Adjudication

Darkness Be Over Her -- Her Rest a Stone

Dreams are but a brief madness and madness a long dream.

She pulls the sheet from her bed and wraps them around and around her head, until only a spill of dirty brown hair hangs awkwardly from inside the sheet's folds, and one eye shows, unfocused and aberrant. She sits on the floor, scooting forward until the iron leg of her hospital bed is between her knees, and she tugs with all her strength -- the bed's leg is loose, and she is determined to pry it free from its frame. It is difficult, for she cannot see for the sheet, yet she hopes the sheet will compress her wild, frightening thoughts, at least long enough until she can complete the mission in her mind . . . the mission from her mind. The mission the compulsion, which she cannot shake or abandon; the thoughts race through her brain unabated, and clutching her temples only sometimes eases the pressure, and only temporarily at that. She needs her hands right now, though, so the sheet must do.

Come and be with me . . .

She stops, her hands loosening slightly. The dank scent of sweat and iron drifts upward. She feels torn. Part of her wants to obey, the other does not. However, there is that little glimmer of sanity within her that is logical, thoughtful, and she recognises that crossing over is likely inevitable, so she grips the bed with new resolve and digs her heels in as much as she can; having discarded her socks, she has a little more leverage than she might ordinarily. "I'm trying," she whispers hoarsely, and drags her dry tongue over the chapped surface of her bottom lip. "I'm trying!"

Come and be with me . . . Come and be with me . . . Come and be with me . . .

"I'm trying!" She is angry now, and her face reddens with effort as she strains against the bed. There is a popping noise and the sharp groan of metal giving. She smiles and rests for a moment; she feels accomplished.

Come and be with me . . . Come and be with me . . . Come and be with me . . . Come and be with me . . . Come and be with me . . . Come and be with me . . . Come and be with me . . . Come and be with me . . . Come and be with me . . . Come and be with me . . . Come and be with me . . . Come and be with me . . . Come and be with me . . . Come and be with me . . . Come and be with me . . .

Her biceps quiver and she tumbles backward as the leg comes free from the bed's frame. The sheet around her head cushions her fall, but the sharpened iron where the leg has torn free scrapes the flesh under her eye. She closes her eyes just in time and turns her head. Ignoring the pain, she scrambles to her feet, her chest heaving breathlessly, and she tears the sheet from her head, the piece of iron still in hand, and she yanks up her hospital gown and clenches its folds in her teeth and with both hands she raises the iron bar and plunges it into her gut. She does it again, and she smiles through her watery, unseeing gaze, and she whispers, "Draco?"

She doesn't get to go.

The door bursts open and within seconds she is in the custody of St. Mungo's staff, forcibly restrained. She feels the cool iron bar slide from her fist, and she screams and kicks out, flailing. Soft lambskin encircles her wrists, held there by leather cuffs, and she hears the shouts from all around: "Immobilis!" She cannot move, she has no magic, her mind explodes again and again, and she wants to find relief from this torture. She howls like a wild animal as she's carried from the room, and when at last she feels the overly starched cotton of a new hospital bed against her back, she experiences a moment of lucidity. She cries like a young child, plaintively and with abandon, and waits for the dementors' realm to swallow her once again.

"I just want to die! I just want to die! Let me die!"

"No, Miss." A hand touches her forehead gently. "Yeh can't."

"I HATE YOU!" A wet string of her own saliva hits her cheek. "Why? Why? Why . . . ?"

Come and be with me . . . Come and be with me . . . Come and be with me . . . Come and be with me . . . Come and be with me . . . Come and be with me . . . Come and be with me . . . Come and be with me . . . Come and be with me . . . Come and be with me . . . Come and be with me . . . Come and be with me . . . Come and be with me . . . Come and be with me . . . Come and be with me . . .

Her heavens hang with black.

- - -

"Holy fucking shite." Ron felt physically ill. His heart was twisting with revulsion and fear, and his stomach clenched menacingly as he watched Pansy through the one-way viewing window in the Hopelessly Hopeless ward at St. Mungo's. "That's encouraging," he'd remarked dryly, as he, Moody, and Harry had passed through its doors.

"It's true," the healer leading them had said, not elaborating.

The three of them stood arms-over-chest, watching the bleak scene unfold. "What have I done?" Ron said, more to himself than anyone else.

"You did right by the law," Moody answered shortly.

Ron watched Pansy on the bed, immobilised and howling, and cold crept through him. "The law's for people, yeah? Well, this isn't right." He didn't even care if the sentiment hacked Harry off. The scene was so disgusting, so vile, it was beyond the lines of inter-House rivalry. Pansy looked like a feral beast, savage and wild, yet at the same time so profoundly anguished, that anyone who wasn't affected by the sight surely was without a soul themselves. In the week since Ron had thwarted Pansy's dementor's kiss, he'd barely slept, his mind deluged with ethical doubts. He'd been second-guessing himself mercilessly, and it wasn't with just a little bit of shame that the thought of She deserves it skidded fleetingly through his mind once or twice. No, his logic had tempered evenly at the time, no one deserves this. He turned and leaned into the healer standing to his right, a portly man with shiny pink cheeks and a perfectly concentric bald spot at the back of his head, who also had the additional insult of being named Porfinio Coon. "Well?" Ron asked. "What's the prognosis?"

"Nothing's changed," Coon said simply.

"How can you know she won't get better if this has never happened before?"

"Ripping the soul apart cannot go unscathed."

"Yeah, but how do you know that means whatever damage has been done is irreversible?"

"I don't."

"Brilliant," Ron said, rolling his eyes. "Helluva a healer, you."

"That'll be enough, Ron," Moody interjected, clomping over. "Coon, tell me what you do know. I'll be a goddamned clabbert's uncle if Parkinson's the only case of a dementor's kiss interrupted!"

Coon sighed and rubbed at his temples. "Well, no," he conceded wearily. "It's happened before . . . "

"And?" Harry enquired patiently, after Coon trailed off.

"Yeah, and?" Ron bolstered.

"It's just that no one's ever recovered from the after-state." Coon looked almost apologetic, as if he wished he could provide more positive news. "No one."

The room seemed very still then. Ron shook his head and stepped forward, raising his hand to the one-way observation window, the odd glass filming briefly with circles of condensation underneath where his fingertips touched. He took a deep breath, and released it slowly, trying to control the tight fury inside his chest. The faint tick-tock of the clock on the wall clicked along, as if mocking him. Time lost. Now, too much time to kill. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words stuck in his throat like a fist, unspeakable, the reality of the situation unimaginable, really.

It was Harry who spoke. "What about her being pregnant?" he asked, his voice steady and calm.

"I've no idea," Coon admitted. "Several of the revealing charms we've cast are still cataloguing her body and mind. It's my hope that once the charms finish mapping her, they'll provide some kind of insight as to how to proceed."

The four men fell silent and watched Pansy through the window, as she bucked against the restraints at her ankles and wrists. An orderly was using some kind of gadget now, a thin, strong piece of metal, and he was prying her teeth open as if with a crowbar. He administered a phial of luminescent blue potion into Pansy's mouth, and when she spat it into his face, he calmly administered another dose and clamped his hand over her mouth, pinching her nostrils closed. Ron could see her vacant eyes widen with fright as the suffocation overtook her, and she swallowed the potion despite her best intentions. Carefully, the orderly dabbed at Pansy's mouth with a sterile cotton towel, wiping the residual dribble from the corner of her mouth. With a wave of his wand, the spat potion was gone from his face and his uniform white and clean again. Pansy's head lolled to the side and she relaxed, and even though Ron knew logically that Pansy could not see him, he felt a stab of shifting discomfort as her blank gaze fell in his general direction. It was like looking at someone he had never met before, and the fist in his throat clenched again.

What have I done?

He let his hand fall and he turned away.

---

"Ron," Molly Weasley commanded, "bring me eight rashers of bacon. The streaky kind."

"Yeah," Ron said, and tipped back in his chair and stretched backward toward the refrigerator. Balancing precariously, he managed the door and began rummaging through the crisper.

"Mind you be careful," Molly admonished. She was whipping up Yorkshire batter for Toad in the Hole. "As far as I'm concerned, there's been quite enough braining to contend with as of late, without you cracking your head open on the brickery." Her arm was a blur as she worked the batter, and her brow furrowed crossly. "A disgrace, I say. An absolute disgrace! Imagine, a woman with child being administered the dementor's kiss . . . . " Molly clucked sympathetically. "The poor lamb . . . . "

Ron came up from the fridge, bacon in hand. "Lamb?" he snorted, plopping the package onto the kitchen table as he settled back into place with a thwump of his chair. "Mum, this is Pansy Parkinson we're talking about! She's no lamb, believe me."

Molly pointed her whisk at him, batter dripping. "Nonsense! A little thing like that? She probably couldn't harm a fly if she wanted to!"

Ron shook his head. "Oh, for sod's sake, Mum! Bloody little pill, that one. You've no idea! She's the rare example of how 'size doesn't matter,'" he grumped, slouching down in his chair. Molly passed behind him as she made for the stove.

"Straighten up, dear. You'll crick your back, all hunched down like that." She placed her bowl of batter on the stovetop to warm, and then joined Ron at the table. "Help me roll the toads, son," she said, reaching for the bacon. Ron sat up and pulled a string of fat sausages toward him and summoned the cutting board. He preferred the traditional knife to cutting with his wand. Together, they worked in silence for several minutes, wrapping strips of bacon around the sausages -- it was Sunday, and Sunday meant a family dinner at the Burrow. Ron loved Molly's Toad in the Hole, although he figured he was too old by now to go on about it, and his mother seemed to sense when he would most appreciate the comfort of this particular dish.

"I just don't understand," Molly said eventually, as she placed the sausages into the baking tin, "how nobody thought to check a female prisoner for pregnancy upon intake. How could the Azkaban staff be so negligent?"

"Dunno. Reckon it's because there aren't as many female prisoners?" Ron peeled a yellow onion and began chopping. "There's not even a maximum security sector 'specially for female prisoners. I mean, you'd think they'd know better, what with Bellatrix Lestrange and whatnot. Females need their own facilities," he said. "Keeping Parkinson alongside male prisoners? That's not on, Mum. Not on at all."

"Well, to be sure, I'm certainly writing to MacDubshith about the matter -- make no bones about it," Molly answered, shaking her finger for emphasis.

"Hell," Ron said, unthinking, "who'll even know who the father is of that damn baby she's got inside her, yeah? Bunch of shite going down there."

