Adjudication

Hope Dangles On a String

Hope dangles on a string
Like slow spinning redemption
Winding in and winding out
The shine of it has caught my eye
And roped me in
So mesmerizing, and so hypnotizing
I am captivated
I am

Vindicated
I am selfish
I am wrong
I am right
I swear I'm right
Swear I knew it all along
And I am flawed
But I am cleaning up so well
I am seeing in me now
The things you swore you saw yourself
So clear . . .

---

Ron sat upright on the side of his bed, staring blankly into the grainy haze of the darkened room.

He couldn't sleep. Even Luna's deep, even breathing coming gently from the other side of their bed couldn't lull him into slumber; his mind had been racing since the moment Moody had sacked him from Pansy's case. His eyes literally burned from lack of sleep, and his gut was clenching rhythmically in anxious knots. As the previous day had grown longer, Ron had actually finished off his pack of smokes while waiting for Luna to come home, which was completely unheard of. He never chain-smoked. In fact, the pack he'd had on hand was so old he could taste the withered, stale state of the tobacco, and he'd made a mental note to not buy another pack. He didn't like that he'd assuaged his emotions by chemical means, and if nothing else, for sod's sake he was better than that.

He pushed his thoughts of the crumpled Royal Wand package in the rubbish bin out of his mind as best he could; leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and settled his chin on the slightly knobby plane of his folded hands. He'd gone over his encounter in Azkaban with Pansy a thousand times; the details remained blurry and incomplete in his mind.

Quid Pro Quo. "Quid Pro Quo," he muttered into the darkness, and bloody hell if he couldn't remember what Pansy'd told him. He recalled her sobbing about jam, and then they'd argued about . . . Dumbledore?

Why had they argued about Dumbledore? Ron's forehead furrowed silently, aching slightly as his brows knit together in deep thought. Dumbledore. Dumbledore. Dumbledore. I -said- the greatest headmaster in all of Hogwarts' history-- "Fuck!" he hissed, louder than he intended, and Luna started awake at his outburst, and rolled over. He felt her fingers brushing lightly over the small of his back, soothing him reflexively even from sleep.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice coming at him muffled and half-asleep from under the twisted folds of their duvet. "You really need your rest."

"Sorry," he whispered, still restless.

"How can I help?"

"You can't." He realised he likely sounded short. "Unless you've a memory restoration draught on hand." He knew she didn't; such potions were highly regulated by the Ministry, and were available only through St. Mungo's (and via direct administration at that). Ron had heard whispered rumours of the Auror division hoarding a cache of memory restoration draughts, but this had never been confirmed in any way.

Luna tickled at Ron's back again, and then turned her head to face him, blowing a mouthful of hair away. "Tell me what you remember?"

A shiver ran up his spine at the light touch of her nails on his skin; it felt bloody brilliant. "I remember getting by the guards, and then the next thing I know I'm getting a lesson on maze types."

"Tell me more?"

He shook his head dumbly. "Shite, Luna, I dunno." He sat silently, not moving. "Um, a 'cursal' maze is the kind that runs without branches."

"A unicursal maze, you mean?"

He shrugged. "Whatever, yeah. A person'd have to be pretty ruddy dumb to get lost in a unicursal maze, yeah?"

Luna smiled slightly. "Maybe," she said. "Some people are more intuitive than others. Unicursal mazes are right-brained endeavours. What else?"

"I think . . . a multicursal maze is the kind that has branches and dead ends, right? And a theta maze is a series of concentric circles."

She nodded. "Remember the unit on hedge mazes Professor Sprout did with all the sixth years?" she asked, a dreamy quality to her voice. "That was the best Herbology project ever."

Ron snorted. "Yeah, well, maybe for you. Likely you didn't have Malfoy the git, and his goons, turning your Yew hedges into poison ivy." Oddly, he almost felt like laughing at the memory -- had Professor Sprout's hideous rash been worth the 'D' on his and Harry's sixth year Herbology project? In hindsight, he supposed, it was bloody likely it was, especially as Malfoy's stupid practical joke hadn't ended his or Harry's career aspirations, or obliterated his dream of being an Auror, just because their teacher suffered a red, itchy arse for a day or two. "The next thing I remember, she was making the maze on the floor of her cell."

"What kind of maze was Pansy making exactly?"

Ron thought. "A . . . theta maze, I'm pretty sure."

"How so?"

"Well, it was running in and out of itself -- all over the place, y'know?" He pictured Pansy's pathetic mosaic of paper, hair, and fibres stretching throughout the cell, looping back haphazardly into itself. It was disconcerting and convoluted, but it was also seemed sensical in a way Ron couldn't quite discern.

"What exactly did she use to make the design?"

Ron listed the items Pansy had used. "Paper. Hairs from her head." He remembered her tugging at his own scalp mercilessly, and cringed. "Hairs from my head. Bits and pieces of her clothing. Her mattress, I think. Stuff like that."

"Anything she could get her hands on, then?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Hmm." Luna mused quietly for several minutes. Ron leaned back against her leg, his hands falling to the mattress top. "What do you think she was trying to tell you?"

He shrugged. "Nothing."

"Seriously? Come on, Ronald! Sure she was!"

"Bullshite," he objected. "Not like she was expecting me at three in the bloody morning, soused out of my gourd!"

"Think," Luna said patiently, her hand resting on his.

"If she'd wanted to tell me something, she ruddy well would've just done it!" he said, prickling slightly. "Like she's always done." He began mentally ticking off on his fingers at the memories of her unsolicited opinions over the years. "You're poor, Weasley! You're a dunderhead, smelly Gryffindor, Weasley! Your ginormous feet should be declared as danger zones, Weasley -- are those shoes or skis?"

Luna laughed softly. "That was a long time ago. Don't let that cloud your judgment."

"I'm not!"

"Sure you are," she countered blithely. "Or else you wouldn't be awake at four in the morning, letting your mind fuss. Forget all those silly insults -- what is she telling you?"

"I DON'T BLOODY KNOW!" He clenched the sheets in his hands, curling his fingers inward.

She tapped the top of his hand, clucking. "Manners, please and thank you. Now think. Why do you think she went off on maze types?"

Ron remained quiet, cogitating sullenly. "I don't know," he said stubbornly.

"You should be sacked from the Auror program if that's really true," Luna said seriously.

"Thanks muchly," he said dryly. He paused again before continuing. "I guess because if she educated me on maze types then I might know what kind of maze she was making."

"What does the idea of a theta maze conjure up for you?"

Crap. Bloody fucking metaphors. "Concentric circles."

"Which means . . . ?"

"That they cross back in on themselves, and then branch out again? Sometimes they overlap, sometimes they don't?"

"And all parts are sum for the whole, even if they don't seem to be?"

"Huh?"

"If you picture a concentrically circular maze, there are parts of the maze that touch and overlap into some parts of the maze, but never touch other parts -- yet at a base level they are all part of the same maze. Does that make sense?"

It did. "Yes."

"So?"

"So what?"

"So Pansy's maze is telling you . . . ?" She prompted him patiently.

He thought long and hard. "Well," he said finally, slowly and with deliberation, "if the theta maze represents concentric information, then . . . " He paused again, trying to sort out his thoughts through the haze of exhaustion. "Okay, maybe she's just trying to tell me something."

"Like what?"

"Gah," he said, smacking lightly at his forehead with his palm. "Fuck, I dunno." He envisioned Pansy's maze in his head again, before the Aurors streaming through the cell decimated her work into a cloud of swirling, fluttering paper. Luna stroked at the top of his other hand, not saying anything. "But, she is, isn't she? She's trying to tell me something. Why won't she just fucking tell me?"

"Maybe because she would never outright ask for your help?"

"She doesn't want help, Luna," Ron said. "Mine or anyone else's. She just wants to die."

"Maybe she thinks that she's supposed to feel that way, that if she didn't it would be a betrayal of Malfoy."

"That's a load of rot! What kind of a thick dunce thinks like that?" He grumbled under his breath. "Parkinson's smarter than that."

"Well, it's more than that. The subconscious acts in strange ways. There's something inside her that wants to live, but I guess she can't openly acknowledge that, you know? The Slytherins' brand of loyalty was by far the weirdest I've ever seen demonstrated." Luna nodded sagely.

Ron felt angry at the whole situation. "Why can't they just-- why can't they just say it?" he fumed, gesturing. "Why the sod does it have to be so fucking theatrical?! Bloody hell, is it so hard to use words instead of ruddy dumb paper mazes, and telling me to go talking to sodding Phineas Nigellus for fuck's sake?!" He slid comfortably into his umbrage. "I'm surprised the bint hasn't managed to talk one of her guards into transfiguring her stone bed into a haven of palm fronds, complete with ruddy cabana boys to fan her with--"

"What did you say?" Luna interrupted, her interest piquing. She rose, propping herself up on her elbow, her blonde hair disheveled and sleep-worn.

"Huh? Oh, you know how you always see pictures of princesses on some kind of fancy mattress, like a stack of twenty with a pea under the bottom one, or a bed made of palm--"

"No, no." She waved her hand at him impatiently. "What did you say about Phineas Nigellus?"

"Phineas Nigellus?"

"Yes, you just said Pansy told you to go talk with Phineas Nigellus." Luna clutched at his arm. "Why?"

Ron turned, drawing his leg up so that his insole rested against the inside of his thigh. "I . . . " His brow furrowed yet again. "Phineas Nigellus . . . quid pro quo . . . " He snapped his fingers excitedly and pointed at her. "She told me to ask Phineas Nigellus! That's it!" His face fell quickly as he was reminded of his displacement. "I'll pass it along to Harry--" He glanced at his watch. "--when he gets in. Shouldn't be too long. He's always in by eight. That's--"

"Four hours."

Ron flopped backward with a sigh, and settled discontentedly next to Luna. "Crap," he said. "Harry's not going to have time to track down Phineas-sodding-Nigellus! The last time the two of them--" He glanced sideways at her. "Well, it wasn't pretty. McGonagall had to separate them, and Phineas actually hired a solicitor, can you believe it?"

"A solicitor? Can portraits hire solicitors?"

"Apparently," Ron snorted. "He sued Harry for one galleon in damages."

Luna covered her mouth with her hand, trying not to laugh openly. "Really?" she giggled, unable to keep a straight face.

Ron nodded, still feeling protective over Harry even after all this time. "Harry offered to settle with him for a sixknut, but he wouldn't have anything of it."

"What kind of damages?"

"When McGonagall separated them, Harry had the old goat by the neck. Nigellus claimed Harry damaged his ruff."

"His ruff?"

"Bloody ponce," Ron muttered, picking at his fingernail. "Who the sod wears a damn girly ruff anymore anyway?"

"Did Harry have to buy him a new ruff?"

"He fought it all the way to the civil Wizengamot. Lost in the end, can you believe it? Harry's own solicitor bills were well over a thousand galleons."

"Did he pay up?"

"Sheeyeah, but he chucked the galleon at Nigellus in open court, and he ended up having to replace the bloody sod's frame to boot!"

She snuggled down next to him, smiling. "I do believe that is quite possibly the best story ever! I hold Harry in an entirely different light now," she said.

"Yeah?"

"Can you even buy ruffs anymore? I'd like to know where -- I wouldn't mind a ruff myself."

"You're not serious! You always fancy the craziest things."

"Mmm," she sighed. "Remember the peg leg? Now that would've been brilliant."

