Adjudication

Memory Is a Secret Handshake

Oh, this ghost will win my host
it's lingering
- in me
and around my neck
it taps on my head
while I'm asleep

Memory's a secret handshake
should
speak my language . . .

---

"There have been," Hermione read wearily, rubbing at her temples, "fourteen documented cases of memory retrieval in instances where a bottled or stored memory was inadvertently ingested by an unintended recipient, including, in one case, a Kneazle familiar. In only three instances were the memories retrieved wholly intact. Resistive Memory Retrieval -- or RMR -- is considered to be a form of coercion, and therefore may only be attempted by a licensed and government-sanctioned practitioner." She sighed and closed the book up, holding her place with one finger wedged within the pages. Immediately following the crystal phials incident at the Ministry, where Ron had managed to muck things up royally, Moody had formally contracted with Hermione for her to assist in the investigation, owing to her expertise in Charms and Spells. Ron had been beside himself with worry ever since. "Well, bugger all."

"It doesn't say retrieval of an ingested memory is impossible, though," Luna pointed out, rubbing Ron's back lovingly.

Ron was hunched miserable and weak over the toilet, and he gripped its porcelain sides tightly as he retched into the bowl. Hermione sat in the bathtub, impervious to the rather off-putting sound of Ron vomiting.

"Shh." Luna soothed him, stroking at his hair. "I'll fix you some ginger tea. Your Mum brought digestive biscuits, too. She thought I might need them."

"Bloody fucking luck, that," Ron managed finally, sweat dampening his face with a cold sheen. "Think a bloke could get a bit of privacy to sick up, yeah?" His voice echoed thinly within the bowl.

"Don't be silly, Ron," Hermione said. "Male pregnancy sickness isn't unusual at all. I'm positive we'll be able to find the answer to retrieving Parkinson's memories from you, if we just keep looking--"

"Brilliant," Ron groaned. He rested his forehead on the rim of the seat and breathed in deeply, trying to regroup. "Still'd rather not have an audience." He rose shakily and flipped the toilet lid down. He flushed and took a seat. Luna wet a facecloth and handed it over. Ron accepted it gratefully. "Whew," he said, mopping at his brow.

"Tea?" Luna asked, looking down at him.

"Not just yet." Ron's stomach was still clenching. "Just stay, yeah? Reckon we could use your help."

Luna sat on the edge of the tub. "Are you too cold?" she asked Hermione, running her fingers across the porcelain. "I used to revise in the bath in the Ravenclaw dorms, you know. It used to make Marietta Edgecombe very tetchy because I would stay in there for hours. Would you like a pillow?"

"Oh, no thank you." Hermione had half a dozen books propped around her. "I'm just fine. Sometimes my best ideas seem to occur when I'm in the bath or shower," she explained. "It's become a trick that I use -- I'm not sure if I'm just tricking myself, though, into thinking that doing research in the bath better prompts me."

"I could run the water if you'd like," Luna suggested, her eyes wide. "Maybe that would make the experience more authentic."

"No," Hermione deferred. "Thank you, but that won't be necessary."

"Don't fancy getting starkers in front of your pregnancy sick best mate and his wife?" Ron ribbed her, feeling slightly bolstered. "C'mon, Hermione, take it all off!"

"Stop being foul, Ron!" Hermione scolded, but she didn't try to hide the small smile playing at her lips. "No, this will do just fine. Let's just get on with it, shall we?" She opened the book again. "There are two things niggling at me. First, exactly who successfully retrieved those three fully recovered memories that had been ingested, and is he alive? Second, if so, where would we be able to call upon him or her for services?"

"Does it say anything?" Ron inquired.

"Not so far. It's all very vague."

"Why's it so bloody hard to get a memory back? Why, Harry got that memory about Tom Riddle from Slughorn back at Hogwarts, right? And we all know Dumbledore was able to show Harry a boatload of memories. They can't be that hard to retrieve."

"That was different," Luna pointed out. "In both instances, those memories were freely given to Harry by both Professors Slughorn and Dumbledore. I'd wager it's different trying to retrieve a memory that not only doesn't belong to the person who ingested it, but may be a protected memory to boot."

"A protected memory?" Ron asked quizzically.

"Well, yes," Hermione said. "I think Luna means a memory that might be exceptionally private."

"What's the difference?" Ron was still puzzled. "A memory's a memory. Shouldn't matter what kind it is!"

"I think it makes sense," Luna said. "Think about how hard it is to share something private with someone you trust, much less if you're forced to disclose something personal to a stranger. It seems logical that memories would be equally as complicated. Everyone has secrets."

"You don't," Ron said, not unkindly. Since the first day he'd met Luna he'd marveled regularly at her ability to broach any subject with any person, even, when they were younger, when it made the other person uncomfortable.

