looking at him. "Well, that's not entirely true. I don't like jasmine at all, but rose can be done well. It just depends on how it's mixed. A good, fresh rose smells very nice, but rose can become--" she flicked a glance at him. "--cloying."

"Reckon I don't know much about that," Ron said, pulling at a thread on his trousers cuff. "Something either smells good, or it doesn't."

"No, that's not true! Sometimes things smell . . . possible, know what I mean?" She was making her piles more quickly now. "You can sniff a given scent and it might be partially acceptable, but one ingredient may be off, and it throws the entire concoction."

"'S'all the same to me, Parkinson," Ron said, not really caring. Now that she was conversing normally, he found himself irritated that she was subjecting him to a prattle on scents of all things.

"Bollocks," she objected, waving dismissively at him. "You just don't know any better, Weasley."

He pulled a sceptical face. "I can smell as bloody good as the next bloke."

"Obviously not," she sniffed.

"Whatever." He closed his fist around the stack of tarot cards and turned in his seat.

"Typical."

"'Scuse me?"

"I said it's typical!"

"What's typical?" he asked; whatever it was, he was sure she was wrong.

"Nevermind," she said, a small frown twisting at her mouth.

"No, what?"

"It's just typical of you to say there's no difference in subtle variants of scents," she said coolly. "God forbid you might learn otherwise, right?"

"What're you going on about?" He looked at her questioningly.

"Again, how typical," she repeated. "Wouldn't want to alarm you with shades of grey or whatnot."

Now Ron was truly flummoxed. "What?"

"You're so bloody obvious, Weasley. You like things to be obvious!"

"What's wrong with that?" he asked. "Nothing wrong with wanting things to be straightforward, last I checked."

She trained her dark gaze on him. "You're a simpleton, you know that?"

"Oi!" he objected. "Take that back!"

"I most certainly will not," she said, hoisting her chin a notch. "It's perfectly true!"

"Like fucking hell it's true!"

"It's true from where I'm sitting!"

"Look," he said, slicing his hand through the air in a Cease! motion. "Just because I don't step up to your point of view on things doesn't mean I'm a 'tard or whatever. Who cares, anyway?"

"I care," she said huffily. "You don't want to listen to what I have to say!"

"So?" he asked. "Since when does that bother you?"

"It doesn't," she said quickly.

"Then why'd you say that?"

"I don't know! Just forget it and help me sort these cards."

Ron felt in a catch twenty-two. He . . . yeah, he wanted to have her explain, but he also didn't want to have to admit that he was interested in talking with her, much less ask. He shrugged, reiterating. "There's nothing wrong with liking things straight up."

"I know. That's not what I said." She sighed, exasperated. "You'd realise that if you'd really been listening!"

"Well, what the sod did you say, then?"

She gestured animatedly. "What I meant was-- wait. Forget it." She shook her head and slid from her seat, and hurried over to her rucksack.

"What're you doing?" He stood, craning his neck to see. He could hear rustling sounds coming from her bag, and the faint chinking sound of glass phials knocking together, and when she didn't respond he came up behind her, looking over her shoulder. "What's that?" he asked as she extracted a purple silky sack, drawn tightly closed with a thin cord of gold. She bumped against him as she turned, looking up into his face, and Ron's gut fluttered deep in his groin, despite himself. Fucking hells. He stepped back. She caught the cuff of his buttondown as she breezed by, tugging.

"Just come on, would you?" He followed her back and watched silently as she emptied the sack onto the table where she'd been sorting the tarot. A collection of phials slid out; they were filled with different-coloured liquids, the phial caps matching the colour of their contents. Pansy poked through the pile, pushing various ones aside. "Here, give me your hand."

"'Scuse me?"

"Just give it to me, prat!" she said impatiently, reaching slightly. He paused, but then lifted his hand, and he felt that funny sensation niggling at him again, deep down, when her cool fingertips touched the underside of his hand for just a moment, as if to tell him Stay there. He stilled, watching the top of her head as she quickly uncorked a phial. She dabbed a dot of its contents onto his wrist and rubbed at it with her index finger. "Smell that," she said. He did.

"And?" Oh shite! She's poisoning me. How could I've been so fecking stupid? He looked at her, his panic rising.

"Okay, now smell this." She took his other hand and turned it over, applying a small amount from another phial to his pulse point. Ron lifted his hand to his nose, inhaling deeply as she continued. "This one's crisper, see? It's a fresher scent than the first one. It's a rose base, but it has lemon too, to help the rose from becoming too occluding. Lemon, Moonwater, and the smallest bit of anise."