"Nevermind that," Ron said affectionately, rubbing at her ankle through the blankets with his foot as he fell back into silent contemplation. He remembered Pansy yelling about Phineas Nigellus, but it was distant, almost like an impression of a conversation floating around in his brain. Ask the greatest headmaster in all of Hogwarts' history. Ron snorted lightly. "Phineas Nigellus is not the greatest headmaster ever, I don't care what she says," he stated emphatically, making a slicing motion through the air with his hand. "That's Dumbledore, thanks. Right? Aren't I right?"

Luna was falling toward sleep again. "That," she said, mumbling dreamily, "depends entirely on who you ask." She slipped her arm over his middle and nudged closer to him. He felt her warm breath puffing against his side. Playing idly with her hair, he stared into the darkness, the hollow ticking of the clock on his night table the only sound penetrating the stillness of the night; soon Luna was deeply asleep, yet Ron's mind wouldn't ease. Thirty minutes ticked by, and he couldn't take it any longer. Leaning down, he whispered into Luna's ear, "I'm going to Harry's." She insisted he whisper into his ear, even though he knew full well she couldn't hear him; however, Luna herself was a firm believer in the power of the subconscious, and found whispered destinations on his part to be a perfectly fine form of communication. He didn't so much mind, even if he thought she was a nutter when it came to the supernatural and other less obvious aspects of life.

He dressed quickly and strode down the short hallway to their living room, where the Floo was. He grabbed a handful of Floo powder and tossed it into the flames; they roared upward. He stepped into the fire, fully intending to clearly state Harry's name and address. However, as the flames licked at his boots and up into the frayed cuffs of his jeans, his mouth surprised him.

"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!"

---

He'd made the obligatory small talk with now Headmistress McGonagall upon his arrival, and then stated the nature of his visit. "Your timing is stellar," McGonagall had said, businesslike as usual. "I have an appointment at the Ministry to discuss Hogwarts' course work. You may have my office to yourself for your inquiry." She'd directed him to portrait wall, and had waited until he'd pulled one of the towering sliding ladders down the length of the wall-to-wall bookshelves lining the Headmasters' office. "Good luck," she'd said, smiling slightly. "He can be a most entertaining conversationalist."

"Yeah, well, I'll be the judge of that," he'd said, putting his hand on a rung and pulling himself upward.

And now he was perched high in the air, butterflies flitting about his stomach for the height factor (being up high in the air while safely on a broom was one thing; hanging by hand off a ladder was entirely another). He clutched the top rung tightly with his left hand, and reached up to knock at the portrait of one Phineas Nigellus, former Slytherin headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. "Erm, sir?" It galled Ron to have to even pretend to be polite.

The sleeping figure in the gilded rococo frame gave a start and cracked a suspicious eye. Spotting Ron through the fluffy emerald vanes of his plume, he closed his eye sulkily and shifted positions, the dark curl of his waxed goatee sinking into the top folds of his ruff as he settled in and feigned deep sleep.

"Oi, wanker!" Ron hissed through Phineas's dramatic snoring crescendo. "I know you're bloody well not sleeping!"

The former headmaster ignored him; sinking deeper into his voluminous ruff until only the top half of his head was visible, he deepened his snores; it was like watching a pompous, oversized bird with its head tucked under its wing, the curling plume of his hat shuddering and quivering with each snorting gasp.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Nigellus," Ron said. "This is important! Like I'd be hauling my arse up a ruddy library ladder at six in the morning, ten years after leaving this place, for a spot of fun!"

Phineas Nigellus cracked his eye again. Shaking himself lightly, he rose from his ruff. "You, boy, remain impudent and rude, I see," he said, in his usual oily tone. "A man of my stature and age needs uninterrupted rest, lest I be damaged even more thoroughly than I already have been in recent years." He peered at Ron beadily. "As your friend well knows."

"Damaged?" Ron boggled. "Harry got you a new ruff and frame. Dunno what you're still going on about!"

"Mr. Potter," Phineas drawled haughtily, "indeed did replace that which he damaged. However, I am no longer an original portrait. I've been reduced to a shadow of my former self -- a piecemeal, if you will! I shall never submit to the invasive, humiliating appraisal process, mind; however, were I to be placed for auction due to some unfathomable, unforeseen circumstance, undoubtedly I would now command a far less lucrative price than before. And that, Mr. Weasley, is entirely unforgivable."

Ron snorted. "Right. Because you've a new ruff. What a crock of shite! Anyway, I'm not here about your dumb neckwear or your stupid frame -- I've got bigger problems to suss out."

"How taxing. Now if you'll excuse my complete and utter lack of interest, I must return to my rest. I have a social engagement at half ten." Phineas settled down again.

"Social engagement?" Ron asked, disbelievingly. "You're a portrait! You don't have a social schedule!"

Phineas opened his eye yet again. "Every other morning I take brunch with Headmistress Derwint along with the Fat Lady, I'll have you know."

"Brunch? You can't even eat!"

"Nevertheless, we join the founders and various other guests at the Shepherd's Pie portrait every other morning." Phineas twisted his pointy goatee around his finger, and then released it with a sproing.

"There's a portrait of a pot of shepherd's pie?"

"No," Phineas said witheringly, as if Ron should surely know better. "The portrait to which I refer is one of great importance. Housed in the yonder topmost tower of the main castle, the Shepherd's Pie portrait reflects the gooseberry famine of 1567. Surely you know of it."

"Surely," Ron said dryly, rolling his eyes again.

"Ah, but of course not. How silly of me to assume you might actually deign to know your history." Phineas clucked disapprovingly. "The self-centeredness of the modern youth never ceases to sadden."

"Come on! Like gooseberries are important? Who cares about gooseberries when there's, say, A MASSIVE WAR GOING ON!?" Ron wanted to reach into the portrait and molest Phineas's ruff just to hack the old arsehole off; however, he resisted the urge and instead dug his fingernails into the wood of the top rung of the ladder to retain control.

"When a great war is going on, oh dear, ignorant lad, it is the little things that often lead to victory. If at the end of the day all the troops have to look forward to is a hearty slice of gooseberry pie to boost their morale, imagine the devastation an ill-timed gooseberry famine might bring. It's the subtext of the Shepherd's Pie portrait that makes it an inordinately moving piece of art -- two shepherds, seated at a table so long it stretches far into the distance and disappears into the horizon, with nothing but two empty pie tins in front of them. Can you not just visualise the irony? The pain?"

"That's the dumbest sodding thing I've ever heard!" Ron didn't give two shites about either historical art or gooseberries. "Admit it, Nigellus! You don't care about anyone's morale except your own!"

The corner of Phineas's lip lifted; he cocked an eyebrow cunningly at Ron. "Well, the Shepherd's Pie portrait does have an excellent seating arrangement available. Plus, the pie tins are empty, which is rather soothing when one cannot partake to begin with."

"I figured there had to be something. Look, can I ask you about what I came here for, or not?"

Phineas began working at his gloves, pulling at each finger daintily, sliding his hands free. "That entirely depends."

"On what?"

"Oh, on many things, I suppose, but mainly on whether I'll feel particularly accommodating at the particular millisecond you put forth your inquiry."

"It's about one of your Slytherins."

"Severus Snape is dead, as is Master Draco Malfoy." Phineas looked at Ron. "I'm afraid your question is moot."

"It's not having to do with Snape or Malfoy."

"Oh? One might consider there are no other Slytherins, judging from past inquiries over the years." Ron really hadn't considered before that either Snape or Malfoy would have been interesting or impactful enough in any capacity to warrant repeated inquiries to Phineas Nigellus. He looked at Phineas and the former headmaster continued, a sulky tone sneaking into his voice. "There are many Slytherins worthy of study and inquiry, young Mr. Weasley. Take myself, for example -- there's not been a Slytherin headmaster since my reign ended."

"What a damn shame." Ron steadied himself. "I'm here about Parkinson."

"Parkinson?"

"Yeah."

"Indeed."

"Right."

"How intriguing," Phineas said, obviously bored.

"Yeah?" Ron wished for a Muggle spork and a large canister of acetone.

"Quite."

"Don't be a git!"

"I'll have you stand back, boy. The humidity from your breath is negatively impacting my portraiture."

Ron drew back, putting a few additional inches between them. "So you know about Malfoy, then?"

"Which Malfoy?" Nigellus asked amiably.

"Draco Malfoy."

"Yes, yes. How very unfortunate. He was a bright lad."

"Whatever." Ron was quite sure the Slytherins' idea of 'bright' was a bit different than his own. "Anyhow, Parkinson's still in Azkaban and--"

"Parkinson?" Phineas interrupted sarcastically. "In light of the fact the Parkinson clan is one of the largest in the fine and noble pureblooded society, might you possibly be a touch more vague? I'm sure you could manage it if you just put your mind to it." He laid his silk gloves across his forearm, smoothing them carefully. "Let's see, I expect you're asking about someone from your generation, so I'll not bore you with tales of the Parkinsons from yore. Edmund Parkinson IV, perhaps? Auror, black sheep of the family, Ministry sell-out. His twin brother Edward? Death Eater -- long deceased, mind -- father of six little Parkinsons, all of them dead from a curse already, with only one ever having managed to live long enough to grace this noble institution. Or perhaps you're interested in someone closer to your own age, and not the elder Parkinsons? Hmm?"

Ron stared at Phineas Nigellus. The sly sod, he thought, knowing he knew exactly who Ron was wanting to discuss. Harry was right: Phineas missed nothing. "Pansy's father is a twin?"

"I thought you might be inquiring about Pansy Parkinson. Indeed he is," Phineas acknowledged, referring to Pansy's father. "It's perhaps for the best that Edward lost his life to his cause, for monozygotic twins are really rather an anomaly of nature, wouldn't you agree? Freaks -- all of them. The less we see of them, the better."

"I really, really hate you," Ron said, resisting the urge to carve Fred and George were here! into the canvas of Phineas's forehead. "'Spect you've heard about what's happened with Pansy Parkinson, then?"

"I hear many things," Phineas answered, choosing to ignore Ron's jibe.

"Well, then, you must know I'm working the case, yeah?"

"Were working the case, I do believe?"

God, news traveled fast. "How the hell'd you find that out?" Ron asked, flushing slightly. Phineas coughed discreetly and glanced pointedly at the portrait hanging at the end of the headmasters' row: Dumbledore. He shook his head in disbelief. "Professor! How could you tell this git that I was . . . reassigned?"

"Sacked, you mean," Phineas interjected.

"Shut it, you!"

Dumbledore nodded in his frame and Ron could see the omnipresent gleam in his eye. He held up a small sparkling bowl. "Lemon Sherbet?"

Ron boggled. "Sir?"

"It'll do you no good, my dear boy," Phineas said, amused. "Your illustrious headmaster prefers to contemplate rather than chat most days. His portrait is not as -- how shall I put it? -- sagacious as myself."

"Yeah, well, then how'd Dumbledore manage to spill the beans to you, if he doesn't like to chat?"

"Tut tut," Phineas said. "Dumbledore and I have always been generous with one another when it comes to information."

"You mean you're a ruddy gossip, is what!"

"There's nothing wrong with being a gatherer of information, is there?"

"Bloody hell there's isn't!"

Phineas leaned forward in his frame. "And what, might I ask, is it that you yourself do for a living?" he sniffed. "That is, when you aren't busy being shuffled from case to case like a simple lackey for your astounding lack of discipline and rather disgusting drunken revelry with one of my former students, who's at present mouldering away in the rocky bowels of hell?"