Molly paused, glancing at him sharply. "What do you mean?"

He didn't even know what he meant at first. His hand stilled in the pile of chopped onions, the knifeblade digging into the wood beneath. An image of fingerprints flashed through his mind, fingerprints which made their way around Pansy's back and hips, the colour of her shame a trail of bruises. He looked at his mother. "I thought maybe . . . Something wasn't right with Parkinson, Mum. She had bruises."

"Bruises? What kind of bruises?"

"Um," Ron started, feeling slightly uncomfortable. "Er, well, bruises like fingerprints. Like someone had grabbed ahold of her, you know?"

"Where, pray tell, were the bruises?!"

Ron flushed. "On her back. Her hips." His ears were warming now. Damn, bloody dumb ears, he thought. "You know, like--"

Molly held up a hand, sparing Ron the embarrassment of explaining. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "You think someone was having their way with her?" She glanced around, as if they were under surveillance. "In Azkaban?"

"I--er, well . . . yeah?" Ron attacked the onion with exceptional ferocity, unable to look his mother in the eye while discussing non-consensual sexual relations; his face was flaming and now the stupid fecking onion was causing his eyes to water. He sneezed abruptly as the onion wreaked havoc on his senses, and he chopped blindly now; little bits of onion landed about the tabletop.

"Ronald Bilius Weasley," Molly said, drawing herself up fully. "Tell me you reported your suspicions to your superiours! Well, didn't you?"

"Er--"

"Oh, for shame!" She brandished her whisk angrily, clucking.

"Mum! I didn't know for sure--"

"What's Ron done now?" Ginny entered the kitchen, a carrot stick clenched between her teeth. She set an empty bowl onto the table. "We need more dip, Mum."

Molly gestured impatiently toward the butcher block. "It's just there." She turned back to Ron as Ginny refilled the bowl. "I'm telling you, far too many women are subject to violence at the hands of men, and I certainly raised you better than to just sit by while any female is tortured or abused--"

"Oh my God," Ginny breathed, disbelieving, setting the dip down. "Ron? Are you and Luna having problems--"

"For chrissakes, no," Ron huffed, putting up his hand. "You can stop right there with the conjecture, Gin. I mean--"

"Ooo, Ron, are you and Luna having troublez? What a shame!" Fleur entered the kitchen, an empty plate flecked with green remnants of loose broccoli florets in her hand. "We are out of veggie-tables," she said to Molly.

"Luna and I are just fine--" Ron tried to explain.

"I'll take that, love," Molly said, lifting the plate from Fleur's delicate hand. She bustled over toward the sink area. "You've heard of the Parkinson matter at Azkaban, Fleur?"

Fleur drew her hand to her chest, sucking in her breath dramatic. Her eyes widened. "Oh, my, yes," she said. "How could I not have heard? It's in all zee papers. Ron is instrumental in zee case, is he not?" She let her cerulean gaze drift over to Ron and graced him with a smile. Ron couldn't help himself -- he smiled cheesily in return, unable to shake the feeling of adolescent adoration she evoked.

"Er, thanks, Fleur--"

"Panzee, she is pregnant, no?"

"Who's pregnant?" Fred loped into the kitchen, George at his heels. "Mum, got another bun in the oven?"

"Oh, good heavens, no! Certainly not, not at my age--" Molly started.

"Mum was saying that Ron--" Ginny began.

"Ronniekins is pregnant?" George asked mischievously. "Little brother, I always knew there was something strange about you!"

Ron chucked a sausage at George. "Shut it, you," he grumbled, not amenable to humour at that particular moment. "Of course I'm not bloody pregnant--"

"Who's pregnant?" Percy had appeared in the kitchen; he stood by the doorway stuffing his face with biscuits. "Mum, when's dinner ready? I'm expected back at the office." He glanced at Ron again. "Is Luna pregnant?"

Ron stood abruptly, his ears once again on fire. "Would you gits knock it off?!" he sputtered. "'Course Luna's not pregnant!"

"Actually, I am," Luna said easily, breezing through the doorway. She set her teacup and saucer into the sink, and then turned about, holding the edge of the countertop casually.

Ron was now angry on several levels. First, Molly castigating him for not prioritising Pansy and his suspicions of her being raped niggled at his conscious, and bloody hell if he hadn't tried to do the right thing by Pansy all along. He'd asked her straight up, when he'd seen the bruises on her pale skin, and she'd clammed up -- what could he do? Bruises faded, and without corroboration was there any hope of pressing any criminal charges in a case like this? Furthermore, it wasn't his business to force Pansy into making reports about any sexual misconduct; if she didn't want to, well then that was her damn choice.

Right?

"Mum, you don't understand," Ron said, frustrated. "I tried to get it out of her! I tried to get her to tell me who left the bruises, and she told me to go fu-- she told me to bugger off!"

"Well, of course she did," Molly said, turning to face him, hands on hips. "What else could she do? There she was, locked up in Azkaban, a privileged, cultured little thing--"

"Yeah, Pansy Parkinson's as cultured as a lopsided pearl, crapped straight from the arse of a common clam," Ginny sniped, through a mouthful of carrot.

"Ooo, good one, Gin!" Fred beamed approvingly, bumping fists with his sister.

"Really, Ginny," Molly clucked reprovingly. "Clams don't even have arses. Let's not be unkind, dear! My point is, Ron couldn't be there with Pansy to protect her around the clock. It makes sense she wouldn't name her attacker--"

"Alleged attacker!" Ron interjected, clarifying.

Molly glared. "Her attacker," she said firmly, as if the matter had been decided. "If she told anyone on the inside of Azkaban, she'd be at even greater risk, for what do violent people feed off of, if not power, control, and revenge? You should have pressed the matter on her behalf, Ron," she said with finality and a slow burn began in Ron's stomache, for while he understood the matter was far more complicated than Molly made it out to be, there was a foundation of truth to her words nonetheless.

Moody clomped into the kitchen, a long streamer of toilet paper trailing from the bottom of his wooden leg. "What's this nonsense about Pansy Parkinson? You invited me here for a nice, relaxing dinner, you said, and here I am, overhearing business matters from the sitting room while I'm trying to enjoy a spot of tea and a crumpet." His magical eye fixed on Ron. "You shouldn't be discussing the Parkinson matter, or any other case to that regard. It's confidential!"

"Mad-Eye, you've got a bit of the loo pasted to your foot," Percy said with a discreet cough, apparently put off. "You'll want to take care of that, sir."

Moody regarded the floor. "Huh, so I do." He removed the offending streamer and deposited it into the rubbish bin. "Never mind any petty distractions! Don't let me catch any of you engaging in gratuitous rumour-mongering, and Weasley?" He turned to Ron again. "I'll not be tolerating you discussing confidential matters amongst civilians, even if they are your family."

"But--"

"Not a word!" Moody shook his finger alarmingly.

"JUST A GODDAMNED MINUTE!" Ron exploded, having had quite enough of all the harping. "I'M NOT SAYING ANYTHING THAT THE PAPERS HAVEN'T ALREADY PRINTED--" He took a deep breath, trying to regroup. "Well, okay, that bit about the guard, yeah, but Jesus Christ everyone knows Parkinson's pregnant! Why, the gossip rags are having a field day with their speculating and whatnot, and--and, shite, already the Daily Soiler's wagering whether Malfoy's bloody spawn's going to be blond or--" Ron froze in mid-sentence. He jerked his eyes over to Luna. It took him less than three strides to cross the kitchen and stand in front of her. "Wait a minute." He searched her earnest face carefully. "You said-- are you -- " He took another breath. "Did you say you're pregnant?"

Luna nodded, smiling serenely, and she looked at him hopefully. Activity in the kitchen had ceased; all eyes were on Ron and Luna. "Yes," she said, after a moment.

Ron stared at her dumbly. "Holy crap!"

"It ain't a crap that done it!" Fred pointed out, waggling his eyebrows, and a rising joyous cheer filled the room. Molly burst into tears, clapping her hands together in front of her, and Arthur pumped Ron's hand vigourously.

"Well, how about that!" Arthur said, beaming, but Ron pulled his hand free to clutch at Luna's elbow.

"You're pregnant?"

"Yes!"

"That means--"

Luna beamed at him adoringly. "Yes!" she said, and for the first time Ron sensed a genuine disbelief in her voice. "We're having a baby!" She covered her mouth with her hand, as if suddenly shy.

Ron crushed her to him. "Oh my God." He breathed the words into the familiar fresh spill of her dirty blonde hair. "Oh wow . . . "

- - -

Ron dreamt of a baby's cry and a maze of white walls and misleading doors. The baby cried and cried and Ron ran and ran, turning blindly this way and that, bumbling aimlessly, albeit at a swift pace. Finally he dead-ended, and when he made to double back and make his way back out of the maze, he found he was in a room with no doors, no exits, no anything -- except a small, dark window Ron could barely see even when he tipped his head as far back as it would go. He put his hands against the smooth, white wall in frustration and was confused when his hands stuck there. He strained and pulled free, and then tentatively placed his hands back against the wall, and when they stuck again he gingerly lifted a toe to the smooth incline. The baby cried and cried, it's voice hollow and echoing, and Ron steeled his resolve.

Up and up and up he climbed, like some kind of weird, ginger fly, his hands and feet making strange plooking sounds, like sucker-darts being plucked from their anchor, and soon he was scaling the wall expertly. He slithered to the window, his body morphing and flowing and contorting to fit neatly through the tiny space, and he slithered through the dark until the window let out into another room, which was full of red-haired babies screaming and crying.

Ron picked his way through the squalling herd of infants, wondering which child to soothe first. He felt a tug at his shoelaces and looked down. A pale infant, silent and old-souled, stared up at him, its grey eyes piercing and accusatory and blistering with hatred, and Ron thought, I know those eyes.

And then he woke up.

He was surprisingly calm, actually, upon waking from what was to him a disturbing dream, but instead of settling into the discomfort, the subliminal accusations of his mind, he rolled over in the dark, pulling his wand from under his pillow. "Lumos," he whispered, and when Luna's face came into view under its cool blue light, his innate protectiveness roared to life and welled within him. He watched her breathing peacefully, watched the even rise and fall of her chest, her hand draped lightly over her belly, and he laid his head next to hers and shared her pillow, and he touched his hand to hers lightly.