Ron went from wrist to wrist. "It just smells like rose to me," he admitted.

"Well, try this, then . . . roll up your sleeves, would you?"

He did so, watching her warily; she looked downward and Ron heard her suck in her breath, surprised. He dropped his gaze, considering the still angry-looking pink scars that wound their way around his forearm. He reddened slightly, embarrassed. Nowadays he easily forgot they were there, especially when he was in a long-sleeved shirt. "Um," he said, floundering for distraction. "You're not pulling one over on me, are you, Parkinson?"

"No," she said crossly, applying another dot of a new scent to the crook of his elbow, rubbing, and then to his other arm. "Just smell it."

He did. "Well, it's lavender," he said, after a moment.

"Yes." She nodded. "This one I ordered from Hyde's Apothecary in Diagon Alley," she said, pointing to his right arm; she reached for his left then, actually touching her fingers to the damp, warm crease at his elbow. "But this one is far better, wouldn't you agree? It's not so muted, not so artificial."

Ron didn't answer right away, for he found he was actually concentrating on what she was saying. Slowly he inhaled first one scent on one arm, then the other; he wanted to understand what she was trying to tell him, but it was hard. Ron was indeed a straightforward boy who had little use for subtle nuances -- that was just the way he was. He could tell a difference between the two scents, but descriptions such as 'crisp' or 'occluding' didn't much make sense to him. Awkwardly he thrust his left arm at her. "I dunno about all that," he said, warming slightly. "Just this one smells better. Or whatever." He glanced at her. "I think."

"Very good," she said, giving him a bit of a smirk. She pushed his sleeves up as far as she could and began applying a third scent. "You've too many freckles," she observed, concentrating.

He shrugged, hyper-aware of the sensation of her fingers on his skin. "Can't do anything about it." His mouth was beginning to feel dry, so he swallowed thickly. "Bill got most of 'em, though."

"Who's Bill?" She didn't look up as she asked, as she was still focused on the smooth liquid she was circling into his bicep with the pad of her thumb. It felt a bit like oil, but not exactly. Suddenly she leaned in, putting her hand against his stomach for just a moment as she inhaled deeply.

He felt his groin stir; he couldn't help himself -- he was getting hard under her touch. "Er," he stammered, mortified. "My brother?"

"What, are you not sure? You sound sceptical!"

"Bill's my brother, yeah. He's a curse breaker in Egypt." He nodded dumbly. "My Mum hates his earring."

"Mmm," she said, obviously uninterested. "Are you going to smell it or not?" she asked, her thumb stilling on his bicep.

"Oh," he said. "Right." Awkwardly he attempted to sniff his own biceps, which was quite a feat seeing as she'd applied the scents far up. As it was, he found out, he recognised it straight away. "Lemon verbena."

"Right!" she said. "You have to be careful with lemon too, Weasley. It easily smells like a cheap cleaning charm. Funny thing, lemon--" she put the phials back onto the table top. "--it can be used to keep rose scents fresh, but it needs something itself to remain authentic. Isn't that strange?"

Ron felt paralysed, not knowing that the hell was going on here. "I guess?" His trousers were now uncomfortably tight; he watched the rise and fall of her chest, her blouse open at the neck, and he could see the faint ticking of the pulse at her neck. Guiltily he shifted his gaze away, shuffling his feet in place for a second.

"Do you like gardenia?"

"Huhwhatya?"

"Gardenia," she clarified, enunciating. "It's a love-hate scent." When he only stared at her she elaborated. "People either love it, or they hate it," she said.

"Kinda like you," he said abruptly, horribly uncomfortable with the physical reaction she was eliciting. She stared at him for a moment, an unreadable expression on her face, and then reached for his arm again. He pulled away. "No more. Reckon I reek something awful by now."

She nodded, a sly look sliding over her features. Uncorking a phial of gardenia, she rubbed a dot of the scent onto her own neck, right under her jaw. "Well?"

"Well what?" His eyes widened.

"Are you going to smell it?"

"Smell it?" he parroted dumbly, running his head sheepishly through his hair.

"Yes. Smell it."

"I think I get your point, Parkinson," he said, avoiding the issue. "Subtlety, fresh scents -- whatever . . . "

The corner of her mouth lifted slightly. "What, scared?"

"No!" he snorted. "So quit asking me that."