"Quit exaggerating!" Ron's legs were beginning to ache. He felt like a ridiculous trained monkey hanging precariously in a cage, scratching his arse and shrieking for attention -- he was trying to solve a case, he was! This was absurd! God, why did all Slytherins have to be such flagrant drama queens? "Fine. You don't care what happens to Pansy Parkinson, one of your own, then that's on your conscience. Forget it, Nigellus," he said darkly, stepping downward. "I'll show myself out. Glad to know you're completely untroubled by Parkinson's pending dementor kiss."

Fecking sod, he thought, as he went hand over foot down the ladder. Any moment he's going to call me back . . . make me jump through his goddamn hoops just for kicks . . . well, sod fucking -that-. His feet touched the carpet finally and he stepped away from the base of the ladder and stretched his arms. "I mean it, Nigellus!" he called pointedly. "If I go now, Parkinson's only hope is finite, know what I mean?" The sound of snoring came from above, and Ron's irritation rose. "Pansy sent me to you herself! What the hell's the matter with you?" Suddenly the room was filled with a growing cacophony of snoring -- apparently all the portraits had joined in. "Oh, for fuck's sake!" Ron exploded, throwing up his hands. "All right, I bloody well get it! None of you give a shite! I'm telling you now that when Parkinson's dead, I'm hanging a portrait of her right here in this room, and you'll get yours when she bloody well doesn't shut up 'til the end of time!"

Turning, he stalked out of the room, pulling the heavy door closed behind him as he marched from the headmaster's office. "Son of a bitch!" he spat, pounding the ball of his fist ineffectually against the wall, and then pushed away from it angrily. He marched back to the door to the headmaster's office and flung it open, incensed. "Just so you know, I'll be leaving now!" Again, he shut the door and made his way to the staircase leading back down to the main corridors. "Here I go!" he called loudly, pounding his way down five stairs. He paused.

It didn't feel right. He couldn't just leave. He couldn't just . . . leave.

Determinedly he marched back up the stairs and into McGonagall's office. "I don't ruddy care, Nigellus, if you're in the mood to talk or not, 'cos you're going to!" Within seconds he was at the top of the ladder again, poking at Phineas's ruff with the tip of his wand. "Quit faking, you arrogant ponce! I know you're not sleeping for sod's sake! Get up!"

The slit of Phineas's eye appeared. "Oh," he said, disdainfully, as if genuinely surprised. "It's you."

"'Course it's me!" He poked at the headmaster again, this time with the tip of his wand. "Who else would it be?"

"Well, one can always hope, yes?"

"Fabulous, Nigellus. Just brilliant."

Phineas slapped lightly at Ron's hand with his silken gloves. "Mind the frame, if you please. Now, in all seriousness, I do find myself in need of my beauty rest, so hurry up with your questioning and then leave me be." The headmaster huffed in his seat primly. "Brunch today shall likely be tedious, owing to my now soured disposition."

"Isn't it always sour?" Ron couldn't help asking.

"You had a question?" Phineas settled into his ruff threateningly.

"All right, all right." Ron fumbled in the pocket of his jacket and extracted a wad of folded-up papers. He briefly recounted the basic details. "Parkinson and Malfoy were detained immediately following the attack on the Brethren, based on evidence found at the scene--"

"A letter." Phineas noted. "Or so I've heard."

"Blabbermouth, that Dumbledore," Ron muttered, nodding curtly.

"Dumbledore? Hmm, perhaps. Perhaps not."

"Pretty obvious," Ron said, continuing. "We managed to trace the paper--"

"Obvious? If you say so. Who am I to argue?"

"Would you just listen--"

"Might you extend me the same courtesy? You're beginning to bore me, young mister Auror, sir."

"I haven't even laid it out for you!"

"A tragic family, the Parkinsons," Phineas drawled smoothly. "Wonderful, loyal, exceptional Slytherins they are." He paused, his beady black eyes boring into Ron's. "Well, except for Claudius, of course. Terribly unfortunate, that. It was during Dilys's tenure, and, well--" Phineas glanced furtively to his right, checking that former headmistress Derwint was indeed sleeping. "--Dilys enjoys, shall we say, the occasional nightcap. Apparently she found herself bereft when the school thestrals refused to pull the carriages from Hogsmeade -- this was before the age of enlightenment, mind. There were no trains -- and the poor lass soused herself with half a bottle of Broderick's Unforgivable." Phineas adopted a confidential tone. "She spilt the rest of the bottle onto the Sorting Hat. Come the next day? The hat was still intoxicated and missorted half the first years. Claudius Parkinson was Sorted to Gryffindor." He pulled a handkerchief edged in tatted lace and fanned himself, dabbing at his face lightly. "Oh, the horrors."

"There's nothing wrong with being Sorted to Gryffindor!"

"Oh? And if one of your family had been Sorted to Slytherin?" Phineas piqued an eyebrow doubtfully. Ron remained silent, watching warily. "Exactly," he finished silkily. "Exactly."

"So what's this got to do with Pans--"

Claudius Parkinson flung himself from the top of the Astronomy tower that very night." Phineas continued without heed to Ron. "Thus began a curse that haunts the Parkinson family to this day."

"That is so cheesy," Ron interjected, quashing the urge to laugh in Phineas Nigellus's face. "Sounds like a bad novel!"

"Maybe to you," Phineas sniffed, turning up his nose. "But purebloods of your ilk lack the appreciation for tradition. There was a time where the pureblooded showed deference to long-standing custom, and to have a good, solid curse running in one's heritage was once the heighth of prestige."

"Nutters, I say." Ron refrained from further rising to Phineas's bait. "What's the curse, then?"

"I suppose it might be considered rather banal in comparison to some of the truly creative curses I've seen imparted over the years, but it is what it is." Phineas drew in a breath and Ron knew he might as well get comfortable. "Claudius Parkinson was the thirteenth son of Ernst Parkinson XIII. Since Claudius's death, it is rumoured the thirteenth son of each subsequent generation has found himself plagued with utterly abominable luck."

"Seems like they could avoid it altogether by stopping after twelve sprogs," Ron commented smartly. "Save them a load of trouble and whatnot."

"Were you not listening before? Who in their right mind would deny their legacy? I said a curse is the heighth of prestige -- only the very best families have them."

"We've a ghoul in our attic," Ron pointed out defensively.

"How wonderfully bourgeois for you and yours," Phineas said dryly.

"Anyway," Ron said, moving on, "so Edmund Parkinson is the thirteenth son in his generation, yeah? So Pansy's getting the brunt of the . . . curse, or whatever?"

"No." The headmaster examined his nails with great interest. "Edmund was the fourteenth son of his generation. Edward was the thirteenth -- but, by only just a minute, you realise. It was luck of the draw. Terrible anomaly, twins."

Ron was totally confused. "What're you going on about? What's this got to do with Parkinson?" he asked. After a moment he clarified. "Pansy, that is." Who knew there were so many ruddy Parkinsons running about?

"Edward Parkinson -- a very strange and dark man." Phineas said ominously, flicking his eyebrows knowingly. "Even by our standards. He grew up hating his brother, he did. Hated him for being fourteenth and leaving him to suffer the burden of being number thirteen. He'd already immersed himself in the dark arts by the time he was at Hogwarts. He specialised in Potions, and he regularly filled our dungeons with the blackest, vilest fumes. He's quite lucky he never found himself dismissed from school. If he'd been under my direction, he would have been, for what he had in talent he lacked in subtlety, and that will never do, of course."

"Yeah, because the Slytherins are all about being subtle."

Phineas shivered. "Do I feel a chill?" He snapped his fingers, glancing into the depths of his portrait at someone or something Ron couldn't see. "My cloak, if you would." After a moment two goofy-looking diricawls flew into view, a voluminous silver and black fur cloak clutched tightly in their beaks. Noisily they flapped about Phineas's frame and finally settled the cloak around the headmaster's shoulders. Phineas tugged it around himself tightly, sighing contentedly. "Yes, thank you, my pets. You may go." The diricawls disappeared with a pop, several multi-coloured feathers drifting downward from Phineas's frame in their wake.

"Nice cloak," Ron said dryly. "It's so very masculine."

"Nonsense," Phineas countered, smoothing the length of the fur. "It's of the finest chinchilla, a fur which knows no gender boundaries. Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Subtlety." He began drawing on his gloves.

"Subtlety," Ron parroted, waiting for him to continue.

"Edward Parkinson, yes," Phineas said, apparently finding where he'd left off. "He was a cross, spoilt boy." He took pause. "The Parkinsons by their very nature are cross and spoilt, as any self-respecting family of their means and heritage ought be. Edward pushed every limit; he could never take no for an answer. Despite his declarations to avoid fatherhood at all costs, he was never one to deny himself that which he wanted, and come his sixth year he, shall we say, found himself in a spot of trouble with a rather mousey fifth year, one Aurelie Montague." Phineas nodded sagely. "Slytherin, of course."

"Of course," Ron said. Holy shite! Parkinson's uncle'd knocked a fifth year up at Hogwarts. Holy, holy shite! "What'd-- I mean, what'd-- a girl can't be--" He gestured helplessly. "-- you know, here," he finished lamely, feeling uncomfortable. "Here at Hogwarts, I mean."

"No, they most certainly cannot. It was all very scandalous." Phineas was obviously delighted at the opportunity to recount the details. "I remember it like it was yesterday. Edward disappeared into the Potions dungeon late one Thursday -- the very dungeon where you yourself had your classes with Severus Snape in your day -- and there he remained for two days, warded in so tightly even Dumbledore was perplexed. Late that Sunday night, he slipped through a hidden passageway which lead to the Slytherin common room, and brought Aurelie with him back to the classroom -- he'd spent the weekend brewing a potion especially for her and her delicate condition."

Ron sucked in his breath. "That's fucking despicable!" he blustered angrily, assuming Edward Parkinson surely had opted for drastic means by which to not become a father at sixteen. "What a hateful, underhanded, Slytherin thing to--"

Phineas poo-pooed him with a dismissive wave of his hand. "The potion," he said loftily, "you ignorant plebeian, was to ensure the child Aurelie was carrying would be female. How easily your impoverished mind defaults to the abhorrent." He paused for effect. "Not only that, Edward ensured that all future children she might bear would also be female. Essentially, he obliterated any chance Aurelie might have had of ever bearing a son. He was trying to overcome his family's curse, no doubt." Phineas sighed deeply and relaxed, falling silent.

"Well?" Ron finally prompted after a minute had passed. "And?"

"Hmm? And what?"

"What do you mean 'and what'?"

"What do you mean what do I mean?"

Why did he have to be so difficult? "Is there more, Nigellus, or are you just giving me the run-around for your own amusement? 'Cos this has got nothing to do with Pansy Parkinson."

"If you say so," Phineas responded blithely, picking fussily at the lace cuffs of his gloves.

Ron was quite certain the headmaster was practically itching to continue. "Fine. I'm listening."

"Well, there's not much more to tell. Edmund and Edward were always at odds, and it's fair to say Edward brought a temporary pall of shame upon the family, what with Aurelie and whatnot. Of course they did the honourable thing and opted for matrimony, so that helped."

"Wait," Ron said, the wheels turning in his head. "That potion Edward gave his bird? Wouldn't something like that be blood magic?"

"Very perceptive," Phineas said grudgingly. "It was indeed blood magic. And it didn't work." He paused again.

Ron shook his head. "Why didn't it work?"

"Aurelie gave birth to six children, all of them girls. All but one died before their first birthday, for reasons unknown. So the curse didn't skip Edward's offspring after all. Aurelie gave up after her sixth child was born -- she refused to bear anymore children." Phineas yawned dramatically, covering his mouth daintily with his glove. "Oddly, the last child lived," he finished, almost as an afterthought.

