Adjudication

Leaves of Memory

Memories are so there might be roses in December.

---

In her excitement Hermione let her wand extinguish as she stepped into the hidden room behind Draco and Pansy's headboard, and when she incanted Lumos again Ron was positive the gritty scratching sound of an imaginary match hissed at his senses.

"Wait!" Ron swiped his hand at Hermione's back, just barely catching her robes. "Hermione, you've no idea what's in there!"

"Well, there's no imminent danger." She pulled him forward as she stepped further in. Holding her wand aloft, she circled. "Harry, can you bring my satchel?" Hermione brought her free hand out of her pocket and held it up for Ron to see. A pocket Sneak-o-scope lay quiet upon her palm.

"How'd you get that?" he asked, puzzled.

"Yeah." Harry looked at her quizzically. "What with changing into Malfoy and Parkin--"

"It was in her robes." Hermione kept turning, sizing up the room. "Harry, my satchel if you please? A Sneak-a-scope is but a trinket of a dark detector. I've better instruments."

"Got it," Harry said, stepping back. It only took a moment for him to retrieve Hermione's bag and after he turned it over the three of them inched into the small space, wands aloft.

The room was longer than it was wide. Rich mahogany paneling covered the walls, towering upward until, seemingly, they disappeared. Ron hoisted his wand; light reflected from curving platinum. "Another chandelier," he said, directing a spell. "Lumos!" Nothing happened.

"Maybe it's too old for Lumos?" Harry puzzled.

"Incendio!" Ron flicked his wand in a circular manner and a jet of flame zipped from the tip like a tiny comet. The flame spiraled around the chandelier, lighting it until the room glowed fully under soft yellow light. Hermione set about with her dark detectors, placing them here and there, and she also produced several instruments Ron was unfamiliar with.

"What's this?" he asked, as Harry skirted behind him to make his way down the length of the room, touching a shelf of books as he went. Ron lifted a shiny silver bowl Hermione had placed upon a small writing desk and looked inside. "Gross!" he exclaimed, boggling at the contents. He refrained from flinging it in revulsion. "Hermione, what the sod?! Are those--"

"Entrails, yes," she affirmed, not batting an eye. "Or 'guts,' if you prefer the more common vernacular - Luna said 'guts' would be preferable." She took the bowl from Ron and replaced it on the desk. "We've just developed it - it's called a 'Gut Instinct.'"

"How . . . literal," Ron said, not just slightly off put. The greyish-yellow pile of intestines quivered alarmingly.

"Oh, well . . . " Hermione shrugged. "They're not real entrails," she explained. "The basis of the instrument -- the dark detector -- is, of course, formulated from extremely complex spells and several very ancient magical essences. It was Luna's idea to glamour it, if you will. She thought it would be more marketable if it, er, had a gimmick or whatnot."

Ron prodded the bowl with his wand. The entrails shook again and emitted the distinct sound of flatulence. "Oi!" he protested, holding up his hand and backing away. "Your bowl of guts just farted at me, yeah?"

"Oh, for shame!" Hermione chastised the bowl. The guts appeared to be mixing in on themselves. They churned in the bowl, unrepentant, and what appeared to be blood bubbled up around them.

"I'm never eating again. Thanks for that." Ron reached for Hermione's satchel and began poking around inside it while Hermione spritzed the room with an air freshening charm.

"Yes, well, I'll be speaking to Luna about this," she said briskly. "I told her it was impractical to cater to marketing, when it's bloody well likely this product won't ever see the light of retail. This is an incredible investigative tool, not a garish display!"

"What is it with you and entrails?" Ron asked, pulling out a giant syringe secured within a metal plunger with handles. "Don't think I don't remember that thing you did with guts before-- say, what the hell is this thing? What does this detect?" The thing was as big as a Muggle bicycle pump.

"Oh!" Hermione looked flustered, and she plucked the syringe away with both hands. "That's not a dark detector. It's . . . something else! For another project. Right."

"What kind of project?" Ron asked, raising an eyebrow. "Have you gone mad, then? Straying into Frankenmagic or somesuch?"

She gave him a withering look. "Oh, honestly! Of course not!" She stuffed the syringe back into her bag and produced a Foe-Glass. "Perhaps this is more to your liking," she said, crossing the small room to place it on a table by the door.

"Mmm," Ron said noncommittally. "I know how it works at least."

"Well, let's get busy," Hermione said, hugging herself and rubbing at her upper arms as she glanced around. "There's a lot of stuff here to go through."

---

The room was actually well kept and it was clear this was where both Draco and Pansy had safely kept their personal mementos. More than that, it seemed the items the two wanted most to protect weren't necessarily of great monetary value. Well, comparatively anyway.

Hermione had begun an inventory on the first of many bookshelves while Harry picked through an old wardrobe. Ron caught a glimpse of Malfoy's emerald Slytherin Quidditch robes; he turned to the area which was clearly Pansy's -- he could just tell. A dainty roll top desk was against the wall and surrounding it was the most eclectic assortment of hatboxes Ron had ever seen. They were stacked carefully, according to size. He knelt at the stack, his knees sinking comfortably into the lush wool carpet and inspected the boxes closely. Several were hand painted with oils; others were decoupaged, some quilted even with silks and velvet and damask. They were quaint and artistic and beautiful.

Ron lifted the topmost hatbox, placing it on the floor between his knees. He lifted the lid and laid it aside -- it was filled with scraps of parchment: notes, Ron realised, recognising Malfoy's patrician script. Notes to Pansy from Malfoy. He took one and unfolded it.

It was a shopping list.

"Crap." Ron sighed, contemplating the tedium ahead.

"What?" Harry's muffled voice enquired from deep within the wardrobe.

"I've just got the feeling Pan--Parkinson kept every sodding scrap of parchment Malfoy ever breathed on, much less put quill and ink to."

"I've found stacks of letters and papers, too -- Malfoy's. It'll take weeks to sort it all this shite out, and that's with support staff going through it full time. Hermione? Anything?"

"Nothing so far, no." Hermione was tipping books one at a time from their places upon the shelf. "Just ordinary books-- Ooo!" she exclaimed, pulling a large volume completely free. "I've heard of this book a thousand times! Madam Pince said there are only three in existence and--"

"We're not here for Sustained Silent Reading," Harry said. "Put the book back."

"You've no idea how rare--"

"And you," Ron interrupted, "have no idea how rare a magic carpet is! Yet, you wouldn't let us have a go at it."

"But--"

"Put the book away, Hermione." Harry stepped out from the wardrobe, giving her a pointed look.

"Yeah," Ron insisted, thoroughly enjoying the moment. "Put it back, Hermione. After all, that book's not yours, it's Parkinson's. As is the magic carpet, yeah?"

Her brows knitted together. "Well, obviously, but a book is far different than a mobile object--"

"Put it back." Harry and Ron spoke together.

"Well," Hermione said reluctantly, running her hand lovingly over the time-weathered cover. "I expect I should." Slowly she slid the book into its place, letting her fingers linger on its binding. "Right, then. Let's worry about sorting through the paper back at the Ministry. I'm going to go Firechat to Moody quickly and ask him to send the forensics team again. Someone has to collect all this stuff." She left the room.

Resigned, Ron got comfortable. Setting aside the first box, he selected another. This one contained Hogwarts memorabilia: Pansy's Hogwarts acceptance letter; Pansy's prefect badge; Slytherin patches in different styles; a black witch's cap in felted wool -- they had all worn them for formal dinners and Sortings. Her hat is especially tiny, he thought. Carefully he put it back, smoothing it awkwardly into place.

"So," Harry enquired mildly. "All right?"

"Reckon so, yeah."

"Seems like this would be strange."

"What would be strange?" Ron bluffed gruffly.

"Just looking through her things. Parkinson's things. What with you and her . . . " Harry trailed off.

A cold buzzing sensation crept through Ron's gut, just for a second. He flicked his hand in a brief, upward gesture, not meeting Harry's gaze. "Hermione might hear."

"Mm hmm," Harry said with a slight eye roll."Of course."

Flustered, Ron grabbed down another hatbox from the stack; it slipped from his grasp and crashed down onto his shin. "Oww! Well, crap, I dunno," he said, feeling inarticulate. "It's really not weird, yeah? Sometimes it's like she-- I-- erm, that never happened. Like it was all some sort of dream."

"What kind of a dream?"

"Oi!" Ron sputtered, misinterpreting Harry's question. He flushed deeply.

Harry stared at him quizzically for a moment, not understanding. "Oh--Heh!" The corner of his mouth lifted as he caught Ron's meaning. "I didn't mean to say-- no, not that kind of a dream!" His eyebrow arched. "Unless, of course, you had those kind of dreams about her--"

"Fuck you and the shite broom you rode in on!" Ron said, beaning Harry in the back with a silly toy bear from Pansy's hatbox. "I was seventeen and I had those kind of dreams about anything female. But, no, mate. That's not what I meant." He looked down, embarrassed.

"A good dream, though?"

Ron thought. "No, not really."

"Bad?"

"No," Ron said balefully, privately ashamed he'd never been able to throw his and Pansy's whatever-it-was into the category of 'bad.' It made him feel disloyal and tainted. He busied himself with the, picking about the items on top as he tried to think of how he might possibly explain himself. "Harry? That wasn't a good time for any of us."

"But it -- she -- wasn't bad?"

"It should have been bad," he said vehemently.

"But it wasn't." Harry pressed him.

Ron took great pause. "It should have been." It was all he could say.

"So," Harry said slowly, "how is this for you really, then?"

Ron felt incredibly stupid and judged even, as if suddenly he were a teen again, all awkward and sulky and vulnerable. He looked down again, seeking solace in mindless activity, but it occurred to him that this was the last task he could afford to be half-arsed with, and now he found himself pulling lengths of smooth ribbon from the box. Memories flooded him. If I just reach, if I could just reach . . . "It's--" he began, the ribbons like cool, silken tears against his fingers, "It's my job, yeah?" It seemed a depressing double-entendre only he understood, which served to increase his discomfort.

"You can't talk about her, can you?"

Ron couldn't help himself. Anger ignited in his gut. "What, you want me to talk about her? To you?"

"Well, yeah," Harry said, as if pointing out the obvious. "Yeah, I want you to talk about her, git! How else will we get to the bott--"

"Talk about who?" Hermione asked, breezing back into the room.

"Lavender Brown," Harry said evenly, not missing a beat.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Ron doesn't want to talk about Lavender Brown? Imagine that."

"Lavender wasn't so bad," Ron said, hoping this bald-faced lie would would distract Hermione from honing in on the fact they had been discussing Pansy, for if she keened in on it, it would all be downhill from there for him.

"Oh, honestly," she clucked. "Lavender Brown is a bona fide bint, as far as I'm concerned, and as far as Ron's concerned, too! If she ever had two brain cells to rub together, why I'd make a Horcrux myself." She swept past them, retaking her spot at the bookshelves.

"Oi!" Ron protested. "Lav probably had a brain cell or two, I'd wager!"

"Right," Harry said dryly. "And she named them 'Won' and 'Won'."

"Bugger all, I hate you," Ron groaned, secretly glad for Harry's distracting technique.

"Does this mean no more 'My Sweetheart' pressies?" Harry smirked. "Pity."

"Oh, that was the most hideous piece of jewelry ever," Hermione said. Ron was positive he detected a note of smug glee in her tone.

"What?!" Ron said, spreading his hands defensively. "I gave the bloody thing to Hagrid's Nifflers, didn't I? Not like I ever wore it, sheesh! Anyway, it was more interesting a present than an academic planner!"

"Oh, that's not true--"

"Yes it is!" Ron talked over her. "Don't hear anyone talking about your planners ten years later--"

"Reckon we ought to get back to work," Harry interjected, cutting them off. "Hermione, is Moody sending forensics or what?"

She nodded, already mesmerised by the canyon of volumes rising above her. "He is, yes. I expect they'll be here within the hour."

"Good," Harry said, giving Ron a quick nod once Hermione turned back to the books. "The longer I have to spend here, the worse my day."

"Yeah," Ron said, twisting Pansy's ribbon tightly through his fingers. "True, that."

----

Forensics picked the place clean. Harry accompanied the team back to the Ministry, where Draco and Pansy's personal items would be inventoried.

"Ready, Ron?" Hermione had finished putting her dark detectors back into her satchel. She turned to him, shouldering her bag.

"Yeah," Ron said faintly, distracted. He was on the last hatbox, the one made of fabric patches and the largest one in size. "What're these?" Carefully he lifted a shiny black rack of sorts from the box; rows of perfectly cut crystals lined the tray perfectly, like a glimmering emerald forest.

"Whatever have you found?" Hermione stepped over to him and looked into the box.

Ron looked up at her. "What are these for, would you wager?"

"I--" She crinkled her forehead in thought. "Huh, I can't say, really. They're obviously crystals of some kind." She knelt and gingerly lifted a crystal from its rack, turning it over in her hand inquisitively.

"There must be thousands of them," Ron boggled. He lifted the hatbox, judging its weight. "'Splains why this box's on the bottom of the pile. The heaviest of the lot of them, yeah?" He considered his find. "Should we take them?"