"Then what's the problem?" As she looked at him it dawned on Ron that she knew. She knew he was struggling, and she likely bloody well knew exactly what his earlier antics had been about, and she probably knew his trousers were straining at that moment. She knew he was unable to ask directly.

"S'not a problem," he said. Quickly he leaned in, sniffed the air in her general vicinity, and then retreated immediately, like a frightened eel zipping back into its dark, safe cave, leaving in its wake a swirling, murky cloud of sediment. He cleared his throat. "Lovely. Very good. So, the tarot cards--"

"Would you shut up about the tarot cards?" she said, applying a smudge from the second phial on the opposite side of her neck. "Come on, compare!"

He leaned over slightly, sniffing exaggeratedly. "Um, the first one. The first one's better. So, if you'll get the tarot finished, I'll take care of--" She'd turned her head and was now looking at him over her own shoulder, her back to him, and Ron's words died unspoken. His heart leapt into his throat and his erection burgeoned further; he stepped up behind her and didn't know what to do. Without saying anything he hesitantly leaned in and inhaled deeply, the heavy, sweet scent of the gardenia filling his senses; it smelt foreign and exotic. Kind of like her. "This Gardenia thingee isn't native to Britain, is it?" he asked, even though he reckoned it wasn't.

She looked into his face. "No." And then she shifted until Ron's chin was brushing the top of her shoulder, the tip of his nose touching her warm neck.

Another surge of lust coursed through him and his breath hitched, and he realised he was running his fingertips up and down her arm, from shoulder to elbow, over and again. He took another deep breath.

"So," she said, barely audibly, "do you love it, or do you hate it?"

"Dunno . . . " He smelt her shampoo as he shifted behind her, leaning in to sample the other side.

"You have to choose."

"I don't have to do anything, Parkinson," he said. He wasn't sure if she stepped backward or if he pressed into her, but she was suddenly against him. "Do you think you could take it away now?"

"Take what away?" she ducked her head, and Ron's erection throbbed again at the sight of her flushed cheeks.

"The smells," he said, simply. "There's too many of them."

She sighed and let her hand drop; her fingers brushed over the top of his hand. "I would, I suppose, but I can't."

"Why not?" He was bumping against her arse, and he knew his breath must be hot and muggy against her ear.

"Because--oh!" She shook slightly as he ground against her backside. "Because you've taken my wand, you ruddy git . . . "

"Here," Ron said, fishing it out of his robes, taking the opportunity to push his robes open, unclasping them at the top. Ah, he thought, satisfied at one less layer between them. Besides, it was getting warm. "Here, take it." He pushed it into her hand, and she banished the amalgamation of scents, and then leaned back against him, and that was all it took.

Perhaps too roughly Ron slid his arms around her waist, pulling her against him tightly with a moan, and she made a noise. He buried his nose in her neck. "Look at me." She shook her head, but her mouth slackened slightly and her eyes closed. "Look at me," he commanded gruffly, squeezing her waist, and again she shook her head mutely. Bloody hell, he wanted to snog her something fierce, wanted to draw her slick, hot tongue into his mouth like before. "Whassa matter?" he said breathlessly, immediately frustrated.

"Nothing," she uttered, clutching at the side of his trousers for leverage.

"Fuck, then come on!"

"Come on what?" she asked, stalling.

"Come on," he said urgently, nuzzling awkwardly under her ear. Tentatively he kissed her there, not sure if he was being too rough, or stupid, or inept, or just plain icky; she let out a low hiss, though. "Just come on . . . just, you know. Do that thing . . ."

"What thing?"

He didn't even know what he was trying to say. "That thing you did."

"Could you possibly be a little more vague?" she cracked sardonically. "Because I don't think you're being vague enough as it is."

"Probably, yeah," he admitted, feeling both horribly inept and explosively randy. "I probably could be a little more vague."

"Could you . . . "

"Could I what?" He wondered if he should undo his trousers or something, but something held him back. He sucked in his breath when she pulled her blouse free from her skirt and let her arms fall to her side; eagerly he slid his hands underneath, her skin hot and alive under his touch. He cupped her breast. "Look at me!" And then his hands were roving crazily, feeling, stroking, pinching, as he licked and sucked at her neck, her ear, the corner of her mouth. Silently she ducked her head again, but she didn't resist his hands. "Kiss me!" he demanded roughly, about read to explode.

"No."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because!"

"Come on!"