"Everyone has a secret they don't want everyone to know," Luna clarified. "I tell people I trust things, but I don't trust everyone."

"Luna's right," Hermione said, not looking up from her book. Her finger glided across the page as she read. "It's silly to fear words, and in the same way it's daft to fear what another person knows. Knowledge is power."

Ron rolled his eyes. "What a cliche," he groused, mimicking her in a lofty tone. "Knowledge is power . . . "

"Some might say that male pregnancy sickness is a cliche," said Hermione dryly. "Yet, here you are, in all your spewing glory."

"Got it. Thanks for that."

"I think it's just that humans are strange," Luna said, as she rose from the side of the tub. Gently, she took up rubbing Ron's shoulder again. He rested his forehead against her soft belly, right above the slight swell of her pregnancy. "They go to great lengths to protect their secrets. Sometimes I think secrets can become an entity unto themselves."

"Don't know about that," Ron said. A nervous pang of apprehension twisted in his gut and for the life of him he didn't know why. He quashed his trepidation, shaking it off as a strange side effect of the male pregnancy sickness.

"Ready for that tea now?" Luna asked.

"I'll get it," Ron said, standing. "You're the one who's really expecting. I'll bring you a cuppa, too. You want tea, Hermione?"

"Sure, thanks." Hermione didn't look up.

"'Kay." Ron shuffled from the bathroom, ignoring the indigestion burning like a fire in his belly. He reached the kitchen and set about conjuring tea. His stomach roiled and he let loose a seismic belch. "Ugh." He grimaced and hiked up his t-shirt and rubbed his belly, trying to soothe his guts back to normal as he scanned the cabinets for the digestive biscuits his Mum had apparently brought. "A-ha!" he said triumphantly, spotting them. He tucked them under his arm and continued rifling through the cabinets until he'd found the dried papaya that Luna said helped with pregnancy-related heartburn, and then he collected a jar of Molly's homemade pickles for good measure.

Ron thought as he waited for the tea to steep properly. His mind wandered relentlessly and visions of Pansy's emerald crystal phials rose and fell, like the endless blur of shuffling cards, and before he knew it the sick, nervous feeling intensified, dark and hard in the pit of his stomach. He feared what the phials might contain and he would make goddamned fucking sure that Hermione would not be allowed to even remotely participate in the documentation of Pansy's memories. He'd hidden so many things from Hermione that the very idea of her finding out even half of his secrets filled him with the blackest dread imaginable.

"The past is the past," he muttered to himself. The last grains of sand seeped through the tiny hourglass he used to time the tea, and as they fell Ron couldn't help but liken it to his own situation. He couldn't shake the dreadful feeling that his secrets were poised precariously, ready to fall through the slender neck of time and come shattering into the present. No good could come of it, he thought darkly, as he levitated the tea set and floated it carefully down the hallway . Not an ounce of bloody good it would ever do.

---

Later Ron and Luna lay in bed. Outside, the Muggle automobiles rumbled distantly, filling the darkened bedroom with a droning lull, which Ron found almost comforting.

"Will you rub my back?" Luna asked sleepily.

"Yeah." Ron turned on his side and slid a hand down the smooth plane of her back, nestling it at her waist. "Here?"

"Lower down, actually." She wiggled until he'd found the sloping curve just above her arse. "That's good. Mmm." Luna sighed contentedly. "Now tell me what's wrong."

"What'd'you mean?" He kneaded at her until she made a noise of protest. "Sorry."

"You're obviously upset," she said, and Ron could tell by her tone that her eyes were closed and she was fairly relaxed. "Is there something you don't want Hermione to know?"

"Like what?" asked Ron defensively. "Reckon it's just this he-pregnancy whatsit. It's common -- Hermione said."

"I noticed it started the day after the memory incident."

Ron thought back over three days that had passed since his unparalleled fuck-up. "Right. So?"

"So, you were fine until that happened. I'm suggesting perhaps your sickness doesn't have anything to do with the baby." Luna reached back and covered Ron's hand with her own, squeezing lightly. She tucked her hand under her chin and let him continue. "If there's something you'd like to talk about . . . "

He considered this. "Dunno," he said automatically. "Maybe?"

"What's the worst thing that could possibly come from this situation?"

Ron thought again. "I just don't know how I'd face Hermione," he admitted, after several moments. "She doesn't know."

"About you and Pansy?"

"Yeah."

"Are you sure she doesn't know?"

"How could she?"

"Well, I knew," Luna observed reasonably. "I never needed you to tell me."

"You're different."

"How's that?"

"'Cos," Ron said gruffly, rubbing brisk circles against her skin, "you read people. Hermione reads books."