Hermione drew her wand and held it to her right temple. "Immactus." Her right eye quadrupled in size, giving her the appearance of a Cyclops. Whenever Hermione cast this particular magnifying spell, Ron always heard an imaginarySproing!ing sound in his mind. "Hmm," she said. She squinted at the crystal in her hand and touched a finger to one of its points. "There's a line etched around it, just here," she said, indicating the general area to Ron. He leaned in, trying to see what she was referring to, but the surface of the crystal only seemed glass-smooth to him.

"I can't see anything," Ron admitted.

"I wonder if -- perhaps there are runes on these crystals?" Hermione waved her wand again. "Finite." Her eye returned to its normal size. "Yes, we'll take the hatboxes with us. Until we've sorted everything Parkinson kept we're really stuck at square one." She returned the crystal to its place on the rack Ron still held and shrugged a shoulder toward the door. "Shall we, then?"

---

Miss?

Miss? She was being shook . . .

Pansy couldn't move.

She was vaguely aware of being on her stomach, the faint, impersonal scent of the hospital fading in and out like a tide. Her head was to the side with her cheek mashed against the scratchy wool blanket and her lips parted slightly, the circle of drool that had pooled there cool and damp against her skin. It took all the strength she had to crack open her eyes; the light stung through her slitted lids. "Hut-" It was more a noise in the back of her throat than a word, a clicking of sorts.

"Hello."

A shadow passed by, and then she felt the distinct touch of a human hand at her forehead, smoothing her hair back. It did not feel good, but she was too catatonic to edge away. There was a blur as the person with her knelt down; a face swam in her vision, and then came clear. A very queer-looking man was considering her. He had beady green eyes and tufts of frizzled red hair that stuck out from the sides of his head almost like a magnificent pair of cornucopias. He wore a tatty white laboratory coat, its numerous pockets stuffed full of instruments, phials and reference books transfigured to tiny sizes, and heavy brown oxford shoes with rounded toes. Pansy blinked and the man disappeared, and then flashed back into view across the room, still kneeling. Her throat clicked again and fear gelled in her gut. When she cracked an eye again he was inches from her face and if she physically could have, she would have screamed in terror.

"Hello, there." His voice ricocheted in her head, taunting and accusatory. "Think you might like to join the living?" He flickered abruptly, fading in and out of her view, as if wired to a Muggle eckletricity switch. Panic rose in her throat like gorge.

Wait.

Hadn't she died?

And then the man was touching her back, prodding her there. Pansy reflexively recoiled at the sensation, but her limbs refused to move, refused to curl into themselves. She realised, then, that her immobility wasn't due to physical inability, but rather she couldn't move because she was restrained. Stiff leather cuffs lined with lambs wool secured her at the wrists and ankles to the iron frame of her bed; she waited for the adrenaline to surge, but it never came. She could not lift her leaden head. She gurgled in protest.

"Shh, shh!" the man hissed, deceptively soothing. "It's all right."

Her eyes burned and she lay motionless on the bed, awash in the knowledge of her failure.

Why couldn't she have just died?

---

Porfinio Coon eased the door to Pansy Parkinson-Malfoy's hospital room shut, and then strode away, down the corridor. He planned on tea with with his mother's signature pecan biscuits, and on making notes. When he let himself into his office he came up with a start, for Edmund Parkinson was parked on his favorite sofa. Coon had had his sofa since Hogwarts and he liked to take his naps there. He couldn't help feeling a bit protective of his most treasured piece of furniture -- he just didn't like people mucking about in his space.

"Mr. Parkinson," he said, hoping Pansy's father would stand in greeting. He hated the way Edmund was able to circumvent the usual security measures, owing to his position with the Ministry.

Edmund Parkinson nodded. "Mr. Coon." He did not rise.

Porfinio tried to ignore his pang of annoyance at this intrusion. He'd had a long day and was utterly exhausted. "I expect you're here about your daughter," he said. It was a redundant question, for Mr. Parkinson had been to St. Mungo's daily since Pansy had had her soul eviscerated, and then violently restuffed. "I am pleased to inform you we've had a breakthrough."

At this, Edmund rose. "A breakthrough? How-- what kind of breakthrough?" He crossed the room and within seconds had caught up Coon's arms in his tight grasp. Coon could see the other man's throat working, but he knew Edmund Parkinson would never allow himself an outburst of raw emotion.

"She's no longer . . . well, she's no longer unconscious." It was a gross understatement of Pansy's condition.

Hope lit up Edmund's face. "You mean to say--" He gave Coon one last squeeze before taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders. "May I be allowed to see her? What has she said? Has she asked for me?" His eyes shone brightly. "And what of the child?"

Coon held up a hand, quashing further enquiry. "Mr. Parkinson," he said, turning to remove his mediwizard robes. He hung them neatly over the back of his desk chair and reluctantly gestured back toward his prized couch. "Please, have a seat." Coon then did the same, settling in. "Tea?"

"Yes. Please."

The two men remained silent for the minute it took for Porfinio to conjure the pot and set the tea steaming. They both took lemon, milk and sugar. Edmund balanced his cup and saucer on his knee and leaned forward.

"I can't bear to wait a second longer." He spoke candidly. "Tell me everything."

"I fear you will not like it."

"But you just said yourself there's been a breakthrough! Pansy is conscious--"

"I said she was no longer unconscious." Porfinio cut Edmund off. "There's a significant difference."

"What do you mean? How so?"

Porfinio looked away, for as long as he had worked in the Hopelessly Hopeless ward of St. Mungo's, he never had gotten used to the haggard, empty look of hope lost. He considered his words carefully before continuing. "As we've spoken of previously, it took us almost a week to properly map her -- her soul -- with all the many diagnostic spells we've available. I expect you shall take it as good news that all the parts of her soul still exist within her body." Yet, Porfinio couldn't find it in himself to be uplifted -- he never projected, never pondered.

"Should I not take that as good news?" Edmund asked tensely.

"You may take it in any fashion you'd like."

"I know what I may or may not do, Coon, and I hardly need your permission," Edmund pointed out, speaking in a very clipped tone, "I'd prefer it if you'd elaborate."

Porfinio sipped his tea, deliberately taking his time. "The pieces of her soul are there. But, it's as if her soul's been shattered -- as if someone took a hammer to a mirror. Tell me, Edmund, how do you repair a shattered mirror? No matter how precisely you fit the broken pieces together, there will always be the tiniest slivers that go unrecovered, unfound."

"Preposterous," Edmund Parkinson sniffed. "One would simply perform Reparo." He said it as if it were obvious.

"One might," Porfinio countered. "You forget, however, that your daughter has been changed. She was stripped of her magic at Azkaban." He let this sit between them for a long moment.

"Restore her magic, then."

"Oh, Edmund, you should know better than most that Pansy cannot respond to magic as she once did." He felt uncomfortable as Edmund stared at him. "She has no magic."

"I can't believe it," he said slowly. "If that were truly the case, how could you even perform the diagnostic spells on her that you yourself just told me you completed?"

"It wasn't easy." Porfinio stressed the point. "Why do you think it took a week? You know as well as I do that diagnostics shouldn't ever take longer than mere minutes."

"But-- So, what are you saying exactly?"

He repeated himself, but more specifically. "Edmund, Pansy doesn't have any dominant magic inside her anymore."

Edmund stared at Porfinio dumbly, his teacup frozen upon his knee. "You can't possibly know that to be true."

"I most certainly do know. The magic-stripping curse cast upon her and Mr. Malfoy upon their admittance to Azkaban is irreversible. It's permanent." He held the Auror's gaze. "Your own department saw to that, and it means Pansy is--" He couldn't bring himself to say a Muggle to this pureblooded wizard. "--well, she is no longer a magical being. She is no longer a witch."

Edmund had always been good at cutting through the segue. "My daughter," he rasped, "is not a Muggle, sir. She is a witch from the purest and noblest of ancestries."

"Be that as it may, Pansy cannot use magic anymore, nor can she respond to magic as she once did, and that, sir, renders her more a Muggle than anything else. You must understand -- she will never react to magic again in the same way she once did. This is why it's impossible to predict any sort of full recovery for Pansy." Porfinio shrugged helplessly. "We just don't know. We've never seen this before."

"But-- See here, Mr. Coon, a wizard may cast magic upon--" It pained Edmund to say it. "--a Muggle!"

"Only very specific kinds of magic, which usually involve memory charms or weak cloaking magics. Don't you see, Mr. Parkinson? We are of no use to the Muggles, at least not in the ways they would most desire if they happened to know of our existence."

"And what ways would that be?"

"I'm sure you can imagine. Eternal life. Money. The usual greed-induced rot."

"What of Pansy's child?" Edmund repeated the question.

"The child is viable."

"What of the child's soul?"

Porfinio took great pause. "As you know, the child's soul was also-- Well, we suspect the child's soul--" He didn't want to cultivate unnecessary hope and chose his words carefully. "--may not have been quite so effected by the dementor. I've staffed Pansy's case with a colleague -- Eustacius Mordecai, a mediwizard. Do you know him?" He continued when Edmund simply shook his head. "He's brilliant in obstetrics, world renowned even. St. Mungo's is fortunate to have him on staff. Anyhow, he's theorised infants in the womb are more resilient than adults, for they are mentally untainted by context."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"Meaning, we as adults of course would know the ramifications of the dementor's kiss. As an individual is engaged in receiving the dementor's kiss, he or she is aware of every step of the process and, at the same time, is aware of the consequence of every step and the ultimate outcome of the process." Porfinio tried to put it in layman terms. "Awareness affects how the process is received, and fear is a powerful catalyst. Mordecai believes the less developed the foetus, the stronger its innate protective barriers. Children are, Mr. Parkinson, exceptionally resilient. More so than adults, I daresay. The child your daughter carries is still early in her gestation. It is within the realm of possibility that she remains undamaged."

The two men fell silent, taking it all in, until Edmund suddenly looked at Coon queerly. "You said 'she'," he noted, his dark eyes questioning.

Porfinio immediately felt as if he'd inadvertently revealed something inappropriate. Wracking his brains, he took a brief foray into damage control mode, before deciding, under the circumstances, it probably didn't matter what he said at this point. It was all so unknown. "Yes."

"You were referring to the child?"

"Yes."

"Pansy is carrying a girl?"

"She is, yes."

"And the child's father?" Edmund would never forgive having to ask.

"Draco Malfoy," Coon said, at least able to give Pansy's father this small reassurance, for he, too, had been fully briefed by Alastor Moody about the possibility of Pansy having been sexually assaulted whilst incarcerated.

Edmund put his tea aside and rose to pace the small room. Porfinio took advantage of the shift to sip at his tea as the other man lost himself in thought. Finally he stopped, his back to Porfinio. "How is it that magic, our greatest legacy, cannot help? How is it that magic cannot fix Pansy?"

"Magic cannot fix everything and nor should it."

"So, Pansy cannot be helped?"

"I really don't know," Porfinio said honestly.

Edmund turned. "A baby girl, then?"

"Yes."

"My daughter is not a Muggle." Edmund's voice was strained, like a taut line ready to snap.

Porfinio was a pragmatic man. "Whatever she is, we shall treat her to the best of our ability."

"See that you do." Robes swirling, and with a loud crack, Edmund was gone from the small office, leaving Coon alone to his couch and his mother's lovely biscuits.

---

After the search of Draco and Pansy's flat, it had taken the forensics team just shy of a fortnight to inventory the items recovered, and now they were carefully organised on row after row of tables in a warehouse deep within the bowels of the Ministry. Moody had overseen the basic direction of the project at the beginning, but he had too many cases under his watch to focus all his attention on any one, and, so, he had assigned Ron to be Inspector in charge with Harry second in command. Through carefully worded requests, they'd managed to snag Hermione for a special assignment, pulling her from her from the expert position she held with the Ministry in spell research and production. This was fine with Ron, as he always liked working as a trio. These days it didn't happen often, but whenever they could manage to come together for professional reasons, it was usually a good thing.

Ron was obsessed with the emerald crystals he had found in one of Pansy's hatboxes. They'd been laid out carefully in order of how they came out of the hatbox, and there were twenty-five racks in all, each holding thirty-six crystals. They were beautiful and shiny, and about the size of an average man's smallest finger. Ron couldn't stop touching them, picking them up, although he was always careful not to muck up their order. Revealing spells indicated the crystals were of great importance, and that they were sentient in a way. However, not even Hermione had managed to suss out exactly how. Currently she was poring over Runes translation books, positive the slight etching she had made out previously was in fact a clue to the crystals' purpose. One thing that had been relentlessly frustrating was the fact that no matter how hard they tried, or what magnification or revealing spell they cast, none of the three had been able to really make out the design of the Rune. The image was blurry and out-of-focus, no matter how carefully they tweaked their incantations. Hermione had given up in a fit of pique, returning to the comfortable familiarity of her books. Ron was waiting for Harry, who'd gone searching for a rudimentary microscope in Arthur Weasley's Muggle Artifacts department, in hopes that the magic and wards protecting Pansy's crystals could be skirted by using a non-magic-based Muggle instrument.

"Here, I found one." Harry came up through the row of tables carrying a metal object. He set it on the table. "Hermione, would you figure this thing out? I never got far enough in Muggle school for microscoping."

"Well, Harry, I had only as much Muggle schooling as you did," Hermione pointed out. However, she put aside her book and moved around to their table.

"Yeah, but I just figured you would've had your own microscope."

"Why on earth would you assume that?"

"Well, didn't you?"

