Adjudication

The Sky Fell In Holding You

With Pansy dementor's kiss fast approaching, Ron felt more and more as if he were being suffocated by his own ineptitude. Pansy hadn't wavered in the slightest since the night he'd almost reeled her in, and her moments of lucidity were becoming shorter and fewer; she had periods where she was practically catatonic between conversations. She revealed nothing to him of substance; however, Ron felt compelled to continue trying, to continue chinking away at the armour she'd constructed around her psyche. He'd come to doubt very seriously that Pansy herself was the letter's writer, but he was positive she knew who had written it, and why. When he broached the subject with Harry it went terribly.

"Bollocks, Ron," Harry said, glancing up at him testily from his desk, ink dripping from the nib of his quill and pooling onto the cream-coloured file folder under his hand. "She bloody well wrote the damn letter and you know it."

"Listen to me, Harry," Ron said, crossing his arms over his chest and looking down at Harry where he was sitting. "I know it looks bad--"

"Looks bad?" Harry interrupted, raising an eyebrow. He swiped at the pool of ink with his pinky, smearing it, and began furiously scribbling on the parchment inside again. "It is bad. She's bad."

"Oi! She's--"

"Bad," Harry said dryly, two spots of colour appearing on his cheeks, and Ron didn't know what to say. Frustration and not just a little bit of anger welled up inside him. They'd never discussed his . . . Ron didn't even know what to call it. Relationship? Whatever it was classified as, he and Harry had never discussed Ron's time with Pansy except for when-- Holy mother of God, that had been bloody awful. He cringed with the mere memory of their confrontation long ago; it still rendered him mortified. Yet . . . yet what exactly differentiated he and Harry from those they sought to put away from wizardkind at large if not compassion and honour and a strong sense of justice? Ron knew Harry. His justice was there -- would always be there -- but some grudges die hard.

He reached over and plucked the quill from Harry's hand. "She's not," Ron said gruffly. "She's . . . "

Harry looked squarely at him. "She must've been a bloody good fuck."

"Oi!" It took every ounce of strength he had to not belt Harry one across the chops. "Take that back."

Harry pulled another quill out from his drawer and dipped it in the ink, deliberately calm, which infuriated Ron even further. "Look," he said, after a moment, his voice tight. "Maybe you should recuse."

"What?"

"I'm just saying."

"Why should I recuse?"

"Conflict of interest."

"How's that exactly?"

"Pretty obvious, mate."

"Harry," Ron said, clenching his fist, "Why're you being such a prick?"

"Don't think I'm the one being the prick exactly."

"What the fuck?" Ron gestured wildly. "I don't need to sodding recuse, thanks. Just because-- I mean it was a long-- It's not about her," he finished loudly.

"Seems like it from where I'm standing, Ron," Harry said, looking straight at him. Ron could see the muscle at Harry's jaw ticking.

"How's that exactly?"

"Things aren't always so complicated, Ron. There doesn't always have to be more than what meets the eye." He looked down at the parchment in front of him again, his fingers splayed over the page. "She signed the letter. There's no one else who would give two fucking shites about that fucking arsehole Malfoy enough to go out of their way to help the Death Eaters just to get into his good graces," he said tightly. "There is no one else."

"How the bloody hell do you know?" Ron countered, his anger bubbling over. "What, you don't think the Slytherins had-- had-- had their loyalties or whatever?" Ghostly images of the past rose up unfettered: Malfoy and Pansy whispering to each other in the darkened corridor -- Remember Santorini, Pansy? Shall we go there again this summer? We go there every summer . . . "What the fuck do you know about the Slytherins?"

"I know what I need to know." Harry pushed back in his chair and stood, holding Ron's gaze angrily. "What's your bloody excuse?"

"Excuse?"

"Yeah, excuse," Harry said. "How'd you come to care so much about that-- that bitch?"

He couldn't stop himself and in a flash his hands were buried in the front of Harry's robes, tightening there angrily. "Take it back!"

"How could you?!"

"How could I what? How could I have a different point of view? How could I see something that you're too bloody stubborn to look at objectively? What the right fuck, Harry?! What . . . how could I what?"

"For years those arseholes rode us, Ron! Rode you! God, if they'd had their way, I wouldn't be standing here with you right now! They were always there, always giving us shite, trying to get us expelled -- fucking trying to get me killed!"

"FOR ONCE IN YOUR GODDAMNED LIFE, THIS IS NOT ABOUT YOU," Ron roared, tugging Harry toward him abruptly before releasing him with a sharp push. "So fucking what, Harry? Yeah, they were arseholes -- when we were fucking fifteen, but we're not there anymore!"

"HOW COULD YOU HAVE TURNED TO HER?!" Harry was in his face now. "HOW COULD YOU HAVE FUCKED HER?!"

Ron felt the light coolness of a stray bauble of Harry's spittle land on his cheek. He wiped at his face irritatedly, and then poked Harry in the chest, hard. "I DON'T FUCKING KNOW, OKAY?!" He was drawing his fist back, and this caused him to stop short. Harry was glaring at him, resentment roiling in his eyes, and Ron was struck by the realisation of how deep-seeded this whole mess really was between them.

"YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN THERE WITH US!" Ron heard a slight catch in Harry's voice. "YOU SHOULD HAVE FUCKING BEEN THERE WITH ME!"

The anger drained out of Ron; in its place an almost soothing sense of finality pooled, and a welling, fierce sense of protectiveness for Harry. It was true -- for a long time it was hard for Ron to handle, Harry being who he was, that is. Everything centered around Harry, everyone oooed and ahhed at Harry, everything just happened for Harry. Yet, as the years rolled by, Ron had truly come to accept and understand that it wasn't because of Harry's bidding. It just was. Here Harry was, telling Ron that he'd noticed his absence all those years ago, his distractedness, his . . . disloyalty. But even so, Harry hadn't gone; he'd stayed. He turned away then, and stared out the plate glass window of their office, out into the twinkling lights of London at night.

"I'm sorry." Harry sounded drained.

"No," Ron said flatly. "Don't be."

Harry came up and stood next to him and their shoulders touched briefly. "Remember when Moody came to get me from the Dursleys', the summer before fifth year?"

"Yeah."

"That was the first time I got to see the city like this."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." They both gazed out the window. "Was bloody freezing, too. Flying up there like that. Colder than anything I can remember."

"I remember. You were right frozen by the time you got to Grimmauld. I shoulda sent my cloak for you when they left to pick you up."

Harry shrugged. "I survived." He glanced sideways at Ron. "Which you're likely bloody regretting right now."

Ron snorted, a short laugh escaping. "Never that, mate." He shifted, turning toward Harry, meeting his eyes. "I don't know why I went to her," he said seriously. "But I do know why I stopped. And-- it's always been you and me, yeah? First."

"Yeah. I know."

"So, what gives, Harry?"

"I don't know."

Ron thought he might know, but he wasn't going to put words in his best mate's mouth. "Remember our first year? When we went after the stone?"

"Obviously," Harry said, his voice tired.

"And second year when you went down into the chamber? And then when you and Hermione went after Sirius, 'cos I was laid up with my bloody dumb leg thingee?"

"Yeah."

"You had to go it alone, really. You always have had to go it alone. The Triwizard maze . . . hell, even that cuckoo Lestrange bint at the Department of Minstries and then Voldemort himself -- you had to do that yourself, yeah?"

Harry stared out the window, his face burdened and dark.

Ron nudged at him with his upper arm, bumping against him awkwardly. "But it was the second task, Harry. It was the second task." The thing he'd miss the most. Harry looked at him. "Reckon there was a reason for that," Ron continued, his ears warming; he felt uncomfortable speaking so candidly. Embarrassed, he ran his hand through his hair. "Might not've always been along for every step, but fuck, Harry, I've always been there. Always." He gestured between them. "You and me."

Harry pursed his lips thoughtfully for several moments, and then sighed deeply. "Yeah. I didn't--"

"S'okay. And I don't know--"

"You don't need to explain. I shouldn't have--"

"No, I should've--"

"Naw, don't even--"

"Right, then."

"Right."

London winked knowingly at them as they stood side by side, gazing out over the sleeping city. Several quiet moments passed before Ron spoke again. "Remember taking the car?"

A slight smile nudged at Harry's lips. "You were a right shitty driver, mate."

"Oi! I was twelve, thanks," Ron protested. "Next time I'll just chuck you into the boot. But seriously, wasn't that fucking brilliant?"

"Awesome, yeah," Harry said. "It really was. It was fun. Seems sometimes that things weren't just fun often enough." He paused, silent again as he turned his thoughts over in his mind. "I'm glad it's all done. Rather freeing, that."

"Yeah," Ron agreed, opting for the understatement. "Quidditch was fun too."

"Lots of things were fun. I know that." Harry put his hand up to the glass; instantly a light condensation misted under his palm, forming a ghostly imprint on the cool pane. "Shite, you really don't think Parkinson wrote the letter?"

"Huh? Oh . . . " He flicked a glance at Harry. "Harry? I really don't."

Harry turned to him, appraising him. "All right," he said finally, resignedly. "All right."

"You know where my loyalties lie."

"Yeah, I know."

"She didn't write that letter." It came out with more vehemence than he intended.

"How do you know?"

"Because . . . " There was no other way to clarify it. "Because I know her, Harry." A vague sense of shame bubbled around inside his gut.

Harry was watching him, curious now rather than angry. "How? How'd that happen?"

Ron said nothing, doubtful he could adequately explain. "Do you-- I could tell you, I s'pose." Would Harry really want to know? "Reckon it's been between us long enough, eh?"

"You think?"

He looked Harry square in the eye. "I'm sorry, mate. I am."

"I know you are."

"Harry?"

"Hmm?"

"Got any firewhiskey?"

---

"So," Harry said, two hours later, the both of them pissed out of their gourds, "lemme get this straight. Pansy crawled into bed with you right under Pomfrey's nose?"