His thoughts raced, but not in a bad way. Ron silently pledged his loyalty and protection to Luna and his child, and he mentally sloughed the burden of the guilt he was carrying regarding Pansy and her experiences in Azkaban -- but he quietly pledged his professional attention to her; he would always try and make right that which he had made wrong, and although in hindsight his sentiments rang hokey and, well, all girly-girl and whatnot, it was, Ron eventually realised, just exactly those kinds of ambitious promises one makes whilst contemplating the way of things, in the dark after a bad dream.

He was all right with that.

---

The next week, at the office, Ron pored over Pansy's file again, searching stubbornly for that one elusive clue, even the slightest hint as to how next to proceed. He arranged and rearranged an endless line of photographs, their silent images playing at the periphery of his mind as he mulled them over.

The letter. He picked it up and stared at it, turning it over after a moment. The letter. The letter's the key. Ron reviewed the known facts for the umpteenth time. The letter had been found under Michael Corner's bloody, ruint body, those many weeks ago; it had been addressed to Draco Malfoy, presumably from Pansy Parkinson-Malfoy, his wife.

Ron thought of Luna. "Why would Parkinson send a letter to her own husband?" he wondered aloud, his brow furrowing in thought. He tapped the corner of the letter's parchment absentmindedly against the top of his desk. It didn't make any sense. Why would one take the time to write a letter to someone one lived with and saw on a daily basis? Why, he and Luna always had a chat prior to going to sleep every night, without fail. In fact, it was where their best conversations occurred, at least in Ron's opinion -- right there in their shared bed, under the cover of nightfall, tucked beneath the cosy fall of their feather duvet. While it was entirely possible that Parkinson and Malfoy were somehow so emotionally stunted that they were incapable of directly addressing issues of any depth face-to-face, Ron found, after considerable deliberation, this wasn't a feasible conclusion. He thought of the two of them together, and while Draco and Pansy were -- check that, had been -- many things together, emotionally disconnected wasn't one of them. Ron had no doubt Pansy told Draco everything that mattered to her. Ron snorted. He shook his head as he let the letter fall to the desk. Bloody likely Pansy told Malfoy everything that crossed her narrow little mind, whether Malfoy wanted to hear about it or not. Ron could only imagine the amount of nattering Malfoy endured thanks to Pansy; he couldn't help but give him a bit of credit, at least for endurance. Anyone who could stand actually marrying Parkinson, much less keeping house with her, had to have a bit of internal fortitude, yeah?

No, Luna was right. Pansy hadn't sent that letter.

Pansy had been framed.

"Sonofabitch," Ron said, under his breath. "The bloody twat's innocent."

"Who's innocent?"

Ron jerked his head up. "Oh, hey, Harry," he said sheepishly, inexplicably embarrassed. "I was just--"

"Well, you're right about one thing, that's for sure," Harry said, eyeing the scene.

"Yeah? What's that?"

"She's definitely a twat."

"State the obvious," Ron said dryly.

"Any progress?"

"Besides being even behind square one? Nothing." He hung his chin glumly in his hand.

Harry leaned against the edge of Ron's desk. He gestured at Pansy's file, all spread about, amused. "How many times have you dissected all this crap?" he asked. "There's nothing here you don't already know."

"That's the problem. At least when the case was new I had a plausible explanation for the Brethren attacks. Now that's all gone to shite." Ron stood, raising his arms in defeat. "I don't know what the fuck I'm doing."

"Oh, shut up," Harry said, unwilling to indulge Ron's histrionics. "Look, you're emotionally involved--"

"I am not!" Ron interjected, interrupting sulkily.

"Whatever," Harry raised his hand. "Be logical, mate! Why're you still looking through that bloody damn file? You know it's a dead end!" He gave his friend a hard look. "Think, Ron. Where do you go when you reach the end and there's nothing there?"

"Back to the beginning," Ron grumped, dully parroting the most fundamental of their investigative trainings.

"Exactly."

"But Grimmauld's been picked apart even more than Parkinson's fecking file!"

"The beginning, Ron!"

Ron stared at Harry sullenly.

"The letter didn't come from Grimmauld," Harry pointed out. "Where'd it come from?"

"It was addressed to Malfoy, obviously!"

"Exactly! So it's logical to assume prior to appearing at Grimmauld, the letter--"

"Was at Malfoy's." Ron finished Harry's sentence.

"Have you been to Malfoy's flat, then?"

Ron grimaced. "God, no. Think I'd fancy a dance with the dementors before I'd want to poke around in Malfoy's lair."

"Well, mate," Harry said, grinning evilly, "get over it. 'Cos that's where you need to go."

"Jesus Christ on a cracker!" Ron moaned. He honestly couldn't think of anything less appealing. "Are you coming?"

Harry held up his hands. "Sorry, I've got a tonne of--"

"Oh, no," Ron said, turning back to his desk. He began re-filing the documents and photos scattered across its top. "You're coming, and that's that. 'Sides, I could use your help."

Harry sighed. "Can we get pissed first?"

"I guess. Firewhiskey?"

"Whatever's strongest."

"Ah!" Ron said, directing the file shut with a wave of his wand. He floated it into his briefcase and locked it with a swish and a flick. "I've something better. Lionel sent over a bottle of dragosinthe, but that was before Luna found out she's pregnant. He sent the spoon and sugar, too. Game?"

"There's no such thing as dragosinthe," Harry said with a snort. "Everyone knows that."

"Everyone except Lionel Lovegood, mate, and, well, I've got a bottle of it and even Hermione hasn't been able to prove it's not authentic!"

"There's no such thing," Harry insisted stubbornly.

"Explain Maurice, then," Ron countered triumphantly, spinning his wand deftly and pointing it at Harry. "Yeah? Hmm? Explain that!" Maurice was Ron and Luna's . . . pet.

"You know how I feel about Maurice! He's not a real Crumple-horned Snorkack, I wager."

"But you can't prove he's not, can you?" Ron challenged. "Same with the dragosinthe, and what's more fitting, eh, than hunting for clues at Malfoy's flat? C'mon," he cajoled. "I could really use an extra hand."

"Fine. But, I'm bringing Hermione."

"Hermione? Why?"

"'Cos," Harry said, checking his pockets for his wand and badge. "She's been on me to let her tag along to a crime scene for yonks, to do some tests or whatever on wards and disguising charms. She's got Ministry clearance and everything."

Of course it was just like Hermione to have all her I's dotted and T's crossed before even broaching such a favour with either Harry or Ron. She was stellar at anticipating any and all objections that might thwart any particular goal of hers, as well as troubleshooting potential problems with gaining permissions for whatever academic mission had piqued her fancy at the moment. Hermione was ruthless-- she always achieved her goal. Ron knew it was pointless to object. "Yeah, sure," he said. "Fine. Collect her. I'll go get the list of wards already identified at Malfoy's flat and the forensic notations." He scrawled Malfoy's address on a slip of parchment and handed it over to Harry. "Meet me there at half one. I'll go get the drink."

Harry examined the paper. "What, no protective charms? No Fidelius to break?"

Ron shook his head. "Nope. Narcissa Malfoy was their Secret Keeper. I guess when she died they didn't find another one before the attack on the Brethren went down." He shrugged. "It's unprotected, really. Well, the Muggles can't find it, but any witch or wizard with basic revealing skills would be able to locate their place right now."

"All right, then. See you in an hour." Harry paused, thinking. "What tube station should we meet up at?"

"Sloane Square, I reckon."

"Right," Harry said. "Got it."

---

Ron struggled with the key to Draco and Pansy's flat, balancing the bottle of dragosinthe and a bag of sugar cubes in his other hand as he attempted to open the door one-handed. The three of them were wedged into a narrow doorway just off an elegantly paneled corridor, on the third floor of an understated Edwardian building in Chelsea, London. Ron could barely see in the dim light of the flickering sconces. The lock wouldn't turn. Ron gave a heave and the key broke in half. "Crap!"

"Oh, move over," Hermione ordered, drawing her wand. "Alohomora." The door clicked once, twice, three times, and then swung open. "You needn't make things so complicated." She marched into the foyer, Harry and Ron following sheepishly behind. "Now, this place has already been processed?" she asked. "Do we need to wear protective gowns or gloves? What about our shoes? Should we take them off?"

"You watch too much telly," Harry said. "We're fine. This place has been processed three times, not just once. It's given up its secrets."

"I hope not all of them," Ron said, lighting his wand. He held it up, and then whistled softly under his breath. "Nice digs," he said, quashing a pang of angry disgust at Malfoy's -- in his opinion -- undeserved wealth.

Hermione wielded her wand efficiently as she cast a lightening charm. A glowing golden ball of light flowed from her wand's tip and began zipping around the foyer busily. The light increased immediately and the charm headed down the hall until it disappeared around a corner, continuing its work.

They looked around.

"Oh my," Hermione said, her eyes widening. "What a beautiful flat."

"Is that--" Harry was craning his neck. "-- a chandelier?"

"It's gorgeous," Hermione noted. "Look at it -- it's lead crystal with real faeries. Wow."

"Who has a chandelier in their mudroom?" Ron asked, nonplused.

"This is a foyer, Ron, not a mudroom. A mudroom would be-- well, never mind. There wouldn't even be a mudroom in a third floor flat."

Pansy and Draco's flat was extremely tastefully done, which further served to irrationally irritate Ron. His secret hope, of course, had been that their home would have been an ostentatious declaration of their social status and snobbery, done fully in garish Slytherin colors -- emerald green, silver, and black. But if the foyer was any indication of what lay ahead, Ron had to concede he was destined for petty disappointment. The walls were an understated, elegant pale blue trimmed by white wainscoting and crown moulding. The chandelier was the centrepiece of the entryway. Oil landscapes and still-lifes in complimentary colours hung silently and unmoving around the octagonal walls. The floor was of polished marble and a silk and wool woven oriental rug was perfectly placed -- only its fringe alluded to the life inside, waving and swishing evenly, like the gentle sway of kelp drifting lazily within the sea's currents, bathed underwater by filtered streams of light. Ron boggled.

"Is this a magic carpet?" he asked, simultaneously offended and, as any red-blooded man would be, thoroughly intrigued. "These are bloody illegal!"

Hermione knelt at the carpet's edge and stroked the delicate fringe. It immediately came to attention and the edge of the carpet curled upward as the fringe investigated Hermione's fingers, as a dog might a new person's hand. The fringe sniffed cautiously, and then slowly it wrapped itself around her fingertips affectionately, nudging lovingly. "Ooo, there's a good boy," Hermione soothed, stroking the fringe rhythmically. She patted its wool and silk surface. "Malfoy's magic carpet likes me," she noted with irony. "I'm sure nothing would hack him off more."