"Perhaps," Hermione said, colouring a touch.

"Your parents are dentists," Harry pointed out helpfully.

"All right, yes, I did have a microscope as a child, before I came to Hogwarts." She extracted the eyepiece lens and gave it a quick once over with the hem of her shirt. Deftly, she slid the eyepiece into the microscope's tube and adjusted the base and stage. "On holiday, sometimes I would get bored, being away from Hogwarts and all, and it wasn't like I could really share about my life with my friends from before." Hermione carefully selected a crystal and placed it between the stage clips, and then adjusted the long and fine focuses. She put her eye to the microscope. "I used to cast spells under my microscope. I wanted to see what the magic would look like up close."

"Wha'd'it look like?" Ron asked, leaning in. He and Harry hovered over the instrument anxiously as Hermione inspected the crystal.

"I don't suppose I have to remind everyone of how incredibly swotty that is?" Harry asked.

"Anyhow," Hermione continued, "it depended entirely upon the spell. Tickling charms, for example, were like little pink fireworks, all happy-looking and silly. But, say, Tarantallegra, was all black and sinister. In fact, I once considered trying Avada Kedavra on pesky summer houseflies, but-- Oh!"

"What is it?" "What do you see?" Harry and Ron squashed her between them as they keened in for a look.

"They're definitely Runes," Hermione said, feeling accomplished. "I suspected as much! They're not the Runes we learnt at Hogwarts, though. These are-- actually, these are a quite simplistic variety of Runes called Elder Futhark." She shook her head, surprised. "I never studied them really, for they're considered rather rudimentary. I never thought I'd have a need to know Elder Futhark . . . Well, no matter." She stood and both Harry and Ron rushed for a peek. They bonked heads, but Ron managed to take over the eyepiece. He squinted into its depths.

The surface of the crystal came into perfect focus and, sure enough, distinct etchings were clearly visible. "Oh, good show, Hermione!" he said, pleased at the progress. He turned it over to Harry. "Have a look, mate."

"Ron, I'd like you to begin cataloguing the Runes. Do you feel comfortable enough transcribing them onto parchment? You'll have to go crystal by crystal, and take care to not mix up their order."

"Reckon I can manage that, yeah."

"And, Harry? Will you help me translate them?"

"I didn't take Runes at school," Harry pointed out.

"Well I didn't take these Runes at school, so we're on equal footing there." She pointed to the stack of books on her table. "It would help if you could find as many books as you can on Elder Futhark Runes. Fortunately, there are very many of them in this particular language, so I'm hoping it really won't take long to make a list." She lifted a fresh square of parchment with a wave of her wand, settling it onto the table, and then with a series of incantations replicated an outline of the trays where the crystals rested. "Ron, you can note the Runes on here." She held up her template. "See, then it will be nicely organised."

"Yeah," Ron said, reaching for the parchment. "That'll help. Make me a full set of these, would you? One for each rack of crystals." He turned to the microscope and slid onto the stool there, bracing himself with one foot planted firmly on the floor. He quickly picked up on how to adjust the focus, and carefully he took a longer look at the crystal Hermione had left on the plate.

It was dense and beautiful -- a perfect shade of emerald. Ron turned the crystal topside up, so that its top third and the Rune there was highlighted. He studied the design and transcribed the Rune onto Hermione's template, numbering it carefully. There was also a decorative thin line etched around the entire crystal, just underneath the Rune, and as he scrutinised this, Ron was sure he detected movement.

"Huh," he said, messing with the focus again.

"What?" Hermione asked automatically, only half-listening.

"Not sure yet. Hang on . . . " Ron wheeled and whirled the microscope's gears until a closer view resolved. There was definitely movement within the crystal itself, almost as if its centre was filled with . . . "Smoke?"

"Smoke." Hermione parroted.

"Smoke," Harry said, curious. "Where's the smoke?"

"I think it's in the bloody crystal!" Ron thought surely he was mistaken. "Hermione, are you sure this ruddy contraption's clean? Maybe there's something wonky going on." She was there immediately, pushing at him to get up.

"Hmm," she said, after several minutes of study. "That is strange." She straightened and Ron took another gander. "I don't know of any smoke-filled crystals," she admitted. "Who do we know who's expert at rocks and minerals?"

"Nicholas Flamel?" Ron suggested.

"That is so very, very not funny," Hermione sniffed.

"What?" Ron spread his arms with a defensive sweep. "It was a reasonable suggestion!"

"Argh!" Hermione dropped her head and rubbed at her temples. "Parkinson -- that bloody cow." She sighed, frustrated. "Why couldn't she-- why couldn't she just be -- ARGH!"

"Why couldn't she be stupid, like you've always figured her for?" Ron asked without thinking. He put his hands up again when she snapped her head up to glare at him. "I'm just saying!"

"No, it's that you're right. I'm not just slightly put out by all this. I wish it were simple."

"I thought you liked a good challenge, Hermione," Harry said, through a yawn. He stretched in his chair, tipping his body to the side, arms upright. "This should be interesting to you, yeah?"

"I like worthy challenges," Hermione clarified. "There's nothing worthy about either Malfoy or Parkinson, so, frankly, I'm wondering why even bother? It's not like whatever we might find would change what's already been done."

"We're bothering 'cos it's our job." It was all Ron could say.

"Well, whatever. I'm going up to Moody's office. Maybe he knows of a geology specialist who can help us identify these crystals."

---

Moody sent Hermione to Trace Evidence. The lab was empty of people, although work was clearly being done, and the place smelt distinctly of pineapple. Beakers and cauldrons roiled and steamed throughout the room, their churning contents sometimes bubbling a piece of skeleton or an object up to the surface, before the sunk again with a muffled clunk. A tray of carefully wrapped and labeled wands lay upon one of the counters as evidence, under a sign which indicated they were waiting for Priori Incantatem, the spell that would reveal the wand's last curse cast. Rows and rows of thick, paper envelopes of all sizes and variety covered every available bit of counter space, and Hermione estimated there were literally thousands of pieces of evidence in those envelopes, waiting to be processed by the Ministry's investigative teams. A curtain hanging in a doorway suggested there was another part to the lab. Gingerly, she pushed through.

A lone figure sat hunched over a small workspace and when the man looked up, Hermione was pleasantly startled. "Oh!" she said brightly, somewhat confused. "Why, I didn't know you worked here!"

---

"Look who I've found!" Hermione exclaimed excitedly.

Ron and Harry looked.

"Professor Slughorn?" Harry boggled, rising halfway from his seat.

"Boys!" Horace Slughorn bellowed cheerfully. "So good to see you both, I say! Most excellent indeed!" He made his way toward them.

"Professor Slughorn left Hogwarts after last year," Hermione explained. "He's working for the Ministry now, in potions and antidotes. Moody sent me to him -- apparently, after we left Hogwarts, the Professor here took over Runes instruction as well as potions."

"A trifle, really!" Slughorn bellowed merrily, with false modesty. "What senior-level instructor wouldn't be able to handle a handful of Runes classes in a pinch?"

Ron groaned inwardly as the rotund man waddled forth.

"Hello, Professor," Harry said bracingly, mentally preparing himself for the smarmy onslaught; however, Slughorn swept right past him with nary a glance. Instead, he took up Ron's hand and pumped it vigourously.

"My boy!" Slughorn exclaimed, as if he couldn't possibly be more delighted at seeing, of all people, Ronald Bilius Weasley. "What a pleasure!"

Ron boggled, and then glanced behind him, puzzled. Slughorn trapped his fist within his meaty grasp. "Who?" he asked, looking back at the professor, confused, and tapping at his chest with his free hand. "Me?"

"Of course!" Slughorn's tone suggested it should be perfectly obvious. "Been in the papers as of late, I see." He winked knowingly. "Quite a heroic gesture you managed there with Miss Parkinson."

"Malfoy." Ron said, prying his hand free. Unconsciously he rubbed his palm up and down the side of his woolen robes. "Parkinson-Malfoy, yeah?"

Slughorn chuckled. "It's a fault from my years of instruction, I've found." He gave them a wink. "It's nearly impossible for me to imagine most as anything other than how they were whilst students. You're right of course, Ron." He removed his bifocals and dug in his pocket for a handkerchief. He scutinised Ron as he polished his lenses. "How," he asked, his voice dropping, as if speaking of secret things, "could you have possibly guessed Miss Parkinson was with child?"

"Er--"

"He was brilliant!" Hermione gushed, unable to contain her pride on behalf of Ron's accomplishment.

"You weren't even there!" Harry said, vaguely amused by Slughorn's fawning over Ron.

"No, but still! It was brilliant, and it just demonstrates how Ron has such a keen and ready mind when he applies himself." She gave Ron a knowing look.

"It was in one of our Auror trainings," Ron said. "I just remembered one of the first lessons we ever had on the dementor's kiss, and how they said it was illegal for a pregnant woman to receive the dementor's kiss, 'cos the baby's soul is innocent."

"How ever could you tell?" Slughorn persisted, fascinated. "Miss Parkinson's, what, perhaps three months along?"

"Not even that much, I reckon," Ron said. He met his former professor's gaze. "I remembered from training that when a woman's . . . you know . . . when she's that way, then there are two souls to be had, not just one." He shrugged, glancing away. "Just thought I saw two, 's'all."

Slughorn was shaking his head in amazement. "Well, I say! Excellent, Ron. Very excellent." He perched his glasses back upon the bridge of his nose, pushing them into place with his finger. Turning, he surveyed the scene. "Oh! Hello, there, Harry," he said brightly. "Didn't see you there."

"Professor Slughorn," Harry said, giving an amused, two-fingered salute.

"I see post-War life is treating you well." Slughorn waddled over to Harry and inspected the items strewn about the table. "Am I right?"

"Well enough, thanks." For Harry, a quiet life lived in relative anonymity was bliss.

"And what are you working on here?"

"It's from Parkinson's house."

"Hmm, I see." Slughorn bent forward, peering at the rows of crystals. His expression clouded. "These are Miss Parkinson's, you say?" he enquired, too neutrally.

"Yes," Hermione came around the table. Gingerly she lifted one from its holder and held it aloft. Light shone through its emerald depths. "Everything in this room was recovered from the Malfoys' flat. We found a hidden room that had gone previously unnoticed. These were in there." She replaced the crystal. "Have you ever seen anything like these before, Professor?"

"Well," Slughorn said slowly, once again pulling his glasses off. Nervously, he pawed at his coat again, searching for his handkerchief. "They appear to be some sort of crystal."

"Yes. But, Ron's discovered they seem to be filled with something." Hermione pulled the microscope over and demonstrated for Slughorn. "Some kind of essence. See?"

Slughorn lifted his glasses and mashed his pudgy lid against the eyepiece. He looked for a very long time before pulling back. "Can't say that I do," he said.

"What?" Hermione was confused. "It's obvious! Here," she said, making several adjustments to the instrument before checking it again herself. "Why, I can see it quite clearly! Try it again."

This time Slughorn barely glanced at the crystal. "Well, who can say? Might've been a mere trick of the eye! You don't need specs yourself, do you, Ron?" His tone was bright and friendly, but Ron immediately noticed his eyes didn't twinkle accordingly.

"I don't think so," he said emphatically. "I distinctly saw something inside the crystals. It looks like smoke or mist."

"Yes, well, I expect it's nothing really. Probably a useless glamour or charm. Or perhaps a naturally occurring flaw in the crystal."

Ron was instantly suspicious, for he suddenly had the feeling Slughorn knew exactly what the crystals were for. Narrowing his eyes, he watched Slughorn work nervously at his glasses with his cloth until the lenses squeaked clean. "Some specialist. Not much of a stretch there, eh Professor?" he asked sardonically.

"Ron!" Hermione hissed, given him a look. "You're rather rude!"

"Just saying," he said, taking a seat on the edge of the table. He crossed his arms over his chest and peered beadily at Slughorn.

"Oh, no trouble, Miss Granger," Slughorn said, adopting a jovial tone. He avoided Ron's gaze. "Well, so very wonderful to see you all again, after all these years. How wonderful you're all still friends, just as you always were." His glasses were firmly back in place. "Now, if you'll excuse me, there's work to be done. Mustn't tarry!"

"Oh, Professor," Hermione said, still glaring at Ron. "Please stay! I thought you might be of help, what with you having taken over teaching Runes for all those years--"

"No, no, certainly not," Slughorn blustered, holding up his hands. "I may have taught a Rune here and there at Hogwarts, but that was only in a pinch, and it's hardly my area of expertise. Why do you need Runes translations anyway?" He shook his head. "Never mind. I don't need to know. Protected information, I know. Forgive me for prying."

"You're not prying--"

Slughorn cut Hermione off. "Nonsense! This is a high-profile case and, as such, I've no business knowing anything more than the general public." He huffed toward the door. "So lovely to see you again," he repeated brightly, and Ron practically exploded with frustration. The old coot knew something, he did! He tapped Hermione's arm.

"He knows what they are!" Ron whispered forcefully, nodding toward the crystals.

She caught up to Slughorn straightaway. "Professor, allow me to see you back to your office. We can chat and catch up a bit more." Firmly, she took his arm. "The runes in question are extremely rudimentary, sir. I'm positive you can be of great help!"

"No, no," Slughorn protested again. "Surely not." However, he allowed Hermione to escort him from the room.