Ron leaned back in his chair, spreading his hands wide. "I swear it! That's what happened, sure as my middle name's Bil'yus."

Harry cocked an eyebrow at him. "You sure it wasn't the other way around? You didn't accidentally fall into her bed, maybe when you were going to the loo or somesuch?"

Ron snorted into the neck of the firewhiskey bottle. "Quite sure, thanks," he said, tipping it back; the whiskey sloshed around the glass bottle like hollow, watery church bells.

"So Parkinson was aggressive, eh?" Harry rolled his eyes. "Imagine that."

"Oh, fuck, you have no idea--" Ron stopped, eyeing Harry warily.

"I won't get mad," Harry said solemnly.

Ron realised he didn't feel comfortable talking like this, regaling Harry with stories of Pansy the hottie while she was in her current predicament. He imagined her now, alone in Azkaban, perhaps curled up on the hard, stone protrusion that made do as her bed, her knees drawn up to her chest, arms encircling them. He thunked his chair back down onto the floor, ignoring the cool liquor that sloshed over his hand as he did so, and he rested his forearms on the tabletop. He stared rather darkly at his hands, avoiding Harry's gaze. "I don't know why she came to me. She never said."

"Goes to show," Harry said, drunkenly bright, "that Malfoy must've been right lousy in the sack!"

"What, a bird'll only come to me when her bloke's a crap lay? Thanks muchly, Harry!"

Harry laughed and touched his fist to the top of Ron's hand. "Didn't mean it like that and you know it. You had more girls fancying you than I ever did." He nodded sagely when Ron looked at him, surprised. "Just meant that . . . Ha! That fucking arsehole, Malfoy . . . Think he knew about you two?" He reached for the firewhiskey and took a long pull from the bottle.

"Doubt it," Ron said. "She woulda never told him."

"Why not?"

"Same reason I never told you or Hermione, I 'spect. Hermione especially."

"Embarrassed?"

"Um, yeah? To put it mildly."

"So . . . you and Parkinson? Where'd you . . . ?"

Ron eyed him. "Where'd we what?"

Harry gestured in a prompting manner. "You know . . . "

"Uh--"

"I mean, it wasn't like you could bring her to Gryffindor Tower, and I'm betting you didn't set foot in the dungeons, so?"

"Oh, well, um." Ron scratched his head sheepishly, and then reached for the firewhiskey. He fortified himself before replying. "There was-- er, the library?"

"You shagged Pansy Parkinson in the library?"

"Er--" He knew his face was flaming, and it wasn't from the sodding firewhiskey. Harry sort of slouched forward then, and for a moment Ron thought he was going to be sick. He wondered if he ought to offer to fetch the rubbish bin, but then he realised that Harry wasn't ill, but rather he was laughing. "What?" Ron asked defensively, taking another slug of the whiskey to hide his mortification.

Harry could not stop laughing. "Oh fucking shite," he croaked out, tears leaking down his face. "Can you imagine how hacked off Hermione would've been if she'd known? The library? You might as well have shagged Parkinson right there on Hermione's pillow!"

"Oi!"

Harry gasped for air. "You dared to breach the sanctity of--" He emphasised dramatically. "--the library with Pansy Parkinson? Hermione would die, mate. Die!"

Despite his rancor, Ron couldn't help but crack a smile at the idea of Hermione being appalled that he'd dared to shag someone other than her in the library -- the library! Hermione's own sacred ground. What an utter shitehole he was! "Yeah, well," he said, shrugging. "It wasn't on purpose!"

Harry wiped at his eyes. "Ron, you arse! You don't shag someone accidentally. Seriously, how'd it happen?"

Ron again looked down at his hands, which were flattened against the oak table's top. "When she came to me in hospital I don't know what came over me, but I . . . she felt good, yeah? She made me feel . . . yeah. And I couldn't shake it. I mean, I knew who she was. What she was. But we'd get stuck together on prefect rounds, and then there was Herbology--" He held his hands up helplessly, shrugging. "--and, well, I'd say to myself that this was the last time, but then it'd happen again."

"Bloody hell," Harry said, wincing. "Herbology. You were paired up with her because of me!"

Ron put up a hand. "Don't even go there. It doesn't matter now." He looked at Harry. "When it was just her and me it was different. I know it was wrong, but I kept it up." He found he'd said all he wanted to.

"You got to know her?"

"Yeah. A bit."

"Was it awful?"

"Pretty much."

"Was she awful?"

"Pretty much."

"What about Malfoy?"

"She loved him."

"Interesting way of showing it."

"I'm pretty sure it was just as horrid for her as it was for me."

Harry peered at him queerly. "That's fucked up, mate."

"I know."

"Does Hermione know?"

"Not unless you've told her." Ron trained a suspicious eye across the table.

Harry made a placating motion. "That would be a definite no."

Ron pointed drunkenly at Harry, the firewhiskey bottle still caught in his grasp. "But I just want you to know that I never-- I woulda never-- it was always about you, me, and Hermione."

Harry tipped back in chair and regarded him silently; he nodded. "Yeah. I know."

"Good," Ron said fiercely, and knocked back another shot, wiping at his mouth with his sleeve.

"So, how come she couldn't have written the letter?"

"S'not her writing first of all," Ron said, concentrating so as not to slur horribly. "S'not her handwriting. Second? She'd have never sacrificed Malfoy. She'd have never done that. She'd kill herself before she'd have let a hair on his poncy git head get touched."

"Yeah, well, how's it she's still alive now then?" Harry asked, and edge of distaste moving into his voice. "Guess she's not following Malfoy to the netherworld then, is she?"

Ron considered Harry seriously. "Actually, I think she's got her itinerary all set. She's doing what she can to see that she offs herself, but . . . . "

"But what?"

"S'more like she's--" Ron wobbled in his seat for a moment. "-- like she's punishing herself. Everyone knows t'dementor's kiss is worse than death."

"Have you seen them?"

"The dementors?"

"No." Harry waved his hand at Ron again. "The Kissed."

"The Kissed?"

"Yeah, you know -- the Kissed. Have you been down to where they're kept?"

"No. You?"

"No. But Neville's told me about it. I think he likes working with that population 'cos of his parents and whatnot, and now that they're dead he doesn't have anyone to visit." Harry took back the firewhiskey. "Think he's so used to visiting on Sundays that he doesn't know what to do with himself otherwise. So he goes and visits the Kissed. Fucked up, yeah?"

Ron pulled a face, swaying slightly. "Right royally fucked up," he agreed. "Neville's got family, though, so what the hell? Why's he doing that?"

"Dunno," Harry said. "But I could put in a word with him for Parkinson if you want, for after it's done. What's she like?"

"Like?" Did they really have to rehash this?

"I mean what does she like? To eat? Or whatever else."

A quilted wave of brightly-coloured Droobles wrappers washed through Ron's muddled mind; he remembered how during N.E.W.T.s week Neville had inexplicably taken his stacks of wrappers and a pot of magical rubber cement from the depths of his trunk and had made the rounds of Gryffindor Tower, painstakingly decoupaging the wrappers to all kinds of objects and furniture, and even the walls of the tower itself. Because my folks were Gryffindors too, he'd said in the way of explanation whenever anyone would bother to enquire as to why he was on about something so odd. Of course Ron, Harry, and Hermione hadn't had to ask. Wrappers: toffee, chocolate, Droobles, Pepper Imps, Honeyduke's best.

"Uh," Ron said slowly, giving his head a quick shake. "Um, toffees. She likes toffees. But she wouldn't take them before -- I brought her a sack."

"She'll like 'em after she's Kissed," Harry said, lolling a bit. "Neville's told me that the Kissed revert back to a vish- viceral state. Whatever they've become accustomed to becomes ingrained in their senses. They can't speak, but they have instincts. And aversions."

Hearing Harry talk of what lay in store for Pansy after her dementor's kiss was leaving Ron cold; an icy feeling was washing around in his gut, and he recognised it as trepidation -- fear even. He grabbed up the firewhiskey and laid back another belt. No one he knew had been subjected to the dementor's kiss before, and quite frankly he didn't know how to feel about it.

Harry laid his head on the table, his arms dangling uselessly at his sides.

"All right, Harry?" Ron asked, reaching for the bottle's cap and slowly screwing it over the bottle's open neck.

"Mmm," Harry sighed, his eyes closed; his glasses were askew, and they hung haphazardly from one ear. "'Nuff to drink. I'm gonna sleep it off."

"Here?"

"Mmm."

Ron pushed the firewhiskey toward the center of the table, and then stood. He weaved to the loo for a piss, and when he returned Harry was snoring loudly. Carefully, Ron picked Harry's glasses away from his face and set them at the top of his tousled head. Running his hands through his own hair, he shook his head abruptly, as if to clear his thoughts; however, clearly the whiskey was coursing through him, for before he could stop himself, Ron found himself striding toward the Floo, pausing only to grab his badge and wallet, and Pansy's file. He made to turn toward the fireplace, but then hesitated. Impulsively, he slid the lone book perched on the corner of his desk into his pocket. The low fire danced drunkenly in his vision as he pawed over the mantel for the Floo powder, and the sparkly black powder mesmerised him for a moment as he let his handful sift into the flames. Closing his eyes, he stepped into the Floo, and everything lurched sideways. A great wave of nausea rose in him as he barked out his destination.

"Azkaban prison!"

And then there was a flash of green light.

He narrowly avoided spewing his guts when the Floo spit him out in the professional visitors wing at Azkaban; it was the only Floo in the prison itself. Civilian visitors were rarely allowed into Azkaban itself, for they couldn't take the dementors' presence or the despair that permeated its walls. Minister MacDhubhshith had implemented the glamouring of the dementors two years prior, despite the professional consensus erring on the side of leaving the dementors in their natural state.