"Don't sell her short, Ronald. I think she reads people just well as the next person. She just has a hard time talking directly about things that bother her."

"Yeah." Ron still had a scar under his chin from where Hermione's flock of canaries had mutilated him during their sixth year. "Talk about having kittens."

"Are you angry with Hermione?" Luna asked, rolling onto her back. She looked over her shoulder at him questioningly.

"Sheesh! Why would I be angry with her?" Ron extracted his hand from under her. He budged over toward her and laid his head on her shoulder, pulling her against him. He'd always liked how her hair felt against his cheek whenever they lay like this. "She's helping me -- us."

"Well, you seem a little short-tempered right now." Luna fell quiet and after several long minutes Ron began to wonder if she had fallen asleep again. However, she continued. "What's the worst thing you imagine happening?" she asked again. "What's scaring you to the point of having morning sickness?" She smiled down at him and poked his side lightly. "Hmm?"

"Dunno!" Ron realised he being a stubborn arse. "I just don't want her knowing!"

"Why not?"

"What good would it do for her to know?"

"Who's to say that she'll find out at all? Isn't it possible that Pansy didn't save any memories of you? I'm sure she wouldn't have wanted Draco to discover them."

Ron considered this. "Do you think she wouldn't have?"

"It's possible."

Ron loved the way Luna always managed to make his heart feel lighter. He took a deep breath, his ribs still sore from being sick earlier that night, and let his hand drift down to Luna's belly. "Reckon you've been thinking of names, yeah?" he said, caressing her lightly and not wanting to talk about Hermione or Pansy or any sodding memories of the past anymore. "Isn't that what you birds like to do?"

"Oh, yes!" Luna said cheerfully, touching her fingers to the top of his hand. "In fact, I read a name yesterday that I quite like: Sarsaparilla."

Ron boggled. "Sarspawhat'll?"

"Sarsaparilla," Luna said dreamily, with a contented sigh. "Isn't it a beautiful name?"

"Um, no? Are you mental?"

"I think it's lovely!"

"Isn't a Sarsaparilla a Muggle beverage that tastes like watered down licorice?"

"Oh, is it that?" Luna asked and Ron could just picture her brow furrowing.

"Reckon so. Dad brought a flat of it home when I was eight or so. Got it from his work. Strange stuff, that Sarsaparilla."

"Now I'm disappointed!" Luna clucked. "I thought it sounded French."

"Maybe you were thinking of 'Priscilla'?"

"Oh!" Luna brightened. "That's a thought! Do you like 'Priscilla'?"

"Dunno?"

"Didn't you suggest it?"

"Well, no ," Ron said. "I suggested that maybe you mixed up the name Priscilla with Sarsaparilla."

"We could go with a hyphenated name," Luna said slyly. "How about Priscilla-Sarsaparilla?"

"Priscilla-Sarsaparilla Weasley?" Ron laughed out loud. "Now you're just being barmy!"

"Maybe!" She laughed and snuggled against him. He draped his arm protectively over her and stared up at the ceiling, relatively contented as he waited for sleep to come. However, it wasn't long before Luna's breathing became an even, lulling hush and the sick feeling in Ron's belly returned and there, in the dark, he recognised that the inevitable tide of his past was threatening to crest.

He would have to be honest with Hermione. How he would manage to accomplish this was beyond him.

Ron couldn't recall feeling less a Gryffindor.

---

The next morning Ron marched straight from the Floo into Harry's office. Shutting the door behind him he pulled up a chair. "Blimey, Harry, I think I've got to tell Hermione about-- you know--" He gestured helplessly.

"What?" Harry asked.

"You know!" Ron prompted, frustrated. "About-- you know!"

"Actually, I don't," Harry said, raising an eyebrow.

Ron leaned forward. "About--" he glanced around furtively "--Parkinson," he hissed.

"Hermione already knows what happened with Parkinson."

Ron rolled his eyes. "I know that! I meant-- you know!"

"Ron, quit being a git. What are you going on about?"

Why was it so hard for him to talk about this? Ron took a deep breath. "I think I need to tell Hermione about, you know, Parkinson. And me." He coughed lightly, covering his mouth. "Her and me."

"Ah," said Harry, enlightened. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Why?"

"Those crystal phials!" Ron said exasperatedly. He thought it was rather obvious. "They're memories! Who knows what Parkinson's stashed away? Ruddy bint seemed to keep every damn thing she ever owned, judging by that room we found."

"Is Hermione assigned to cataloguing Parkinson's memories?" Harry asked reasonably.

"No," Ron admitted. "She's just been brought on to break whatever spells were used to mask the memories." Pansy's crystal phials, while easy to open, had proven to be a red herring of sorts. Ron and Moody had tested several of the memories lifted gently from their containers, but once placed into a pensieve, they had displayed only grey, smoky trails of fog when they had tried to view them. Pansy had masked her memories, and good.