"I won't be long," Hermione said, over her shoulder to Harry and Ron. "The professor and I will just take tea and have a little chat. Won't we, Professor?"

---

"Sheesh," Ron said, an hour later. "How long does a cuppa take anyway?" He was exhausted and all he could think about was getting home to Luna, and the fact she had told him that morning she would be fixing Beef Wellington -- for no particular reason, she had said -- for supper. His stomach growled.

"With Slughorn?" Harry asked, the side of his face plastered to the tabletop. "Could take hours, I reckon." He withdrew one of the crystals and stared at it dully, turning it over in his hand and rubbing idly at its surface with the pad of his thumb. "Ready for your mum's party?"

"Yeah. Looking forward to it." Ron rested his head as well, burrowing his forehead against the crook of his arm, and then turning his head sideways. It was almost six o'clock; they'd pulled a twelve hour day. He let his mind wander -- it relaxed him, comforted him, for he felt frustrated and unskilled at the moment, unable to make sense of Pansy's crystals. "Even Percy's coming."

"Yeah? Brilliant."

Molly and Arthur were hosting a potluck on the coming weekend, mostly to celebrate Bill and Fleur's eighth wedding anniversary, but also to recognise Luna and Ron and their pregnancy. Theirs wouldn't be the elder Weasley's first grandchild -- Bill and Fleur had two sons, and Charlie had had a daughter with a former girlfriend with whom he still maintained a solid, amicable friendship -- but a new Weasley baby was always cause for pomp.

Luna's pregnancy was progressing nicely, without any problems at all. In fact, it was Ron himself who had begun suffering from nausea, chronic heartburn and excessive exhaustion. He especially appreciated Luna's no-nonsense side in this instance, for she attended to him patiently, bringing him weak ginger tea and digestive biscuits, and she indulged his sudden and extremely weird cravings for jalapenos (when he wasn't feeling nauseated, mind). He nibbled on dried papaya to counteract the acid reflux and napped whenever he could nick at least twenty minutes uninterrupted.

Ron's mind drifted to gifts, and he wondered what he should buy for both Luna and Bill and Fleur. Hermione would no doubt help him with Luna's gift, but he wasn't sure about what both Bill and Fleur would like equally. Fleur liked jewelry; Bill always went unadorned. He could get them a fancy photo binder, perhaps with a nice inscribed leather cover? Thing was, he'd never seen either of them with a camera and the annual pictures of their sons always were made at Colin Creevey's studio in Diagon Alley. Ron sighed.

"All right?" Harry asked.

"Yeah," he said. "Just trying to think of what to get Bill and Fleur for their anniversary. What'd'you get them?"

Harry twirled the crystal on it's point, like a top. "A box of chocolates."

"Again?"

"Yep." Harry hated to shop, and when he wasn't seeing anyone special his gifting skills were even more rudimentary than usual.

"I right liked that batch you got them last year," Ron said, remembering the leaf-shaped, hazelnut infused chocolates fondly. "Did you get that kind again?"

"Er--" Harry thought. "Don't think so, no. I'm pretty sure this time I got chocolate-covered liqueur cherries."

"Bugger. I hate cherry flavor."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "So sorry."

"You mean," Ron asked exaggeratedly, "it isn't all about me?"

"Yeah, sure." Harry laughed and tossed the crystal at Ron. It hit Ron's forearm and rolled onto the table. He picked it up.

"Fleur has a necklace with a crystal like this," Ron said, turning the crystal this way and that. "Bill brought it to her from Bucharest, on his way back from seeing Charlie last Autumn." He ran the edge of his finger around the delicate line etched around the crystal, feeling the tiny groove catch against his nail. "Thought about getting one for Luna, but she doesn't like this kind of jewelry"

"She prefers jewelry of the vegetable kind? You should get her an artichoker!"

"Ha!" Ron snorted out a laugh, despite himself. "No, she's moved on from vegetables by now." He thought of how Luna's eclectic taste had evolved, but hadn't completely gone away -- why, just the week past she'd come home with a new pair of garden clogs for him -- made from a set of authentic, massive red lobster claws. That Ron couldn't effectively walk while wearing massive red lobster claws on his feet didn't seem to phase Luna whatsoever. They're really practical, she had said, as Ron had made the claws snap menacingly at her by flexing his toes. They're perfect for de-gnoming. He had shuddered at the thought of mucking about in Molly's garden (for he, Fred and George still faithfully helped with the weeding) like a merman spat from the waves to waddle about on a beach upon flippers, ruthlessly snipping the heads off unsuspecting garden gnomes as they poked their bonny twee heads out from their underground lair. "No, Luna wouldn't like a plain crystal as jewelry" He considered the emerald rock. "Fleur's is kinda keen, though. It's not just a crystal, it's a--" He bolted upright, a surge of realisation coursing through him. "Harry! There's smoke inside the crystal because it's not just a crystal -- it's a phial!"

"What?" Harry was at his side instantly. "What are you going on about?" He grabbed the crystal from Ron and inspected it closely.

Ron nicked it back. "Fleur's necklace, Harry! The crystal on Fleur's necklace is also a phial! Fleur keeps scented oils in hers, or sometimes perfume."

Harry looked at him questioningly. "How's it open?"

Ron touched his finger to the line again. "It just . . . screws open, yeah?"

"It couldn't possibly be that simple!"

"You're forgetting Malfoy's Alohomora?" Ron reminded Harry, raising an eyebrow.

"True, that."

They stood still for a moment.

"Well," Ron finally said. "Here goes nothing." He twisted the crystal, gripping its top third between his thumb and the crook of his forefinger. Carefully, he applied increasing pressure, until the crystal finally gave. The sad echo of a sigh seemed to settle over them, and then died away.

Carefully, his heart pattering, Ron lifted the top away.

A pearlescent, grey essence floated gently within the crystal phial. It swayed with the movement of air Ron had created; however, it did not dissipate.

"What is this?" Ron asked, even more perplexed than before.

"Dunno," Harry said, leaning in for a closer look. "Maybe a potion or a poison--" He looked at Ron, suddenly alarmed. "You don't think it's cosmetics, do you?" He took a step back and held up a hand.

Ron ran his hand through his hair, shaking his head, amused. "Right. No. I'm a bloke, and even I know this would be a right dumb way to carry cosmetics around."

"Perhaps we should wait for Hermione," Harry suggested, eyeing the opened crystal warily.

"Yeah." Ron carefully recapped the phial and tightened its lid. "How's it we've now twice overlooked the obvious?" he asked, slightly put off by their ineptness. They were supposed to be professionals, for sod's sake! "First the whole Alohomora thing, and now this? Simple phials, and we're treating them like Snape had finally managed to stopper death or something! Sheesh!" He sat down, deflated and slightly embarrassed. "I'm a shite Auror, Harry. I don't know what the fuck is going on."

"Look, would you shut up already about being a crap Auror? You're not a shite Auror -- you're a ruddy good one, mate. Not like we've been doing this as long as Moody or Kingsley, yeah?" He shoved at Ron's elbow, semi-affectionately. "Quit being all morose."

---

"Professor?" Hermione asked perkily, ever the hostess, "would you like more tea?"

Horace Slughorn was lolling in his chair, his eyes watery and bloodshot gooseberries. "Is this a speshul kindum-- kind of tea?" he slurred, visibly intoxicated.

"Yes, actually!" Hermione topped off his cup. "A very, very special blend. In fact, it's called mead." She tilted her head at him, smiling.

"Oak mashured-- matured?"

"Of course." Hermione patted Slughorn's hand affectionately. "You've heard of it, then? Oh, and I must confess there's a spot of Earl Grey in there, for show."

"There's a clever girl! I sush--suspected as much." Slughorn tried to shift into a less prone position; however, his feet dangled several inches above the floor and he was unable to get leverage. Huffing, he rocked side to side, readjusting, and the contents of his teacup sloshed over the rim, filling his saucer, and then dribbled down the front of his robes. "But, ish-- it's not going to work, Miss Granger, m'fraid. Clever as you may be, I won't be gettin' mimballbed-- involved. Nope, won't be gettin' involved. Bollocks!" He glanced down at his robes. "I just had these cleaned. Say, have you got any more tea?"

"Of course!" Hermione leaned over; the teapot steamed invitingly. "Of course I wouldn't ask you to become involved in unseemly business. But, wouldn't you want to help Pansy, a fellow Slytherin? Why, surely you knew her?"

"'Course I knew Miss Parkinson! Taught her father, her mother--" He produced his hankie again and blew into it with a great honking sound. The teacup tipped complete sideways and wet his lap. "--her Uncle Edward -- Death Eater, that one." He ticked off on his fingers as he continued. "Her auntie Aurelie, her mother Eugenie, her cousin Catherine--"

"I think I get the picture," Hermione said, not entirely unkindly. She was in no mood to bear an hour long explanation of the Parkinson family tree.

"Long Slytherin heritage, that family." Slughorn continued, as if Hermione hadn't spoken. "Did you know Pansy's parents are both identical twins? Extraordinary!" He snuffled into his handkerchief one last time. "Had all four of those twins when I was Head of Slytherin House, I did. Edward and Edmund Parkinson, and Aurelie and Eugenie Montague -- oh! Dear me, I've spilt my tea!"

Hermione conjured a large cloth napkin. "Here you go. Just . . . lay it there, yes." She glanced away as she gestured vaguely toward his lap area with her wand. "Right, then. So, sir, were you yourself ever loyal to Voldemort?"

Slughorn stared at her as if she'd suddenly grown a second head. "Certainly not," he blustered, affronted.

"Yet, back during our seventh year at Hogwarts, before Harry killed Voldemort, you were quite anxious to avoid him? Why was he looking so relentlessly for you, if not for want of your skills for his cause?"

"If you'll rebem-- remember, young lady, I spent that year in sanctuary under Dumbledore's protection!" Slughorn grew red in the face. "I'm sure the Dark Lord wished only to find me so he could kill--" He caught himself. Hermione wasn't to be deterred, though.

"You believe Voldemort wanted to kill you because you were the only one who likely knew he'd made Horcruxes?" she asked.

"Merlin, yes!" Slughorn slapped his palm to his forehead. "I shall never forgive myself!" he lamented drunkenly. "To think, the advice I myself dispensed was directly responsible for the rise of the Dark Lord!"

"You mustn't blame yourself, Professor," Hermione said, trying to placate him. While vaguely interesting, this wasn't what she was after. "I suppose I simply don't understand your reluctance now to help Ron, Harry and I figure out the meaning of Pansy Parkinson's crystal collection. We know there's something unusual about them -- is it dark magic? Is that why you're hesitant? Surely, nothing else could be so bad as a Horcrux."

"There is always something worse, so far as the minds of men desire," Slughorn said, wiping his eyes with his hankie.

"Don't you want to help Pansy?"

"I expect Miss Parkinson -- if she wanted help at all, mind -- would have facilitated on her own the possibility for assistance if necessary, and she certainly wouldn't have revealed that need to any other."

"I understand what you're saying and I think you're right." Hermione shifted closer, leaning in to continue eagerly. "But, can't you see that help sometimes comes in different guises? It's not always provided by whom we might expect, or like even. Ron and I--" She put her hand to her chest, earnestly. "--are here to help Pansy. And Harry, too." Slughorn looked at her then with something like admiration, and Hermione cringed inwardly at her blatant disingenuousness. "Harry and Ron are dedicated Ministry professionals, and I'm--" She paused, unsure how to describe her role, for Pansy Parkinson's predicament was more of an enticing intellectual challenge for her than a matter of moral obligation. "I am loyal to Harry and Ron. I always have been -- we always have been. Loyal to each other, that is." He gazed intently at her through hooded lids; Hermione could tell Slughorn was tiring. "You know Ron's upstanding. And you know Harry, sir. Hasn't Harry always done the right thing by you?"

The question hung heavy between them.

Finally Slughorn spoke. "While you and I certainly have different perspectives on what constitutes 'doing the right thing,' I have never begrudged Harry. Or his motives." He struggled again and leaned forward. His teacup slid to the floor and broke into three pieces, which neither he nor Hermione bothered to clean up.

"If you could just help me with the runes, Professor, I give you my word I will not consider your assistance to imply an open-ended arrangement."

Slughorn sighed, worn down. "What, dear girl, is the first lesson you learnt in Runes?"

"What?" Hermione tried to hide her exasperation. "Please, professor, there isn't time--"

"Just think," Slughorn ordered. "Come now, what is the first lesson of Runes? Start with the etymology of the word."

"Well," Hermione said slowly, wracking her brain. "Rune is a Latin word, of course. Well, Norse, actually, but derived from Latin."

"Yes," Slughorn said. "And what meaning does the Norse imply?"

"Oh, my, it's such a very long time-- Secret? Mystery?" It didn't take much for Hermione's powerful recall to kick in.

"Quite right." Slughorn conjured a new teacup; it was probably due to his intoxication that it had six handles and only half a saucer. Without promping, Hermione filled his cup. "Thank you, my dear. Now, please continue on. What else does the word rune imply?"

Hermione thought for a moment. "If I recall correctly -- a whisper?"

"Preshish-- Precisely!" Slughorn said, crooking his arm jovially. "A whisper. Listen, this is very important!" He leaned in, confidentially. "Not only a whisper, but an utterance! A murmur. A message. Do you understand? A message." He settled back in his chair and sipped calmly from his teacup, his eyes bright with drink. "Do you know the type of rune in question?"