Zelott MacDhubhshith was the first Muggleborn Minister of Magic in Britain's history, rising to power on a platform of Muggleborn/Half-blood rights in a time of pureblooded elitism and, in the case of the Death Eaters, tyranny. He'd survived six assassination attempts, two of them quite serious; MacDhubhshith was charismatic, well-connected, and popular amongst the masses. Even the pureblooded society ladies could be overheard whispering behind their gloved hands about his piercing blue eyes coupled with his full head of white hair, hair that on anyone else would render a person aged and passe. On MacDhubhshith, though, it only complimented his commanding presence; Zelott was a shining example of tenacity, perseverance, and ambition. He'd elected to study at Beauxbatons, returning to his mother's home country of France for his education. He was a diplomat among diplomats, a man of exquisite taste, cosmopolitan beyond belief.

No wonder, Ron thought, as he stared bleary-eyed and wobbly up at MacDhubhshith's formal portrait hanging to the side of the labyrinthine entrance to the prison itself, fucking Zabini managed a pass into Azkaban. Birds of a feather . . . He could fully imagine the Minister and Blaise Zabini side by side, sitting in matching pompous leather wingbacks, contemplating a pompous fire, sipping their pompous post-prandial port, whilst discussing pompous topics such as the pros and cons of organised eugenics or pate versus foie gras. And yes, Ron contemplated darkly, as he flattened himself against the wall, sinking into the shadows to watch the guards on duty at the main entrance to Azkaban, he ruddy well knew what sodding foie gras was, thank you very much.

No way in hell would the guards let a drunken Auror into the maximum security wing, and bloody hell if he hadn't forgotten his emergency potions kit back at the office because, well, he was right pissed; otherwise, a sobering potion and a squirt of peppermint breath freshener would have sufficed. He shook his head again, banging it lightly against the stone wall of Azkaban, trying to knock a bit more clarity into his swimming noggin. The guards were bored, clearly, and Ron knew it would be a matter of time before he could utilise their circumstantial indifference to his benefit.

Fifteen minutes passed.

"Oi," one of them finally said, stretching lazily. "Break time, you reckon?"

The other checked his watch. "Ten minutes or so."

"Sod that. I'm hungry and my arse is paralysed from sitting a full shift. Tuesdays are always dead around here."

"Ten minutes isn't going to kill you," the other guard said. "Besides, Adele always comes down for break time." He waggled his eyebrows at his partner. "Don't you want to have a little Adele with your lunch?"

"Adele's my mother's age," the first snorted. "She may look fit, but still. No thanks!"

"Suit yourself," the second said, smiling sagely. "Your loss." He got up and went to the towering steel doors stretching upward; loud clanging sounds filled the entrance area.

"What're you doing?" The first guard was clearly uncomfortable. "You shouldn't be opening the doors, mate. Someone could escape."

"Bollocks," the other retorted, working the massive locks deftly. "Besides, it's just for a few minutes. No one's ever escaped Azkaban and lived to tell about it." He held up his hand pre-emptorily. "And before you tell me about Black, he was an animagus, and now that the prisoners are stripped of their magic upon admittance, no one's ever going to sneak their way outta here. Never. Fuck it, we could leave these doors open permanently, and nary a prisoner'd cross the threshold." To emphasise his point, he directed his wand downward; a line of shimmering sparks rose in a symmetrical line at his feet. With a tug he released the last lock and incanted "Alohomora Dei."

Open, with God.

The doors ground open, swinging forward slowly with a creaking shudder, and the cool, fetid rush of Azkaban flowed over Ron where he stood, silent and watching in the shadows. Carefully he lifted his wand and directed it across the room. "Accendium!" A wall of fire shot upward with a roar. The guards whirled.

"Shite!" the younger one exclaimed. "Spontaneous combustion!"

As the guards hurried toward the fire, Ron stealthily emerged from where he was lurking and slipped quietly through the doors, taking care to hug the shadows against the craggy rock walls of the corridor. Perhaps no one could escape from Azkaban, but clearly this belief didn't preclude someone from escaping into the prison.

With a satisfied feeling, he made his way toward the maximum security sector, bracing himself inwardly for the assault on his senses when he reached the blistering white of its core.

---

"Parkinson!"

It was 2:14 a.m.; she was not sleeping. Instead, she was crouched in her cell, kneeling, her forearms pressed to the cold stone floor, and she was methodically pulling tiny threads of cotton from her uniform top. Ron blinked, certain she was laying them into the cracks in the stones, weaving a tiny, fibrous rope throughout her cell, for some purpose known only unto herself.

"Hmm?" she responded, not breaking her concentration.

"What're you doing?"

"Getting things in order," she said flatly. Ron heard the faint snapping of thread as she pulled another string of her top free. "What do you want?"

He nudged closer to the bars of her cell and took off his robes. With his wand he floated a bench down the corridor and arranged it comfortably. He settled in, and watched her, not speaking.

"Well?" More threads snapped.

"How'd'you know I want something. Maybe I'm just . . . here."

She was so focused on her strings and the chinks in the stonework that her eyes appeared almost crossed. "When have you ever come to me not wanting something?"

She was right, of course.

Still he refrained from speaking; glancing about her cell, he noticed everything she owned was carefully lined up in an eclectic manner, traversing the floor of her cell in strange acrostic patterns. Bits of paper, toiletries, clothing, and letters fanned out, a roadmap of insanity, and Ron knew at that moment Pansy's grasp on reality was tenuous at best. She'd walled herself inside a maze of scraps; it was so obviously a defence of sorts, and he was filled with a momentary sense of poignancy -- were it anyone else, he might be laughing at the sheer patheticness of the gesture. Anyone who wanted to could reach Pansy in three quick strides, blowing her carefully-placed, torn pieces of paper into a swirling hodge-podge of confetti just with the step of their feet.

"A unicursal maze is a maze without branches," she said.

"Yeah?"

"A multicursal maze is a maze with branches and dead ends."

"Fascinating."

"A theta is a maze composed of concentric circles."

"How fitting for you."

"A plainair maze is a maze which is constructed on anything other than a flat surface."

"I'd say your ruddy brain is running unicursal right about now," Ron said, rolling his eyes. "Just when I thought you couldn't possibly get anymore mental, there you go and surprise me again."

Pansy lifted her eyes to meet his gaze. "You know, a Cretian form of torture was to get a person royally pissed and then drop them into a darkened maze with a horrid, beastly creature roaming inside. Seeing as you're obviously drunk, perhaps you might do us all a favour and take a nice, festive romp through the dementors' nursery."

He snorted, his eyes narrowing. "If anyone'll be romping with the dementors anytime soon, it sure as shite isn't gonna be me."

She stared at him defiantly for a moment before returning her attention to her task at hand.

"Why're you doing that?"

"Just killing time, Weasley."

"I know you didn't write that letter, Parkinson."

"Do you, now?"

He stood and clutched at the bars. "I do. Look, I know it's been right crappy, what with Mal-- Draco dying and whatnot, but I'm positive--"

"You're wasting your time," Pansy interrupted coolly. "I won't be discussing it. It doesn't matter anymore."

"Sod that!" His knuckles whitened as he squeezed the bars. "'Course it matters! How can it not matter? You've more to live for than just one other person--"

"JUST FUCK THE HELL OFF!" She was flying across the cell then, and before Ron could react he felt the ball of her hand smack soundly against his forehead as she hit the bars, reaching through them wildly; her nails dug into the soft flesh at his throat, and she squeezed -- hard. "I'm not telling you anything. Ever. Got that?" Her eyes were crazed with what Ron would only come to recognise in hindsight as profound grief, and anger. "My life is nothing without Draco. My life is nothing! Remember all those times you and your fucking piece of shite friends said we Slytherins were nothing but dirt to line the gutter with, and that we'd all find our come-uppance in Azkaban? Well, here you go. You were right all along. So, my suggestion? Go with it, Weasley, and wallow in your victory." She released him abruptly and turned her back on him, shoulders heaving angrily.

Goddamnit, he really hated it when she choked him. "No," he said, a tendril of cold fury snaking into his voice. "No. It wouldn't be a equal victory. No fun in that."

She turned her head slightly. "Oh, trust me, there is. That is unless you think you're too good for petty victories." Ron could just see the dark, glittering shadow of her iris as she spoke over her shoulder. "Oh, wait. Of course you're too good for an easy win. Silly me."

The wheels in his mind spun as he tried to gain the mental edge through the haze of alcohol. "Yeah, that's right. That's exactly right. I am too fucking good to stoop to your lot's level, but more than that you're smarter than that. Don't you fucking feed me anymore of your self-deprecating bullshite, Parkinson. You Slytherins thought you had it so bloody good, didn't you? Making yourselves out to be a bunch of small-time bullies and hacks, but that was just a cover wasn't it? Oh, no," Ron said, utterly incensed; he stepped sideways, flicking his wand smoothly. The locks to her cell sprung open and he pulled the door open roughly, stepping inside. He held out his hand behind him and the door clanged shut, echoing starkly down the corridor. He moved forward and spun her around by the shoulders and looked down at her, and a similar scenario rose from his memory at that moment, a memory of a night long ago, and of his young self fortified by whiskey, looking down into this same sullen face. "Oh, no," he repeated, practically spitting the words at her. "You lot had us all fooled. You weren't ineffectual -- you Slytherins were plotting more than us other three houses combined, weren't you? You want me to win? Fine. But you'd better ante up a helluva better fight than this, you weak, pathetic, melodramatic bitch."

Her face screwed up in indignation; her left arm whipped forward and she smacked him soundly across the face, twice, and then without missing a beat suddenly the fingers of her right hand were anchored in his fringe, and she tugged down fiercely, pulling a handful of hair from his scalp.

"Fuck!" He automatically brought his arms up as a defence, warding her off. "Goddamnit, Pansy!"

She was down on her knees again, rearranging the lines of her maze, and one by one she began laying his hair amongst the amalgamation of scraps forming the skeleton of the maze's design; Ron rubbed at his sore scalp, feeling it throb under his fingertips. He moved to her bed and sat down on its side, resting his elbows on his knees, and peered warily at her.

"Forensics has traced the paper the letter was written on."

She ignored him.