"And this Edward Parkinson, he's Pansy Parkinson's uncle, then?"

"That would be correct."

"But he's dead?"

"The boy listens after all," Phineas drawled.

"You mentioned Edward was a Death Eater," Ron pressed. "I've never heard of Edward Parkinson before."

"Again, correct," Phineas said, acknowledging Edward's political proclivities. "If you're not in certain branches of the Ministry, you wouldn't be required to know the names of all the Death Eaters now, would you?"

"He was killed, then?"

Phineas took great pause. "It was all very unsavoury," he said disapprovingly, shifting positions in his frame and crossing one leg over his knee. "Now the Knights of Walpurgis, that's a bird of another feather. I well remember the days of the Knights -- it was a steady, noble organisation, dedicated to the preservation of the unique and special lifestyle of the pureblooded--"

"Sheeyeah, right," Ron interjected, rolling his eyes. "Murder and terrorism -- really unique and special, that." He gave Phineas the thumbs up.

"Anyway," Phineas said witheringly, "there was a time when it was considered highly uncouth for the gentry to work for the Ministry, for it meant one was either a mindless, unimaginative sort who was fit only to take orders, or that one was open to the restructuring of the ruling class, for the Ministry always has its hand mucking about in the separation movement, doesn't it? Wanting to mix Mudbloods and half-bloods with the pureblooded."

Ron shrugged, not surprised by Phineas's blithely prejudiced reference to the Muggleborn. "I guess."

"You really should have paid better attention to Binns in your time, young master," Phineas noted, not unkindly. "The time came during Armando Dippet's tenure that the focus of the Knights of Walpurgis shifted." He cleared his throat delicately. "Quite drastically. The Ministry became the enemy of the pureblooded, and the Knights were reborn as the Death Eaters." Phineas clucked disapprovingly. "Such a silly, crass name, don't you agree? The Death Eaters . . . so very unsubtle." When Ron didn't interject, he continued. "Edward Parkinson went with the former Knights of Walpurgis; Edmund Parkinson went to the Ministry as an Auror. As you well know. At that time, the rift it caused in the family was almost cataclysmic. Edmund exacerbated the feud between him and his brother when he himself married at age twenty-four." Phineas glanced knowingly at Ron.

Ron indulged the former headmaster's propensity for the dramatic. "Go on, then," he prompted rotely. "Who'd Edmund get hitched to?"

"One Eugenie Montague," Phineas whispered gleefully, thoroughly enjoying the gossip. "Aurelie Montague's own sister!"

Ron pulled a face. "Um, yuck? No wonder the Slytherins are always being accused of inbreeding," he said, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "'Cos it's bloody well true!"

Phineas snorted. "Then you will undoubtedly be most pleased by the crowning jewel of the entire saga," he said loftily. "For Eugenie and Aurelie Montague are themselves monozygotic twins."

Ron's mouth fell open. "That is just . . . " He couldn't think of a proper response. "That is just so weird!"

"Mmm. Perhaps. But, of course, your family exists in a different echelon of pureblooded society. I wouldn't really expect you to understand."

"Oi!" Ron protested. "Don't think my particular echelon has anything to do with that being bloody fucked up!"

Phineas yawned again and sunk into his chinchilla cloak. "As I said, I wouldn't expect you to understand. Now you'll forgive me, but I simply must have at least a bit of rest before my brunch. Surely you understand." He settled down even further into his seat, a strange accordioned pile of fur, ruff, and plume. Phineas's cunning eye peeked out at Ron one final time, and then the headmaster's lid drooped and the deliberate sound of snoring came forth.

Ron was seized by frustration. He shook Phineas's frame abruptly. "Come on, Nigellus! Don't give me half the story!"

Phineas increased the volume of his snoring pointedly.

"Pansy doesn't have any time!" he hissed. "For the love of all things Slytherin, this is not the venue for mind games!"

"You now have all that you need," Phineas commented, turning away from Ron in his frame.

"Bullshite!"

"Well, you know us Slytherins. We always manage to save ourselves, yes?"

"This is different!" Ron was practically pleading, and this embarrassed the hell out of him; however, he was too incited to stop. "She's not going to save herself! She can't!"

"You and Miss Parkinson made the right choice, you know. All those many years ago."

"What? What are you going on about now?"

Phineas didn't respond; only the hollow sound of his snoring filled the room.

"Bloody wanker!" Ron spat, and after a moment he began his descent. He'd had enough. Besides, he knew he'd better get to work, or else Moody'd have his head on a platter. He felt the soft crush of the carpet under his feet and turned to leave; McGonagall stood in the doorway to her office. Ron stopped short. "I thought you had a meeting?"

"It's good that you've finished, Mr. Weasley," she said flatly. "There's an emergency in the hospital wing. I've postponed my appointment with the Minister of Education. Now, I need for you to come with me right away."

"For a medical emergency?" Ron was totally confused. "Where's Madam Pomfrey?"

"She's in the hospital wing; we're waiting for Alastor and Kingsley."

He shook his head slightly. "I don't understand."

"It's Mr. Potter," McGonagall clarified, raising an exasperated eyebrow. "There's been an . . . accident."

"Oh, shite! Harry?" Ron crossed the office with several quick strides. "What kind of an accident?" He allowed McGonagall to lead the way; his brain shifted modes as they hurried down the circular staircase. "Wait, what the hell's Harry doing here? Shouldn't he be at Mungo's if there's been an accident? What the fu-- sod's going on?"

McGonagall waved a hand at him dismissively. "Not now, Mr. Weasley. The cause will be clear soon enough. Please be so kind as to follow me."

---

Ron heard Harry moaning the moment he entered the hospital wing. "What the--?" Disbelievingly, he strode down the centre aisle of the hospital, Madam Pomfrey gibbering at his side, McGonagall trailing coolly behind them.

"Harry, what's--" Ron drew up sharply as he rounded the divider shrouding the only occupied cot in the room. "Holy fucking shite!" he exclaimed, his eyes bugging. "What happened?" Harry thrashed weakly from side-to-side; as he let his hands drop from his face Ron let out a gasp.

A bulge the size of a grapefruit covered half of Harry's face -- it was as if someone had painted Harry's portrait on a piece of stretchy clay and had covered their mouth with it, and blown. It was simultaneously horrifying and the funniest damn thing Ron had ever seen. He repeated himself. "Mate, what happened?" He moved up the bed and knelt next to Harry, peering into his face; something gold and shiny flashed at him from inside Harry's nostril, which currently had the circumference of a small pancake. Tentatively, he reached out and touched the side of Harry's face.

"Oi!" Harry cringed. "Crap, stop that!"

"Oh, sorry," Ron said, perplexed. "Harry?"

"Parkinson did it," he moaned, his eyes flickering blindly as he tried to find Ron's face without the benefit of his glasses.

"Did what exactly?" Ron moved closer, peeking up Harry's nostril. "What the hell is that?" He pulled his wand and prodded in Harry's nostril carefully; a sound like a tin drum came forth.

"ARGH!" Harry screamed, whipping his face sideways.

"Oh, Mr. Weasley, do step aside!" Madam Pomfrey had apparently ducked back to her supply room, and now was bustling around the divider, a silver tray in hand. It held various bottles of potions and several alarming-looking instruments. Ron stepped back and let Madam Pomfrey take over. "Harry, how'd you end up here at Hogwarts?"

"I just-- After it happened, I just-- Ahhh!" Harry winced as Madam Pomfrey slid a pair of medical tongs up his nostril. "Shite!" He glanced guiltily at the matron. "Sorry." He blinked owlishly in Ron's general direction, blind as a bat. "I dunno! I just Floo'ed here after it happened. Madam Pomfrey's always fixed me up before . . . "

Madam Pomfrey patted Harry's cheek affectionately. "Well, aren't you just a dear? Don't you worry -- we'll have this out in no time."

"What on earth is going on?" Ron heard the familiar clunking sound of Mad-Eye Moody's wooden claw leg. He ducked around the divider and motioned for Moody.

"We're here," Ron called, beckoning. He found himself shoved aside as Moody, Kingsley, and four brass from the Auror division piled into the small space. "I'll just be right here if you need me," he gasped, his shoulder crushing into the wall.

"Shite on a shingle!" Moody hobbled over and grabbed Harry's jaw, turning his face; he ignored Harry's grunt of pain. "How'd this happen, son?"

"I dunno! She just . . . did it!"

"Good lord," Madam Pomfrey lamented, twisting her tongs within Harry's nose. "This is quite serious! Potter? Open up." She laid her tongs aside and selected a potion from her tray; pouring a carefully measured spoonful, she coaxed Harry's mouth open. "There you go. Give it a minute. This will relax you and give you very pleasant thoughts."

"This is so humiliating . . . " The group fell silent, waiting for the potion to take effect.

"Buck up, Harry," Ron said finally, trying to be encouraging. "I'm sure loads of people have gotten a--"

"AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGH!"

"Got it!" Madam Pomfrey exclaimed victoriously, holding her tongs aloft, a snot-slicked jar clasped firmly in their grip; it seemed to be filled with a ruby-coloured substance. Harry groaned and rolled onto his side, clutching at his face. Ron sucked in his breath, his eyes widenening.

"Well, I'll be a Sodzilla's uncle!" Moody said, boggling. "Potter, I told you not to!"

Harry gestured over his shoulder. "Ron said to!"

"I said to do what?" Ron asked, peering at the object dumbly. "Jesus, is that--"

"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" Moody roared, poking his finger skyward for emphasis. "Haven't I always taught you boys?! CONSTANT VIGILANCE!"

"She wasn't supposed to have any magic!" Harry objected, clearly uncomfortable. His voice was starting to slur slightly, due to Madam Pomfrey's potion. "How was I supposed to anticipate--"

"YOU'VE BEEN TAUGHT!" Moody shouted, interrupting Harry. "You should know it was a distinct possibility! The potion isn't infalliable!"

Madam Pomfrey pushed through their cluster, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "I'll just get rid of this . . ."

"EVIDENCE!" Moody objected, training his wand on the object. "Wrap it up, Poppy, for I'll be taking it with me!"

"Crap!" Ron said, the realisation finally dawning. "Is that my mum's strawberry jam?"

"A full jar of it, it looks like," Madam Pomfrey said, holding the tongs as far away from her person as she could manage; they all stepped back, allowing her ample room to pass.

"Harry? How'd you get a jar of jam up your nose?"

"I already told you," Harry drawled, rolling again to rest on his back; his feet fell to the floor on either side of the bed, leaving him splay-legged and lolling -- he was clearly high as a kite on Madam Pomfrey's relaxation potion. "Parkinson did it. Moody sent me to try and talk t'her, an'--" Harry shook his head dumbly. "She dinnit want to talk."

"But, how'd Pansy manage to get a jar of jam up your nose?" Ron asked, repeating himself. "She's been stripped of her magic!"

"Dunno," Harry said thickly. "She just shoved it right up there . . . " He lifted his arm weakly, attempting to demonstrate.

"With her hands?"

"Mmhmm . . . " Harry's eyes were closing; slowly his arm fell back to his side and his breathing became deep and even.

A heavy hand fell onto Ron's shoulder; he turned and peered into Moody's stern face. Moody's magical eye bore into him. "Here," he said, pushing a file into Ron's hand. "You'll have to pick up where Potter left off."

Ron looked down at the file jacket and ran his fingers over the cover. "I thought I was off the Parkinson matter," he said, looking back up at Moody, unable totally quash the fleeting sense of petulance that rose within him.