"I do!" Hermione again drew her wand. "They're Elder Futhark runes, actually. We weren't taught them at Hogwarts, for they were considered too rudimentary." She flicked her wand, this way and that, and visions of the three Runes appeared in the air. "These are the ones. Can you tell me what they mean?"

"The first one," Slughorn said, not even hesitating and seemingly dead sober, "is a Rune called a Perdhro. The Perdhro reminds us of the uncertainties in life and represents freewill and the connection of our restrictions of circumstances. It's viewed as a rune of memory and problem solving." Hermione had produced a quick-quote quill, which was busy scrawling on a sheet of parchment as she listed to Slughorn's explanation. He got to his feet and stumbled sideways slightly. Regaining his balance, he pointed to the second Rune, wobbling a bit. "This is an Elhaz, which signifies great restraint, defence and protection. It's used, oh, say, in charms or for talismans meant to protect oneself or one's property."

"And the last one?" Hermione prompted, suddenly fearful Slughorn would fret again, and back out.

"It's--" He studied the shimmering image hanging between them. "Well, Merlin's beard," he said, reaching for his handkerchief again, his eyes more watery than ever. "Perhaps your earlier sentiments were-- Well, this rune is called an Eihwaz, and an Eihwaz most often turns up in a runes reading. It tells the querent, generally, to take a risk, to go ahead and take the plunge, as it were." He paused again. "Eihwaz indicates that the querent has set his or her sights on a viable target and is unlikely to encounter defeat. And even if catastrophe is encountered, it will likely be minor, or may in fact be to his or her advantage in the long run. Eihwaz is a rune that can be used as a magical protector and facilitator. It shows us that in the event of an ending situation we find the start of a new situation." He fell quiet for a moment. "And that our efforts will be worth something in the end." He looked at her queerly.

Hermione took up Slughorn's hand and gave it a squeeze. "Thank you, Professor," she said, genuinely grateful. "Now, was that so hard? Would you like me to keep you apprised of our progress?"

"Yes," he said, trumpeting into his hankie one last time. "That would be good of you." He looked at her. "Shall I just finish the tea, then?"

---

Back at the workroom, Harry and Ron had managed to open four of the crystal phials. The smoky essence within each crystal swirled dreamily.

"Reckon it's some kind of a trick?" Harry wondered, peering intently at the unknown smoke. It winked, silver, back at him.

Ron remembered something. "Pansy was ace at potions," he said, not elaborating. "She had private stores, yeah?" He hesitated before continuing. "She did like to work with essential oils and whatnot." Gingerly, her brought one of the open phials up to his nose.

"Wait!" Harry sounded alarmed.

"It's not poison, mate." Somehow Ron was sure of it. "I don't know what it is, but it's not poison."

Harry hesitated. "Does it smell like anything?"

Ron sniffed. Instantly the smoky substance kicked up, and he inhaled it without intending to. His nasal cavity stung, as if he had to sneeze. Swiping at his nose with the back of his hand, he coughed. His eyes began to water. "Har!"

"All right?"

Ron sniffed again. The vaguest scent of . . . was it ginseng? . . . teased at his senses. "I think it's some kind of scent," he said, pressing the cuff of his sleeve to his eyes. "Whew! Smarts a bit, yeah?" He reached for a second phial. Carefully, he sniffed again.

"Maybe you should wait until Hermione--"

Ron sneezed violently, three times. His eyes flooded once again. "Juniper," he managed to choke out. "This one's juniper-scented. I'm bloody allergic to jupiter." He held a third phial out to Harry. "Want to give it a try?"

"Uh, no. My luck? It'd end up being Malfoy's eau du armpit or somesuch."

"Sorry, mate," Ron said, waving the third vial gently under his nose. "Think you're the bloody wrong person to claim bad luck. No, I think this one's . . . huh, maybe . . . " He sniffed again. This time he didn't sneeze. "Er, well, that's strange . . . I think it's basil."

"Basil? You mean like the kind your mum grows?" Harry asked, curious.

"Reckon so, yeah."

Harry shook his head. "Why would Parkinson hide phials of essential oils?"

"No fucking clue," Ron said, fingering the fourth phial. "She's kind of a strange bird." It was the understatement of the century.

"Someone's coming," Harry said, cocking his head toward the door.

"Hermione, I hope," Ron said, and he lifted the fourth phial to his nose, curious.

---

On a whim, Hermione had stopped at the staff dining hall, intending to bring coffee and sandwiches back for the three of them. She felt invigourated and excited, and she was anticipating a deliciously long evening of research and problem solving. She placed the sandwich order and took her coffee to a nearby table to wait. She added cream, then sugar, and stirred. Staring absently out the large plate glass windows, she took in the blinking London skyline.

"It will be worth it in the end," she mused, remembering what Slughorn had said about the Eihwaz rune. She rested her head on her hand and blew into the mouth of her coffee mug. The querent has set his or her sights on a target . . . Eihwaz is a magical protector, a facilitator . . . Her thoughts turned to the other two runes Slughorn had translated. She took a sip of her coffee, and winced as it scalded her throat. Perdhro, the rune of memory and problem solving. Elhaz, the rune of protection . . . Protection. Restraint. Defence. Memory. Sighing, she closed her eyes. As she pressed her fingers gently against her forehead, visions of thousands of emerald crystals danced across the back of her lids. Whispers. Murmurs. Messages. Smoky, pearlescent centres of--

"Miss?" A nervous house elf dressed in a standard grey Ministry-issue tea cosy tugged hesitantly at her sleeve, it's tennis ball eyes wide and subservient. "The sandwiches Miss has ordered is ready. Miss would like carry-out or to be eating here--?" The house elf adjusted the mandatory hairnet, which was stretched ridiculously over its bald ears. It, too, was grey -- grey like her tea cosy, grey like Malfoy's eyes, grey like smoke--

It came to Hermione in a flash. "I know what they are!" she burst out, elated, and jumped up from her seat, knocking over her coffee in the process. "I know what they do!" The house elf tottered, surprised, and the stack of sandwiches perched on top of her tiny hand swaying dangerously. They tipped onto the floor.

"Oh!" The elf threw herself to the ground as Hermione tried to disentangle herself from the table's bench. "Maisie is a terrible server! Maisie should be sacked, Maisie should! Maisie is begging Miss's pardon, Maisie is--" She flailed amongst the cold cuts and mustard, beating herself about the head with a pickle spear.

"Oh dear," Hermione fretted. Quickly, she reached down and brought the creature to its feet. Leaves of lettuce and breadcrumbs were caught in the elf's hairnet. "No! Maisie," she said firmly, "this is entirely my fault. Please, I beg your pardon--"

Maisie wailed, inconsolable. "Maisie should be punished! Maisie will remove herself to the kitchens and Maisie will iron Maisie's fingers, she will! Maisie will use the waffle iron--"

"No! Erm, well--" Hermione was dying to leave, so she resorted to desperate measures. "I command you, Maisie, that you mustn't harm yourself in any way because of this mess. In fact, I--I command you to clean this all up and to resume your duties!"

The tiny elf calmed at this, perhaps finding the order to engage in a messy cleaning job akin to some kind of punishment. "Maisie is most grateful for Miss's kindness. Maisie will clean up the sandwiches and coffee! Maisie is very clumsy--"

"Yes, well, be sure that you do!" Hermione felt terrible speaking to the house elf this way, but it was a matter of emergency. "I have to leave now -- remember, you may not self-punish!" At this, she tore out of the dining hall and scurried through corridor after corridor, until she finally reached the workspace where Harry and Ron were waiting.

She burst through the door. "Success! I figured it out! Slughorn helped and I figured out what the crystals are--" In her excitement, she clipped her thigh on the edge of a table. She grabbed it to steady herself, focusing on Harry and Ron as she did so. A wave of horror washed over her as she saw Ron, curious, holding the open crystal under his nose. "RON, NO--"

It was just too late. Ron had already begun to sniff the smoky essence floating within the crystal phial before she'd called out and, as if inhaling a mouthful of tobacco smoke, the silvery, misty substance went right up Ron's nose.

Startled, Ron dropped the phial to the table. "What's wrong?" he asked defensively. "I was just telling Harry here that Pans-- Parkinson was keen at potions back at Hogwarts. Thought maybe she'd stashed away stores of essential oils and whatnot, like Fleur's necklace -- you know, the one that Bill gave--"

"Oh, Ron," Hermione protested, cutting him off. She stamped her foot in aggravated frustration. "You silly dolt, those aren't bloody phials of perfume!" She whirled, so disappointed she couldn't bear to look at either Harry or Ron.

"What are they, then?" Ron countered, utterly sick of this day and all the bullshite involved. "What's the problem? I'm fine, Hermione! 'S' not like they're filled with poison or--"

"They're memories."

"What?"

"They're memories."

"I-- What?"

Hermione turned back to face him. "I said they're memories, Ron. Those emerald crystals are phials, and phials hold potions and essences and liquid and gases and memories." She huffed her hands onto her hips, one foot tapping impatiently, her quick eyes taking in the empty crystals on the tabletop. "You've just lost no less than four memories. Parkinson's memories, no doubt. Those were clues, Ron." She let it sink in.

Ron was aghast. Slumping into his chair, he smacked his palm against his forehead. "Bloody fucking hell," he whispered. Bitter disappointment filled him. "How could I have been so stupid?" He became aware of a tingling sensation in his sinus cavity, as if the bubbles from a fizzy drink were bouncing madly under and up into his nose.

"We could have used a Pensieve!" Hermione lamented mournfully. "So simple, a Pensieve!"

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry--"

"Shut up, Ron," Harry made a quick slicing motion with his hand. "Hermione, you too. Rowing won't get us anywhere now." He looked at Hermione, all business. "Now, what do you know about memory retrieval, Hermione? Is it possible to get back someone else's memory from . . . well, from another someone else?"

"I really wouldn't know," Hermione sniffed, looking down her nose at Ron. "It's a situation I never thought I'd have to deal with."

"Oh, leave off, Hermione!" Ron shouted, flushing red. "I didn't fucking do it on purpose!"

"You should've known better!" she shot back, her eyes snapping.

"Stop it." Harry rose. "I fucking mean it. If Ron should've known better, then so should I. After all, I've seen enough of Dumbledore's memories -- plus, I was the one who collected Slughorn's memory about Voldemort and the Horcruxes, remember? So, yeah, leave off, okay?" Stepping up to Ron he grabbed his face between both hands and tipped his head back and peered up one of Ron's nostrils.

"Oi!"

"Hold still," Harry ordered. "I'm just looking to see if it's visible." He fumbled in his robes, and then drew his wand. He lit it and held it in his teeth, shining the light up into Ron's nasal cavity. "Uh-think 'ere," he said, through clenched teeth. He opened his mouth, allowing his wand to drop into his palm. "I didn't see any sign of a memory."

"Bugger all."

Hermione sighed. "I suppose I can put away these runes books," she said, dully. "Harry, would you help me research memory and Pensieves?"

Ron felt like a complete and total arse sitting there. He thought of Luna's Beef Wellington again, and of how tired he was, but an anxious feeling of dread had replaced the growling in the pit of his stomach. He knew he wouldn't feel like eating that night. He stood, stuffing his hands sheepishly in his pockets. "'Spect I'll let Luna know I won't be home for dinner," he said. When neither Harry nor Hermione responded, he skulked toward the door. "Right, then. Be right back. Yeah."

"Oh, Ron," Hermione said, with resignation. "I know you didn't mean to." She tried to sound optimistic, but Ron only saw defeat in the slump of her thin shoulders. "It's just a minor bump in the road, you'll see. We will solve the problem."

"Yeah." He let himself out of the room and trudged down the dim corridor toward Moody's office. "Solve it, right."

I am like a dream
And you are just a trip that I am on
When the trip is over
I will go back to the places that I once belonged
And I will look for comfort there
And when I do I know it will be gone
That is when I'll dream a dream
Where I am you and you are me
And there I'll know your love . . .

---

Parvati and Ron were on rounds again.

"So," Ron said, as they moved slowly through the dungeons, shining their lit wands all about. They had been assigned by McGonagall to search for a miniature Heffalump, which had, unfortunately, been only half transfigured into a poodle dog by a less than stellar third-year wizard. "I was wondering if Lavender's ever going to stop being a right nosy bint?" He dropped a peanut in the shell on the corridor floor. They were setting a trail, to lure out the Heffalump.

Parvati laughed. "Don't hold your breath. Lavender loves to gossip."

"Well, that's one thing," Ron said, still upset about what Seamus had told him. "But she's making crap up, yeah? That's different!"

Parvati raised an eyebrow. "Is she, then?"

"'Scuse me?"

"Well?"

"Are we talking about the same thing?" Ron couldn't believe her!

"What are you talking about, then?"

Heat flooded Ron's face. He stalked ahead, accidentally dropping a handful of peanuts. "Forget it. Lav's a nutter. Doesn't matter."

Parvati suppressed a giggle. "Look, it's no big deal," she said, scooping up Ron's pile of peanuts as she skipped to catch up with him. "In fact, I think it's rather cute!"

"Don't want to talk about it. Forget I brought it up."

"Seriously--" She laid a hand on his forearm, forcing him to stop. He looked down at her, embarrassed as all get out. "It's just a silly crush!" She giggled, and drew her fingers to her lips, trying to hide her smile. "Even if it is Pansy Parkinson!"