"Does Moody know about you and Parkinson?"

"Well, yeah," Ron said, remembering Moody's outrage when the old Auror had sussed out there was more to Ron's interest in Pansy's case than met the eye. "I had to tell him about it. Not that I went into detail or whatever."

"I think you should go to him," Harry said firmly. "Explain the situation. Maybe he'll work something out."

"Bloody hell," Ron groaned, feeling suddenly queasy at the thought. "I thought that shite with Parkinson was long dead and buried."

"Guess it's not."

"Obviously, yeah." Ron felt glum, as if no matter what he did he was fodder ripe for general crucifixion. "'Spect you're right. I'll take it to Moody."

"Want me to come with you?"

"Naw," Ron said, standing. "I'll do it."

---

Hermione had spent three quarters of her life immersed in one text or another, so it was no trouble for her to keep reading through stinging, blurry eyes, and to ignore the scratchy rawness of exhaustion when it threatened her concentration. She had long ago mastered a plethora of charms and potions that would allow her to extend her reading abilities and stamina, although she refrained from utilising anything dangerous or addicting. Hermione wasn't the sort to let herself get caught up in the constraints of any insentient concoction or bit of magic. Hermione was ruthless when it came to research, and she couldn't recall offhand a recent time where she had failed to find whatever particular information she was seeking.

She was in her seventh year at the Ministry where she was the darling of the Spells and Charms division. Hermione had been the youngest person ever to be actively recruited by the very elite wing of the Ministry and was one of only three women employed in the department, which numbered seventy-five overall.

She loved her office and sometimes lamented even the idea of eventually moving on from her current duties, for her work quarters far superseded the fantasies she had as a younger girl when she had imagined herself as a working adult. Hermione's office was practically its own library. Bigger than her entire dorm room at Hogwarts had been, towering walnut bookshelves stuffed with books of all kinds lined every inch of her office walls. She had private Floo access, her own bathroom and a fireplace. Her desk rivaled Dumbledore's in size and there were heavy wooden worktables placed strategically about the room, where Hermione could spread out her work and multiple books and volumes for research. She had actually bothered to decorate, albeit it plainly, for she had known instantly upon being hired that this room would be more of a home than her small flat. Indeed, Hermione spent many nights on the small chesterfield to the side of the fireplace. She had even managed to employ a tightly secure magical portal for Crookshanks, so he could join her at his whim -- it reminded her of a more sophisticated version of the dog door her mother had installed in the kitchen in Hermione's childhood home. However, Hermione's cat portal was far superiour. Only Crookshanks could enter it; it was bonded to only him, which sometimes caused problems when the crotchety Kneazle became miffed for one reason or another and decided to hide out and sulk.

Hermione enjoyed most of her co-workers, forced herself to participate in an acrostics club to avoid being wholly consumed by work, and even had a shag buddy -- a bloke named Avery -- down the hall. She had friends -- Harry, Ron and Luna, of course, and also two of her fellow co-workers whom she sometimes caught a pint with after work. Hermione was content, although really too busy to consider whether her present contentedness would prove truly sufficient for the long haul.

At present, she was poring over a small, thin book on memory retrieval, which, for its size, was actually quite informative, and in doing so Hermione had been able to determine that memory retrieval -- forced memory retrieval -- was dangerous and could result in brain impairment, and that Ron's situation would indeed call for FMR because he was unaware of the contents of the memory and that would prohibit him from giving it over freely. Quite simply, Ron didn't know what he was looking for.

"Horrid bitch of a cow," Hermione groused, finally laying the book down.

"Quite."

Hermione looked up. Percy Weasley was considering her from the doorway. She always managed to forget he had been assigned to her department three months before. "I didn't hear you knock, sorry."

Percy shrugged. "I didn't knock. What're you working on?"

"Ugh." Hermione rolled her eyes as she gestured at the piles covering her desk. "Memory retrieval. Specifically, retrieving ingested memories." She looked at Percy expectantly. "Do you know anything about it?"

"A bit, maybe. Say, are you hungry? Fancy lunch?"

"At the cafeteria?"

"No," said Percy. "I'm over sandwiches. Thought I'd go for takeaway."

"Indian?"

"Sure. Doesn't matter." He looked tired. "Just got to get away from here for a bit."

Hermione had been at the office for over six hours and it was just now coming up on noon. "All right," she said, once again pushing aside her innate overdrive. "Tell me what you know about memory retrieval while I get my things together." She marked her page with a scrap of parchment and stood, her muscles aching slightly.

"You said the memory had been ingested?" Percy asked. "How so?"