"Do you think we could take it for a try?" Harry enquired.

Ron had been thinking the same thing. "No one'd notice."

Hermione raised an eyebrow at them. "It's not yours," she said firmly. "So, no you may not."

"But--"

"But, Hermi--"

"Forget it," she said sternly. "Harry, I'm surprised at you. How would you have felt if Malfoy had managed to get his hand on your Firebolt back at Hogwarts, and just took it for a ride?"

"Malfoy's dead," Harry countered.

"Well, his wife's not. And it's not your magic carpet, so forget about taking it for a ride." She stood and the carpet fell back in place, resuming its idle swaying. "Let's find the kitchen since you two are hell-bent on drinking that bilgewater Ron's got."

"Does this mean you won't be joining us, then?" Ron asked sweetly, flashing his teeth at her.

"It's incredibly bad form to perform one's job duties whilst under the influence!"

"But dragosinthe's supposed to open your mind," Harry said. "It brings clarity of the highest calibre, or so the legend says."

"We don't even know if it's real dragosinthe," Hermione said, after a pause. "dragosinthe is quite rare -- dragon's tears are very hard to collect without killing the dragon first, and as you both know, it's illegal to kill dragons in the first place."

Ron shrugged, looking down at his bottle of dragosinthe. "Dunno," he said, not really caring. "Lionel said he was given it in Romania, and Charlie's talked about having dragosinthe before. He says it's much smoother than the absinthe the Muggles drink."

"I'll think about it," Hermione said. "I'm not officially on the clock right now. I hit overtime last night."

"And just think -- it's only Wednesday," Harry noted dryly. "You probably could use a drink."

She breezed by them both, heading down the corridor offshoot where the lighting charm had gone. "Let's just find the kitchen."

---

The dragosinthe was actually quite vile and aside from a slight warming sensation, Ron didn't feel affected by the alcohol at all, much less enlightened. He begged off halfway through their second drink, Hermione having refused more than a single sip of the dragosinthe herself. Harry dumped the bottle down the loo off the hall while Ron put away his slotted spoon and bag of sugar.

"What is it that's so odd about this kitchen?" Hermione asked, her clever eyes darting about, taking everything in. "Something's wrong."

"There's no stove, oven, or sink," Harry noted, tossing the empty dragosinthe bottle into a rubbish bin hidden within one of the cabinets.

"Well, that's bloody weird," Ron said. "Who doesn't have basic kitchen appliances?

"I knew Parkinson was spoilt, but I never thought she might be this bad," Hermione clucked disapprovingly. "Surely, the reason there are no appliances must be that Parkinson wouldn't have deigned to actually cook, much less wash up the dishes after eating. They probably lived off takeaway."

It was a logical explanation, actually. "Sheesh, must be nice." Randomly he began opening various cabinets. "There's not a bit of food in here -- not even biscuits or crisps or jam. Nothing." Harry began opening the cabinets on the other side of the kitchen. Ron was right -- there wasn't a speck of food in the entire kitchen. "What about the fridge?" Hermione opened it.

"It's empty, too," she said, closing it back up. "It's not even running."

"Well, wizards don't use ekletricity anyway," Ron pointed out.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I know that, Ron," she said. "I mean it's not cold at all."

"I kind of like this kitchen," Harry mused, recalling with vague revulsion Petunia's gauche display of heavily flowered wallpaper, ceramic knick-knacks and painted plates, and faux plants which had filled the kitchen at 4 Privet Drive. "It's very sleek."

"Maybe so, but it's highly impractical." Hermione drew her hand over the smooth, shining surface of the granite countertop. "Hang on!" She raised her wand, her lips moving silently. Harry and Ron watched without speaking until Hermione's face fell in frustration. "Damn," she said, moving about the kitchen in a slow circular pattern. "Damn. I thought there might be some really excellent concealment charms in here."

"Is there anything at all?"

"No, nothing." Ron and Harry repeated her revealing charms to double check, but Hermione was right. Aside from the typical essence of residual magic found in any house, there was no specific or intricate charms in this part of the flat.

"Let's move on," Harry suggested, lifting his hand toward the corridor leading back toward the foyer. "I doubt the kitchen is where Malfoy pondered his deep, dark secrets."

"Well, I dunno," Ron pointed out. "Think of all the plotting and plans that went down in the kitchen at Grimmauld."

"There's not even a table or chairs in here," Harry said. "This isn't that kind of a set up."

"Harry's right," Hermione said, following Harry's lead.

"Good point, I 'spect." Ron set his bag down by the doorway. "I'll just leave this here 'til we're done."

---

Paneled double doors led to Draco and Pansy's bedroom suite. Gingerly, Harry turned the handle down and pushed the door open. It swung open, giving a loud creak as it came to a stop. Hermione brought up the lights.

Like the rest of the flat, the bedroom was exquisitely designed, but not overdone. Even Ron was able to recognise the fine antiques and carefully placed pictures and objects d'art were of superb quality. The bedroom was not overly feminine, as he might have expected with Pansy, yet it was undeniably elegant. Something triggered at his memory. "Wait a minute," he said. "This place was trashed when we first hit it after the attacks. It'd been completely ransacked! Someone put it back together." He turned to Harry. "Did forensics clean up or something?"

"Not that I know of. They don't usually."

"Would you go call up Moody on the Floo and ask him who authorised a clean up? As far as I knew, this place was still under Auror control and hadn't been released as a crime scene."

"Sure," Harry said, starting back.

"And bring my bag back with you? I shouldn't have left it in the kitchen."

"Yep. Be right back."

"'Kay," Ron said. He moved further into the bedroom. Images of the room left in disarray were firm in his memory. "Someone's been here," he said.

Hermione stood sideways, her arms outstretched as if measuring something.

"Hermione? What're you doing?"

"Something else isn't adding up," Hermione said. She moved to the wall just inside the doors to the bedroom. Placing her heel flush with the quarter-round she crossed the room slowly, toe-to-heel. Ron could see her counting silently to herself. When she finished, she left the room. "I'll be right back."

"What d'you see?"

"Just a minute!"

"'Kay." He looked around, bored. He spotted a small writing desk across from the foot of the bed; pulling the chair out, he took a seat. Carefully he examined the objects on the desk -- inkpots; quills; unopened bottles of ink; heavy; monogrammed stationery; sealing wax sticks. He picked up a framed picture of Draco and Pansy -- Malfoy's usual flat gaze stared out at Ron from the picture, Pansy looking adoringly up at him, her mouth moving silently, whispering unknown words of affection to Draco as she rubbed his upper arm gently with the flat of her palm. Malfoy shifted in the photograph then, and looked down at Pansy, smiling. She kissed him on the chin, and then the picture repeated itself.

Ron set the picture back down and moved to a stack of opened letters, which Pansy had apparently placed in a "needs response" pile. He peered at them closely -- they all appeared to be from the same person if the handwriting was any indication. He pulled out one of the letters and unfolded it. It was from Narcissa Malfoy. Ron skimmed through the letter's contents: --gardens are looking better than ever before this year. Lucius imported a set of firebreathing snapdragons from China-- Draco, Mother misses you desperately. Please, won't you reconsider-- "Big deal, snapdragons," Ron said, stuffing the letter back into its envelope. He read through another one. --Pansy would like to join me for a charity fundraising event for St. Mungo's? As our lineage is further muddied and our marriage prospects dwindle, there has been a sharp rise in pureblooded children being born with unexpected anomalies-- Draco, it will utterly break your Mother's heart if her grandchildren don't know the opportunity of being raised in Wiltshire-- "That's what you get for being an inbred, prejudiced twat." Another letter. --Draco, your father misses you terribly as well. Please don't let his gruff exterior fool you. Although he might not admit it openly, he is proud of you and he wants you home with us both. I beg you to revisit your plan of living in London permanently-- "Hmm," Ron mused, sensing a pattern in Narcissa's letters. He skimmed several more letters; all of them, while smattered with small talk and chitchat, seemed geared at convincing Draco and Pansy to leave London and to return to rural Wiltshire, to Malfoy Manor. "Why did they leave in the first place?" Malfoy bragged constantly about his ancestral home when they were all at Hogwarts.

Hermione rushed back into the room, her cheeks pink with excitement. "I thought as much!" she said, making a beeline for the head of Draco and Pansy's bed.

"Say, Hermione, why do you think Malfoy and Pansy moved to London?"

"I don't know, but never mind that," she said, but not unkindly. "Ron, I'm positive there's a space behind this headboard!"

Ron shook his head. "'Scuse me? What space?"

"I don't know, but I'll find it. It must be accessible from here." She was already running her wand over the polished walnut paneling of the headboard, muttering revealing spells and casting charms with seamless effort. "It struck me when we came into this room that it was too short in length. It should have at least another metre and a half from the edge of the headboard. When I re-checked the room next door it was clear there's extra length in that room, and because of the square, symmetrical shape of this building, all the rooms on the garden side should correspond in length, even if the width varies."

"Holy shite, seriously?!" Ron hurried over with his own wand to assist. "Maybe whatever -- well, whoever turned this place over before, maybe they were looking for what's in that room!"

"I'm not picking up any wards, spells, or charms," Hermione said, frustrated. "Knowing Malfoy, there could be very dark magic at work here -- we should be careful, Ron."

"Yeah, got it," Ron said, concentrating on covering every square centimetre of the dark, cubic paneling of both the headboard and the entire wall behind it.

"I know every revealing charm ever cast," Hermione said determinedly. "If there's a hidden compartment back here -- and I'm positive there is -- I'll find it."

"I know you wi--"

Hermione drew back with a cry; her wand clattered to the wood floor below and rolled under the bed. "Oh God!" she exclaimed, startled.

Ron stepped over immediately. "What is it? Did you get shocked?"

"No," she said, dropping down to retrieve her wand. "No, I'm fine. I found a bit of a red herring. Sometimes people plant charms that are meant to mimic other things, to warn people away." She stood up and dusted off the front of her trousers. "Kind of like Boggart charms -- you know what I'm talking about."

"Oh, yeah," Ron said. He was plenty familiar with such magic, what with having to endure Fred and George for his entire life. "You all right?"