"FOR SOD'S SAKE!" Ron bellowed, mortified. "I'M NOT CRUSHING ON--" He caught himself just in time. Glancing about, he lowered his voice to a whisper. "I'm not sodding crushing on Parkinson!" He couldn't even say her name outloud -- he mouthed it.

"Honestly, Ron!" She rolled her eyes. "People get silly crushes all the time. Why, I used to have a raging crush on Blaise Zabini--"

Ron made a gagging sound. "That smarmy, Italian blowhole?"

"Pish," Parvati said, poo-pooing him. "Blaise Zabini is scrummy -- all the girls think so! He and Pansy are friends, so naturally he was always over to the house during holidays."

Ron's lip curled. "So, you and him--"

Parvati blushed. "No! No, of course not. Like I said, it was just a schoolgirl crush." She sighed balefully, reminiscing for a moment. "Besides, tons of girls crush on Draco Malfoy, so, conversely, it's perfectly normal for the boys to crush on Pans--"

"You," Ron said, surprised steam wasn't blowing from his ears, "are making me SICK." Again, he stalked forward, leaving her behind.

"You haven't said you don't fancy her!" Parvati called out, somewhat triumphantly. Within seconds, she was at his side again. "See? You're not even denying it! Ron," she said, her voice softening. "I'm not going to tell anyone."

"I don't fancy her," Ron said. I've just fucked her in the library, is all. And gotten to know her. And let her use Methuselah. And sucked on her-- "I don't fancy Parkinson." Frustrated, he threw a peanut to the floor, and then in a fit of unbridled rage he whirled and flung all his peanuts against the nearest wall. "Fucking hells!"

"Oh, Ron, I'm sorry! I've upset you--"

"It's not you, Parvati." As quickly as it had come, the anger drained away. Ron sighed. "It's just everything's all fucked up, yeah? Lavender and her rumours -- Hermione's right hacked off at me, thinking I fancy Pansy-sodding-Parkinson, and Lavender's feeding it to her left and right. Seamus even told me so!" Feeling like he'd said too much, he walked over to the wall where he'd flung his peanuts and began to clean up his mess. "Hermione will barely speak to me. It's just like last year, only a thousand fucking times worse."

"Here, give me those." Parvati held out the pretty purple sack she was using to carry her peanuts in. "Just put them in here and I'll make the trail." Grateful, Ron dumped the handful into her bag.

Quietly, they continued down the corridor. Parvati dropped a neat and even trail of peanuts as they went.

"Shouldn't have yelled," Ron said, sheepishly, after fifteen minutes or so.

"Apology accepted," Parvati said. "Besides, are you really sure Hermione's been listening to Lavender?"

"Pretty sure, yeah." He scuffed at the stone with his toe. "Right sure she's about to hatch another flock of canaries."

"Look, if she knows, but she still won't date you, it's not like you're obligated."

How could she say such a treacherous thing?! His mouth fell open in surprise. "Par-- Naw! No way."

"I don't mean that unkindly. I don't like to see Hermione upset any more than you -- she's my roommate, after all." Parvati dropped a peanut. "I'm just pointing out that you're not obligated, so you're free to fancy whomever you like." She gave him a thoughtful look. "Doesn't mean you're obligated to do anything about fancying Pansy either, though."

"I do not fancy Parkinson!" Ron protested.

"Mmm," she said. She patted his hand. "Fine. That's just fine, Ron." She looked him in the eye and Ron could tell she was being genuine. "I really mean it -- I won't tell anyone what you've said."

"I've said I don't fancy her!" Ron pointed out. "You don't belie--" They were abruptly interrupted by the sound of an approaching gaggle of squealing first-years. They turned, just in time to see four Slytherin firsties round the corner, sliding and crashing into one another as they tumbled into view. Within seconds a fifth figure slid across the stone floor, clearly the aggressor.

"YAAA!" the little girl screamed, swiping at the group, her fingers curled like claws. "You'd better run, ickle firsties, or I'm going GET YOU!" Ron immediately recognised Catherine Parkinson.

Parvati's eyes saucered. "Oh my God!" She gasped, stepping backward, and then turned away from the approaching stampede. "Ron, we've got to ge--"

The girls shrieked like banshees, half laughing, half frightened, as they barrelled down the hall toward Parvati and Ron, running from Catherine. "PREFECTS!" one of them yelled as a warning, but the group didn't stop.

"Oi!" Ron took aim and dove for Catherine as she streaked by. Even though he was sure he had her properly in his sights, it was a right proper melee. He missed Catherine completely, and instead drove himself head-first into the rough stone wall. "Oof!" He could hear Catherine's childish laughter pealing behind him and he saw stars as he tumbled to the ground, a cold rush of air swirling around him. He'd landed next to the entrance to a semi-hidden corridor; the fringe from the tapestry covering it tickled at his face. "For fuck's sake!" Suddenly he was being trampled by something entirely not human -- it felt as if his chest were being crushed. As he opened his mouth to yell, it felt as if someone stuffed his mouth full of angora fuzz. He distinctly smelt peanuts.

This time Parvati screamed along with the girls. "The Heffalump!" she shrieked. "I've got it, Ron! I'm on its trail!" Parvati, wand drawn, skipped backwards and then turned and ran after the rogue creature. "Catch up with me!"

"Fucking shite!" Ron rubbed at his head, totally discombobulated.

"There you go again," Catherine sneered, hands on hips, "with the foul language. I should lodge a complaint with McGonagall."

The little shit wasn't even out of breath! "Shut up, Parkinson." Ron lumbered ungracefully to his feet. "Why's it I'm always finding you lot out of bed after curfew?" He looked at the girls clinging to each other. "Get on! Five points from Slytherin, yeah?" They didn't move.

"Just having a spot of fun," Catherine said. In a blink she sprung forward like a cat, leaping toward her classmates. "AHHHHH!" she yelled, in a overly dramatic fashion. She glowered menacingly for good measure.

The girls screamed and practically knocked heads as they scrambled this way and that.

"I'll give you a minute's head start this time," Catherine called down the corridor at their backs. "AND THEN I'M GOING TO HUNT YOU DOWN AND WHEN I CATCH YOU I'M GOING TO SPEW ALL OVER YOU!"

Ron wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Oh, disgusting, Parkinson!"

"What?" she said, as if put out. "Should I threaten them with something dumb? Maybe I should tickle them, or something just as stupid."

"You're messed up in the head, that's for sure!" Ron got his bearings again. "Anyway, get to bed. It's way past your curfew." He put on his best stern prefect face. "And I mean it about the five points!"

"Bully for you," Catherine said grudgingly. "Oh, by the way? McGonagall wants you to take Pansy her Transfiguration assignments."

"Wha--?" Ron was immediately suspicious. "Bullshite! Why wouldn't she just have you take it--"

"Like you said," Catherine interrupted, crossing her arms over her chest, "it's past curfew. Look, we were just there doing a detention for her, and I heard her talking to Draco." The little girl shrugged. "Prolly she knew you and Patil were down here hunting that Leffahump--"

"Heffalump." Ron corrected her.

Catherine rolled her eyes and pulled a face; she couldn't have possibly managed to look more like her cousin Pansy. "Who cares?! She sent us to bed and she knew you were down here." She stepped several steps backward, and then turned. "Go ahead, ignore her -- what do I care? Maybe you'll get detention, too. I'm sure Draco would love your company." At this, Ron imagined he smelt something sour. He shivered.

"Malfoy had detention? Why couldn't he take Pansy her homework, then?"

"Snape has him on a firstie's curfew. Detention," she noted, flitting imperiously down the corridor.

"Fine." Ron made a mental note to check in with McGonagall after the Heffalump was caught. "I'll bring Parkinson's fucking homework to her in the fucking dungeons, even though you're right here and, you know, both you and Malfoy actually live in the dungeons--"

"Pansy's in hospital, you dumb prat!" Catherine called back to him over her shoulder. Ron could hear sneer in her tone.

"What? Why?"

"She's got one of her stupid fevers."

Ron turned, puzzled. "Fevers? What kind of--" Catherine was gone, however. He shrugged, and then took off at a brisk jog in the opposite direction, down the corridor. Great, he thought, as he made to catch up with Parvati. Just bloody great. He could hear sounds of a struggle just ahead. He skidded round the corner and found that Parvati had managed to wrestle the poor, ridiculous Heffalump into a headlock. The creature trumpeted angrily; Parvati tightened her grip, her cheeks flushed from exertion. "Blimey," Ron said, shaking his head. "Rather pathetic looking wretch, isn't it?"

"Quick, give me a hand," Parvati commanded, wincing as the Heffalump probed at her ear with the wet, slimy tip of its trunk, still bawling madly. "Restrain it!"

"Oh, right!" He drew his wand. "Immobilus!" The creature stiffened immediately and ceased its yowling. Ron offered his hand and helped Parvati stand. Together they considered the creature.

"Rather like an elephant and a poodle dog that got Splinched at the exact same moment, and then their bits got all mixed up," Parvati observed, running her fingers curiously through the perfect coiffed globe of curls atop the Heffalump's head. "Ooo, but it is kind of cute! Look at it's fetching hairstyle--"

"That's one ugly mutt of a creature," Ron said, rolling his eyes. "Let's just get it back to McGonagall. Mobilicorpus" The Heffalump rose into the air and floated gently in front of them. Prodding the creature with his wand, Ron directed them toward the stairs leading up from the dungeons.

---

"Oh," Ron said, remembering as he made to leave McGonagall's office. He turned and leaned against the doorframe. Parvati was still attending to the Heffalump -- or poodlelump, or whatever. "Er, Professor?" he asked, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly with his wand. "You wanted me to take-- you know? To . . . you know?"

McGonagall looked up from her desk, where she was marking essays. She raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Weasley?"

He gestured. "You know, um, you want me to, uh, take Parkinson her homework?"

"Oh." McGonagall scrutinised him carefully, as if trying to figure something out. Ron flushed. "Yes, if you'd like." He stared at the tops of his trainers as McGonagall rustled through the stacks of parchment and folders. Rising, she rounded her desk. "You may instruct Miss Parkinson she has forty-eight hours from the time Madam Pomfrey releases her from the hospital wing to complete this assignment and return it to me if she wants full credit." She handed Ron a roll of parchment, neatly tied with a tartan ribbon. "And if you'd impart to Miss Parkinson the importance of attention to detail for this assignment, it would do her well. I have little patience for whiskered canaries from a seventh year."

"Right, then." Ron said, stuffing the parchment into the pocket of his robes. "No whiskers."

"I have several hours of work ahead of me yet." She resettled herself in her chair and picked up her quill. "So, I'm afraid I cannot dally. Good evening, Mr. Weasley," she said, with a curt nod. "Thank you for your assistance."

"Yes, Miss. Good evening."

---

Surprisingly, Madam Pomfrey waved him through without much of a fuss, likely because she was attending to a student who seemed to be sporting a most spectacular head of waving tentacles at the moment Ron arrived at the hospital wing. "Yes, yes," the matron said, waving toward the ward. "She's just in there. Mind you be careful. She's got -- Oh!" She flinched as a tentacle slapped her lightly across the chin. She waved her wand wildly, incanting several spells Ron didn't recognise. "Just see that you're careful, Mr. Weasley, as you don't want-- oh!" She'd taken another jab. "She's in there, resting-- that will be the end of that!" She cast one final spell and the tentacles froze mid-wave, sticking straight out from the unfortunate patient's head like some kind of weird pincushion. "Make sure you cover your mouth, first. She's highly contagious." She gestured impatiently to a stack of sanitised, disposable face masks on a counter.

He grabbed one of the masks and fumbled with it clumsily, unable to afix it properly. Finally, he gave up, figuring why bother? After all, he was just dropping off a roll of parchment. Surely he could hold his breath for the twenty seconds or so that might take. In fact, it was a brilliant idea, really, for it would preclude him from having to actually speak to Pansy. Impressed with this plan, he stuffed the mask into his front pocket and headed toward the ward, pushing his way in through the double doors. The hinges creaked, loudly it seemed. Ron looked around, allowing his eyes time to adjust before setting off down the rows of beds. The wing was dark and if he hadn't been wearing rubber soled trainers, he reckoned the hard heels of his dress oxfords would have sounded fitting, echoing down the dark polished marble floor of Madam Pomfrey's pristine hospital. "Lumos," he whispered, and then coaxed the light down until it was only a tiny glowing ember at the tip of his wand. He crept down the row of beds, holding his wand aloft, looking for Pansy.

Three beds were occupied, but as Ron moved amongst them it was clear from the still, sleeping forms hunkered down under the feather quilts that the students there were too small to be any kind of a seventh year. "Well, bugger," he said, but just then a different form caught his eye -- a rectangular silhouette with a pitched top caught his eye. "What the--?" He stepped closer, and then again. Carefully he approached the strange object, side-stepping suspiciously toward the end of the double row of beds, his wand at the ready, as if he were wielding a foil.

As he got closer he realised there was a tent pitched on top of one of the hospital beds, and as he made his way around it, to the side facing away from the main doors to the wing, a golden glow of light slit through the tent's side, indicating the entrance. Ron stepped up. His wand illuminated a rather whimsically handpainted sign.