Moody gave a gnarled smile and barked a laugh. "And what exactly were you doing here today, then, hmm?" the Auror asked, raising an eyebrow knowingly. "Mind, I've read the incident reports from your escapade the other night. I know about Parkinson telling you to seek out Phineas Nigellus. Why didn't you let Harry attend to that?"

"Because," Ron said evenly, holding Moody's gaze, "I knew Harry would be in the field today, and I was going to tell him, but I couldn't sleep and I figured what the hell, you know?"

Moody clapped Ron on the shoulder again. "That's a lad," he said. He dropped his voice. "Would've done the same thing."

Ron rifled absently through Pansy's file. "Pomfrey can give Harry a restoration draught," he said. "Send him back if you'd like."

"Are you declining the assignment?"

"I didn't say that."

"Then what the hell are you waiting for, Weasley? Get a move on!"

"Why're you giving me this assignment again?" Ron persisted, holding his ground. "You know Pomfrey could have Harry ready to go in minutes."

"If you're declining the assignment, then fine. I'll pass it to Jones."

"You're giving me this because you know no one else can do it," Ron said, staring Moody directly in the eye. "Just thought I'd say that, yeah?"

"You're clever when you want to be," Moody said brusquely, not smiling. He turned with a clomp. "We've fifteen hours. Let's go."

---

Pansy, Moody had explained to Ron on their to Azkaban, had been transferred to a different cell pending the dementors' kiss which, per custom, was scheduled for 12:01 a.m. the following morning; by the time Ron reached the prison, after stopping for a quick shower and a fresh uniform, and a quick owl to Molly containing a special request, he and Moody had exactly thirteen and a half hours left until Pansy would make good on her death wish.

Her cell in the maximum security block had been gone over inch-by-inch with every revealing charm available to the Azkaban guards. Owing to the incident with the strawberry jam, the prison mediwitch insisted on subjecting Pansy to a moderately painful procedure administered to prisoners who showed any signs of spell or wandwork after having received the potion meant to strip them of their powers. The mediwitch had found no residual signs of overt magical abilities in Pansy; however, she chalked up the jam-jar-up-Harry's-nose trick to spontaneous bursts of magical energy, energy which was there, but which Pansy wouldn't ever be able to organise in any sensical fashion. The magic-stripping potion was meant to be permanent, and had been instituted at Azkaban after the inquiry into Sirius Black's escape had ultimately revealed his animagus abilities.

After all, Moody had said, as they'd made their way down the darkened corridor to where Pansy was now being kept, a witch with Pansy's strong, pureblooded heritage would be difficult to strip fully of her magical powers. She may not be able to control them anymore, or will herself to perform magic, but strong surges of emotion might possibly elicit a spontaneous combustion of sorts on her part. It was to this phenomenon that Moody attributed the jam jar incident to.

"Do you want me in, or do you want to go it alone?" Moody asked as they paused outside Pansy's holding cell.

"Alone's probably better, yeah?"

"Probably." Moody had a strange look on his grizzled face. "Yes, probably." He paused, rubbing thoughtfully at his stubbly chin. "Are you quite sure, lad, that you didn't inadvertently leave something out when you recounted your visit with Phineas Nigellus?"

"Yeah, pretty sure," Ron said, wracking his brain for any residual tidbit. "I'm not coming up with anything else."

Moody reached up with his gnarled fingers and ran them over the v-shaped groove on his nose, back and forth several times as if contemplating what he would say. "I remember the night Edward Parkinson was killed, of course. We took him out with Wilkes and Rosier," he said gruffly.

"Yeah?" Ron asked, not knowing if this was something Moody wanted to discuss in depth, or if it were merely an offhanded comment of sorts.

"Mmm," Moody said noncommittally. He and Ron continued down the passage; Moody counted cell doors silently as they passed. "Parkinson wasn't killed by us Aurors, mind," he clarified, after several moments. "He killed himself. The family to this day hasn't acknowledged it. Suicide -- nothing a family wants to deny more than a relative who offs themselves."

"How'd'you know he offed himself?" Ron asked, intrigued. "How'd he do it?"

"Actually, at first the assumption was that we had taken him out. It wasn't until the day later investigation showed he had taken his own life. At the autopsy, the remnant of a Muggle gelatin capsule was found under his tongue. He'd poisoned himself, likely rather than face the Wizengamot and the possibility of life in Azkaban." Moody scratched at his head, mussing his already disheveled hair. "Imagine -- a Death Eater utilising a Muggle product to bring on his death, so that he might not face charges regarding his long-standing persecution of Muggles. Rather maddening juxtaposition, that."

"Yeah," Ron agreed.

They stopped.

"This is it," Moody said, thumbing at the cell door.

Ron took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, he ran his hand absentmindedly through his hair. "Yeah. Okay." He looked at Moody. "Any special instructions?"

Mad-Eye shook his head, his magical eye rolling back in its socket to check behind them. "Nope. Probably like pissing into the wind, but have another go." He clapped Ron on the shoulder, giving him a squeeze.

"Right then." Ron waited until the clomping of Moody's wooden leg was a faint echo in the corridor before reaching for the iron handle. "Alohomora," he incanted softly, and the handle shuddered and clicked, and the locks ground themselves open. He pushed at the door tentatively, stepping inside, and a shiver ran down his back for he was quite certain the whole of Azkaban sighed when his fingers touched the latch.

He could feel it.

---

"Hey," he said, finally.

"Hey."

The cell was small and dim, lacking the glaring, twenty-four hour light that was the norm in the maximum security sectors, and there were two beds carved from the stone of the rock housing Azkaban, rather than just one. Pansy sat with her back against the cold rock wall, her legs straight out and relaxed in front of her, her hands idle and limp in her lap. Her eyes were ghosted and hollow, but they glittered with keen awareness.

Ron sat on the bed opposite Pansy, peering at her across the short distance.

"When we were seven," Pansy said, after a long moment, "Draco took a platinum quill nib and he carved his initials into my ankle." She reached down and pulled her foot up, resting over the top of her thigh. Her fingers disappeared under her cuff, drawing it upward. "See? Right here?"

"I can't see jack shite," Ron said.

"Well, it's there. I never glamoured it." She traced with her fingertip the pattern Draco had etched into her skin so many years before. "D.M. Maybe I always knew." She shrugged, looking at Ron.

"Knew what?"

"Knew that it was inevitable."

"That what was inevitable?"

"That he was inevitable."

"What was your first clue, Parkinson?" Ron asked dryly. "Other than being Malfoy's regular accessory, along with his robes and wand?"

Pansy pulled a face. "What are you going on about now?" she asked, apparently offended. "I was never Draco's accessory!"

"Was right hard to tell, what with you hanging off him all the time like a ruddy purse." He half-smiled. "Blokes don't carry handbags. Though if any bloke would've it--"

"Spare me," Pansy said, holding up her hand. "Just because Draco is--" She corrected herself. "--was concerned about his appearance doesn't make him a bloody poof, thanks."

Ron lifted an eyebrow at her. "Was? So you've made peace with it, then?"

"With what?"

"That Draco's dead."

A shadow crossed her face. "Sure," she said, tightly. "Whatever." Pain swam in her eyes.

"Because he is dead," Ron said emphatically, leaning forward. "And nothing will ever change that. Whether you exist as you are, or as a shell of what you are after you're kissed, or even if you're dead yourself, it will never change the fact that Malfoy's gone. Nothing will ever change that."

Pansy took a deep breath, folding her arms over her chest. Ron noticed her bottom lip give a slight quiver. "I've spent the past two days telling myself, convincing myself that Draco is dead." She nodded solemnly at Ron, her eyes shining and unreadable. "I now know he is dead. I can't feel him anymore. I've never not felt him before. And the only thing that I can do is not feel anything anymore. To feel everything except Draco is worse than death."

Ron found her eerie lucidity unnerving. There was no way in hell he could imagine this quiet, focused wisp of a person forcibly shoving a jar of strawberry jam up Harry's nose. "You won't always feel this way," he offered, feeling unsure of how to proceed.

"You're not hearing me," she said. "Feeling everything but Draco hurts me. I don't want to live this way."

"Things change, Parkinson!"

"How well you know," she said.

"Yeah, well, I don't want to talk about that now," he said, averting his gaze. "So, why the change? You've been fucking mental for the past month, and now you're . . . not. What gives?" He looked back at her.

She looked back at him with something akin to pity. "Don't you know?"

"Obviously not." He tried not to sound exasperated.

"Ron," she said softly, and he couldn't even beginning to remember when he had last heard her use his proper name, "don't you get it? I'm okay."

"Okay?"

"I'm ready."

"You're ready," he parroted.

She scooted forward slowly until she sat on the side of her bed; their knees practically touched as they sat facing one another. "I'm ready. I feel ready. I'm at peace with my life." She reached over and touched the top of his hand. "I feel good."

A sour, frantic panic rose in Ron at her words. Swallowing thickly, he kept his eyes locked to hers, searching for some kind of hint that she was being melodramatic or just entertaining a more subtle form of insanity this afternoon. "You feel . . . good?"

"And there's something I want to tell you," she said.

He stared at her warily.

"I want to tell you that I'm sorry."

The panic surged. "Don't," he said harshly. "I don't need any fucking apologies from you."

She touched his hand again. "But I am sorry."

He snorted. "Why?"

She looked at him as if he were daft. "Because . . . I'm supposed to be, right?"

Ron almost burst into laughter at her sentiments; they were so . . . well, just so fucking Pansy. "That's very big of you. But we've already hashed it out, so drop it."

"I want you to tell Blaise that I'm sorry I let him down."

"Excuse me?"

"And I want you to tell Gregory that the key is at Hogwarts, in the Slytherin dungeons. It's behind a loose brick just to the left of the fireplace. He'll want it back after all this time."

"What key?"

"And tell--"

"I'm not telling anybody anything, thanks!" Ron protested, pulling back a bit. He didn't like this, not one sodding bit. "What the hell is this? Your last sodding call from on high?"

She watched him, shaking her head slightly. "Yes," she said finally. "Yes. It is."

"Well, this is fucking bullshite!" he roared, not knowing what to do. This wasn't going anything like he'd expected. He'd expected she would either, one, be mental and screaming, and he'd have to carry her about like a sack of potatoes, or, two, she'd be noncommunicative. There was no way he'd be able to suss her out now with just a simple toss into the staff bath. He didn't know where to begin with this calm, rational creature sitting alert and reasonable across from him. "WHY WON'T YOU FIGHT?"

"Because," she said patiently, not put off by his anger, "It doesn't matter to me to fight."

"Wouldn't Draco want you to?" he asked.

She took great pause. "Maybe. I don't know. He would want me to do what makes me happy."

Ron leaned forward again; his knuckles brushed against her knee inadvertently, but he refrained from touching her further. "What about making Draco happy, then?" He tried a sly tactic. "Mal-- Draco wouldn't want you moping about, thinking about him like this. He'd want you--"

She gave a light snort of laughter. "You obviously don't know Draco at all," she said, her words lacking any sting. "He would love all the pomp and circumstance that comes with a proper funeral, really. And a full memorial -- several, even, made from Italian marble. Draco would be rather flattered by the depths of my pain." She said it so matter-of-factly.

Ron couldn't wrap his brain around this at all. "Pansy," he said, carefully, "that's not how love is supposed to be."

"Says who?"

"Says just about anyone who's normal, you mental bint," he said, but not unkindly.

She smiled slightly. "You think I'm mental now?"

"Comparatively, yeah," he said. "For you, this is mental."

"You think you know me?"

"Yeah," Ron said quietly, after a moment. "Yeah, I think I know you. I know you're a fighter." He gave her a long look. "A ruddy dirty fighter, but a fighter the same."