"No," she said, groaning as he circled against her. He tried to nip at her lips, but she demurred, and then they were moving, moving, moving, across the heavy wooden floor, stumbling over a pile of Trelawney's pillows, until they found themselves against a window, Pansy's hips wedged against the jutting sill. Ron bit down on her neck -- he couldn't help himself. "Don't!" she objecting, slapping at him. "Don't you dare leave a fucking mark on me!"

"Sorry," he murmured, touching her thighs, her hands, lifting the hair away from the back of her neck to taste her there, and then it was his turn to groan when she stuffed her hand impatiently down the front of her skirt. "Oh, fucking hell," he said, his breath hitching jerkily. He reached under her skirt until his fingers came to rest on the top of her hand, the smooth fabric of her knickers the only barrier between them as she touched herself wordlessly. "Shite," Ron exhaled, an electric surge of lust exploding inside him. He came immediately, shuddering against her and squeezing her tightly. "Oh," he gasped. The rest of his orgasm throbbed into his shorts as a full body shiver washed through him. Spent, he closed his eyes and panted into the crook of her neck, keeping his hand over hers, memorising the rhythm she was treating herself to, and he was too blown away by it all to try and kiss her again when she tilted her back with a low, heady moan.

They stood there for some time, the front of Ron's trousers eventually dampening the back of Pansy's skirt, and she let him keep her arms around her waist without complaining. He rested his chin on the top of her head and stared out the window into the infinite black of the night, the stars winking dully in the sky, and he brushed his fingers absently over the sharp angle of her hipbone.

She drew in a breath and Ron waited for her to speak. "What?" he asked, when she didn't.

"So do you love it, or do you hate it?" she mused.

"I hate it, I reckon," he said, truthfully.

"Yeah," she said. "Same."

---

The next week McGonagall sent Ron to the dungeons with a note for Snape.

"Sir?" he called out as he pushed his way into Snape's office. "Professor Snape?" The room was empty, but the light in the hallway connecting the office to the potions dungeon was glowing, so he ducked inside and made his way toward the classroom. Always wary when lurking about the nethers of the castle, Ron pushed at the door to the potions dungeon tentatively, pausing in its frame as it swung open silently.

A group of Slytherins were there, clustered around the workbenches and desks; several steaming cauldrons bubbled softly around the classroom. Malfoy sat on a tall stool next to a cauldron. He was hunched over in abject concentration, writing conscientiously in what looked to be a notebook or journal of sorts; Pansy was at his side, apparently dictating the words to him. Unobserved, both their faces were relaxed; Malfoy had caught his bottom lip in his teeth, and for some unknown reason it was clear to Ron that Malfoy was using his very best penmanship. Pansy's hand rested lightly on Malfoy's forearm as she directed him, and then she reached up and touched his chin affectionately before moving back over to the cauldrons, joining up with Blaise Zabini, who appeared to be slicing and dicing roots of some sort. Ron recognised Millicent Bulstrode, Daphne Greengrass, and Tracey Davis gathered around a small round table, and little Catherine Parkinson too, who was lounging crossly next to Daphne. How anyone could manage to be cross whilst skivving off after hours was beyond Ron, but he figured if anyone could manage such an attitude, it would be a Parkinson. He watched Blaise's back as he worked carefully at the chopping board, and as Daphne shivered and pulled her jumper more tightly around her; breaking her concentration, she leaned over to Catherine and whispered forcefully -- Ron couldn't make out her words. Catherine rolled her eyes and shifted sullenly, her little fingers snaking out to drum teasingly at the edge of pile of Bertie Botts the girls had spilt into the middle of the table. This time Ron heard Daphne quite clearly as she ordered sharply, "Don't!"

"Mr Weasley." A voice drawled from behind him, and Ron jumped.

"Oh, sir," he said, turning. "I've a letter for you from McGona-- Professor McGonagall."

Snape swept past him into the classroom; reluctantly, Ron followed. After he'd seated himself at his desk, Snape deigned to bestow his attention. "Give it here," he directed. Ron handed it over and turned to leave. "Take a seat, Weasley," Snape ordered, gesturing toward the chair to the side of his desk.

"Um, but I've N.E.W.T.s revising--"

"Take," Snape said, drawing his eyes up dangerously, "a seat."

Ron plopped down, crossing his arms over his chest and continued to survey the scene, hoping desperately whatever it was that McGonagall wished Snape to know immediately, that a response could wait. After seven years he knew Snape well, having been the messenger boy for numerous missives before -- if Snape didn't like his response, he rewrote it. If there was an inadvertent smudge of ink, the letter was rewritten. God forbid there be an error in penmanship. Ron hated the potions master in all his foul, anal-retentive glory.