"Through the nose. The memory was stored in a phial and Ron smelt it." Hermione tried not to sound openly exasperated. "He didn't know."

"Ah." The tone in Percy's voice suggested to Hermione that he felt suddenly awkward. "He must be mortified."

"As he should be, yes."

"Can't he just give back the memory?"

"No, because he didn't view it in a pensieve before ingesting it, so he doesn't know what the memory is."

"So, it'll be a forced retrieval, then?"

"Yes," Hermione said, buttoning up her coat, "which is a very wooly prospect. There's only one medi-wizard I've read of who's had any success at it and I haven't had a moment to try and locate him. Ready?" She doused the lights as she and Percy exited and made sure her office was locked. "I'm afraid he'll be dead. It seems like whenever we need to contact a source, they're either dead, completely senile or mad from being in Azkaban."

"Who is it?"

"A medi-wizard named Daniel Smith."

"A common name."

"Quite, yes."

"Say, I'm actually waiting on a delivery from Tunisia before I can get on with my current assignment," Percy noted. "I'll look into memory retrieval in the meantime. I doubt the parcel will arrive before the morning."

"That would be brilliant," Hermione said, guiltily relieved by the prospect. "Thank you!"

"Don't thank me," Percy said loftily as they stepped into the lift. "Just spot my lunch."

For some reason this struck Hermione as both amusing and decidedly un-Percylike. She smiled crookedly, her eyes brightening slightly. "Fair enough."

---

"Sir?" Ron felt his neck warm as Moody looked up at him from the file he was reading. He felt like an arse even having to even broach the subject of Pansy. "A moment?"

"All right," Moody said, gesturing to the empty chairs arranged in front of his desk. "But only that."

"Right." Ron seated himself. He figured he might as well just get on with it. "I wanted to talk with you about the Parkinson case," he said, after a deep breath. "I have a request."

Moody rolled his good eye. "Another one?"

"Yeah," Ron said sheepishly. "Another one."

"What is it?"

"I know you've contracted for Hermione to assist in the matter because of her spell-breaking experience," he said. "But, could you arrange it so she isn't the one to actually catalogue any of Pansy Parkinson's memories?"

Moody stared at Ron for a long moment. "I should've kept you off this case," he said, not unkindly.

"No, you shouldn't have," Ron said, mustering a spot of cool confidence. "'Cos it's gonna be me who sorts it all out in the end, and you know it. So, seeing as that's that, what about it, then? Can you keep Hermione away from the details?"

"Why should I?"

"Because she doesn't need to muck about in classified matters."

Moody snorted. "You're telling me that your adolescent pull with Pansy Parkinson qualifies as a 'classified matter'?" The ex-Auror shook his head, disbelieving. "Absurd!"

Okay, so perhaps the classified angle had been a bit of a stretch. "Sir, I'm really in a tight spot here, yeah?" Ron leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "Look, if I could go back and change things--" he swallowed, once again pushing down the wave of anxiety that took over his stomach "--I can't change things, all right? But, it would hurt Hermione." He was sure he was beet red by now, and he was at a loss as how to further articulate his desperation. Moody's gaze bore through him.

"So, this is to protect Hermione?"

"Yes, sir."

"And there's no other reason?"

Ron felt stripped. "Uh-- no?"

"You're sure about that?"

Ron held Moody eye as long as he could. His gut exploded with waves of cold dread. "Look, I'd just consider it a personal favour, yeah?"

"Oh, we're on personal favour status, then?"

"No!" Ron sputtered, frustrated. "I mean-- dunno?"

Moody laughed, obviously enjoying Ron's discomfort. "See here, Weasley. Truth is, there indeed might be classified information in Mrs. Malfoy's memories--" Ron found it very strange to hear Pansy referred to as Mrs. Malfoy "--and while Hermione's contract includes an impeccable non-disclosure clause, I suppose I can make some formal assignments in the matter."

Ron practically collapsed in relief. "Thank you," he said, trying not to gush. "Thank you, sir, so much--"

"Now, get the hell out of here," Moody barked gruffly, apparently without tolerance for sentiment. "Got things to do."

Ron felt as if an enormous weight had been lifted from his chest. "Right-o! Thanks agai--"

"Out!"

Ron went.

---

Percy and Hermione sat facing each other on either side of Hermione's desk, discarded cartons of half-eaten Indian food between them. Percy had connected into the vast encyclopaedic database of the WWN using a small handheld device that looked merely like a carved stone when not in use, and Hermione had collected ten years worth of archived neuromagic journal articles, in search of the apparently elusive mediwizard Daniel Smith.

"There's a lot of Daniel Smiths, that's for sure," Percy said, as information from the WWN scrolled by on his handheld. He kept the tip of his wand pressed within a small indentation at the top of the device.