"I don't feel like fighting anymore." She seemed so small -- childlike, even. "I'm tired. And sick all the time. And . . . I just don't feel like fighting anymore." She hunkered down on the hard bunk, drawing her knees up. Her gaze shifted sideways.

"Maybe not right now, but you might later. Remember what I said to you about options?" She didn't respond, so he continued, "You're all about options. Any proper Slytherin is, yeah?"

"You're lecturing me on being a proper Slytherin?" she asked. Ron couldn't tell if she were offended or simply amused.

"No. It'd be an insult to Gryffindor if I were even remotely able to do that. But there are somethings about each house that everyone knows. Slytherins save themselves. They're good at it."

"What, did you read Uncle Dullard's Guide to Slytherin or something?"

Ron thought of Phineas Nigellus. "Kind of, yeah. If you want to put it that way."

"Brilliant." She rolled her eyes.

"I took your advice."

"Oh? How so?"

"Spoke with Phineas Nigellus this morning."

"Isn't he grand?" she asked dreamily, relaxing a bit. "He's wonderfully entertaining, and so clever."

"I don't know about clever," Ron said. "He's rather long-winded."

"Was he having brunch?"

"Yeah. Well, later." Ron glossed over the topic of brunch. "He told me about your family."

"How boring for you."

"I've never been assigned to work with your father, you know. Funny, that. Seems like I would have by now."

Pansy shrugged. "So?"

"I'm just saying. Parkinson, have you ever had a job?"

"As in the kind with wages?"

"Yep. That's the kind."

"No," she said, totally unapologetic. "I've never needed one. Besides, oftentimes the most important work to be done is the uncompensated kind."

"Must be nice to not have to work to eat," Ron said, unable to help feeling a touch bitter.

"It's a responsibility," she said, solemnly.

"A responsibility?"

"Well, yes." She seemed tentative. "You wouldn't understand."

"Try me," he said dryly.

"My father's always said there are two types of work for the monied. There's work for self satisfaction, and there's work for the cause of the greater good. They are two very separate types of employment. Daddy's always said that too often the gentry errs on the side of the former." She met his gaze. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

He laughed out loud. "Do I?! That's a hoot -- you're the most selfish person I've ever met!"

Her cheeks coloured slightly. She gave him a look. "Then you haven't met very many people, Weasley. You think I'm bad? Oh, there are far worse!"

"Was your father along on the mission where your Uncle Edward was killed?" Ron asked abruptly.

"Excuse me?"

"Your father. Was he with Moody when your Uncle Edward was killed along with Rosier and Wilkes?"

She looked at him queerly. "How would I know?"

He folded his arms over his chest. "I don't know how you'd know. But, do you?"

"No," she said, in a clipped tone. "I don't."

"All your cousins from that uncle have died?"

She stated at him, her face growing sullen.

"Nigellus told me about your family's curse." Ron felt corny just saying it. "So what you're doing here, is this to fulfill your legacy or something?"

"What I'm doing here?" She raised an eyebrow sceptically.

"Well, yeah! You know. Going on about getting The Kiss and whatnot?"

She shook her head, looking at him as if he were the most daft idiot on the face of the earth. "No," she said witheringly. "God."

"Phineas Nigellus also said that one of Edward's children survived," he continued, not easing up on his questioning. He'd thought about this since his conversation with the former headmaster that morning. "Was he referring to Catherine Parkinson? You know --" he dropped his arm, holding his hand flat about a foot from the floor. "--that barmy, cross little pisspot who used to bug the ever-loving shite out of me?"

Her expression didn't waver. "Who else do you think he might have been referring to, Weasley?"

"No one, actually. I think he was referring to Catherine," Ron said evenly. "Your father, Edmund, and his brother Edward were identical twins, yeah? And your mother and Catherine's mother were also identical twins. Twins married to twins." He fixed a hard gaze on her. "It's the only plausible explanation for why you two look so much alike."

"Mmm," she said, examining her nails carefully. She didn't comment further.

"I don't have Catherine under my watch. None of us do." He paused. "Should we?" he asked, carefully.

"I'm not an Auror, Weasley, so I really wouldn't know. I really don't like to muck about in messy politics."

Ron lifted his arm in a dramatic sweep. "Oh, yes. Clearly. Your current circumstances being exceptional proof of that."

"So what, anyway? My heritage is irrelevant. But, yes, Catherine is my Uncle Edward's daughter." She looked almost amused.

He furrowed his brow. "Did your aunt remarry?"

"No."

"And you have no siblings yourself?"

"None."

"How old were you when your own mother died?"

"Seventeen."

Ron thought about this for a moment. "Before or after Hogwarts?" he asked, just to confirm his memory.

"Before."

"How'd she die?"

"It's a matter of public record. Find out yourself." Pansy was getting huffy now. "What're you being so nosy for, anyway?"

"I'm trying to close a case, Parkinson," Ron said flatly.

"Really? Maybe you're just asking all the questions now that you were too fucking scared to ask ten years ago," she said waspishly, her eyes cold and defensive.

"Oi!" he protested. "'S'not true! Listen, this is an important case." He looked pointedly at her. "Not just because of you, although I'd wager you'd like to think otherwise. Good people were killed, and you're involved!"

She leaned forward. "Why don't you prove it," she said icily.

Ron shifted positions, until their foreheads were practically touching. "Oh, I will."

"You're out of time," she said smugly, satisfied her triumph would be shortly forthcoming. "You're out of time."

"Yeah?" he said, cocking his head, not breaking their gaze. "Watch me." She raised her hand, for what reason Ron didn't know. Nor did he care. Deftly he caught her wrist and held it tightly. "Just you fucking wait and see." She struggled against his grip, and he tightened his fingers ominously. "I don't fucking care about what happened ten years ago. I care about what happened just about ten weeks ago, when my friends and colleagues were slaughtered like pigs for no apparent reason. Get over yourself, Parkinson." She stared defiantly at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly. "I know you, yeah. You're enjoying this, aren't you? This isn't about you ruddy missing Malfoy. This is about you being the bloody centre of attention until the last possible second. This is about you being so fucking self-centered you'd snog a dementor just for the satisfaction of a victory that exists only in your own mind." He was practically shaking with anger. God, what a pathetic mess she was. "You don't love Malfoy," he finished bitterly. "You love yourself." She choked out a angry sob of protest, glaring at him with angry, tear filled eyes, and Ron stood. "If you'll excuse me," he said stiffly, reaching for the cell's door as he stepped around her, making to leave. Insufferable, miserable bitch. He jerked the door open, just as a guard pushed into the cell; they collided roughly.

"Bugger," the guard said, rubbing the tip of his nose. He held a parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. "Your package has arrived, sir."

"Package?" Ron was a bit startled still. "Oh! Right." His stream of thought disrupted by the collision with the guard, he felt his anger ebb. He accepted the package with a nod. "Has it been cleared?"

"Moody cleared it." The guard thumbed over his shoulder, and inquiring look taking over his face. "You want me to get him? He's just down the hall."

Ron shook his head, the package crackling lightly as he turned back toward Pansy. She hadn't moved.

"Yes, sir," the guard said. "Call for me when you're done. I'll come and fetch you."

Ron fixed a pointed gaze on Pansy. "It'll be a while," he said slowly, newly resolved even after only half a minute. The door clanged shut and he tossed the package at Pansy. "This is for you."

She sobbed again, making no move to open it.

Ron leaned down until he could feel the warmth of his own breath rebounding from the side of her face. "Open the fucking parcel right now," he said, his voice low and unyielding, "or I will order an enormous bucket of rotten, stinking Hippogriff entrails sent up, and I will systematically eat every last loop of guts right here in front of you, until you're puking so hard that your stomach turns itself inside out and comes out your mouth." It was due to a fantastic glamouring charm Hermione had developed the summer after Hogwarts that he was able to assert this threat; Hermione'd gotten unbelievably pissed on Firewhiskey and Muggle lager one night, when they'd all shared a flat, and they'd egged her on until she had gleefully served up a pot of creature guts that tasted benignly of treacle, just to prove that she could. Ron and Harry had subsequently found it a useful charm for coercive interrogation purposes.

Shakily her fingers worked at the twine. Ron pulled away, once again taking a seat across from her, watching. She was clumsy and quite out of practise when it came to opening gifts, but finally the paper fell away, and a cascade of faded patchwork spilled forth. She looked up at him puzzled, her cheeks dusted over with dried trails of tears.

"Methuselah," Ron said.

"Why?"

"Because," he said, steeling his voice, "the dementors are cold. Best you prepare properly, for once."

---

"I had a dress made from this material," she said, four hours later. Neither had spoken since she'd opened the package and brought out Methuselah, Ron's old winter cloak. He looked up at her, his pocket quill stilling over his notepad; he'd been blithely ignoring her, making notes the entire time, while secretly panicking at his lack of progress.

"Oh?" he said blandly, maintaining a neutral expression. His eyes trailed over to her fingers; she was caressing a patch of scarlet brocade, with silken designs embroidered all over it.

"How'd your mother afford this?" she asked. "It's quite expensive."

Ron shrugged. "Dunno."

"Was there ever a time where you wished you didn't have so many brothers?"

"Nope," he said, lying through his teeth. "Never."

"Well, I'm sure you wished your sister hadn't been around. Ruddy bint."

"You'd know all about ruddy bints, wouldn't you?"

"Tell me, Weasley, what do poor people do for entertainment?"

Goddamnit. She was picking a fight, the crazy bird! Ron took a deep, calming breath. "Oh, you know," he said, in what he hoped was a light tone, "stuff. Read. Play Quidditch. Engage in random, sweaty acts of incest." He shrugged. "Pretty much what you'd expect, yeah?"

Pansy's eyes widened. "Oh my god! Really?" She wrinkled her nose in distaste.

He nodded solemnly, kissing two fingers and tapping his heart. "I swear it."

She shook her head, dazed, muttering in disbelief under her breath. "Draco was right . . . "

"My mum also used to have us collect run-over animals from the side of the road for food -- you know, down by Ottery St. Catchpole. There's a Muggle highway that runs nearby." It was all Ron could do to not laugh at the look on her face.

"Seriously?" Pansy covered her mouth, paling. "You've eaten--"

"Badger stew."

"Bleurgh," she said, gagging into her hand.

"No need for dramatics," Ron said with a smirk, enjoying himself immensely.

Pansy fanned herself with her hand. "Who was your first kiss?" she asked randomly, genuinely curious. Ron pulled a face, piquing an eyebrow at her, and within a second her hand was covering her mouth again. "Oh my god," she breathed, mildly appalled. "Was it your sister Ginny?!"

Oh, for fuck's sake. "No," Ron said patiently, biting the inside of his lip for a moment. "No, it wasn't. That'd be Percy, yep."

The look on her face was priceless. "Are you having me on?"

"Come on, Parkinson," Ron said witheringly. "Use what's left of your brain. Quit with the pretentious questions!"

She sniffed at him, turning up her nose.

"It was Hannah Abbott," he said, feeling the childish need to make sure anyone other than Ginny or Percy was on the record. "And yours was Malfoy. Brilliant, wonderful, happy, happy joy. Next subject."

"Mine was actually Zacharias Smith."

Ron did a double-take. "What?"

Pansy shrugged. "He had soft lips."

It was Ron's turn to grimace. "Holy shite, gross! That bloody wanker!" He gave her a look. "Figures he'd fancy someone like you -- loud and annoying. And shirty."

"Zacharias Smith was fit!"

"What about Malfoy?"