"Naturally, I should like to make a reply," Snape finally said.

"Naturally," Ron said dryly.

"Five points from Gryffindor for your cheek." Snape selected a sheet of parchment from his drawer.

"Yes, sir."

Ron waited and watched. At one point Malfoy came up to Snape to ask for clarification on whatever potion it was they were working on, and Snape prattled on about ingredients and techniques he'd never even heard of, and Ron caught Pansy's eye over Malfoy's shoulder. She held his gaze unabashedly, until Zabini turned to her. Blaise flicked a curious glance between the two of them, and then spoke directly to Pansy.

"This is too caustic," Ron overheard Blaise state.

"Oh, hells," Pansy groused, poking a thick, glass stirrer into the lovely pink potion bubbling away; the solution ate the glass stick in half. "Crap!" She tossed down the remnants and folded her arms petulantly. "Professor Snape," she whinged, obviously in a tear, "it's not working! I don't understand!"

Snape finished writing a sentence before answering. Once again he opened his drawer and extracted two phials of murky green powder. "Take these to Miss Parkinson and Mr Zabini," he instructed Ron shortly. "Miss Parkinson, using your number seven dragons claw, place one level scoop of asphodel into the mixture. I had meant to give this to you today after class." He dipped his quill again. "Mind the language, if you please."

Ron reluctantly walked the few steps over to where the Slytherins were gathered, Malfoy at his heels. Stiffly, he handed the phials over. "Don't throw a fucking wobbly, Parkinson. Here's your goop."

She plucked it from his hand. "Don't do me any favours," she said snottily.

"Diagli qui il, Pansy," Blaise said, putting out his hand. She dropped the phials into his palm and rummaged through her supplies for a number seven dragons claw. "Grazie, cara."

"No, thank you," she said, holding out the dragons claw to him as Malfoy snaked up behind her.

"Are you almost done yet?" he asked, scrutinising the cauldron. Realising Ron was still standing there, his eyes narrowed. "Fuck off, Weasel. Get lost already."

"Can't," Ron said, maintaining his position just to hack Malfoy off. "Gotta wait for Snape to finish his letter."

"Go wait over there, then," Malfoy sniffed, nodding toward Snape's desk.

"Oh no," Ron said amiably. "This is fine, thanks!"

"Do you mind?" Pansy asked, glaring at him. "This is private, thanks."

"Private?" Ron asked, with exaggerated incredulousness. "I heard what he said--" he motioned to Blaise. "--and I happen to know that making caustic potions outside of class time is forbidden, yeah? So, what? You bunch of vultures planning to go outta here in some kind of poisonous blaze of glory? Can't make your mark otherwise?" He would've laughed outloud at the stunned expressions on their faces if he'd had the time.

"What are you going on about?" Pansy managed weakly, flushing. Somehow Ron didn't think it was the same as the last time he saw the colour creep into her cheeks. He couldn't recall ever seeing her caught so off-guard.

"Thought we wouldn't find out, didn't you?" he shot back, smug in his position. "Thought you'd get away with ruddy poisoning the entire school, eh? Well, bully for you, 'cos you won't!" He held up his hand as Pansy opened her mouth to retort. "Don't even try it. I'm onto you, Parkinson. And you," he said to Blaise, who was regarding him rather bemusedly. Ron flicked his gaze to Malfoy. "'Course, I've always been onto you," he said, wishing he could spit in Malfoy's face.

"Weasley," Pansy protested; it looked like she might reach for his arm, but of course she refrained. "Look, I know you're right mental, but--"

"I am not mental," Ron said flatly. "Not about this. I know, Parkinson. And soon Dumbledore will know, 'cos I'm going to him straight away."

"Weaselby," Malfoy drawled, fixing a cold gaze on him, "as tempting as it is to sit back and watch you make an utter arse of yourself -- which is, of course, not out of the bounds of normal for you -- give it up." He huffed like a girl, rolling his eyes. "Honestly!"

"Save it, Malfoy," Ron said. "The jig is up--"

"Weasley." Snape's voice cut through the tense conversation. "The letter."

"Yes, sir," he said, stepping back from the three Slytherins and lowering his voice. "I bloody well mean it, too. Dumbledore'll know about this, make no bones about it! He'll know about you lot, sneaking around for poisonous plants and illegal Herbology samples, and brewing dangerous crap in the dungeons . . . " He turned and stalked back to Snape's desk and took possession of the letter for McGonagall. Backtracking, he headed through the dungeon and back into the corridor to Snape's office.