"Just a bit startled for a moment, but I'm fine now," she said briskly, getting back to work. "Watch that bit of paneling just there."

"What'd you see?"

"An Inferius," Hermione said with distaste. "There's something about the Inferi that just chills me to the bone. I've never been able to step foot in a lake or any kind of body of standing water for years -- just the very idea of a waterlogged, decomposing water zombie with milky blank eyes just frightens me terribly." She blew a strand of hair away from her face and glanced at Ron sheepishly. "Silly of me, I know. That's the thing about phobias, though. They're irrational."

"When did that start?" Ron asked, feeling a touch protective of his friend.

"Sixth year," she said, returning her attention to the task at hand. "After Harry . . . . "

"Yeah." Ron knew exactly what she was alluding to. "D'you think phobias are related to trauma?" Harry had told them both about his last adventure with Dumbledore and the Inferi in the waters of the hidden lake, a story followed by that of Dumbledore's death at Snape's hands. There had never been a bleaker time for any of them. Even still, Ron would occasionally catch Harry with a distant expression on his face as he tended to Fawkes, who kept Harry company in his office, and he knew Harry still felt Dumbledore's death deeply. Of the three of them, it had always been Harry who had been closest to the former Headmaster.

"I think that's a plausible hypothesis, certainly."

"I mean, it makes sense. Your fear of the Inferi started after Dumbledore was murdered. And -- well, you know about the spiders for me." Hermione was the only person Ron had ever told about the true origin of his arachnophobia.

She threw him a sympathetic glance. "I think it's a good premise, Ron. Definitely."

"The mind is weird."

"That it is," she said, smiling wryly.

"Dunno if Parkinson's mind'll ever be the same."

"Well," Hermione said, her countenance shifting, "I'd say her current state is an improvement."

"Hermione!"

"Sorry, Ron. But it's true."

"You know, Parkinson's almost as clever as you. How would you feel if you suddenly lost your magic and your wits? Wouldn't that be a loss?"

"Why are you defending Pansy Parkinson to me?" She looked at him straight on, her gaze inexplicably hard.

"I'm-- I'm not! I'm just saying-- Why do you hate her so much?" he enquired, genuinely puzzled. "You're softer on Malfoy than Pans-- Parkinson. Why is that?" Ron remembered Malfoy taunting Hermione at Hogwarts, treating her as if she were a foreign species of sub-par intelligence and ability. But, Pansy? Pansy had dropped the occasional insult, and, yeah, there had been that whole Inquisitorial Squad nonsense, but for the most part Pansy Parkinson had ignored Hermione Granger's existence. "Did she do something to you that you never told me about?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Hermione said in a clipped tone. "Of course not." She concentrated on the portion of wall right behind the bed post. "I don't know what it is!" She burst out suddenly, and Ron was a bit taken aback. "I don't know, all right? I don't know what it is. Maybe it was just -- by our seventh year, I'd just had enough. Enough of her, enough of Malfoy, enough of the stupid, bloody war--" Her voice wavered slightly. "Enough of being made to feel less than."

"But that was Malfoy, really," Ron pointed out.

"Well, like you said -- some things are hard to explain." She turned back to the wall and they both fell silent, and Ron was filled with guilt. What if it's because of me? What if it's because of what she saw-- He drew himself up sharply, shaking off the intrusive thought. No, he told himself firmly. There's no way she could have a memory of that day--

"What're you doing?" Harry's voice broke through Ron's thoughts.

Hermione explained her theory and Harry joined them in their examination of the wall; the momentary tenseness Ron and Hermione's conversation inspired melted away as they worked.

"This shouldn't take much longer," Harry said.

---

"Famous last words," Ron groaned, three hours later. Night had fallen and still they hadn't been able to identify the specific charms or spells protecting the area Hermione suspected as a secret room within the Malfoys' flat. He flumped down onto the bed, exhausted. His triceps and forearms ached from holding his arms aloft. "You just had to speak the words out loud, didn't you, mate? 'This shouldn't take too long'," he mimicked, rubbing his sore arms. He felt the mattress dip as Harry joined him on the bed.

"I'm going to use the loo," Hermione said. "And then we'll give it another try."

"Ugh," Harry groaned, rolling onto his stomach. He folded his hands under his head and rested his cheek there. "Can you believe this shite?" he asked. "Here we are, lounging around on Draco Malfoy's posh-arse bed, trying to outwit the dead git! This sucks completely."

"Got that right," Ron said. He let his eyes drift shut as he enjoyed the respite. "Here we are, camped out on Malfoy and Parkinson's own little Shag Island." He smiled slightly as Harry made a gagging noise.

"Reminiscing there, mate?" Harry ribbed, speaking under his breath. "Missing the good old times with Parkinson?"

"Jesus Christ, no," Ron hissed, giving Harry a punch to the side. "Keep your voice down! Hermione doesn't--" His eyes flew open as a bloodcurdling scream came from the bathroom. "Hermione!" They bolted upright and sprang to their feet. A series of loud thumping noises came from the bathroom as Harry and Ron dashed to Hermione's aid, and then an enormous splashing, as if someone had dropped a huge object into a tub full of water. Hermione screamed and screamed, her frightened cries filling the room. Ron skidded to a halt and yanked at the door. "It's locked!" he yelled, flustered. "Shite, where's the key?"

"never mind the key!" Harry exclaimed, pointing his wand at the door. "Alohomora!" A loud slurping, sucking sound could be heard through Hermione's screams. "Fuck, Hermione, what the hell is going on in there?!"

"OPEN THE DOOR!" she shrieked. "OH GOD, OPEN THE DOOR! OPEN THE DOOR!" Harry and Ron stumbled through the door together; the room was dark. Ron slipped immediately and crashed to the ground with a painful splash -- the floor was submerged in several inches of water. There was a flash of white, but when Ron jerked his head toward the movement nothing was there. He felt something soft at his feet, and then hands clutching at his legs.

"Hermione?!" he called, flailing in the water. "Is that you?" His hands closed around thick, wet hair -- it was Hermione, he was sure. "Are you all right?"

"Oh God," she sobbed, grabbing onto him desperately. "Oh God, Ron, it was an Inferius! There's an Inferius here!" Her voice rose with each word, in a rising panic. "THERE'S AN INFERIUS IN HERE!" Her nails scrabbled at his neck; he caught her wrists in his grip just as the lights went on. Harry stood over them, wand at the ready, slowly circling and investigating the room. Ron looked at Hermione. In all the time he'd known her, he'd never seen her so terrified. Her face was chalky and pale and her eyes were saucered from fear.

Ron shushed her. "It's okay," he said, holding her tight. They were both sopping wet. "It's okay, Hermione. There's no Inferius." He patted her on the back rhythmically. "There's no Inferius." She burst into tears and Ron stroked her wet hair as best he could, his fingers snagging as he watched Harry carefully searching the bathroom, and it was then he took in the condition of the room itself. He let out a long breath. "Harry? What the . . . ?"

The bathroom was in appalling condition. A dark carpet of mold blanketed the walls, the rotten paneling buckled and warped, as if the room had been submerged for weeks in fetid, dank water, which permeated every crevice of the small room. Foul smelling algae creeped along the ceiling and draped from the bathroom fixtures; the toilet and floor were covered in a dark, thick mud-like substance -- it seemed to originate from the toilet's bowl. Ron struggled to his knees, still holding Hermione who couldn't stop weeping, and looked at Harry, agog.

Harry's eyes darted around the room wildly. Ron could tell he was still trying to fully gather his bearings. "Harry? What the fuck?"

"I don't know," Harry answered shortly, his wand still trained defensively. He inched toward the bathtub, which was hidden behind a layer of curtains. "Revelo!" he thundered, and the curtains pulled back. "Protego! Protego!" Harry cast several protective charms as Hermione buried her face in Ron's chest, and Ron's heart leapt to his throat.

The bathtub was empty.

Slowly Harry lowered his wand and turned. His chest heaved wildly, the sound of his breaths heightened. The toilet gave a loud, muddy belch; the three of them started, but nothing further happened. "Bloody hell," Harry said weakly, running his hand through his hopeless hair, still shocked, his adrenaline racing. "Ron, is this how it was when the original search was conducted?"

"Hell no," Ron protested vehemently. He cradled Hermione protectively and helped her rise to her feet. "No way! No, it was . . . it was just a bathroom! Nothing unusual about it in the least." He mentally reviewed the forensic photographs in the case file. No, the bathroom had been in disarray, but it hadn't been . . . it wasn't like this, for sod's sake! He cupped Hermione's face in his hands. "Are you all right?"

Hermione was shaking. "Oh, God," she whispered, over and again. "Oh my God. Oh, God--"

"Shh shh," Ron said softly. "Come on, let's get you out of here." He steered Hermione back toward the bedroom, glancing over his shoulder at Harry. "I think you'd better call Moody again. Something's not right here."

"Understatement of the year much?" Harry said weakly, still boggling at the scene before them. "Yeah, I'd better," he conceded, backing up slowly. He didn't want to turn his back on the sinister room; already the hair on the back of his neck was stiff and at full attention. "Ron, do you smell that?" he enquired, alluding to the vague scent of decomposition the Inferi left in their wake, all the while trying not to alarm Hermione further.

"Yeah, I smell it," Ron replied, not elaborating. "Go call for Moody." Once Harry was out from the bathroom, Ron sealed the door shut with a Ministry-specific charm. He led Hermione to the bed, but hesitated before having her take a seat. "Let's find you something clean to wear," he said, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the smell emanating from her drenched jumper.

"I AM NOT WEARING PANSY PARKINSON'S CLOTHES!" Hermione bawled angrily. "I WON'T!"

"Shush, now," Ron said, rolling his eyes. "You reek like shite and-- look, do you want to smell like an Inferius?" It was cruel, but he wasn't going to reason with her on this point. He had to get her free from her foul clothing; Inferi had unknown powers and abilities, and no way would he allow Hermione to even possibly be subject to an Inferius injury. "You're now drenched in Inferi juice, like it or not!" He was satisfied when Hermione began tugging at her clothes, pulling them off frantically. Quickly he undressed himself, until he was starkers; he banished their ruint clothing to the fireplace and incinerated everything with a single jet of heat from his wand. He left Hermione to cast cleaning and sterilisation charms over herself and let himself into the large closet off the bedroom.