"What do you care?"

"Um, I don't, actually. Thanks for reminding me." He dropped his head and pretended to take notes.

"Draco came to his senses when we were seventeen. I knew he would."

"But, what about the Yule Ball?"

"What about it?"

"Is this a required Slytherin thing?" Ron lamented. "Answering questions with just more questions?"

"You don't think anyone from the other houses does that?"

"There you go again!" he said, pointing his quill at her. "See?"

"See what?"

"Typical. That's it," Ron said determinedly, setting his quill and notebook aside. "We're having a go at twenty questions." Whoa. Where'd that come from?

"What?" she asked, vaguely affronted at his presumption. "No, we're not!"

"We are. Quid pro quo. Fancy one last game before your brain's turned to mush? Or are you scared of what you have to hide?"

Her expression hardened. "Fine. Go."

"On what day was the letter to Draco owl-posted?"

"17th January," she said. "Are your parents siblings?"

"No," he said, rolling his eyes. "From where did the letter post?"

"Scotland. Do your second and third toes still overlap slightly? Because that was really rather unattractive."

"I like my toes just fine, thanks. They do the job. What happened when Draco received the letter?"

"He showed it to me." She gathered Methuselah against her chest protectively. "Did the Sorting Hat think about a different house for you?"

"No," Ron said, forgetting to be careful with his questions. "You?"

No," Pansy said, "and that counts as a question."

"Crap!"

"Can you see thestrals?" she asked, running the ridges of her fingertips along one of Methuselah's seams.

He looked at her for a moment. "Yeah." Ron made an educated guess that she herself could not, and elected to move on to a different subject. "After you read the letter -- after Malfoy showed it to you, that is -- what did you do?"

"I bloody well started packing, that's what! What the hell do you--" She caught herself. "What was your favourite subject at Hogwarts," she asked, almost primly.

"Transfiguration. Right useful, that. Where were you and Malfoy going to go?"

"I don't know. We didn't even know. We just knew we had to leave, and go as far as we could. We were going to live as Muggles."

For some reason this incensed Ron. "That's big of you both. Muggles can be quite convenient under certain circumstances. Funny, that. Yet, if you and Malfoy'd had your way, you'd've seen all Muggles dead long ago."

"That's not true! We'd have seen them away, not dead." She looked almost offended. "We're for separation, not genocide." She balled up Methuselah and laid down on the hard slab of a bed, resting her head in its soft folds. "I'm tired of this game. I'm not playing anymore," she announced.

"It doesn't work that way," Ron said. "It's twenty questions, not three."

"I know the title of the game. And," she said silkily, "I'm not playing anymore."

"You lot always were a bunch of dirty cheaters!" He raked his hand through his hair, frustrated. "Brilliant. Just one more question."

"I said I'm not playing anymore!" She hid her face.

"I'm ordering up the entrails, then . . . "

"God. Fine, ask."

He thought before asking. "Who do you hate the most in this world?" he asked slowly. "In all of the universe even?"

A variety of emotions passed over her face. Without answering she turned to face the wall, settling back into Methuselah. Ron waited, and finally she spoke. "You talk of Muggles," she said, picking her words carefully, "when I'd much rather see other kinds of vermin eradicated." She was silent for a very long time. Ron watched the even rise and fall of her breathing. "For instance, House Elves."

---

Deliver the souls of all who died in faith from the pains of Hell and from the deep pit. Deliver them to the lion's mouth, lest the jaws of the serpent swallow them, and they fall into everlasting darkness. Deliver the souls of all who died in faith from the pains of Hell and from the deep pit. Deliver them to the lion's mouth, lest the jaws of the serpent swallow them, and they fall into everlasting darkness. Deliver the souls of all who died in faith from the pains of Hell and from the deep pit. Deliver them to the lion's mouth, lest the jaws of the serpent swallow them, and they fall into everlasting darkness. Deliver the souls of all who died in faith from the pains of Hell and from the deep pit. Deliver them to the lion's mouth, lest the jaws of the serpent swallow them, and they fall into everlasting--

"Weasley." A gruff voice pierced through Ron's slumber. He awoke with a start and looked up into Moody's face. "Son, it's time."

"Ah, shite," Ron said, sitting up. He rubbed at his face. "Fuck, the last three days must've caught up with me. Yeah, gimme a minute here and I'll give it another go."

"No," Moody said. "It's time."

"What?"

"I'm sorry, lad. I know you've given it your all. No one else would've been half as successful." Moody pulled him to his feet.

Ron looked over at Pansy's sleeping form. "But--" The words died in his throat. Goddamn his weak resolve! He'd felt his lids drooping earlier, after Pansy had drifted off, and he'd willed himself to not fall asleep. "But-- look, just give me another half hour. Now that the moment's at hand, she'll give it up," he said frantically. "It's all a game to her. She won't want to go through with it! Just thirty minu--"

"No," Moody hissed, lowering his voice dangerously. "You've done all you can. It's not your burden anymore." The senior Auror continued when Ron didn't budge. "There's no time. Her solicitor is here, as is her father. She's business to attend to. Then it's her last dinner, and then . . . " Moody left his sentenced pointedly unfinished.

An unfathomable feeling rose inside Ron. "But," he protested again, up against the unimaginable.

"You have to leave now." Moody stepped back, clearing the way for Ron's exit. "Let's go."

Ron looked at Pansy. Should he wake her? Say something? Say goodbye? He couldn't even begin to fathom the protocol for this situation -- she wasn't a random prisoner. She'd turned again, and was facing him and Moody. Her face was peaceful and serene, and she appeared deeply asleep, nestled comfortably in the folds of his boyhood cloak. Something inside him shifted, and the bitter sting of defeat rose in his throat. "Right," he said, backing away, and then turning. "Let's go."

They walked without speaking down the empty corridor, Moody's uneven gait the only sound breaking through the silence.

---

"The law gives the Minister authority to sign the dementors warrant, but neither the law nor the Minister’s oath of office require him to do so. He also has the authority not to sign a dementors warrant. He has the authority to commute the dementors sentence to life in prison without the possibility of parole, or to life in prison without the possibility of parole for a term of years, which the Minister himself would determine. The law recognises the Minister both as an official and as a human being with moral judgment, and gives him the flexibility and the right not to execute. Pansy Pandora Parkinson-Malfoy, do you understand this as it stands written?"

"Yes."

"Have you been denied access to your solicitor?"

"No."

"At anytime have the proceedings before you gone unexplained, misrepresented, misunderstood, or withheld?"

"No."

"You are aware an offer for your pardon on behalf of the Minister of Magic, Zelott MacDubhshith, has been entered onto the record, wherein you, Pansy Pandora Parkinson-Malfoy, may gain your freedom, less a yet-to-be-determined period of incarceration not to exceed three years, in exchange for unrestricted Veritaserum testimony regarding the assault and felonious murder of various members of the organisation known as the Brethren, that may result in the arrest, prosecution, and subjugation and sentencing of those individuals responsible for the crimes as stated?"

"Yes."

"You have stated it is your wish to decline the opportunity to accept the Minister's offer as it stands?"

"Yes."

"You have the opportunity to re-examine your position at this time. Is it still your wish to decline the Minister's offer?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Hansson," the warden asked, looking up from his scroll, seeking out Pansy's solicitor in the gallery, "you are representing Mrs. Parkinson-Malfoy?"

"Yes, sir."

"Has your client had ample opportunity to confer with you?"

"Yes, sir."

"And is it with your recommendation that Mrs. Parkinson-Malfoy declines the Minister's offer of amnesty?"

"No, it is not," Hansson said severely. "It was my professional and personal recommendation to Mrs. Parkinson-Malfoy that she accept the Minister's offer."

The warden turned back to Pansy. "Do you understand that you have elected to proceed in a manner contrary to your council's advice?"

"Yes," Pansy said, her face expressionless.

"I shall ask you again, Mrs. Parkinson-Malfoy: do you wish to reconsider at this time, and accept the offer for a full pardon following a short term of incarceration, made with the contingency that you shall help the Ministry to determine the identities and actions of those individuals responsible for the murder of the Brethren members on 18th January, 2005."

"No, I do not wish to reconsider. I wish for you to shut your blathering mouth, and get on with it already."

"You have made this decision," the warden continued, unperturbed by Pansy's insult, "knowingly, freely, and being of sound mind and body?"

"Yes."

"That's fucking debatable," Ron muttered, under his breath.

Following the dementor incident with Barty Crouch Jr, during the trio's fourth year, the procedures surrounding the administration and application of the dementor's kiss had been re-evaluated and highly regulated, and were now tightly controlled. This was largely due to Dumbledore's influence after the Triwizard events, and Ron realised that without the new protocol in place, that Pansy would have likely been Kissed long before her file had even made its way to his desk. So in that regard he was grateful for the work Dumbledore had done in regards to fairness and equality. Once Moody had removed him from Pansy's cell, not even two hours prior, Ron had forced himself to shift modes. He was thinking practically right now, refusing to let his thoughts stray from basic questions surrounding this mystery into the more ambiguous waters of his personal history with Pansy. Already he was working over in his mind the information he had managed to glean from her, tumbling the questions of family and loyalties and curses and House Elves around in his mind.

All dementor kisses now took place within Azkaban itself, in the theatre provided by the Ministry. Winding down into the bowels of the rock island housing the prison, the dementors' amphitheatre lay over the oldest and most dank of the Azkaban dungeons, where the dementors lay in wait of their duty. A wide, spiraling ramp had been cut from the stone walls, leading downward to the amphitheatre, to serve both as a means to get a prisoner and the staff to the dementors when necessary, and as a spectators' gallery for actually viewing the kiss. It was here that Ron stood at present, flanked on either side by Harry and Moody, and when he craned his neck skyward he could see the crowd of Ministry officials and Azkaban staff leaning against the carved walls of the spiral, like a strange, fluttering nautilus of robe sleeves and wands and faces stretching upward for as far as Ron could see.

Everyone who could had turned out, it seemed.

They were right at the edge of the theatre looking down into the pit arena, as they had been the Aurors assigned to the matter. Ringside seating, Ron thought bitterly, a low, stressful burn igniting in his belly. He crossed his arms over his chest, swallowing the sour bile that was beginning to flood his mouth. His heart skipped, and then began beating hard and long.

"All right?" Harry asked quietly, shifting his gaze sideways for a moment.

"Yeah."

Harry was silent for a moment. "I'm sorry," he said, barely audibly.

"Yeah."

"Maybe--"

"Don't."

Harry nodded silently and deliberately leaned against Ron's shoulder, bumping against him, and then straightened again.

The warden continued. "Having made the decision to reject the Minister's offer, then, and being of sound mind, council, and body, Minister MacDubhshith shall read your warrant of sentence." He turned to MacDubhshith, who was standing to his side along with several aides. "Sir?"

MacDubhshith stepped forward, unfurling a second scroll. He read from it authoritatively. "Whereas Pansy Pandora Parkinson-Malfoy is and standeth convicted, attainted, and condemned of High Treason and other High Crimes, and sentence upon 21st March was pronounced against her by the Wizengamot to be put down by the severinge of her soul from her corporeal body, of which sentence execution yet remaineth to be done, these are therefore to will and require you to see the said sentence executed in this very amphitheatre before Azkaban to commence immediately. This day being the thirtieth day of this instant month of April, in the year of 2005, between the hours of twelve o'one in the morning and twelve o'two in the morning of the same day with full effect. And for so doing this shall be your sufficient warrant. And these are to require all Officers and Soldiers and other the good people of this Nation of England to be assistinge unto you, in this service given under our hands and seals." The Minister finished reading and rerolled the scroll neatly' he slipped it into the pocket of his robes. He moved around to Pansy's front and looked down at her, clasping his hands behind his back. "Do you understand the warrant as it has been read to you?" he asked, in a stern voice.