~ QUARANTINE! NOSY GITS LEAVE OFF! ~

"Huh?" Quarantine? The wheels in his mind turned and Ron realised with sudden glee that Pansy must be horrifically ill. His heart leapt a little. Perhaps she had caught some incurable wizarding disease which would turn her skin to the texture of ground beef, with vile, oozing sores! He fervently hoped so, for perhaps that would finally exorcise her from his mind. While he was a good bloke at heart, he was keen on non-hamburger-looking birds. Why, pustulant boils would be an ace development for sure!

He slid his wand between the tent flaps, parting them "Parkinson?" He hissed her name into the tent, and then ducked in, but just so as the upper portion of his body was actually inside. "Parkinson!" he called. And then he caught sight of . . . the foyer? "Whoa--" He inched into the tent and straightened, and then looked around. The interior was absolutely huge. Ron understood immediately that he had just stepped into a top-of-the-line, first rate luxury wizarding tent, the kind which his family wouldn't even begin to dream of owning. There was a chandelier, for sod's sake! As he stepped forward his shoes sunk into thick, lush wool carpeting, and the air smelt distinctively of freshly struck Galleons. He couldn't help himself -- he let out a low whistle. "Holy crap . . . "

It was seriously massive, this tent, and it appeared no expense had been spared in its construction. He was standing in a bona fide foyer, which was decorated in rich shades of scarlet and butternut. Corridors branched from the main foyer, stretching out, it seemed, for miles, to where Ron couldn't even see, and directly in front of him was a cavernous, austere living room, fully furnished. He stepped into the nearest hallway and ventured forward.

"Parkinson?!" he called, a third time. "Bloody hell," he whispered to himself, turning a full circle as he tried to take it all in. The walls seemed to go on forever -- it was surreal and strange and skewed. As he crept forward, a light, clean scent filled his nostrils. It smelt of sweet pea and iris, and it reminded him of when Pansy would shrug and flip her hair over her shoulder in class. How many times in the past months had he caught himself wanting to reach for handful of her long hair and to wrap his fingers in it and pull until she was forced to look up at him, to acknowledge his existence. "Bloody hell!" Ron cursed, shaking his head. What the sod was the matter with him? Why was he filled with these ridiculous sentiments? Shite, he couldn't consciously admit even to himself that when his mind wandered in class, he sometimes dreamt of touching her hair, yet here he was -- openly fantasising about raking his fingers through her long tresses--

"Long tresses?" Ron boggled aloud, shaking his head, trying to clear his mind. What the fuck was going on here?! He felt as if he'd been foisted into the pages of one of Ginny's ridiculous bodice-ripper novels. He resisted the unexplainable urge to loosen his robes and unbutton his uniform shirt to the navel.

The scent was stronger now and it was as if Ron had been suddenly possessed! He had to find Pansy now. He felt confused and disoriented and his cheeks flushed hot, as if he, too, had a fever. A shadow flashed in his periphery. Maybe it was her! He plunged forward into the relative darkness, paying no mind to the unexpected cloud of mist that hung there, as if waiting for unsuspecting prey much like a spider would.

"Pansy?" Reach . . . if I could just reach . . . Reach for her . . . "PANSY!?" he called desperately. He skidded back into the tent's foyer, a mess of robes and trainers and ginger hair all akimbo, and leapt atop an overstuffed leather armchair. He braced his foot on the back of the chair, knee bent, and he held his hand in a protective salute over his eyes, blocking the glare from the chandelier above. Frantically, he searched for a glimpse -- any trace! -- of Pansy. "PANSY! I'M HERE, MY NEEDY LITTLE MINX--" Ron was mortified by the absurd words -- and from his own mouth, no less. What the bloody fecking hell was happening to him?! I've been possessed! Ron thought desperately. I've been possessed and Parkinson's here, and I bet this tent is Malfoy's, and, and-- MAYBE VOLDEMORT WAS HERE! "ARRRRRGH!" Ron yelled, terrified, imagining a fight to the death with Nagini.

And why the sod did he still want to rip open his shirt? Also, was his hair blowing about, as if he were face-in to the wind?

"PANSY!" he bellowed, batting at his head wildly, trying to settle his hair.

"Who's there?" Pansy's voice drifted around him like mist, faint and effervescent. "Draco?"

"Where are you?"

"Who's there?" She asked again, and her voice sounded closer this time. Ron looked.

She was padding toward him, weaving slightly, wearing a faded dark green t-shirt (Malfoy's, likely, judging from Slytherin Quidditch crest on the breast, with Malfoy's number underneath). A pair of dark plaid flannel shorts peeked out from under her tee, which came mid-thigh, and she wore saggy, cotton athletic socks. Her long hair was mussed on one side, as if she had been sleeping on it. She held out her hands to him, her eyes lighting up as she recognised him. Ron stood stock still, spellbound.

Undoubtedly, something was terribly wrong.

"Oh," she breathed, taking up his hands. Ron's wand clattered to the floor. She gazed up at him dreamily, totally smitten. "I was wondering when you'd come." She wove her fingers through his and tipped her face, gazing at him sleepily.

"Er--" Had he been hexed? Ron felt so strange.

"Hi," Pansy whispered, snuggling her head against his chest. She let his hands go and wrapped her arms around his waist, hugging him tightly.

"Uh, hi?" Ron's stomach flip-flopped. The familiar, treacherous fire in his groin roared to life. Her hands wandered around to his bum. "Er, Parkinson, don't do that--"

"Why not?" she asked headily. "Don't you like to be touched?"

Ron closed his eyes, swallowing thickly. He could smell her shampoo . . . her beautiful, beautiful hair . . . Cracking an eye, he looked down at her. She was looking up at him again, and her eyes shone like stars, her cheeks flushed pink with fever. "Uh--"

"Mmm, God," Pansy murmured against him, wriggling. "My skin feels funny, Weasley. Something's wrong with my skin."

He had a brief moment of clarity. Maybe there was hope for her turning into a festering pile of boils after all. Oh, happy day! Ron reached behind him and tugged at Pansy's vice-like grip. "Right. Sorry 'bout that. Anyway, McGonagall wanted me to bring your Transfiguration homework . . . " She sighed against him and he had to bow forward slightly, so that his crotch wasn't mashed up against her warm belly. "She said no canaries with whiskers, yeah?"

"Oh, I love canaries," she gushed, pulling his hand right up underneath her shirt. She deftly placed it at her waist. "Don't you?" Her skin was like hot iron and her breath was strangely sweet.

Ron immediately felt intoxicated. "Canaries?" he asked dumbly. He thought of Hermione. "Don't reckon I do. Right vicious little buggers, canaries." He felt relaxed, at peace. He breathed in her scent deeply. "Shite, Parkinson, you smell good." In the back of his mind he knew something was drastically wrong; however, his senses were utterly content.

"Mmm, I know," she said. Her hair brushed the top of Ron's hand as she once again tipped her head back to look up at him. "Don't I?"

The cacophony of a thousand warning sirens screamed in Ron's head, yet he was unable to leave her. "Can I touch your hair? Blimey, some days in class, yeah? I look at your hair and it's like . . . if only I could touch it!" What were these ridiculous, gushing words tumbling from his mouth?

"You can touch whatever you want," she whispered, and stood on tiptoe. She kissed him just under his ear, lingering there.

Holy mother of God . . . "Yeah?" he said, the ounce of his remaining logic suggesting she had somehow subjected him to a love potion of sorts -- he remembered feeling similarly when he had polished off Romilda Vane's chocolates meant for Harry last year. Just a couple more minutes. His back was protesting the awkward hunched position he had taken on. Fuck it. He pulled her to him, pawing desperately at the back of her thigh, digging his fingers in deep until she slid her leg up the side of his, and then he was cupping her arse in his hand. He sucked in his breath as his fingers caressed her fiery skin. "Gonna kiss me, finally--?" Her hot little tongue was in his mouth before he could finish.

He kissed her like she was a desert oasis, like he could never, ever stop, yet knowing he could never get enough. All the while the lone semblance of reason left within him ran completely amok, careening wildly around his brain like a pinball, trying desperately to help Ron regain control of his senses. Pansy tasted so good -- for some reason it was the best, the hottest, the most sensual kiss Ron had ever experienced, and he realised, dimly, that he was painfully aroused. Savagely, he wove his fingers through her hair at the nape of her neck and tugged, until he was dipping her backward, as if partnering her.

"Where can we go?" he whispered finally, his mouth hot against hers.

Pansy laughed, high and lilting and pretty, and gazed at him fondly. "You're not Draco!"

"Well spotted," he said. "And thank bloody God for that." He squeezed her arse, wanting to devour her whole. They kissed again, and he swept his tongue through the molten heat of her mouth, over and over. His very being felt both satiated and desperate, as if his cells were being infused by some unknown invader -- a lifeforce, even. Pansy's hands wandered around to the front of his trousers and Ron felt her nimble fingers fumbling there. "Ah, yeah." Ron's breath hitched in his throat and he waited with baited breath until she'd undone his belt and--

"Was das blutige Bumsen Sie tuend sind, Weasel?" A lethal, icy voice cut through Ron's reverie and it was one hell of a cold shower. He shot back from her, leaving Pansy unsteady, a glazed look in her eyes.

Blaise Zabini was staring at them, totally aghast. From the looks of it he was also experiencing a tremendous internal struggle, and was likely deciding between bashing Ron's head in with the marble bust of Glanmore Peakes which graced the doorway, or of vomiting in unabashed disgust all over the tent's luxurious carpet. He apparently decided on the former, and without further warning, he launched himself at Ron so viciously it was practically a running tackle. Pansy whimpered, and then Ron heard a strange collapsing sound, as if someone had dropped a pile of laundry to the floor from over the rail of a staircase: Floomp!

Ron reflexively stepped backward, attempting to avoid Zabini's assault; however, the back of his heel caught on something soft and he fell backwards, right onto his arse. He glimpsed Pansy's pale legs under his own, and he realised the sound he had heard was her collapsing.

"YOU STUPID PRICK--" Zabini was yelling, mid-launch. "--I TOLD YOU BEFORE TO STAY AWAY FROM--"

"Petrificus Totalis!"

Blaise Zabini clattered to the floor like a dropped stick, face down.

Hermione stepped out from the shadows in the tent's foyer, and, as he looked up at her, Ron knew he would never, as long as he lived, see her so disgusted. He would never be able to fully describe the expression of horror, disgust and rage on her face as she considered him -- he knew instantly that she had seen, well if not everything, then quite enough.

"Get up," she hissed, holding him at wandpoint. Her hand shook violently.

Pansy lay motionless beneath him. Ron awkwardly rose to his feet, trying not to become entangled in her limbs. Oddly, he felt the overwhelming urge to sleep, even in this, the worst kind of emotional adversity. The sleepiness didn't stop his stomach from becoming leaden, though. It filled with dread. "Hermio--"

"Don't say anything!" she said, backing away as he stood.

"Hermione, you don't underst--"

"Don't tell me I don't understand," she said ragefully, her voice quaking. "I've tried to believe the rumours weren't true, even though--" She stopped abruptly.

"They're not!" he said automatically. "What bloody rumours?!"

"Oh, so you know what's being said, then?" she spat, ignoring his question. "Clearly it's just fine with you!"

"Hermione," Ron wheedled helplessly, feeling very much in a no-win situation. "'Course I fucking know about them, you ruddy stubborn bird! What am I supposed to say to--"

"I HATE YOU!" she burst out, tears of rage flooding her eyes. "JUST SHUT UP I DON'T WANT TO HEAR YOU!"

Her words were viscerally painful, and how could Ron possibly explain to her the treachery she'd just witnessed? Helplessly, he glanced over at Zabini, and while the other boy was still paralysed from Hermione's Petrificus, his eyes bore death-like into Ron, not just brimming with hatred, but there was also a tiny, gloating spark of triumph there, and Ron knew -- knew there would no hope for ever making this situation right. No matter how much time passed, he knew Hermione would never, ever forgive this. For a moment he felt as though his vision were dimming, and bloody hell if he didn't feel as cold as if a dementor hadn't enveloped him in its mouldering robes; there was no safe place to look. Pansy seemed to be, well, sleeping at his feet. "I don't know what's going on here," he said slowly. "Hermione, what's going on?" He dared glance at her, pleadingly. "What's wrong with me?"

"I haven't the time at this moment to dissect fully that particular topic," Hermione said icily. "The reason I came to find you is because Harry's gone." She glanced down at Pansy's prone figure, and Ron knew if looks could kill Pansy would've been due one hell of a dirt nap.

"Gone?" he asked, befuddled. He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. "What do you mean gone?"

"I mean gone. He's left school."

Realisation washed through Ron. Harry's gone to collect Voldemort's Horcruxes . . . "When?" he asked dumbly, squeezing his temples hard between the heels of his fists.

"Sometime today," Hermione said, turning her back on him. Her voice was thin, shattered. "Seamus just found a note, though. McGonagall told me where to find you. Of course I thought you would want to know straightaway, but obviously you've other matters of importance to attend to--"

"What's going on in here? I heard quarreling." Madam Pomfrey stepped into the tent. She looked about, slightly astonished. "What's happened to Mr. Zabini?" she asked. When neither Ron nor Hermione answered, she prodded at Blaise's leg with her foot. He rocked slightly, as if he were a piece of firewood. The matron drew her wand. "Finite." Blaise rose gracefully; he glared at Ron as he dusted himself off. Madam Pomfrey shooed them toward the tent's entrance. "I'm afraid I must ask you all to wait for me in my surgery. Miss Parkinson," she announced firmly, "has a Timiza Ngoa-related fever."