"The parchment used," he recited, by heart, "is a mint-sage green in colour. Its base is wood fibre, and it has leaf impressions pressed into its surface, and mica flecks. It is a two-hundred weight, and it was purchased at Lucille's Unique Collectibles in Diagon Alley." When she again did not respond, Ron continued. "Professor McGonagall bought it for Professor Snape for Christmas. There were twenty sheets to the package and seven were gone -- six have been traced and recovered by Aurors; the other was used to write the letter to Malfoy. There are no sheets from that batch unaccounted for."

She looked up at him, ginger hair poking out from her curled fist. "Why don't you call me Malfoy?"

His expression didn't change. "Because you're Parkinson."

"I'm Parkinson-Malfoy. Don't you understand? Draco is my husband. I am his wife. It's Parkinson-Malfoy," she hissed angrily, glaring daggers at him.

"Well, la-dee-da, Parkinson," he retorted. "Reckon you could use hearing your own name for a bit. Maybe it'll remind you that you're your own sodding person, and not just one of Malfoy's extra appendages. Sheesh!"

She looked at him, her eyes brimming with hatred. "I hope someday you're split in half, Weasley. I hope someday someone grabs your second half by the hair right in front of you, and wrenches their head back, and saws into their throat so hard and deep that there's nicks on their vertebrae when it's finished. I hope you suffer."

He shook his head, almost sadly; his head was beginning to throb, both from being mildly scalped and the beginnings of a wicked hangover. "Maybe I will suffer someday, just like you want. Reckon that won't mean anything, though." He held her gaze, not harshly. "All the suffering in the world won't bring Draco back, Pansy." It hung in the air between them, his sentiments, and he could see Pansy's chest rising and falling rapidly; she was like a fish out of water, gaping silently, deeply, amongst the shards of its broken bowl.

"Why can't you just bring me some fucking jam?" she sobbed out, her face melting into a crying mask of grief once again. "All I wanted was some strawberry jam!"

He leaned forward. "Reckon I could arrange that," he said softly. "But, quid pro quo, Parkinson. You have to give me something too."

"Ask," she sobbed, "the greatest headmaster in all Hogwarts' history. When can I get the jam?"

"Pansy," he said, his Auror instincts piercing through his inebriation, "Dumbledore doesn't know anything. After the attacks he was debriefed like whoa, and he's no idea who sussed out the plans--"

"Not Dumbledore, you stupid arse," she interrupted cattily, still blubbering.

"What?" He shook his head, confused.

"I said the greatest headmaster in all Hogwarts' history!"

"Right," Ron said, pulling a face. "Got that. And that would be Dumbledore, thanks."

"No," she said, witheringly. "That would not be Dumbledore."

He stared at her, sceptical.

She shook her head impatiently. "Phineas Nigellus," she said finally, hoisting her chin slightly. "He was a Slytherin, you know."

"Oh, for sod's sake!"

"What?" she demanded.

"First off, I'll thank you to leave off from your little fantasy that Phineas-sodding-Nigellus is even remotely--" He paused then, and tried to regroup. "Look, forget it. Phineas Nigellus, got it. Now, what about him? What's he know?"

Her face fell like a chastised child's might. "But . . . what about the jam?" she whispered.

He was suddenly quite exhausted, and his headache was intensifying. "Tomorrow. I'll bring it tomorrow."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

She went back to her organising then, her face still shiny and wet with tears, and Ron somehow knew that he'd scored a major victory -- one that was truly hard-won and on equal terms. It was enough for today. Yet, he found himself compelled to stay a bit longer, to . . . watch over her? Or something. He shifted slightly, accidentally onto his robes, and a hard object dug against the side of his leg. Ah, yes.

"Well," he said, as cheerfully as he could feign, "now that that's settled and you're back to . . . whatever it is that you're doing . . . guess I'll just read for a tick." He extracted the book from his robe's pocket, where he'd stashed it. "You mind?"

She didn't answer; apparently she was absorbed in her strange pattern again.

"Right, then," Ron said, paging through the book. "Ah, yeah. Here we go. About this time Rodolphe was very much in love with his cousin Angela, who couldn't bear him, and the thermometer was twelve degrees below freezing point. Mademoiselle Angela was the daughter of Monsieur Monetti, the chimney doctor, of whom we have already had occasion to speak. She was eighteen years old, and had just come from Burgundy, where she lived five years with a relative who was to leave her all her property. This relative was an old lady who had never been young apparently -- certainly never handsome, but had always been very ill-natured, although -- or perhaps because -- very superstitious." He paused then, as she made a soft noise, and when he glanced at her she was regarding him curiously.

He cleared his throat lightly, and continued. "Angela, who at her departure was a charming child, and promised to be a charming girl, came back at the end of the five years a pretty enough young lady, but cold, dry, and uninteresting. Her secluded provincial life, and the narrow and bigoted education she had received, had filled her mind with vulgar prejudices, shrunk her imagination, and converted her heart into a sort of organ limited to only fulfilling its function of physical balance wheel. You might say that she had holy water in her veins instead of blood. She received her cousin with an icy reserve; and he lost his time whenever he attempted to touch the chord of her recollections -- recollections of the time when they had sketched out that flirtation in the Paul-and-Virginia style which is traditional between cousins of different sexes. Still Rodolphe was very much in love with his cousin Angela, who couldn't bear him; and learning one day that the young lady was going shortly to the wedding ball of one of her friends, he made bold to promise Angela a bouquet of violets for the ball. And after asking permission of her father, Angela accepted her cousin's gallant offer -- always on condition that the violets should be white."

"White violets are rare," Pansy said. Ron nodded, and kept reading.

"Overjoyed at his cousin's amiability, Rodolphe danced and sang his way back to Mount St. Bernard, as he called his lodging -- why will be seen presently. As he passed by a florist's in crossing the Palais Royal, he saw some white violets in the showcase, and was curious enough to ask their price. A presentable bouquet could not be had for less than ten francs; there were some that cost more. "The deuce!" exclaimed Rodolphe, "ten francs! and only eight days to find this fortune! It will be a hard pull, but never mind, my cousin shall have her flowers . . ."

---

Ron was rudely awakened by a fantastic shock of electricity coursing through his body. "Oi!" he yowled, leaping to his feet and pawing at his robes and limbs as if brushing off millions of stinging insects. "Oh, shite!"

"Oh shite is right, laddie." Ron felt the cool poke of a wand under his ear, digging into the hinge of his jaw. He froze, completely disoriented, sour whiskey churning in his stomach. A figured blurred as it moved around his front, the wand's tip trailing across his cheek, and then down his chin. Ron blinked thickly and Mad-Eye Moody's face came into focus; his stomach dropped into his size thirteens.

"Er--" He blinked again and realised Moody wasn't alone. Pansy's cell was swarming with Azkaban guards, and three individuals Ron recognised from the Auror Division's administration team stood in front of the cell's door, their arms folded sternly across their chests. Panicking, he scanned the cell. Pansy was sitting on the floor next to the toilet, her knees drawn up to her chest. The influx of personnel had decimated her carefully constructed design on the floor; now it looked merely messy and litter strewn. She was rocking almost imperceptibly and her lips were moving slightly, as if she were having a conversation with herself. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, and in her hand was Ron's wand. Before he could fully register how completely he had just fucked his career, Moody's hand clamped down on his shoulder and whirled him about face. He kneed Ron in the arse and propelled him out of the cell, tossing an "Accio wand" over his shoulder; Ron's wand flew across the small space after them, chunking him in the back of the head. He assumed Moody caught it up, for it didn't clatter to the stone floor.

"Er," he said worriedly, straining to glance over his shoulder as Moody marched him past the guards' station. "Reckon I've made a real pig's breakfast of it, yeah?"

"Oh, son," Moody growled, thwapping him at the nape of his neck. "You've no idea."

"Right. Was afraid of that."

"Vamoose," Moody commanded, prodding him out from the maximum security wing. "Say goodbye, Weasley. You are off this case."

---

"What the bloody hell were you thinking?"

Ron's head felt like it was going to explode into his hands; this time the Floo had made him ill, and once he'd finished hurling into the rubbish bin, Moody'd collared him onto a stool and was now clomping around him in a circular, agitated manner.

"You could've been killed! What've I always taught you, son? CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" Moody roared, shaking his finger in Ron's face. "Of all the stupid, impulsive, half-cocked schemes to pull off!"

"Sorry 'bout that," Ron mumbled, pressing his temples between his fingers. "I didn't plan to--"

"HOW COULD YOU HAVE LET YOUR GUARD DOWN LIKE THAT?!" Moody's breath was hot and muggy in Ron's face, he was that close, and Ron stifled the urge to gag. Mad-Eye turned abruptly then, and plopped into his swiveling chair; he rolled closer to Ron and peered at him intently, his magical eye bulging slightly. "Weasley, if you've a problem with the sauce, then let's take care of it--"

Ron waved his hand dismissively. "God," he groaned. "No. I don't have a sodding drinking problem, I swear it! It's just--"

"How well do you know this prisoner?" Moody interrupted.

"Huh?"

"How do you know her? Is there a conflict of interest that I should've been aware of prior to this?"

"Er--"

"Great nards of bull!" Moody expelled, slapping his forehead with his hand. "You mean to say you and she . . . " He made a motion between their bodies with his finger.

"Sir?"

"How long did it go on for, lad?"

"Um, I think about--"

"Ah, for shame on you! You should have disclosed this to me straight away, and you know it!"

"I--"

"Enough of your pathetic excuses!"

"But," Ron interjected, trying to get a word in edgewise, "I haven't said--"

"ENOUGH!" Moody was livid. He threw himself back into his chair and crossed his arms over his chest angrily. "Just let me bloody well think!" He fell into a brooding silence, leaving Ron to feel like a complete arse.

He'd fallen asleep . . . passed out . . . whatever, in Pansy's cell. The last thing he remembered was something about white violets, and then the ticker-tape dreams that followed, dreams of white, torn scraps of paper floating all around him, falling scattered and disorganised onto the floor. Why had Pansy not tried to hurt him?