"Yes."

"Have you a last plea for reconsideration?"

"No."

"Have you a plea for clemency?"

"Stop trying to talk me into changing my mind!" Pansy burst out, a look of panic blooming on her face. Her brow shone with perspiration. She forced a new resolve. "Get on with it."

Minister MacDubhshith looked down at her, seeming almost confused. Finally, he shrugged and backed away, subtly signaling the warden. "Very well. Mrs. Parkinson-Malfoy?" He looked at her one final time. "Godspeed."

"God is for Muggles, and Muggles are stupid," she said, narrowing her eyes at MacDubhshith.

He was unmoved. "Go forth, warden." And in a silent flourish of robes, the Minister of Magic and his staff disappeared through a recessed door in the wall of the theatre; it sealed behind them with a soft, sucking sound. Pansy was left alone with the warden of Azkaban, shackled to a heavy iron chair. Her binding were hidden under the folds of Methuselah. They'd allowed her to wear it; at this point, nothing really mattered anymore. The condemned prisoners were allowed to choose a final meal (at least, one they would be aware of eating), and select an outfit for the occasion.

Ron gripped the stone barrier tightly, his mouth now going dry. His body was physiologically awash with the terror of this moment.

The warden drew his wand. "Spectators," he called forth, speaking upward toward the gallery via Sonorus, "stand ready!" He waved his wand, incanting commandingly, and the floor of the theatre shifted. The sound of chains retracting boomed forth, like the raising of a drawbridge, and a massive trapdoor opened at Pansy's feet, revealing a yawning, black, cavernous pit, and Ron momentarily deflected the roaring burst of cold, mouldering air that rushed forth from its depths by holding his arm over his face. A splitting, groaning sound started up, and when Ron lowered his arm he could see his breath hanging in the air in front of him, and he watched, mesmerised, as ice crystalised around the edge of the pit and then blossomed outward and up in a rapidly circling pattern, covering the floor of the theatre as it spidered outward. In the blink of an eye the rock wall under Ron's grip was covered in frost, which stung sharply at his fingers.

A team of five hulking, specially-trained guards flew out from the pit in formation, mounted on sleek, fast brooms, dressed all in black, their faces covered except for their eyes. A deep rumbling sound began, and Ron's heart was suddenly in his throat, for he fully remembered this feeling of deadly, sickening foreboding from the very first time he experienced it: on the Hogwarts Express, on the way to their third year. He knew what was coming.

With the sound of the wind blowing down a darkened tunnel, the dementors rose forth, their tattered cloaks frightening streamers trailing in their wake, and immediately they began to circle Pansy where she sat, like a school of sinister, dank sharks. Ron saw her jaw slacken in fear as she looked upward, and he quashed a fiercely protective feeling that stabbed at him at the look on her face, for he knew no one could really know what the dementors would be like in this situation until one found themselves here. There was no way for anyone to emotionally prepare for the dementor's kiss; it consisted of pure and unadulterated fear.

The handlers were circling and swooping, firing off Patronuses almost casually, to keep the dementors in the theatre's small arena area, and to keep them from rising up to feed on the spectators in the gallery above.

It didn't take long.

The dementors, hungry and prowling, soon encircled Pansy within their black whirlpool of doom, and within seconds one was lowering its hood. It rose above Pansy, hovering for a second, and then swooped down, opening its rotten, glistening mouth. Pansy screamed, and the sound cut Ron to the quick, for it was the sound of pure terror, and an uncomfortable murmur ran through the crowd. He was acutely aware of his rapid breathing, and the small clouds of his breath puffing into the air belied his calm exterior; he couldn't seem to get his breath under control, and his pulse practically exploded. Then, without warning, a second dementor crashed into the first, knocking it away from Pansy.

The dementors fought viciously, each vying for the coveted position, but within moments the two strongest contenders had asserted themselves. Denied, the remaining dementors drifted backward, and Ron sucked in his breath sharply as one by one they looked upward, and slowly set their sights on the hundreds of souls available in the gallery. A shower of Patronuses lit up the room as the dementors' guards swooped down and began herding all the dementors, but for the two who had emerged victorious, back down into their holding dungeon.

The two remaining dementors swirled around each other, trailing in and out of one another's robes and airspace, until one veered downward sharply, extending its hand, and wrapped its long, grey, mouldering fingers around Pansy's slender neck and squeezed. Jostling her until her head fell backward, the dementor then closed in on her, and Ron could tell Pansy's fight-or-flight reflex was in full-blown active mode. Only a massive surge of adrenaline would have allowed her to turn her head in the vice-like grip of the towering creature holding her; she jerked her head sideways, her eyes wild and terrified and searching, and she let out a howl.

"DADDY?!"

The particular way she called out for her father would stay with Ron for the remainder of his days. Automatically, he looked sideways at Edmund Parkinson, who was standing stiffly on the other side of Moody. He saw Moody reach over and grip Edmund's forearm; his magical eye was fixed straight forward, trained on Pansy. Edmund's face was a dour, expressionless mask; the only hint to what must have been a tremendous amount of inner torture was the ticcing of his jaw. Lifting his chin, he said nothing. Silently, he watched as the dementor wrenched his daughter's face sideways, and then lowered its horrible, festering mouth over hers. The dementor's back arched slightly as it drew in a rattling breath, tugging at Pansy's soul deep within her, jarring it loose from the fabric of her being.

Shortly, she relaxed, and the dementor tilted her head backward. Her long, dark hair hung limply down her back.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck Oh fuck Oh fuck-- For a moment Ron's vision dimmed, and he had to fight to stay put. Blinking rapidly, he refocused his attention and stood silently, watching in complete and utter emotional agony as Pansy lost the battle.

He made bold to promise her a bouquet of violets for the ball. She accepted his gallant offer on the condition that the violets should be white . . .

His vision blurred again, and he blinked. The dementor pulled away, sucking and gulping deeply. Pansy's face blurred into a series of rushing, flesh-coloured streaks, and then her head snapped backward again.

A golden, shimmering light rose from her slackened mouth and floated above her, waiting.

Panicking internally, Ron looked about frantically. His eyes fell on Edmund Parkinson again; the senior Auror's expression hadn't changed, but his eyes shone far too brightly. Ron looked back at Pansy, and his vision blurred yet again. "Fuck," he said, his voice cracking, and he blinked rapidly.

Something caught his eye. Blinking again, he rubbed at his eyes and squinted, leaning forward over the rock wall.

It was still there.

Ron's senses cleared, and he was filled with the keenest, most vivid sense of clarity he'd ever known. He tapped into his Auror training immediately, a one-time, random lesson springing forth in his mind, and he focused on summoning the necessary memories. His adrenaline surged, and he hoisted himself upward and kicked his way over the wall, dropping gracelessly down the side of the rock face into the theatre. Instantly, he was on his feet, wand in hand, arm extended and ready, Pansy and the dementor in his sight.

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

There was a roar of disbelief from the gallery, but Ron ignored it. He focused his energy. The tip of his wand glowed and brilliant beams of flooded the arena as the silvery, ghostly form of the Ford Anglia exploded from the end of his wand and headed straight for the dementor clutching Pansy in its rotting hands. Its lights flashing ominously, the Anglia silently sideswiped the dementor, its driver side door opening strategically at just the right moment to knock the creature away. With a raspy hiss, the dementor spiraled upward past the spectators until it disappeared into the dim light above, and Ron didn't have even a second to admire his handiwork before he was blindsided by two of the massive dementor guards who swiftly felled him like a watermelon under a falling block of stone.

"Oof," he hissed, the wind knocked out of him as the guards piled on top of him. His wand clattered from his hand, rolling several inches away from his outstretched fingers. Roughly he found himself pulled to his feet, and then he felt the constricting warmth of a charm at his wrists as the guards bound his hands behind his back, restraining me. "You don't understand!" he yelled, frantic to make them understand the gravity of the situation. "Wait-- Ahhh!" Fingers had locked into the hair at the nape of his neck, twisting his head, yanking viciously, until he was looking bleary-eyed at the ceiling far, far above him.

The amphitheatre had exploded in confusion. Ron's co-workers were rushing the theatre, and he could hear absolute pandemonium breaking loose all around him.

"RON!"

"Harry?!" Ron strained to look sideways. "Harry, fucking shite, mate, you've got to listen to me! They've got to call it off--"

"What is the bloody fecking meaning of this?!" Moody's magical eye loomed in Ron's peripheral; Mad-Eye's wand whipping by his face, and Ron heard him bark an order to the guards. "Stand back, you ruddy thugs! There'll be no manhandling of my staff as long as I'm in charge, by God!" Ron jerked forward, stumbling as the guards released their hold on him, but he wasn't out of the woods just yet. Moody grabbed him by the ear and dragged him to the edge of the arena, hissing in a low growl, "What the hell do you think you were doing?! I should've never put you back on the Parkinson matter! Do you know what you've done to Edmund? He'll need a trip to Mungo's to recover from the shock of it all, and let me tell you--"

"WOULD YOU FUCKING LISTEN TO ME?!" Ron yelled, suddenly angry as all get out. "Like I'd bloody well do something like that without just cause!" He could hear the warden and MacDubhshith arguing loudly behind him; the theatre floor was now packed with Aurors and Azkaban line staff, all vying to catch a clue as to what was going on.

"Come on, Mad-Eye!" Harry stepped around them, a determined look on his face. "Give him a chance to explain!"

Moody's magical eye was rolling like the slots; finally he fixed it on Ron, his face dark and unforgiving. "You've ten seconds, lad. Make it good."

Ron leaned in, speaking earnestly in a hushed tone.

Moody pulled back in disbelief. "You can't be serious!"

Ron practically exploded in desperation. "I fucking saw it!" he insisted, straining fruitlessly against the magical cuffs holding his hands in place. "Moody, I saw it. I saw it, I swear it, I did--"

"All right!" Moody held his hand up, cutting Ron off. "All right." He stepped aside stiffly as a group of guards approached; two of them took Ron by the elbows and propelled him forward.

"The warden wants him held until it's sorted," one explained.

"Understandable," Moody said, glaring at Ron piercingly. "Son, you'd best pray that you're right about this, or life as you know it will definitely be over."

"I'm right," Ron said stubbornly, resisting slightly as the guards walked him from the arena, and the last thing he saw as he strained to look over his shoulder at the melee was Pansy sitting alone, still restrained, with her head lolling stupidly to one side, and as they passed into the exit corridor and began the long climb back up to the main prison, a different sort of panic began to set in.

Jesus God, Merlin on a stick . . . please let me be right.

Ron was fucking scared.

Author's Notes

Vindicated written and performed by Dashboard Confessional. Pansy's Kiss warrant of execution taken from the death warrant of Charles Stuart, King of England, January 24, 1648, as imposed by the British House of Lords. Source: HERE. I did opt to use the movie's representation of the dementor's kiss, because it is a tangible, visual representation of the dementor's kiss, which is necessary for the purposes of this story. This chapter is a bit different, isn't it? I deliberately chose to focus on the post-Hogwarts action in this chapter, as it's very plot-heavy. The next chapter will resume the usual format of including both post-Hogwarts and Hogwarts scenes. Please feel free to visit me at my Livejournal. If you like Adjudication at all, I'd love it if you'd leave a blurb on its Niffle thread for other FAPers to consider right here.