"Don't do this." Pansy's voice came from behind him; she must have hurried after him.

"Fuck off, Parkinson," he spat. "I am not on your side, got that?"

She snorted, grasping at his elbow until he turned to face her. "You don't know anything about 'our side'," she said snidely. "Such as it is. But don't do this, because you're wrong. It's not what you think, all right?"

"Sheeyeah. Right." He turned away; she followed him still.

"I mean it! You-- you can't tell Dumbledore."

"Why the sod not?"

"Because--" She wheeled him around again just inside Snape's office. "Because, okay, it is a caustic substance, but it's not a bad thing-- well, not really, but I suppose that's subjective . . . " She shook her head. "Just don't tell him! He'll shut us down."

"Good!" His curiosity was piqued despite his anger. "Well, what the fuck is it, then?"

She looked at him pleadingly. "I can't tell you that," she said, and Ron held up his hand.

"Forget it, Parkinson. I'm going to keep a secret about Slytherins brewing caustic potions and poisoning the castle at large? Uh, no," he said exaggeratedly. "Shove off, already. I'm outta here--" He felt the binding spell pierce through him from behind. Oh fuck.

Pansy had hexed him all right. He stiffened and was immobilised; purposefully she floated him over to the chair next to Snape's office desk and set him into it. "I'm sorry, but you won't listen to reason," she said, not sounding the least bit contrite. "So I'll have to show you." Deftly she pushed up the sleeve of his jumper and began working at the buttons at his cuff.

Ron almost pissed himself. "AAAAAAAARGH!" he screamed, also not unlike a girl. She was going to poison him! Right here, right then, in Snape's crappy office! "PROFESSOR SNA--"

"God," Pansy hissed, after hexing him silent. "Shut up, you big ginger dolt!" She extracted a flat, circular glass pot from her pocket and unscrewed the lid. Ron managed a whimper and she gave him a withering look. "Fecking baby." She brought the pot up so he could see it. It was filled with some kind of white cream. "Smell this," she said, wafting it under his nose.

It was lavender-scented.

She held his arm firmly and after a moment Ron could feel the cool sensation of the cream being rubbed into his skin, in a strange, fanciful way, as if her finger were a quill and his skin the parchment. She held his arm still for several minutes until it wasn't cool anymore; Ron assumed the cream had dried and was now seeping through his skin as fast as it could, invading his system as he sat there, helpless and unable to move.

She was whispering in his ear now. "Come find me tomorrow, Weasley. After it's done its work. Don't go to Dumbledore. Just . . . just don't." Ron felt the spells lift and he bolted upright, but Pansy was gone.

"Oh fuck," he babbled to himself, bolting, and getting the bloody hell out of there. "Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck!" He sprinted out of the dungeons and up six flights of stairs. "Mermaid's Hair!" He shouted the password to the door of the prefects' bath. It sprung open and Ron took a full-blown, running dive into the bath, completely terrifying Ernie Macmillan, who'd been floating leisurely on his back, eyes closed, enjoying his tub.

"What the right sod?!" Ernie blustered, reflexively covering his bits with his hands. "Ron, what's--"

"Gimme that!" Ron nicked Ernie's loofah and held it in his teeth as he tore off his jumper and shirt. "Motherfucking shite!" He scrubbed viciously at his forearm, where Pansy had applied the cream. "Mate, get me some soap! Hurry!"

"Er, um, right!" Ernie tossed the bar over, still wide-eyed and not just a little put-out. "You know, you shouldn't be barging about like this, disrupting other people's personal quiet time! I might want a bit of privacy, yeah?"

"Yeah, yeah," Ron said, still scrubbing. "Wank off in the loo if you need privacy."

"Oi!" Ernie protested. The mermaid in the picture on the wall of the bath squealed demurely at Ron's words, hiding her face behind her fins.

"Or ask Hannah to do it for you." 'Cos God knows she will.

"Hey!"

"Look, no offence," Ron said worriedly, vigourously lathering up the soap again. "Sorry, it's just--"

Ernie waved dismissively at him, his anger deflated. "Forget it," he said, rather good naturedly under the circumstances. "Whatever it is, I expect you wouldn't come haring through my bath without a bloody damn good reason." He exited the tub. "Say, owl me the soap when you're done? My mum sent it to me 'specially. I've sensitive skin, you know."