It was the most beautifully organised closet Ron had ever seen. Tentatively, he pawed through Pansy's clothing, searching for something Hermione wouldn't tantrum at. Hermione, though, had at least six inches in height on Pansy, and Pansy was extremely petite. Not that Hermione wasn't slender as well, but Pansy was exceptionally small. She always had been. His hand fell onto a set of black robes, its soft wool comfortable and familiar under his fingers. He knew what they were immediately -- Hogwarts robes. They would have to do. He found a similar set on Malfoy's side of the closet and held both sets between his arm and ribcage as he rummaged through the built-in drawers until he located Malfoy's underwear drawer. "Please, let Malfoy be as big a ponce as I think he is--" He forget to use the past tense in his haste. "Oho!" he snorted triumphantly, lifting a new package of shorts from Malfoy's drawer. He ripped the package open and stepped into a pair of shorts, pulling them up. They assaulted his arse-crack immediately; Malfoy's hips must have been slimmer than his own. It was better than airing his bits freely, though, and he returned to where Hermione now sat, naked and staring on the side of Draco and Pansy's bed. "Here you go," Ron said gently, holding out the robes and shorts to her. He watched as she took a deep breath, and then accepted the proffered garments. He breathed a sigh of relief.

They'd seen each other starkers a thousand times before, so it held no interest for either of them. Once Hermione was dressed, she sunk back onto the bed, taking a seat next to Ron. He put his hand on her forearm, concerned. "All right, Hermione?"

"I think so," she said, her voice still wavering slightly. She put her own hand on top of his and squeezed. "Thank you so much for being there for me, Ron. I was-- I was terrified."

"What happened?" He prompted her carefully, not wanting to re-traumatise her.

She took a deep breath and exhaled long and low. "I-- I don't know," she started, trying to recall. It was like a blur in her mind. "When I opened the door it was so dark. I reached and felt for the light switch, but I couldn't find one." She looked at him apologetically. "Yes, I know. No ekletricity. It's just habit. I cast Lumos and--" She pulled her hands free from Ron's grip and wrung them worriedly. "Oh, Ron, it was just awful! It was like looking into a fishbowl, except there was no glass -- just a wall of water! And that's when I saw the Inferius." Her dark eyes shimmered and swam, and she shuddered at the memory.

"You didn't touch it, did you?"

"Well, no. But before I could see, my hand went into the water as I was casting Lumos, and so the Inferius grabbed me straightaway!" she admitted, as if she should have known better.

"Well, who would've thought?" Ron said, trying to bolster her. "I mean, the rest of the flat's so immaculate. There's no reason you should've expected something that bloody nutters to happen."

"True," she said thoughtfully. "I'm sure I've just permanently cemented my phobia."

"Reckon you're right about that," Ron agreed. "I think I have an Inferius phobia now, so thanks for that." He nudged her playfully, and was glad when she managed a small smile. "I think I hear Moody coming."

Moody and Harry entered the room. Moody's hair and shoulders were dusted with Floo powder; he drew up short at the sight of Ron and Hermione. "What the hell are you two wearing?" he barked, his eye focusing in.

"Huh? Oh! Just grabbed some robes from the closet." Ron glanced down; it was strange to see a Slytherin crest on his chest. "It was just that our clothes were soaked in the Inferi water, and--"

"Excellent idea, son," Moody said, turning to Harry. "Why haven't you changed as well?"

"Me? Oh, well, I came to get you, and--"

"Change, Potter," Moody ordered, making his way toward the bathroom. "Already the water's touched your skin for too long. I'll have to write this up as a possible work-related injury, and you know how Lionheart feels about paying out on avoidable injuries."

"But--"

"Change." Moody disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door behind him.

"Malfoy's stuff's over there," Ron said with a smirk, thumbing toward the closet. "There's a new pair of shorts on the floor too. I left 'em there."

"Brilliant," Harry said dryly, skulking into the closet. "Thanks for that." Minutes later he emerged, the hem of Malfoy's school robes brushing the wood floor. He took the spot next to Ron, and there the three of them sat, dressed in Slytherin robes, naked underneath except for Draco Malfoy's skivs. "I think we've reached a new low," Harry grumbled crossly, fumbling with his glasses. "I swear to all things holy if anyone were to see us like this-- what's so funny?" He turned toward Hermione, who was doubled up in silent laughter.

"Hermione?" Ron inquired, worried. "Did the Inferi make you mental?"

She shook her head, tears streaming down her face. "No," she gasped, after a moment. "It's just . . . this! Look at us! We're sitting on Draco Malfoy's bed, for God's sake, wearing Slytherin robes!" She fell over sideways. "If Malfoy weren't already dead, he'd kill himself at the mere prospect!"

Harry cracked a smile. "Don't forget the underwear," he pointed out, reducing Hermione even further. "I'm sure this would be Malfoy's personal circle of hell -- Potty, Weasel, and the Mudblood wearing his sacred Malfoy shorts and robes whilst lounging in his flat. Shite, I'm surprised the ruddy git hasn't returned from the dead just to pitch a fit."

"It'd be just like him," Ron snorted. "Most ghosts have a purpose. But Malfoy'd be the one to return from the dead just to bitch about his damn shorts being disrespected."

"He always was so fucking predictable," Harry said, poking at Hermione. "Take a breath, you."

Hermione sat up, holding her sides. "Oh!" she groaned, a final burst of giggles erupting. "My sides!" She took a deep breath and leaned against Ron. They said nothing as Hermione regained her composure. "Predictable, definitely. That was Malfoy."

A series of loud, alarming bangs came from the bathroom. Ron and Harry glanced at each other.

"Reckon we ought to check up on him?"

"He said he wanted to check it out alone at first. I'm sure he'll call us --" Something caught Harry's eye. "Hermione? What is it?"

Hermione had that look on her face, the look she got when she'd managed to hit on a particularly difficult problem. "That's just it," she said thoughtfully. "Malfoy was predictable. Totally, one-hundred-percent predictable. Yet, we can't break his protective charms, or even detect which kind they are." Her brow furrowed and Ron and Harry waited patiently while she worked it out. "What if, for once, Malfoy did something completely unexpected?" she asked rhetorically. "What if, for once, he used his predictability to his advantage?"

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, not following.

"Remember in school how Malfoy was always going on about his knowledge of the Dark Arts and his family's history with the Dark Arts? And what with what he did in order to let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts sixth year -- if anything, Malfoy knew his magic. He knew his spells and charms. He was clever." Hermioned admitted this grudgingly. "Anyone trying to find something that Malfoy hid away would be thinking of the most complicated concealing charms, right? Malfoy would want them to think whatever he hid would be near impossible to find." Energized, she stood and rounded the bed until she was facing the wall behind which she felt a secret room lay. Once again she drew her wand and pointed it at the wall. "Alohomora," she said quietly.

There was a series of clicking sounds and then the bed shifted forward, separating from the wall. A door-sized section of paneling recessed itself and then slid sideways, revealing an entrance. Pleased, Hermione hurried forward; Ron and Harry scrambled over the bed, thunking down on the other side. "Lumos!" Hermione incanted, and directed her wand into the darkened void. "Oh," she breathed, after a moment. "Oh, yes, this is definitely what you're looking for." And she stepped inside, disappearing into the dark.

---

Hermione held his arm tightly. She stared up at him sullenly. "Why," she asked with cold deliberation, "are Pansy Parkinson's initials on your arm?"

Ron didn't know what to say. He felt thoroughly and utterly busted. He dragged his eyes up to meet her gaze. "Er," he said, gulping. "They don't look like initials to me really." He was trying to think quickly on his feet, and was failing miserably.

"How'd you get this?"

"Potions accident," he bluffed. "Last night, when I had to take a letter from McGonagall to Snape. A cauldron blew." He wasn't lying exactly, for Zabini's cauldron had indeed exploded.

"Whose cauldron?" Hermione demanded.

"Um, that Zabini bloke's?"

"So Parkinson was there!"

"I didn't say that!" he protested defensively. "I said it was Zabini's cauldron!"

"Who else was there?"

Ron yanked his arm free and pulled his sleeve down, buttoning the cuff furiously. His cheeks felt hot and a surge of cold dread spread through him, and he felt as if he were in terrible trouble. "I don't ruddy well know! Slytherins, 'course! Who else?"

Hermione planted her hands on her hips. "Was Malfoy there?"

"Yeah, reckon he was," Ron admitted. "So what?"

"Well, wherever Malfoy is, Parkinson's sure to be there too! Why are you lying to me?"

"I'm not fucking lying to you, Hermione," Ron lied, gesticulating wildly. "I'm-- I'm-- it's just that-- well, shite! Why are you asking about Parkinson all of a sudden?" He didn't know how to explain himself without further implicating his indiscretions with Pansy, so he turned the tables, adopting an accusatory tone.

She was suspicious, but Ron also detected something new: hurt. "I thought Lavender was just making stories up when she dropped those catty comments about you and Parkinson--" She caught herself, and Ron's heart plunged so hard he was genuinely surprised it didn't burst from the toes of his shoes and roll across the common room floor. Hermione stared up at him, searching his face, and bloody hell if Ron didn't just suck at hiding his emotions.

He took a deep breath. "Hermione," he said, trying for an even tone. "Don't listen to -- what the sod is Lavender saying anyway?" He couldn't help himself -- he failed miserably at remaining cool. Ron was panicking.

"She said--" Hermione's breath hitched in her throat. She drew herself up, finding her usual brisk tone. "She said you fancy Pansy."

Ron's eyes bugged. "What?" He grabbed her elbow, a touch roughly by accident, and she flinched and pulled away. "Sorry," he said, meaning it. "But, come on, Hermione! That's just-- I mean, how could you even entertain such a thing as being true, especially coming from Lavender!?" His brain was on overdrive as he tried to make it right. "Lav's just cross that we didn't work out, yeah? You girls -- you're a catty lot. She's just trying to upset you." It was true that Lavender still harboured sore feelings toward Hermione, even though Ron and Hermione certainly hadn't picked up where Ron and Lavender had left off. Frankly, Ron had been relieved to cut Lavender loose. While he had enjoyed Lavender's talented hands and mouth, her company had been annoying, and then eventually rather torturous. She was much better suited to Seamus -- Seamus enjoyed her ministrations and since he was such an easy-going bloke in general, Lavender's fawning didn't faze him at all. Even better, Seamus, being a boy and therefore not interested in Games Birds Play, hadn't cared in the slightest that Ron and Lavender had pulled, although he and Ron never went so far as to compare notes. Ron had been disappointed, though, when the Christmas past had not offered up a "Shay-Shay" bling necklace for Seamus, of chunky gold and gleaming faux diamonds. Ron had gleefully fed his "My Sweetheart" necklace to one of Hagrid's nifflers, right after Dumbledore's funeral.