"Because she hasn't any magic," Moody said, reading his thoughts; Ron felt a quick stab of pain at his temple at Moody's Legilimens.

"Oi, don't!" he objected, batting at his head. "I said I was fucking sorry!"

"Do you have any idea how poorly it reflects on the Auror division, what you've just done? One of our best Inspectors bloody Flooing to Azkaban in the middle of the night, pissed out of his conk, and holing up in the cell of a maximum security prisoner?! And a high profile one, to boot!" Moody rose again and jabbed his finger into Ron's shoulder. "There's already an owl from MacDhubhshith."

Ron groaned into his hands, shaking his head. "Look, it was a ruddy stupid thing to do, yeah," he said. "I don't know what I was thinking." He felt resigned at this point, ready to have a new arsehole chewed by Moody. He looked at his superior worriedly. "Am I getting sacked?"

"Don't know yet," Moody answered. "It's possible you won't, as you've not had anything like this happen so far. But, I think it's fair to expect massive retribution."

"Great," Ron said darkly, rubbing his face. "Bloody brilliant." A sense of desperation rose in him then. "C'mon, Mad-Eye," he pleaded. "It won't happen again. Reckon you don't need to pull me from the case. Parkinson's not likely to talk to anyone el--"

"Forget it," Mad-Eye said dryly, raising his good eyebrow disapprovingly. "No."

"But--"

"I said no, and I mean it."

"Fuck!" Ron stood abruptly, smacking his hand down on Moody's desk. "Come on!"

Moody narrowed his good eye. "What's it to you, Weasley? It should just be another case."

Ron stared at him silently, fuming inwardly. He was angry for getting himself into trouble like this, and was not at all ready to contemplate his inner motivation as to why he'd acted so rashly, so unprofessionally. He sighed and turned away from Moody. "Dunno," he said finally.

An owl swooped out from the post chute and soared lightly toward them. Alighting on Moody's desk, the owl stuck out its leg, and hooted for a treat. Moody untied three letters from the owl and dug around in his pockets. "Sodding hell," he grumbled. "Can never find-- here." He gave the owl a treat and sent it on its way, and then examined the letters, flipping them over to read the return address. His magical eye swiveled, fixing on Ron. "From Chief Inspector Hawthorne," he said, tossing the first letter onto his desktop. "And this one's from Warden Towne." The second letter slapped down to the desk. "Oh, and brilliant. One from Lucius Malfoy. Unplottable, no doubt." Moody whizzed the letter at Ron; its corner glanced off his cheek, and the letter fell to the floor. "Potter!" Moody barked, clomping out of his office; listlessly, Ron trailed behind, not knowing what else to do. "POTTER!"

Harry's mop of black hair soon appeared over the top of the cubicle dividers; a low groaning sound could be heard. "Whassit?" Harry peered over the top of the divider; he was not wearing his glasses, and it looked to Ron as if only one of his eyes were open. "Sir?"

Moody glared at Ron. "Did you bring the wee lad into your nefarious plot, then?"

Ron shook his head, rolling his eyes; pain shot from one temple to the other. "Not exactly."

Harry's head disappeared; a great tumbling sound came forth. "Shite!"

"All right, Harry?" Ron asked, craning his neck for a better look.

"S'all right, yeah," Harry mumbled, his voice muffled. "My glasses . . . " Shortly he appeared from around the corner -- he looked as if the whole of England had had a party on his head, and he himself had not been invited.

"Nice hair," Moody commented, shoving Pansy's file toward Harry. "Clean up, and then get to Azkaban. You'll be taking up the Parkinson matter."

Harry blinked owlishly, not reaching for the file. "Huh?"

"Sir," Ron interjected, ignoring Harry's look of confusion, "you really don't have to reassign the case. I'll ring up the Chief Inspector and I'll explain--"

"No." Moody spoke flatly; he'd be taking no shite. "Potter's on it. You'll be reassigned, make no bones about it."

"But--"

"But--"

Moody held up his hand, silencing them both. Physically placing the file in Harry's hands, he muttered, "Two minutes, Potter. Make good of whatever hygiene charms you know of. Good gravy, you smell like a brewery. And you?" He turned to Ron. "Go home."

"What?!"

"Go home. You're on administrative leave starting now. I'll need at least two days to contain the mess you've created. Home. Now."

"Oi, I hardly think that's necessary--"

"DON'T YOU MAKE MY GODDAMNED JOB ANY HARDER!" Moody'd turned and was now glaring at Ron, and Ron realised what a right spot he'd gotten himself into. I'm never drinking again, he thought, his face warming with humiliation.

"Ron?" Harry was looking at him wildly. "I don't reckon I know what to do with Parkinson. What'll I say?"

What would Harry say? Ron stared at his best mate, feeling hollow and stupid inside. He shook his head mutely, turning away, his anger at himself seeping closer to the surface. Why had he done this? Pansy was going to-- No. No, he wouldn't go there. There would somehow be a way to get to the bottom of the mystery. Why, Harry would do it! Harry would figure it out. Didn't Harry always figure it out? Didn't he always make things turn out right?

"Ron?" Harry asked again, quizzically.

Ron sighed again and ran his hand through his hair, hanging his head, tired. "Jam."

"What?"

"Jam," he explained wearily. "Mum happened to bring a case of jams and jellies for the kitchen here just last week. Coincidental, that."

"I don't understand," Harry said; Moody was watching silently, his magical eye trained so keenly Ron thought surely it'd start throwing off sparks at any moment.

"Uh, strawberry jam. Take her some strawberry jam. She wanted jam . . . " Ron trailed off. There was something else. What had she said? Talk to . . . He drew a blank. "Fucking hell."

"Forget it," Moody said firmly, bringing his hand down in a determined way. "You'll not be taking Parkinson jam or anything else. She'll be likely to break the jar and cut your throat open with the shards of glass."

"Yeah," Harry conceded.

Ron rolled his eyes. "No, she bloody well wouldn't cut your throat open, Harry," he said, exasperated. "After what happened to Malfoy? Uh, no, 'kay thanks? Take the jam in a small pouch if you'd rather."

"I'm not taking that bint jack shite!" Harry said.

"Then you might as well not go," Ron threw back at him.

"Why's that?"

"Because she's all about quid pro quo. If you want answers, you'll have to work for them."

"Utter rubbish," Moody snarled. "We're not catering to prisoners."

"Too right," Ron said hotly. "But, what about catering to the bloody truth, eh? What's your goal? To prove she's a shite-sucking prisoner, or to get to the bottom of this case?" Ron pointed at Moody and spoke sharply. "'Cos, you know you're not going to get anything from her now, don't you? Not if you're just going to pull all the usual interrogation bullshite on her."

"Not really your concern anymore."

"GOD FUCKING SOD!" He actually kicked the leg of the table petulantly, like a thwarted toddler.

"Potter," Moody ordered darkly, "get a move-on. Weasley, home. Now."

"Bloody hell, fine," he whinged, casting a last glance at Harry. "Mate, see about that jam, yeah? Try and talk him into it."

---

And now, two hours later, he found himself sitting alone on his disaster of a bed, hungover and spent, Creevey's box marked 'Malfoy, Draco' setting atop the box labeled 'Parkinson, Pansy'. He made to open Draco's box, and a fierce, stabbing anger pulsed through him, and roughly he shoved Draco's box aside; the lid fell off and the photographs slid out onto the duvet like a silent fan of cards. He lifted the lid to Pansy's box and dug in, immediately setting aside photos of her from years two through six. He hadn't known she had existed before year seven, except in a peripheral sense, in the way one intrinsically knows there are sometimes flies that buzz about, intrusive and uninvited.

Here was Pansy in the Slytherin Quidditch stands, dressed to the nines in black, silver, and emerald, and she was smiling fully as she looked upward; a gloved hand suddenly appeared in the frame, and pale fingers extended to trail across her cheek, as a blur of emerald Quidditch robes whizzed by -- Draco, undoubtedly. A snapshot in time, one moment. How was it to trail one's fingers across a girl's cheek, not knowing one's destiny lay in being flayed to death inside Azkaban prison? He set the picture aside, the ghostly roar of the cheering Quidditch crowd welling within his mind.

Next he pulled up a picture of Pansy in full prefect regalia. She was advancing on the camera, wand trained forward, undoubtedly letting loose with a stream of expletives that would put the Muggle Royal Navy to shame. Ron wasn't dense; he new what sod, fuck, and bloody hell looked like when mouthed. An explosion of purple sparks flew from the tip of her wand, and the photo faded to black before replaying itself again. Ten points from Gryffindor . . .

He'd been home two hours already and his restlessness was edging at him relentlessly, piercing through his residual drunk; photos still in hand, he pushed up from the bed and padded over to his dresser, and jerked the top drawer open. He found his rumpled pack of smokes; he occasionally indulged. He already felt out of sorts, so what the sod, right? He shook a ciggie out of the pack, pulling it free with his lips, and practically turned the drawer out looking for his lighter. "Fuck it." He slammed the bureau closed and pulled his wand. "Incendio." He touched the wand's tip to his cig, lighting it, and made his way out onto the small balcony, sliding the glass door shut behind him.

He leaned against the railing, the sweet smell of newly lit tobacco curling around him, and shuffled carefully through the handful of pictures. Pansy revising in the library, caught unawares. Pansy sneaking a dungbomb into Goyle's arsecrack. Pansy, in Blaise Zabini's arms, smiling up at him, the absolute vision of an adoring friend. Pansy with Dumbledore . . . when the hell had Pansy Parkinson had occasion to spend time with Dumbledore? Dumbledore was . . . Dumbledore was his. His, and Harry's, and Hermione's! Pansy duelling with Malfoy. Pansy feeding her baby rabbits out behind Hagrid's hut, the green, lacy fronds of a carrot's leaves wafting gently in the breeze.

He took a drag off his smoke.