"How will we ever narrow it down?"

"I'm into the Ministry of Employment archives--"

"You're cleared for that?" Hermione interrupted, slightly surprised. Employment information was difficult to access.

Percy looked sheepish. "Technically?"

"What do you mean?"

"When I moved on from working directly with the Minister," he said hurriedly, clearly not wanting to rehash those particular years, "I got on with the Department of Taxation and Revenue. I did audits, which was rather keen--"

"Auditing taxes was keen?" Hermione made a face.

"Well, yeah!" Percy said, reddening slightly. He pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. "Auditing may sound dull, but it was good in that it was exacting -- everything had to be just so, right? I ended up working in criminal auditing. You know, auditing taxes and accounting that was part of a criminal investigation." He shrugged. "Probably seems dull to most people, but I liked figuring out the numbers. It was like a puzzle, a challenge." Hermione noted the light excitement in Percy's voice as he talked about something that obviously had been satisfying to him. "Everything has its order, you know. It's finding the order that ends up becoming the game." Percy flicked a glance at her. "Anyway, that's how I got clearance for this archive. When I left that position to come here, they never rescinded my privileges."

Hermione was thinking about what Percy had just shared. "Spells are like that, too," she said. "There's always a way to break them down, to unlock their powers, their secrets. It's just figuring out how . . . " She touched the open page of the book resting against her thigh, almost unconsciously. "But it's brilliant you're using all your resources. Find anything yet?"

"I'm categorising by job type." Percy gestured with his chin toward the handheld. "It's still sorting."

A comfortable silence settled between them. Hermione found her place in her book and continued reading.

"Why'd you come to this department?" she asked, after several minutes had passed.

"What?" Percy looked behind himself, as if assuming Hermione were speaking to someone else. "I was ready for a change."

"Why?"

"Why? What do you mean why?"

"Why'd you need a change?" She had no idea why she felt compelled to ask, of all people, Percy Weasley intrusive questions. "From what you just said, it sounded like you were quite happy in auditing."

"I was."

"Then why the change?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"I don't know!" Hermione raised an eyebrow at him. "Why don't you want to say?"

"Why should I?" Percy peered at Hermione questioningly. "I mean, why would you care? Why'd you come to this department?"

Hermione shook her head. "Don't turn this around on me," she said.

Percy snorted slightly. "Ron had mentioned you were a bit mental."

Hermione snorted in return. "Only a bit?" she asked sarcastically. "I had no idea he was so generous in his description of me."

"I thought you and Ron got on?"

"We do!"

"Strange," Percy observed, smiling.

"What?" Hermione laughed, spreading her hands.

"Never mi-- Oh, it's finished." His face resumed its usual seriousness. Hermione leaned over the desk. "There's--" Percy counted to himself "--twenty-seven Daniel Smiths who work in medicine."

"Oh, well, twenty-seven isn't too bad."

"Not if the Daniel Smith we're looking for has paid his taxes," Percy said wryly.

---

Start at the beginning.

This mantra had repeated itself to Ron endlessly since the trio had searched Draco and Pansy's flat, and they had discovered the hidden room there. Now, he found himself standing just inside the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's official property and evidence room, which was really too massive to be called a mere room. It rivaled the Department of Mysteries in size -- the property room was cavernous and vast. Earlier, Ron had staffed the case with Harry and had reached the conclusion that he needed to step even further back than the Malfoys' London flat. He wanted to re-examine all the property taken from Draco and Pansy upon their arrest.

He signed in with the desk constable and filled out the property request form, showing his Ministry credentials.

"On the Malfoy case, are you?" the constable asked amiably, stamping Ron's forms.

"Yup."

"Any progress?"

"Oh, yeah," Ron lied. "Loads."

"Good to know. Will you be requiring an inventory room?"

"Yeah, reckon I will." Ron was reminded of Hermione's bottomless handbag seventh year. God only knew how much crap Parkinson would've had on her while on the run.

"Well, all's in order. This way." The officer held up the forms and an owl swooped down and snatched them up and flapped away. He motioned with his head and Ron fell in step behind him.

They walked for what seemed a very long time, weaving and ducking down teetering rows of shelves laden with box after box of evidence. He craned his neck as far as he could, but Ron wasn't able to spot the tops of the stacks, and it was dusty and smelled of must. By the time they reached the assigned inventory room, Ron had sneezed several times. They rounded the last corner and he spotted a small group of house elves marching into the room, each carrying several boxes. There was a great crashing noise.

"Oi!" the constable barked. "Mind you don't break anything! That's evidence there." He showed Ron in. "Here you go. When you've finished, pull that cord over there. It'll call me and I'll come and fetch you back."