Hermione wasn't having any of it. "I suggest you have Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey examine your arm, Ronald," she said, wheeling. Ron watched helplessly as she ascended the stairs to the girls' dormitories. "Who knows what kind of unstable magic could be at work here. God forbid you lose your wanking arm."

Ron's eyes bugged. "Hermione!" he protested, shocked. Hermione never made vulgar comments -- never! The distant slam of a door was the only response. He sunk to the couch and hung his head in his hands. "Bloody hell," he whispered hoarsely. "I've mucked everything up. I've mucked it all up."

---

"Devil's Fuge is an evergreen shrub, hemiparasitic on the branches of deciduous trees, particularly oak, chestnut, apple or black poplar. It has repeatedly forked green stems and opposite pairs of oblanceolate, leathery leaves, that bear small heads of unisexual yellow-green flowers in spring. The female flowers are solitary; the male flowers occur in clusters of three to five. The female flowers give way to white berries containing one seed. Devil's Fuge is found throughout Europe, Asia and North Africa. Commonly called Mistletoe, it is not the same species of mistletoe found in North America--"

"Fucking shut up," Ron snarled, gouging at the underside of an oak branch. He was doing a piss-poor job of harvesting Devil's Fuge, and even though Pansy was actually focused on her own work at the moment, and just happened to be muttering the medicinal properties of the herb at hand as part of her N.E.W.T. preparation, ever since Hermione had laid out the possibility that he hadn't been as subtle in regards to his confusion about Pansy as perhaps he had blithely believed, he had behaved brutally toward Pansy herself ever since. "No one wants to hear your fucking voice ruining a perfectly nice afternoon."

"What's your problem?" Pansy asked smoothly, as if she didn't particularly care.

"You're my problem, bint!" he said petulantly.

"How sweet."

"Just fuck off, all right? And quit talking to yourself. I don't want to hear you."

"It's a free country, Weasel," Pansy said cheerfully. She threw a sly glance his way, and then resumed her recitations. "Figwort is a common perennial indigenous to Britain, Europe and western Asia. The leaves are mostly radical, the petioles up to fifteen centimetres long, and the lamina up to four centimetres long and five centimetres broad, ovate, cordate or reniform. Bright yellow solitary flowers on long peduncles appear in spring, and have three sepals and eight to twelve lanceolate petals, each with a nectary at the base. The fleshy roots, up to three centimetres long, are oblong or club-shaped. Figwort has a traditional use in the treatment of piles, both as an internal remedy and in the form of an ointment or suppository. Nowadays, it is used only externally because of its acrid nature. The saponins are locally anti-haemorrhoidal, an action enhanced by the astringent tannins. The saponins have a fungicidal action. Protoanemonin in the fresh plant is antibacterial and a strong local irritant but it is not found in the dried material where its dimer anemonin is inactive." She moved around until she was standing right next to him. "Tell me, Won Won -- are you suffering from haemorrhoids?"

Ron's face flamed. "NO," he sputtered, wishing she wasn't a girl so he could take a pop at her. "Leave off, you insufferable twat!"

"You," Pansy said, a smile that managed to be both malicious and mischievous creeping across her face, "are very crabby. Did you know that? And while I'm a great fan of verbal abuse in general, as I'm sure you've gathered over the years, I admit I am puzzled at your sudden moodiness. Seeing as I have nothing to do with you, it can't really be me. So that leaves me to guess at the source of your poo-poo mood, and I'm guessing haemorrhoids -- you know, great, fat, bloody veins that hang from your arse and burst when you take a shite -- is just as logical a guess to start with as any. Wouldn't you agree?"

Ron stared at her, agog. What the bloody hell was he supposed to say to this? How he loathed her! "You're an alien!" he accused, jabbing his bark file in her general direction. "Admit it! You're not human -- you're one of those bloody pod creatures the Muggles tell stories about! At first I thought you'd been hatched, like a snake, but now I know your deal, yeah? YOU WERE BIRTHED FROM A cocoon!"

"A cocoon?"

"Yeah, that's right!" Ron attacked the tree with new gusto. "A smelly, stinky cocoon! You were brought here last summer by green men who fly in silver platters rather than using brooms, and they took the real Parkinson and replaced her with you! I know you're not real, and any day now you're skin's gonna split right open, and everyone's going to know that you're really a creature with tentacles and fifty eyes, and that you were sent here to try and thwart me from helping Harry--" He stopped short, before the words to thwart me from helping Harry kill Voldemort slipped from his mouth. It wasn't that he was afraid of proclaiming his side; it was the thought of Harry that gave him pause. No way in hell was Ron going to do anything to even remotely jeopardise Harry, or Harry's quest.

Pansy rolled her eyes. "You're mental, Weasel. Honestly, a cocoon? That's the dumbest thing you've ever said, and trust me that's saying something!"

"Why are you even here?" Ron demanded, irrationally angry.

"I go to school here," she said coolly. "As demonstrated by my oral revision just now."

"No! I mean, how is it that you're even allowed to be here? How is DracofuckingMalfoy allowed to be here, after what he did last year?! HOW IS IT THAT GODDAMNED SEVERUS SNAPE IS ALLOWED SANCTUARY HERE?! WHY?" Ron was completely enraged. Pansy watched him warily, her dark eyes unreadable. "How is it that you fucking are allowed to exist -- why do people like you get to exist, when good, decent, important people die? I hate you and I hate everything you stand for! YOU should die! MALFOY should die! ALL THE WRONG FUCKING PEOPLE ARE DYING!"

Pansy stared at him for a moment before replying. When she did, her tone was even and earnest. "Not that I give two shites whether you like me or not, but you know what your problem is? You only see your own losses." She went back to scraping the Devil's Fuge from the bark of the oak tree, beginning her recitation anew. "Gentiana is a perennial herb indigenous to the alpine and sub-alpine pastures of central and southern Europe. Ringed and forked, the thick wrinkled root is brown on the outside and yellow on the inside. The simple, erect, glabrous stem grows to a height of one hundred-twenty centimetres, giving off opposite bluish-green elliptical leaves with prominent curved veins. Three to ten yellow flowers arise together in the axils of bowl-shaped bracts after the root is about ten years old. The fruit is an oblong, two-valved capsule. Gentiana is a much-used gastric stimulant and may be used in the treatment of insufficient gastric secretions, intestinal and gastric inflammations, and hyperflatulence . . . . "

Ron could only stand there numbly as Pansy nattered away, feeling more angry and confused than he could ever remember. The people he loved were in danger, and he couldn't help it when the thought occurred to him that nothing really mattered when all the cards were down. The universe would always be unfair; the worst and cruelest people would always have the most power; altruism, goodness, and moral fortitude were for the optimistically foolish like Dumbledore. Immediately he castigated himself at such a traitorous, cowardly thought, but it didn't help him feel any better.

He felt more alone than he could ever remember.

---

"Seamus?"

"Yup?"

Ron had waited until he and Seamus happened to be alone in their room. "Look, I don't mean to be a prat and, you know, we've never been wonky to each other because of Lavender, yeah?"

"What about Lavender?" Seamus asked questioningly, his face open and interested.

Ron rubbed at the back of his neck sheepishly. "Er, well, it's-- well, Hermione--"

"Ah," Seamus said knowingly. "It's been a while since you've asked. But, sorry, mate -- Lav's not said that Hermione's said anything about you lately."

Ron shook his head. "No, it's not that. It's just that Hermione-- Hermione and I had a bit of a row the other night, and she said that Lavender had told her that I fancy . . . someone." He couldn't even say the words outloud.

Seamus smirked. "Oh, you mean Parkinson?"

Ron died of humiliation. "Ferchrissakes!" he hissed, putting his hand out. "Don't say that!"

"Why?"

"Because-- 'cos it's bloody fecking Parkinson!" Ron was afraid that made him sound like he actually might fancy Pansy, so he clarified for Seamus's benefit. "I mean, ew -- Parkinson? Why would anyone think--"

"Look, we've had this conversation before and nothing's changed," Seamus said, placating. "It's normal to fancy lots of birds. Doesn't mean you do anything about it 'cept maybe have a go at yourself in the loo." He raised an eyebrow at Ron. "Sometimes a bloke . . . well, there's no accountin' for taste, yeah?"

"I don't fancy Parkinson," Ron said miserably. "Why would Lavender even say that?"

"She probably thinks it's her inner eye." Seamus nodded sagely. He leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, "We all know about that. Dodgy stuff, Divination."

"Yeah, well, I'll bet you don't tell her that!"

"Hell no! I know what's good for me. I'm not about to muck up a good thing."

"How come I'm ruddy mucking up -- well, whatever it is with Hermione -- and I'm not even doing anything or trying?" Ron groused.

Seamus gave him a sympathetic look. "Oi, that's the worst kind of mucking up, too," he said, feeling for Ron's predicament. "The kind of mucking up where you just wake up one morning and you've mucked everything up and good, and you don't even remember what the hell you did!"

"Exactly! Like . . . where was I? Sheesh."

"Do you want me to talk to Lavender?"

Ron hesitated. On one hand, he was livid with Lavender for deliberately trying to upset Hermione, and he hoped her goddamned inner eye would find the sharp end of a fork; however, on the other hand, he was concerned if he even broached the subject, or had Seamus bring it up on his behalf, he'd be shooting himself in the foot -- he knew nothing made a girl believe the worst of a bloke than him protesting his innocence. It was a lose-lose situation. "Naw," he said. "Probably best to ignore her rubbish." He glanced at Seamus. "No offence."

"No offence," Seamus affirmed. He rubbed his stomach, stretching. "Want to head down to dinner? I'm starving."

Ron nodded, scuffing at the rug with his toe. "Yeah, sure."

---

Blaise Zabini's notes were perfectly in order. The rhythmic scratching of his roommates' quills surrounded him and he found it a suitable atmosphere for correspondence. He dipped his own quill.