There was Pansy kissing Malfoy, and what the hell, was Creevey a closet perv or what?! What was Colin doing with pictures of Pansy and Malfoy snogging, for sod's sake? Malfoy had his hand on her cheek, and they were pushing up against a stone wall -- it looked like it could have been anywhere in Hogwarts, really, but for some reason Ron suspected it had been taken in the dungeons.

Watching Pansy snog Malfoy made him uncomfortable; it always had. It had during their seventh year, anyway. Before that he couldn't remember a single time where he'd witnessed the two of them having it off in any fashion; come seventh year, though? Well. He noticed, and frequently at that. Ron flicked his ash and held the ciggie in his teeth as he continued shuffling through the photos. There was Pansy tormenting Neville with a great trowel full of earth to the head in Herbology, and in the next picture she, Zabini, Malfoy, and Goyle were in a Muggle canoe, and they rode the canoe down a slippery, grassy slope right into the lake; unfortunately, Goyle was misplaced at the front of the rickety vessel, and as soon as it hit the water, it slid nose first into the lake and promptly sunk. At this, Ron gives a short laugh. Fitting, he muses. Goyle's dumber than a box of rocks. Leave it to him to sink as fast as one. Ron shuffled the canoe photo to the back of the pile, revealing the next picture, and sucked in his breath sharply.

At first he thought it was Malfoy and Pansy again -- there were hands in her hair, twining tightly, pulling her face upward, but when the figure stooped downward . . . it was himself.

Ron panicked irrationally. Colin knew. If Colin knew, who else knew? Did everyone know? Was he a grand, secret joke amongst his housemates? Fucking shite, did Hermione know? He breathed again, raggedly, and reached up to take the smoke from his mouth; absentmindedly he balanced it between his thumb and forefinger, just below the corner of the photograph where he'd taken hold of it. For a moment the thin trail of smoke blurred the image in front of him; impatiently he blew it away. It was strange, looking at a picture of him like that -- so young. It seemed like aeons ago, really. He hadn't thought of Pansy in years and years; it wasn't until she and Malfoy had been detained in the matter of the Brethren slaughterings that Ron found himself suddenly foisted into his long-buried memories.

It was bloody weird. Sometimes it seemed as if his tryst with her had never happened; it was foreign, forbidden, and ruddy unbelievable, truth told. There were times he seriously wondered if he had imagined it; however, there was something he hadn't realised until this moment, standing on his balcony, in his shorts and tee, his hair standing every which way as his fingers soured with the stink of his rare cigarette.

He'd cared about her then.

He'd wanted her to care about him too.

It was like seeing himself through different eyes, looking at this photograph, but Ron was anything if not stupid -- he could see the adolescent longing on his face, and the frustration and confusion that came with the secrecy, the forbiddeness of their tryst. He had never ever allowed himself to admit this consciously, for how utterly humiliating and terrible a burden -- he'd cared for Pansy Parkinson, he'd wanted her to care for him back, and what he wasn't sure of was why exactly this was. Had it been real and about her? Just her? Or had it merely stemmed from his innate desire to see Draco Malfoy crushed under the heel of life, strung out, rejected and mocked, for all the world to see? What would have accomplished this more soundly than having Malfoy's bird fancy him? He knew he represented everything that Malfoy had loathed, from his sodding second-hand robes to every auburn tip of his hair; still, all these years later, an amalgamation of feelings rose in him as he stared at the photograph -- fierce, swelling waves of pride and anger and longing and . . . .

His fingers were protesting; his ciggie had burned down to the filter, ignored, a stack of greyish-white ash clinging precariously. With a flick he sent the butt falling to the street below, and slowly placed the photo to the back of the pile.

The next photo was even worse. He remembered it instantly.

The rain was pelting down mercilessly from the low-lying clouds above them, and their hair was plastered to their heads. Ron had his Quidditch uniform on; she was in a pink jumper with pearl buttons and a blouse with a classic peter-pan collar so demure it was almost comical, and her favourite velvet headband. The tips of his fingers were barely visible for his leather gloves as he shoved them into her hair, losing himself there, and pulled her close and kissed into her hungrily; she wound her arms around his neck, standing on tiptoe, no doubt, and then the picture looped back on itself and started all over again, and Ron felt like he was being tortured for some reason. It was like something in his gut was pushing, punching its way out, screaming and raw and unsettled.

Something splashed on the picture then -- a raindrop. Ron looked into the sky. How fucking fitting, he thought morosely. Just spiffing.

He let himself inside, taking care to lock the sliding patio door behind him; he leaned against the bureau for a moment, gathering his wits. Rather aimlessly he wandered out from the bedroom and down the short hall to the living room. Plopping onto the couch he considered the photograph darkly again, holding the stack of pictures propped against his thigh as he contemplated . . . God, just everything, and it was too bloody much to feel all at once. He felt like he was going to ruddy explode.

Just because you've got the emotional range of a teaspoon doesn't mean we all have.

Hermione's words echoed in his head, spoken so long ago, and he finally understood the full ramification of this kind of assessment. He'd never been good at expressing himself -- never. Words didn't fall into place easily for Ron. Sure, it was better now that he was an adult, but there were certain things he'd never been able to say without feeling uncomfortable, odd, false, and most of those sentiments tended to be on the deeply emotional side of things. It wasn't that he didn't have an emotional range; it was that he didn't know how to properly navigate it. Instead of words, he defaulted to action, which had, over the years, resulted in some amazingly embarrassing moments for him, not to mention more than just a few definitive moments of pure and unadulterated emotional retardation that had entertained his mates heartily, much to his chagrin. He could never think of the right words at the right time.

But here had come the day where his weaknesses had caught up with him, and his inability to effectively manage his inner feelings and thoughts was going to result in a tangible, unforgivable ripping of the soul from someone he knew. He didn't harbour any idealised romantic notions about Pansy; he knew exactly what she was, what she had always been, but he should have bloody well settled the matter between them at the time. Instead, he'd retreated clumsily, leaving the rock garden of their odd relationship unsearched, untouched. He'd left it there abandoned when he'd fled, and although it'd long grown over, the uneven terrain dotted with hen-and-chicks, ivy, and, yes, verbena, the rocks were still there underneath it all, alone and unturned. He'd practically plowed through it with a Muggle lawnmower last night, in the way that he always managed, using far more force and vehemence than necessary, upending the rocks violently and without warning, just because he himself felt the need to be placated, to understand his past -- at that moment -- and sod how anyone else was affected.

He'd been compelled to see if the connection had ever been real, if she'd felt it too, and he'd let his emotions take over, unlearned and rough, exacerbated by the freedom of being tanked on whiskey, and now she would suffer for it, for in a suprisingly objective moment, Ron realised that he was right now Pansy's only hope. Harry or anyone else wasn't going to get squat from her, and if he had been even remotely intelligent about it, he would have understood that this in and of itself was the answer to the question he'd long held.

He mattered to her. He mattered.

The one thing worse, Ron thought, than having the death of a fellow human being's soul on one's conscience would be having the decimation of a Slytherin eating away at his conscience. Ruddy unfair, that. Why couldn't he just enjoy the triumph? Malfoy was dead -- shockingly, easily so. Pansy would soon be forever silenced by a fate worse than death, and he could file her away under ghosts of the past. Where was his savage sense of victory? Why did it not come? Instead, here he sat, unconsciously tearing the corners from pictures of long ago to appease his restlessness, and as he watched, he couldn't help but imagine what it would be like when the hand sliding into the hair at the nape of her neck to pull her forward for a kiss was grey and scaly and rotten, and what she would think when that rattling, dank mouth closed in on her.

He sighed heavily and leaned forward, and placed the stack onto the table. It was probably best he was off the case. Clearly, he was not objective.

He'd just have another cig and wait for Luna to get home.

Remembering you standing quiet in the rain
as I ran to your heart to be near
And we kissed as the sky fell in
holding you close
How I always held close in your fear

If only I'd thought of the right words
I could've held onto your heart
If only I'd thought of the right words
I wouldn't be breaking apart
all my pictures of you . . .

---

Ron awoke before his alarm charm went off, inexplicably awake. He shuffled out of his dorm room and down the hall to the bath; he started the shower and collected his toiletries from his locker. Brushing his teeth vigourously, he ran his hand through his hair and squinted into the mirror. Damn, he hated shaving, but he reckoned he couldn't go another day. He was only eighteen, so his stubble was sparse, but that only made it worse when he didn't take care of it -- he ended up with random tufts of hair here and there, and no thanks to that, yeah. He spit into the sink and reached for the tap; as the water warmed, he pulled his pyjama top off and discarded it on the floor, and then reached to test the water's temperature. Catching sight of his forearm, he froze.

It was as if an unknown Healer had visited during the night, bringing with them a new, never before heard brand of magic. Through the pinkish, wrapping scars left on his forearm by the stinging tentacles in the Brain Room fifth year, wound a trail of newly healed, healthy skin. Even his freckles were there, intact, rising from under the now gone scar tissue to retake their proper place. Gingerly he lifted his fingers to the area and ran them over the spot in question, and the realisation bloomed within him that it was not a random pattern there.

The trail was two tiny fingers in width, and it looped around to form a distinctive pattern: PP

"Holy fucking shite," he breathed, mesmerised. He ran his fingers over the new skin again, and then bonafide panic set in. Hurriedly, he grabbed up his pyjama top and fled into the shower stall, banging the swinging door shut behind him. He tore out of his clothing and slunk into the hot, steaming water, letting it flow over him. He lathered up and began scrubbing at his forearm wildly. It had to be some kind of mistake -- a glamour, perhaps? Yet, glamours were cast, not applied, and Pansy had most definitely rubbed some kind of concoction into his skin the previous evening. Yeah, it'd smelt of lavender, but, he convinced himself, was only to mask its inherent insidiousness. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, Hermione was fond of saying, usually when either Harry or Ron were berating her for her continued S.P.E.W. efforts.