"Brilliant," Ron said, surveying the pile of boxes as the house elves scurried wordlessly from the room. "Say, how late are you open?"

"Twenty-four hours. Take your time."

"Much obliged."

He stood for a moment longer, and then pulled the lone chair up to the plain steel table in the centre of the room. Picking the closest box, unceremoniously Ron broke the seal and dumped out the contents.

---

"How's it going?" Harry asked. He had let himself into the inventory room.

Ron looked up from the pile of business cards he was sorting. "Shitty. There's nothing here."

Harry scanned the room. "Looks like there's plenty of stuff here."

"Yeah, but nothing useful." Ron threw up his hands, frustrated. "There's nothing here out of the ordinary! Just what you'd expect to find on someone who's traveling or whatnot."

"So, you've gone through everything, and not a single thing stands out?"

"Not really. But, I keep going back to the idea that we're overlooking something simple," Ron said. "I know Parkinson-- I know how she--"

"How she what?" Harry prompted, and Ron felt Harry was doing his best to not be unkind.

Ron sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck sheepishly. "I just remember her rucksack, yeah? The way she kept it."

"Her rucksack? What about it?"

"It was pristine."

"Like, it was clean?"

"That too, but what I'm getting at is that she only had what she absolutely needed, except for just a few contingencies." He let himself drift back as he remembered the time spent in the cave those many years ago, and how he and Pansy had inventoried each other's rucksacks out of sheer boredom. "At school, her rucksack was bloody organised, mate. She squirreled away only the barest necessities." He paused. "But, she also had, like, a few things that were important, yeah? Like--" he wracked his brain, trying to remember "--a picture of Malfoy? And a book. Stuff like that." Ron gestured at the contents on the table. "It's the same thing here! Only the barest necessities. Blimey, they didn't even bother to take hardly anything when she and Malfoy went on the run."

"So, what they did take must be important," Harry finished.

"Exactly."

"All right." Harry took a seat at the table. He picked up Malfoy's passport and thumbed through it. "Talk it through."

"Oi! I bloody well hate that!"

"Too bad, do it anyway. Go on, pick up-- pick up anything! Start somewhere." He gestured at a small zippered pouch to Ron's left. "Like, that. What's that?"

Ron picked it up and shook it. "Fine. Cosmetics, I reckon." He unzipped the bag and spilled its contents. His guess had been correct and he selected a thin tube with a black lid. "Um, lip stuff?"

"What brand is it?"

Ron studied the tube. "Lumiere." He opened it and sniffed the wand. "Seems fine?" What the sod did he know about cosmetics anyway.

"Then put it back in the box," Harry instructed. "Next?"

Ron had unscrewed the lid from a plain glass jar. It was unmarked. He smelt the contents, which had a waxy appearance. "Smells like some kind of flower. Dunno which one." He shrugged. "No brand. It's unidentified." He didn't need Harry to coddle him further. He cleared away an area on the table and set the unknown substance down. Whipping out his notebook, he began a list, speaking under his breath as he wrote. "Jar of unknown substance. Possibly a cosmetic. Floral scented."

"I'll start on Malfoy's stuff."

"Thanks, Harry."

---

"Clothing," Harry dictated as Ron sat by his quill and notepad, "consists of one pair black leather loafers--" Harry checked the tongue "--Men's size eleven. A pair of black socks, apparently woolen. One pair of charcoal trousers, men's size thirty-four and a pair of men's shorts -- no bloody way am I checking the size of Malfoy's shorts. If it ends up being the crux of the entire case, then you can put it on me. There's a black jumper, too -- probably cashmere. Size large."

"How can you tell?" Ron asked. "A jumper's a jumper."

"And Malfoy is Malfoy," Harry said sardonically. "I'll likely wager."

"Was Malfoy," Ron clarified.

Harry shrugged. "Whatever. Anyhow, there's also a watch -- Merldiva brand -- and a ring which appears to be a wedding band, made of silver metal. I'm assuming platinum." He looked up at Ron. "That's it for Malfoy's stuff." They had inventoried Malfoy's traveling papers and passport and, now, his clothing. They had set only the passport aside, as Ron had suggested they verify the entry and exit stamps. The Malfoys, it seemed, had traveled frequently and to fairly exotic ports: Warsaw; Ukraine; Australia; São Paulo; Santorini . . . He didn't want to think about Santorini. He picked up Pansy's wallet.

"One wallet," Ron said, and then scratched his head. "Kinda long with a snap on the front-- um, think Luna's called this kind a clutch? Looks like . . . dunno, crocodilly or somesuch? Black." He popped the snap and turned it upside down and shook it.

"Don't do that," Harry said, reaching across the table and grasping Pansy's wallet mid-shake. "Just go through it easy, one part at a time."