"Timiza Ngoa?" Hermione sneered, which was most unlike her. "How disgusting and vile. Totally foul! I can't believe it! Of all things to subject one's schoolmates to . . . " She looked at Ron as if he were the lowest, stinkiest, trod upon cockroach's turd to be found upon the entirety of the planet, before crossing her arms over her chest. She tapped her foot angrily, shooting a glance at Madam Pomfrey. "What is it, exactly?"

"Timiza Ngoa?"

"Yes," Hermione huffed, rolling her eyes. "Is it contagious, then?"

"Very," Madam Pomfrey said, attending to Blaise. "Which is why I must insist the three of you stay here for an antidote." She motioned at Blaise. "Mr. Zabini, please assist me in helping Miss Parkinson back to her bed." Pansy was still passed out on the floor, which Ron found very odd indeed. "Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley, please return to my office. I shall join you shortly." Hermione sniffed and hoisted her chin. With an angry flourish she exited the tent.

Ron slouched out of the tent after her, shoulders hunched, his fists buried deep in the pockets of his robes. He followed her up the quiet row of cots, their occupants oblivious to the going-ons in Pansy's tent. He made to follow Hermione into Madam Pomfrey's office, but Hermione certainly wasn't about to hold the door for him, as he rudely discovered when the heavy oak clocked him in the nose.

"Bloody hell!" Sighing, he rubbed at his injured nose and reached for the doorknob, a feeling of dread pooling in the pit of his stomach. He slipped inside.

Hermione stood with her back to him, her arms still crossed fiercely.

"Um--" He felt on the verge of panic. "Blimey, Hermione," he said in a rush of now-or-never, "listen, you've got to listen to me--"

"Don't," she said, her voice frigid, "Say. Anything."

Ron was fucking scared now. His heart was hammering in his chest, and he felt the irreparable unstitching begin in the fragile fabric of his and Hermione's relationship. For almost two years he'd felt as if he were walking on eggshells with her -- bloody damned if he did, damned if he didn't. No matter what approach he took, he couldn't have her, couldn't please her, couldn't attract her. Inexplicably, rage exploded inside him. "Don't fucking tell me to not say anything!" he fumed. He advanced and jabbed her in the shoulder, commanding her attention. "I'll say whatever the bloody hell I like, and you know what? This is all your bloody fault in the first place!"

This got her attention. She whirled. "How dare you say such a vile and untruthful thing!" she hissed, her eyes narrowing dangerously. Her face was scarlet with anger. "I've nothing to do with your fascination with trite, stupid girls! This is your fault--"

"Like hell it is," Ron shouted, smacking the countertop beside her angrily. "You know I fancy you, Hermione! You've known it for years! And all you do is give me the cold shoulder, yeah?" His voice took on a mimicking tone as he threw her words back at her. "I need to focus on revising. I want to focus on Harry and his quest. I want to wait. Please, Ron, can't you just wait? Don't kiss me! Don't touch me there! Don't--" he'd moved so close their faces were practically touching, and he could feel the steamy warmth of her breath as he leaned in -- she was breathing shallowly, totally enraged. "So I'm the fucking prick because I pull with some other bird? Even though you won't have me, no matter what I fucking do!"

"Don't try and put this on me!" Hermione protested vehemently. "I've nothing to do with your predilection for appalling girls!" She tossed her hair huffily, although Ron could see her eyes beginning to well.

"Yeah, well that's bloody subjective," he said. It wasn't that he didn't know that Lavender was somewhat off-putting as a person, or that Pansy was -- God, where to even start with Pansy? What really hurt was Hermione's implication that something was wrong with him because of the girls he had fancied. Sure, maybe Lav had been a physical release more than anything, but it wasn't like he had actively sought out an attraction to Pansy Parkinson, for sod's sake! If only Hermione knew how he'd fought it, knew how insane he knew it was. If only Hermione knew that no girl would ever compare to her, but Hermione wasn't listening just now. She wasn't listening, well, ever it seemed. He didn't know what else he could do to try and win her heart -- he'd tried everything he could think of, including sucking up his anxiety and pervasive fear of rejection, and letting her know outright how very much he fancied her. It was bloody frustrating that Hermione seemed to have a myriad of excuses at the ready, just to avoid a real relationship with him. His anger flared again. "Some would say the same about you!" he said nastily.

Hermione's face fell, and Ron knew he had crossed the line. His heart crushed in on itself. "Don't ever speak to me again," Hermione whispered raggedly, pushing past him as she rushed for the door. She turned, her face scrunched up and wet with streaming tears. She managed to catch his eye, so he knew she was dead serious when she blubbered, "I WISH I HAD NEVER MET YOU!" Sobbing, she yanked the door open and practically bowled Madam Pomfrey and Blaise Zabini over, who had apparently managed to return Pansy to her bed and were now returning to the infirmary for the Timiza Ngoa antidote. "GO AHEAD! SHAG THAT REPULSIVE COW PANSY PARKINSON, FOR ALL I CARE!"

Madam Pomfrey's hand flew to chest. "Miss Granger! For shame!"

Ron was totally out of control; Madam Pomfrey's protestations went unheard. Past conversations with Seamus rose in Ron's mind, and Parvati's pragmatic words flitted about like an annoying horsefly. It's not like you're obligated . . . "MAYBE I JUST FUCKING WILL, YEAH?!" he shouted at her retreating back, not caring a whit that he had an audience. "YOU HEAR THAT, HERMIONE?! AT LEAST SHE--" Madam Pomfrey clutched at his forearm tightly, and he felt the tip of her wand against his shoulder.

"That is quite enough!" the matron commanded severely. "There are ill and sleeping students here, and I won't have their recoveries interrupted by your adolescent shouting! Fifty points from Gryffindor, Mr. Weasley! For your and Miss Granger's inexcusable rudeness."

"But--"

"I said--" Madam Pomfrey's voice was a low growl. "--I've heard enough. If I have to warn you again, I shan't hesitate to double the points docked. I suspect your housemates would be most displeased." She returned her wand to her apron. "The antidote for Timiza Ngoa is a specialty item, and I keep it safely locked away. I shall be right back."

Ron swallowed the Piss Off that rose unbidden in his throat. He turned away from her. "Yes, Miss." He could barely choke the words out.

Blaise Zabini was considering him. He was leaning casually against one of Madam Pomfrey's medical potions stores, and he appraised Ron with cold bemusement.

"What?!" Ron asked, defensively. He stuffed his hands into his pockets again and tried to ignore the tight, cold burning sensation blossoming in his chest. He was totally spent, having run his full gamut of emotions in a mere ten minutes.

"Oh, è niente realmente," Blaise said blandly, examining his fingernails with practised indifference. "I was just thinking of how tragically beautiful this is. Everyone will know what you've done, of course." The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. "Stupid, Weasley. Very, very stupid." He shifted forward then, managing to pull off a turn that was both graceful and masculine. He settled next to Ron, so they were almost shoulder to shoulder.

"Fucking bugger off, twat." Ron's heart wasn't in it though. "Look, no one knows what happened here tonight except you, me and Hermione, and I doubt she'll be chomping at the bit to mouth off about it, and-- Hey, why are you even here tonight?" It hadn't occurred to Ron that Blaise Zabini coming to visit Pansy in hospital was itself rather strange.

"I was bringing Pansy her homework."

"Wait a minute," Ron said, confused. "So was I!"

"Clever change of subject there," Blaise noted.

"Dunno what you want me to say," Ron shot back. "Like I said, only you, me and Hermione know what happened. Well, and Pansy, but hopefully she's lost her marbles enough to not remember--"

Blaise snorted derisively. "It figures."

"What figures?" Ron demanded.

"It figures," Blaise said, "that you would adopt such a naive position on the matter. You know nothing about women, do you, Weasley?"

"What, and you do?"

Blaise leaned in, his voice mockingly genteel. "Oh, yes, Weasley," he said, as if Ron were mentally handicapped, "I definitely do." And it galled Ron because somehow he knew Zabini wasn't lying. "Here's how it's going to go down -- are you paying attention?" Blaise blew on his fingernails and circled them against his Slytherin robes. "Granger is, of course, revolted -- as she should be, mind -- because naturally the thought of you on the pull with, well, anyone is an off-putting notion for all of us, to say the least. But, I digress." Ron rolled his eyes. Blaise continued, "She'll be hurt at first, but then?" He paused, but Ron wasn't about to beg. Blaise let him save face. "She's going to get angry, Weasel, and once she's angry?" Blaise let out a low whistle, shaking his head as if pitying Ron. "You can be sure her desire to hurt you more than you've hurt her will far supercede any ounce of self-respect she might have."

Ron felt numb. "You don't know her, Zabini," he said, finally. "Hermione's not like that."

Blaise laughed. "She's female, Weasley. So, she's like that." And then he was moving away from Ron; he resumed his former spot next to Madam Pomfrey's cabinet, smirking at Ron unsympathetically. "While both Draco and Pansy are my friends, I must admit I'm -- how to put it? -- particularly curious as to Draco's reaction to this incident."

Bloody hell. Malfoy. Ron remained silent, watching Blaise warily.

"He probably already knows," Blaise said offhandedly.

Ron snorted. "He doesn't fucking know already! Sheesh." He rolled his eyes and tried to ignore the frisson of panic in his gut.

"That's the problem with you Gryffindors," Blaise noted. "You think Hogwarts is loyal only to you. This castle," he said, slapping his hand firmly against the stone of the wall behind him, "is alive! It's its own amalgamation of sentient magic and spirits, and you can be sure there is magic here that is loyal to Slytherin. Not that you'd guess it, what with Dumbledore having had such a strong presence here for so long." He pulled a wicked face, managing to look gorgeously bored. "You can be sure -- Draco knows."

Ron turned his back on Zabini, having had quite enough. As well, he was in a full blown mental panic by now, knowing, as much as he wished it to be otherwise, that Blaise was likely speaking the truth. It had never occurred to him to think of Hogwarts and its innate capabilities in relation to anything other than Gryffindor House and, he realised, this would perhaps prove to be a fatal flaw.

"Here we go!" Madam Pomfrey had returned. She was backing into her office, balancing a tray with phials. Wordlessly, Blaise sprang to hold the door for her. "Thank you, Mr. Zabini," she said, smiling, and Ron hated the prig even more. The matron continued, "Fortunately, Severus restocked this particular antidote just last Autumn -- it doesn't keep, you see." She set the tray down and handed Ron and Blaise each a steaming beaker of a lovely, scarlet-coloured potion, that smelt of pomegranates. Gratefully, Ron raised the antidote to his lips; however, he grimaced the moment the concoction touched his tongue, for it was the most bitter swill he'd ever tasted.

"Just pop it down, Mr. Weasley," Madam Pomfrey said bracingly. "Have a go. That's right."

Blaise Zabini tipped his beaker back and swallowed the full dose of antidote in a single brave gulp. Ron was pinching his nose closed, trying to suppress his gag reflex, as Blaise handed Madam Pomfrey his empty beaker with a word of thanks. "Cheerio, Weasley!" Blaise said, lightly smacking the back of Ron's head as he passed by, on his way out. Ron's nose dipped into the frothy top of the potion and he had to scramble to avoid dropping the antidote altogether. "Brilliant mess you've made, ne c'est pas?"

Ron ignored the smarmy arsehole and he was grateful when the door shut, leaving him alone with Madam Pomfrey. Angrily, he tipped his beaker back and gulped the antidote.

"Where has Miss Granger gone?" the matron enquired.

"Dunno," Ron said, honestly. "Can I go?" He was determined to set things right with Hermione. It was a terrible misunderstanding, indeed. However, he would make things right between them, for he couldn't bear the thought that she might really have wished they had never met. And then, once things were right again between them, Ron knew, they would go after Harry. Because that was where they both belonged -- at Harry's side, until the very end.

- - -

Author's Notes

Title: The leaves of memory seemed to make, A mournful rustling in the dark. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December. J.M. Barrie - Courage - 1922

DISCLAIMER: While writing this chapter, I had meticulously documented the sources for the Runes information written into the story; however, due to a hard drive crash, I lost all my author's notes I had been keeping at the end of the chapter in my HTML document. The only reason I didn't lose the entire chapter is because I had posted it privately in Livejournal for my beta reader! Whew! Anyhow, I have done my best to accurately recreate my author's notes, and the direct explanations for the runes on Pansy's crystals, in both Slughorn and Hermione's diaglogue, is taken essentially verbatim from three sources: Rune Meanings at Suite 101, by Dan Gronitz, the Nordic Magic Healing website, and the Bewitching Ways website. Please bring any discrepancies or lack of any citation to my attention so I may note it immediately.

Endless Dream is written and performed by Conjure One.

Anyone familiar with A.A. Milne's Winnie the Pooh series will recognize the term "Heffalump" right away. Consider it sourced. Alas, there will be no Woozles until chapter twelve!

Thank you so much to Dan (Kerosinkanister) and Anne-Cara (Golden_D) for the spectacular beta'ing! Your assistance with and support of this story is truly wonderful and means a lot to me.

Dedication: For Callie, still.