How was he going to explain this? The idea of wearing long sleeved shirts for the rest of his existence did not appeal in the slightest. Hermione would know, but bloody hell if he was going to approach her about this turn of events, and for this he felt incredibly disloyal. He was now actively hiding things from her -- Harry too, for he certainly couldn't go to him either. Ginny? No. She hated Pansy with the passion of a thousand fiery suns, and Fred and George would somehow manage to ensure his predicament ended up as either front page news for the Daily Prophet, or as fodder for some kind of horribly public practical joke. His mother would shriek and carry on and demand an explanation; Sirius was dead. His father? Maybe. Bill? Maybe. But neither Arthur nor Bill were here right now, and he knew he couldn't wait.

This was a potions-based dilemma, so that left either Snape or--

---

"Hey, Neville?" Ron clutched one of Neville's four-posters as he enquired. "Got a sec?"

Neville looked up from his reading. "Reckon so. What's up?"

"Uh."

"Ron?" Neville was regarding him expectantly, an open, friendly expression on his face.

"What do you know about healing ingredients?" Ron asked finally. "I mean herbological samples -- plants that heal, yeah?"

"Heal what?"

"Oh," Ron said, flustered. "Cuts. Scrapes. You know -- things that scar? Like . . . burns."

"Burns?"

"Yeah, burns."

"You have a burn?"

"Well," Ron said, gesturing at his forearm; it was hidden beneath his uniform shirt. "Yeah. Of sorts. You know?" Please let Neville get it, he pleaded inwardly. He didn't feel like revisiting the whole Department of Mysteries incident again.

"What happened?"

Goddamnit. Neville's brain was like a fucking sieve most days. "Er, you know." He cleared his throat lightly. "That brain thingee, yeah. You know -- the scars."

Neville stared at him blankly for a moment, but then realisation flooded his eyes. "Oh!" he said, sitting upright. "Right. What about them?"

"Well . . . " Ron had thought long and carefully about how to explain this. "Last night I had to take a letter to Snape from McGonagall, right? And I had to wait for Snape to write back. So while I was waiting, Blaise Zabini blew up a cauldron, and it went everywhere, and it ate right through my shirt, mate. Check this out." He unbuttoned his cuff and rolled up his sleeve, and thrust his forearm forward. Please don't let Neville notice the pattern. Please please please--

"Wow," Neville boggled, looking even more buck-toothed than usual; he'd slimmed down between years five and six, owing to his wicked growth spurt no doubt, and his face had elongated and become lean -- now people mocked his teeth, which were, to be fair, rather large. He continued, "That's rather random-looking, isn't it?" He looked up eagerly at Ron, glad to be of assistance. "When'd that happen?"

"Last night, I said."

"I mean, did it happen right away?"

"Huh? Oh, no. No, I woke up with it like this."

"Hmm. That's right weird, Ron! What'd Hermione say?"

"Um," he tugged at his collar, shifting his eyes. "I haven't exactly showed her yet." Quickly he looked back at Neville with what he hoped was a sufficiently pleading glance. "I . . . want it to be a surprise?"

"Oh," Neville said, nodding. "Gotcha. Well, I suppose-- hang on, would you?" Neville rose then and trotted over to his trunk at the foot of his bed. "Gran gave me a fantastic book on phytochemistry for Christmas -- it's Healer-grade, yeah?" He lifted the giant tome from the depths of his trunk. "Have a seat, I guess. This might take a while."

"Right." Ron sat.

---

"Ron, did you happen to catch what kind of a potion Zabini was brewing?" Neville asked, an hour later.

"No," Ron said quickly. "No, didn't catch that."

"So you've no idea what kind of ingredients may have been in it?"

"No. None." He paused. "Well, it smelt like lavender, I s'pose."

"Lavender." Neville thumbed through the book's index and then flipped to the right section. Ron remained silent as Neville read. "Well," Neville said finally, after several minutes, "there's a new medical-quality grade salve in testing, according to this--" he glanced up quickly "--and this is a recent publication, mind. This one has lavender, calendula, and gotu kola, but--"

"But what?" Ron prompted.

"It's just that this isn't any different than, say, something you'd rub on a minor burn, or a baby's arse for that matter. It's not until a caustic ingredient is added that actual reparations can be made to damaged skin, and the Ministry won't have that."

"Why the sod not? What, are people just supposed to go about sporting scars whether they want to or not?"

Neville shrugged. "Dunno. The Ministry's tough on new potions. Takes yonks to get a new one on the market." His brow furrowed thoughtfully. "Remember Lockhart, Ron?"

Ron rolled his eyes. "Obviously. Who wouldn't, that fecking poof?"

"Remember how he used to always talk about having his own line of hair care products? Well, after second year, I overheard Gran dishing it with Amelia Bones and Candace Apple, yeah? I was hiding under the chesterfield, trying to find Trevor . . . but anyway, Gran said -- 'cos they were talking about Lockhart after what happened, right? -- that Lockhart used to have a line of cosmetic potions and products out on the market way back in--" Neville scratched his head, thinking. "-- 1971? And the products all ended up being pulled from the stores, 'cos Lockhart didn't create them on his own -- he stole the recipes and the ideas for the products from someone else!"

"That fucking twat," Ron said, pulling a face. "Figures. Who'd he steal from that time?"

"Dunno!" Neville shrugged again. "Gran didn't say. But the notebook he stole wasn't the up-to-date one. It was only half finished; that's how the real chemist was able to prove the products were hers to begin with after Lockhart was shut down."

"That bloody ponce!" Ron couldn't believe it. "So then he went on to Defence? Sodding hell, what a grifter!"

"Yeah, see the whole thing about it? 'Cos you can't change skin without an underlying caustic property, right? The whole thing about it was that Lockhart didn't know what to add to all the products, so he just added various caustics, and people got hurt, Ron! They got hurt! Gran said she lost her hair for a whole year because of the shampoo Lockhart put out."

Ron suppressed the urge to laugh at the image of Neville's stern grandmother bald, her head shiny and as smooth as a gobstone. "What'd he use?"

"Dunno! There's different caustics, yeah?" He began ticking off on his fingers. "They're mostly called escharotics or cauterants in our world, but there's soda -- that's the basic one, right? -- and swallow-wort, badama, lye, bird's foot, and--"

A-ha! "Bird's foot?" Ron asked curiously.

"Yeah. It's used to make lye."

"Thanks, Neville!" Ron beamed, the first hint of revenge blossoming in his mind. Already the wheels were turning. "You've been a terrific help!"

"I have?"

"You bet!"

---

Ron snaked through the corridors of the dungeons, creeping along silently, every step of his trainer-clad foot carefully placed. Finding a niche in the wall next to a statue of Salazar Slytherin, he slid into it, stealthy and focused. Today was Thursday; Thursdays the Slytherins had Astronomy Lab at eight o'clock. Pansy, Draco, and Blaise always came up five minutes late -- he knew this because his rotating permanent prefect assignment happened to be every other Thursday this term -- always after Millicent Bulstrode, Daphne Greengrass, and Theodore Nott left for the Astronomy Tower. He'd spent all day trying to corner Zabini without success; this was his last opportunity. He heard voices and held his breath, waiting. Finally the three Slytherins passed, and Ron took steady aim, utilising a trick Harry'd once mentioned to him, and whispered a spell under his breath.

Blaise Zabini's rucksack split open like a cleaved watermelon, and all the contents in his bag spilt out onto the floor.

"Merde!" Zabini hissed, turning about. "Mon sac de livre est fucké!"

"All right, Zabini?" Malfoy asked, making no move to help Blaise pick up his things as Pansy rushed over to assist.

"Je l'obtiendrai," Blaise said, waving her away. "Go ahead. I'll catch up."

"Are you sure?" Pansy asked, handing him a roll of parchment.

"Quite," Blaise said affirmatively. "I've been meaning to clean out my rucksack for a while now, actually. It won't take long."

"All right, then," Pansy said; she went back to Malfoy and slipped her hand into his. Ron could see Malfoy squeeze her fingers affectionately. "Ready?" They sauntered leisurely down the corridor.

He waited until their footsteps had faded before casting again. "Incarcerous!" Lengths of metal chain shot from the end of his wand, binding Blaise Zabini into a stiff, immobilised bundle.

"Holy crap!" Blaise yelped, his usual cool countenance nowhere to be found. "What the--?!" Ron stepped out from his hiding place and without speaking he flicked his wand again and propelled Zabini right into the suit of armour across the corridor, smiling in grim satisfaction as the steel suit swallowed the Slytherin up whole; Blaise's face soon appeared in the helmet. "What the hell are you doing, Weasley?!" The visor dropped them, shutting Blaise into the suit of armour completely. It rattled ominously as he attempted to free himself.

Ron moved forward, extending his wand; he lifted the visor open with its tip. "Fancy meeting you here."

Blaise regarded him disdainfully; the helmet's plume drooped just then, tickling at his forehead. Irritatedly, he blew it away. "Yes," he said, his voice dry. "Imagine that. A Slytherin found in the dungeons. Shocking, that."

"What the fuck did you do to me?" Ron asked, his anger rising. Roughly he rolled up his cuff and held up his forearm. "What the sod is this shite? What's in that goop Parkinson put on me?"

Blaise stared, and then a thin smile crossed his lips; when he met Ron's gaze his own eyes were hard. "Ask Pansy," he said blithely.

"I'm asking you."

"Why's that?"

"Because I sodding am, all right? Now answer the fecking question before I meld you into this rust trap forever!"

Blaise quirked an eyebrow at him. "So uncivilised, Weasley," he said. "Honestly."

"Don't give me any of your sodding lip--"

"How'd you get those scars?" Zabini asked, his eyes sweeping over Ron's forearm; Ron paused mid-rant. He'd seen that same look of curiosity from Pansy herself. Merlin's balls if he was going to give either of them anything.

"S'none of your business," he replied, considering him warily. "But I know you and Pansy have been collecting illegal specimens -- bird's foot, yeah? Oh, yeah, I know about that all right!"

"How brilliant for you."