Dear Father, he wrote, in English, after only a moment's consideration. Will you find it odd when I write it wasn't until I receievd your owl just this Saturday past that I began to question the propriety in writing you at all? After all, my previous posts have been fueled by brash assumption -- even I can admit this. To be sure, I was not expecting a reply -- of course this is not to say I am displeased. I am pleased. I am to understand, then, that you (like myself) do not appreciate a deluge of questions or demands for discussion. Far be it for me to be intrusive. You have asked me a question, and I shall answer it to the best of my ability. It is my genuine hope you will find my response adequate. I assure you, this is a topic to which I have given extensive and thoughtful consideration.

"Blaise, have you got a spare quill?" Goyle interrupted his concentration. He held up two pieces of mangled feather. "Broke mine."

"Yes," Blaise said pleasantly, nodding toward the quill cup on the top of his desk.

Goyle poked about. "Got any of the thick ones?"

"I'm afraid not. I only use fine-points. Maybe Draco has one."

"Malfoy, you got a thick quill?"

"No." Draco said nothing else. Goyle bumbled on toward Nott; Blaise considered Draco.

"All right, Draco?" he asked quietly, almost under his breath.

"All right."

"Didn't Pansy want your help with Potions tonight?"

"Of course she did," Draco said flatly. When Blaise didn't press the issue, he elaborated. "I mean, surely she must." He was quiet for a long moment, as if confused. "Yet, when I went to the potions dungeon to meet up with her she wasn't there."

That was surprising indeed. "Where was she?"

"I don't know. Why would I know?"

"Why would you not know is more like it," Blaise countered easily.

"Pansy's been acting odd lately."

"Odd? How so?"

Draco's face seemed pinched. "She's forgetful, I suppose."

"So," Blaise said carefully, tipping his chair back slowly to get a better look at Draco, "she's been ditching you?"

"No," Draco said acidly, fixing a hard stare on Blaise. "She wouldn't do that. She would never do that. So something's clearly wrong."

Blaise fell silent and Draco shifted in his seat, staring blankly down at his desk. Draco never wrote to his father, at least not as far as Blaise could tell, and he found it very queer indeed that Draco had lost his father just when Blaise himself had found his own. It was indeed a pity. There just was something special about having a father.

Blaise regrouped and took up his quill again. So, onto surnames. As I'm sure you're well aware, most Italian first names are derived from those of mythical saints or are modern forms of Roman ones. In medieval times, there was a wider range of surnames, including Germanic names that originated with the Lombards, but these are now very rare. Regional influences, such as the name of the local patron saint, are also present. The substitution of 'z' or 'x' for 'g' is common in Venice and Emilia-Romagna, for example Zanfrancesco for Gianfrancesco, Zohane for Gohane, Zohanbaptista for Gohanbaptista, and, of course, Zabini for Gabini.

He paused, taking time to gently blow the ink dry. A thrill of forbidden excitement prickled at his skin, for it had not been easy procuring the information he was preparing to impart to his father. Well, the information was readily accessible, but any self-respecting, pureblooded Slytherin could not be seen browsing in the Muggle Studies section, even under the pretence of revising. Ultimately, he'd ordered a second-year Ravenclaw to get the books he needed, and then Obliviated the poor creature without pity. Blaise sometimes woke from a deep sleep, jolted awake by the sudden manifestation of his subconscious fear that his dormmates would discover the books on Muggle Roman and Greek history he'd hidden away under his bed; yet the mere fact they were there made him feel dangerous and bold. Energised, he continued his letter, copying directly from The Roman Antiquities.

Dionysius of Halicarnassus writes: There was a city of the Latins, which had been founded by the Albans, distant one hundred stades from Rome and standing upon the road that leads to Praeneste. The name of this city was Gabii. Today not all parts of it are still inhabited, but only those that lie next the highway and are given up to inns; but at that time it was as large and populous as any city. One may judge both of its extent and importance by observing the ruins of the buildings in many places and the circuit of the wall, most parts of which are still standing. To this city had flocked some of the Pometini who had escaped from Suessa when Tarquinius took their town and many of the banished Romans. These, by begging and imploring the Gabini to avenge the injuries they had received and by promising great rewards if they should be restored to their own possessions, and also by showing the overthrow of the tyrant to be not only possible but easy, since the people in Rome too would aid them, prevailed upon them, with the encouragement of the Volscians (for these also had sent ambassadors to them and desired their alliance) to make war upon Tarquinius. After this, both the Gabini and the Romans made incursions into and laid waste one another's territories with large armies and, as was to be expected, engaged in battles, now with small numbers on each side and now with all their forces. In these actions the Gabini often put the Romans to flight and pursuing them up to their walls, slew many and ravaged their country with impunity; and often the Romans drove the Gabini back and shutting them up within their city, carried off their slaves together with much booty . . . .

A breeze puffed through the dungeon, and the flame of the candle in the sconce above his desk flickered, giving his shadow cause to shift, and Blaise Zabini wrote and wrote and wrote, perfecting his letter to his long-lost father.

---

Draco was snoring lightly on his bed by the time Blaise left their dormitory for the owlery. If he hurried, he would be able to make it there and back before final curfew. He donned his cloak and slipped from the room unnoticed, and made his way from the dungeons upward toward the entrance hall and the stairway that led to the owlery. Blaise always liked the way the Scottish air felt against his face when Spring was lurking; he raised his head slightly as he passed by the front entrance. The doors were massive, hulking things, but time had shrunk the aged wood just enough that a constant stream of air flowed through its centre, and as Blaise passed by and turned his face toward the fresh breeze he saw Pansy standing just off the entrance hall, down a dim corridor. She was leaning against the wall, her arms crossed over her chest, with one leg bent at the knee and her foot planted firmly against the stone of the castle.

Ron Weasley stood just inches from her front.

As usual, Weasley was gesticulating wildly, as if caught in the midst of some kind of epileptic fandango, and while Blaise couldn't make out exactly what the ginger git was saying, he could tell by his tone that Weasley was upset. He strode toward them, intending to save Pansy from Weasley's unwanted attention, yet something gave him pause. He stopped and cocked his head, listening.

"--I've the right to know, and you know I'm bloody well right!" Blaise overheard Weasley insist.

"It's not broom science," Pansy said. Blaise could hear a slight smile in her tone. Clearly, she must be messing with Weasley over something or another. "Really, you should know -- you would know if you'd have paid attention in Potions all these years."

Weasley rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, thanks for that amazing moot point." He rolled his sleeve up and thrust his forearm foreward, forcing Pansy to look. "You know what I think? I think you don't want to tell me because if you do I won't have reason to keep bothering you."

Pansy swatted Weasley's arm away "Oh, please!" she scoffed huffily. "I'm sure you'd like to delude yourself into thinking that's the case. Well, you're wrong!"

"Yeah? I may not know you as well as I should, considering-- I know enough about you! You don't give anything your attention unless there's something in it for you," Weasley said, and Blaise had to concede this was almost fully true about Pansy -- about any of the Slytherins, really. "So, seeing's as I've nothing to give you," he continued, sardonically, "what else am I supposed to think, huh? Dunno-- dunno what this's all about, Parkinson." Ron stared down at Pansy crossly. At a moment he slowly rolled down his sleeve and fixed his button. "I've had enough, I reckon. So, you know what? Forget it. So my arm's going to shrivel up and fall off. Who fucking cares, all right? I'm done with you!" He stepped away and Pansy's brow furrowed slightly and her hand twitched -- almost imperceptibly -- and a cold wave of horror exploded inside Blaise, for he knew. Suddenly a handful of offhanded clues came together in a complete picture for him, and his mind quickly catalogued seven months worth of strange, but subtle, incidents: The way Blaise sometimes noticed Weasley would look at Pansy in class, as if she were not his mortal enemy, but was somehow intriguing; Pansy's increasing jumpiness since January -- and, Blaise recalled, January was when Weasley and she had been trapped in that cave for seven days! That Pansy had bothered to go after Weasley the other night in the Potions dungeon, well, Blaise had simply thought she was setting out to hex him, and good!

But, Blaise realised, there was something else.

"Pansy," he commanded icily, beginning toward her, ignoring Weasley lest he murder him, "Let's go." Pansy jerked her gaze to him and it was for a split second, but Blaise saw fear, saw guilt, saw shame wash over her, and it sickened him thoroughly. Roughly he grabbed her by the elbow, and then jabbed his finger into Weasley's chest. "You," he said, in the same cold tone, "fuck the hell off."

"Where are we going?" Pansy asked weakly as Blaise dragged her along.

"Shut up," Blaise said, utterly infuriated.

---

After Blaise finished sending his owl post he stood at the rail's edge watching the retreating silhouette of his owl as it disappeared into the maize-coloured moon; the night air only felt still, the hint of Spring he had detected earlier having gone. He turned to face Pansy. She stood in the middle of the owlery rather meekly, and for some reason this countenance on her part scared Blaise -- it was totally unlike her. They stood there in silence. A sudden puff of wind lifted a bit of Pansy's hair from her shoulder, and let it down again, and as she stood there, her hands clenched tightly at her front, Blaise's anger drained away and he was left tired and somewhat spent. He sighed.

Pansy's hands dropped to her sides and she shrugged helplessly, her eyes begging. "I--" Her voice was halting and tight. "I suppose you're wondering what--"

Blaise shook his head. "Shush," he said. "I don't want to--" And then she was crying, her shoulders hunching over and shaking silently, and what could he do? She was his friend. Draco was his friend.

"I'm sorry!" she sobbed uncontrollably, over and over. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry . . . "

He crossed over to her and she buried her head in the folds of his robes, and a feeling of sad resignation came over him. "Oh, cara," he whispered into her hair. "What have you done?"

- - -

Author's Notes

Darkness Be Over Her -- Her Rest a Stone -- a line of lyric from the traditional hymn Nearer My God to Thee.

Dreams are but a brief madness and madness a long dream -- Arthur Schopenhauer

Pansy's description of Devil's Fuge taken verbatim from HERE; the description of Figwort taken from HERE; the description of Gentiana taken from HERE. -- Purple Sage Herbs

Blaise's explanation of the substitution of 'z' for 'g' in Italian surnames taken from Everything You Wanted to Know About Italian Given Names by Steve Russo. I took liberties with the general premise of 'z' being substituted for 'g' -- i.e. Zabini being a regional form of Gabini -- and this should not be considered anything other than creative conjecture. While I did research Italian names and naming traditions, as well as some Roman history, I merely am giving Blaise Zabini his own storyline within the overall plot. In other words: it's fiction. Also? It's practically verbatim, so consider it sourced.

The Gabini/Roman war information in Blaise's letter is taken verbatim from The Roman Antiquities by Dionysius.