"Don't be a prick!"

Blaise raised an eyebrow. "I'm the prick?"

"Look," Ron said, frustrated. "Madam Pomfrey's been working on my arms for near two years, and then Parkinson rubs some ruddy strange potion on me and suddenly things are better? What gives, Zabini? I've the right to know!"

"Interesting," Blaise said, a look of cunning realisation coming over him. His smile widened slightly.

"What's interesting?"

"Just now. You called Pansy 'Pansy'," Blaise noted, peering into Ron's face, scrutinising.

He wasn't expecting this, and he didn't know what to say. "Er, so?" he stammered, feeling a bit hot around the collar. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"I don't know," Blaise said softly, his smile fading; he was still regarding Ron intently, and Ron could tell he was thinking, putting two and two together. For the eight millionth time that day he panicked.

"Last I heard," Ron said, taking care to hold his voice steady, "that's her name."

"So it is."

"Your point?"

"What do you think my point is, Weasley?" Blaise asked, his voice barely audible; Ron watched as Blaise's eyes glanced sideways and held for a moment, distracted by something out of Ron's line of vision. He shifted his gaze back. "Or rather, what do you fear my point is, hmm?"

"I--" Ron gaped, feeling suddenly very out of his element. He took a step back. "Nothing," he said. "It means nothing."

Blaise nodded noncommittally. "Mmm. Perhaps. It's just odd."

"Odd?"

"Odd. After all, I've never heard you refer to her as just 'Pansy'."

"You're mental, Zabini," Ron said. "And you're just trying to distract me anyway -- what's in the potion?"

"I'm not telling you," Blaise said amiably. "You may let me out now."

Fucking Slytherins! "Like bloody hell!" he objected. "I'm not letting you out until you tell me what I need to know!" Blaise cocked an eyebrow at him and began whistling nonchalantly; Ron immediately recognised Weasley Is My King. "Oh, put a cork in it, you ruddy dumb arse!" He yanked his hand down and the visor came crashing down over Blaise's face, lending his whistling a rather echoing quality. "See if you can get yourself out of there, then. I hope you fucking piss yourself, you ponce!" With that, he stepped back and whirled angrily . . . and smacked straight into Crabbe, Goyle, and Warrington, who'd at some point appeared on the scene and were now standing like a silent brick wall, their arms crossed menacingly over their chests. Ron drug his eyes upward. "Well, fuck," he said, bracing himself.

"See that suit of armour there?" Goyle rumbled, pointing a thick finger down the hall; Ron's eyes landed on the tiniest suit of armour he'd ever seen. It looked ready-made for Flitwick. "Yeah, well, that's where you're going."

"Brilliant," Ron said miserably, and waited for the blows to rain down.

---

"Oh my God!" Hermione bolted up from the table where she'd been revising as Ron limped back into the common room. "What happened?!"

He'd hoped he'd be late enough that nobody would've been up to witness his humiliation. "Just help me get this ruddy dumb helmet off," he groaned shortly, through the visor. It had to be the size of a breakfast bowl; Ron was surprised his face wasn't puffing out from between the slats of the face guard, like a chewed piece of Droobles ground into the twigs of a broom.

Hermione grabbed onto either side of the helmet and tugged.

"Oww!" he howled; he would have cringed if his face could have possibly moved a single millimetre. "That hurts, Hermione!"

"Sorry," she said briskly, contemplating his dilemma. "Hmm. Honestly, Ron! How'd you manage this?"

"Slytherins," he responded glumly, setting the edge of the helmet where his chin was into the palm of his hand.

"Oh, those louts!" Hermione said crossly. "Malfoy?"

"No. Crabbe and Goyle. And that other bloke."

"How did they ever fit you into this helmet?" she enquired, pointing her wand at the corner hinge of the visor and incanting. Ron felt a slight buzzing sensation at his jaw, and then Hermione was turning his head.

"It wasn't just the helmet," he said. "You should've seen the rest of the ruddy suit."

"Ooo," Hermione huffed, stamping her foot for emphasis. "What a rotten lot they are!"

"You're telling me," he said. The second hinge warmed against his skin and then the visor fell off. He blinked owlishly at her, his eyes readjusting to the light. "Thanks for that."

"Of course," she said briskly, gazing at him for just a moment before the colour crept into her cheeks and she focused her attention on the top of the helmet. "I'm sure there must be a mechanical spring here somewhere," she mused, her fingers exploring the can encasing his head. "There's always a way to-- ah, here it is!" Ron felt a slight pressure as she pressed against the helmet, and then it cracked into two halves and fell away; like a dry sponge dropped into water, his head expanded straightaway.

"Oi!" he protested, finally able to cringe. "That was right weird, yeah?" He pawed his hands over his face; he felt bruised and sore.

"Oh dear," Hermione fussed, bring her hands to his face. "You've slats in your face." Gently she began rubbing him, massaging his cheeks carefully; he caught her eye. Her fingers stilled as she gazed down at him. "Sorry," she said, simply.

"Sorry?"

"Well . . . "

His heart was suddenly pounding wildly and his mouth felt dry; he wanted to tell her not to stop, but he just couldn't say the words. He nudged his face sideways slightly, prompting her, and she got the hint. Her face settled into an neutral mask and she picked up again, smoothing at him efficiently; he felt a wave of frustrated need rising inside him.

"This is quite reminiscent of pitted oedema," she said.

"What?"

"Pitted oedema. It's the retention of fluid in the tissues; when you press into it with your fingers, the skin doesn't spring back."

"Sounds lovely," he said, not caring. "So I'm to have jail bars down my face forever?"

"No, silly," she said coolly, kneading at his chin. "You don't have oedema. I just was noting this is like oedema."

"My uncle Bilius once had water on the knee," Ron said, unable to muster any medical terms himself. "Mum put in a faucet."

"In his knee?"

"Yup," he said, nodding sagely. "It was brilliant! He used to use it to mix whiskey and water."

"That's absolutely the most vile thing I've ever heard," Hermione tutted, gaining confidence with her hands; Ron relaxed into her touch as her fingers roved down his neck, massaging experimentally. "Just imagine! Using bodily fluids for cocktails . . . disgusting!"

Ron cracked a smile at her umbrage. "Heh, yeah. Isn't it?"

"Your uncle Bilius sounds--"

"Interesting, yeah," he said, finishing for her. His smile widened and he felt Hermione's finger brush over his bottom lip.

"Oh, sorry," she said, pulling her hand back. Her face reddened slightly; he gazed into her eyes again, and everything shifted. He could feel the tension drop over them like a blanket floating down from the sky; his breath quickened and his gut fluttered and rolled.

"I--" Whatever Hermione was going to say died on her lips; a stillness settled around them.

Ron caught her hand then, feeling awkward, and stood. Stepping closer he let her hand go; they locked eyes for a moment.

"Someone might see," Hermione said.

"See what?" he asked, searching her face openly; he could see the pulse fluttering at her neck.

"Well . . . "

"Well what?" He reached down and tugged at her pinky finger; he stepped into her space, one of his trainers landing in between her feet, and he could feel the fabric of her skirt brush up against the front of his trousers.

She looked like a deer in headlights.

"Scared?"

She tossed her hair. "No!" She made to plant her fists on her hips, but he caught her arm. She didn't struggle; her eyes widened and something smouldered there fleetingly.

"Fuck," he breathed, and he couldn't stop himself then. He slid his hand up her arm, her shoulder, cupping her firmly behind the neck, his eyes never leaving hers.

"You shouldn't say 'fuck'," she said automatically, still not pulling away.

"Why not?" His mouth was at her ear. "You just said 'fuck'." He pressed a chaste kiss just under her earlobe.

"I did not!"

"Yeah, you did." Another kiss, this one longer, on her jaw.

"Um--"

"Sorry," he said, his breath hot against the corner of her mouth; he kissed her there, and her lips parted slightly. "You smell good."

"Well, there's a new apothecary in Diagon Alley that deals in only the purest essential oils, and Lavender has this ridiculous theory that everyone has their own essence. Mind, I myself don't buy into such utter rubbish -- Divination, aromatherapy --" Her hand twitched, as if she were longing to wave her hand dismissively. "It's all very woolly--"

"You smell good," Ron said roughly, and kissed her, his hand tightening in her thick hair as he licked into the corner of her mouth. She made a noise in the back of her throat, and he shook her head by the nape of her neck, ever so slightly, trying to prompt her to open up to him, and finally her mouth softened, and he felt the tip of her tongue touch his. "Oh, shite," he mumbled, right into her mouth, and then he felt like he would devour her.

"Oh," she murmured, resting her fingers at his side, and kissed him back feverishly. Ron groaned; her tongue was hot and smooth, and it danced in his mouth like he didn't know what. He kissed her over and over, right there in the middle of the Gryffindor common room, by the dying light of that fire, and he caught up her hand again and he couldn't help himself -- he pressed it to the front of his trousers with a groan.

"Oh!" She was surprised this time, and looked down automatically. He released his grip and slid his arms around her, pulling her tight against him, and his crotch practically ignited as Hermione pressed against him, her hands sliding up his forearms, pushing his sleeves up.

"Oh, god, Hermione, please--" She was lifting his hand.

"What's this?" she asked breathlessly, running her fingers up the inside of his forearm.

"What? Who cares." He kissed her again and tried to wedge himself against her even more tightly; she kissed him back for a moment, but then pulled away.

"I'm serious," she said. Ron brushed his hand up her front, totally lost in the sensation of touching her. "What's this? How'd -- ooo, don't touch me there!" She moved his hand primly. "Ron, your scars . . . " She looked up at him questioningly, her intelligent gaze piercing into him.

He looked down; his forearm was clearly visible, with Pansy Parkinson's initials a glaring contrast of new, peach-coloured skin against the angry red of his brain room scars. He looked back at her wordlessly.

"Ron?" Her brows were knitting together suspiciously.

"Er--" He looked down at his arm again, and then back up at her helplessly. "Surprise?"