"Right," Ron said, rolling his eyes. "Fine. Okay, lessee, a picture of Malfoy -- shocking, that -- another picture of Malfoy. What the--!" Pansy had clearly charmed her photos to fit into her slim wallet, for a parade of pictures unfurled, falling all the way down Ron's leg to rest on the floor. "Brilliant, a whole fucking gallery." As repulsive a prospect as it was, Ron took the time to examine each photograph individually, to search for any hidden meaning or clues in the pictures, or even in the order Pansy had placed them. Nothing stood out.

He moved on. "Business cards," he noted to Harry. "Gringotts." He flipped it over. "1008, 1009 and 1010. Vault numbers, clearly." He made a note of Pansy's vault numbers, although there would little hope of ever gaining access. Ron figured it might be useful information anyway. "Nils Hansson, Solicitor," the next card read. "SRWA Certified since 1944: Banking Law; Financial & Investment; Taxation; Wills & Probate. I remember this bloke from when Parkinson got kissed." Again, he copied down the information contained on the card, just in case. "Jonathan Meeker, Solicitor. SRWA Certified since 1989: Intellectual Property . . . " Ron scribbled notes on his pad. "I'll call 'em, not that they'll tell me anything." There was one more card. "Aeternus?" Ron turned the card over. There was nothing else, only the one word. "Say, Harry, ever hear of something called Aeturnus?"

"Nope."

"Sounds like a stupid, posh little restaurant," Ron said. "You know, the kind where they serve you a meal the size of a grape, and then charge you a hundred galleons."

"I'll take a curry any day," Harry said. "Let me check Malfoy's wallet. I was just getting to that anyway." He reached across the table and Ron put the Aeternus card in his small pile of things to further investigate. "He's got money -- like Parkinson -- and . . . yeah, here it is." Harry held up a plain white card. "Aeternus. Huh."

"Put it there-- holy fucking shite!" Ron boggled at his next discovery. "Merlin's arse, have you ever seen a ring like this?" He held up an exquisite emerald cut diamond ring set on a platinum band, and as he did its mate clinked onto the table, circling like a dropped knut might. It was clearly a wedding set. The second ring was encrusted in tiny diamonds. Ron held them in his palm, noting how they shone and blinked even in the dull, yellow light of a warehouse inventory room. Once again bitter thoughts filled his mind -- why was it that completely deplorable people always seemed to get the very best things?

- - -

I have a picture
pinned to my wall.
An image of you
and of me
and we're laughing and loving it all . . .

Look at our life now, tattered and torn.
We fuss and we fight
and delight
in the tears that we cry until dawn . . .

---

Ron sprinted across the Gryffindor common room and made a beeline for the stairs leading to the girls' dormitories, Madam Pomfrey's potion still bitter on his tongue. Detecting his presence, the stairs shifted, and then flattened into a steep slide. Ron scrabbled for the banister. Heaving, he managed to hook his feet sideways into the rails, and, one over the other, he began inching his way upward.

AH-OOO-GAH! The klaxons affixed to the stairs erupted, practically deafening Ron.

"SOD OFF!" he shouted at the klaxons.

"What are you doing?" Ginny came up to the foot of the staircase, hands on hips. She shook her head. "Have you gone completely mental?"

"Bloody well mind your own business!" He was fully concentrating on his goal. The klaxons continued wailing.

"You're really going to catch it for this," Ginny said. "You'll be getting a Howler for sure."

"Who gives a shite!" His foot slipped and Ron faceplanted onto the hard slide. He managed to grab a rail before sliding clean off the ruddy thing and managed to hold his position. Slowly, he heaved himself forward, inch by inch, until finally he was grasping the post at the top of the stairs and hoisted himself off the slide. As he stood, two suits of armour stepped sideways from their position guarding the corridor to the dormitories. Their long axes clunked simultaneously as they blocked the entrance and Ron heard the rusty creaking of metal as the two small cannons at their feet took aim, right at his conk.

"Step aside!" Ron yelled. "Don't care what'll--" He grabbed one of the axes. Using all his strength, he managed to push it aside. The suit of armour turned its head. With a loud bang, a tremendous royal blue cloud exploded from its cannon, covering Ron from head to foot. "What the sod?" The blue powder filled his lungs. Ron hacked and wheezed.

"Oh, didn't you know about the exploding dye?" Ginny called up from below, clearly amused. "It's new this year."

"JUST DIE!" Ron bellowed. A second coughing attack doubled him over; however, he was too angry and panicked to give in. "Bloody well don't care!" He pushed the second axe out of the way and was shortly enveloped by a second bomb of coloured powder, this time red. Holding his breath, he dashed through the cloud, hoping that the girls' dormitories were structured just like the boys' were, and that rooms were assigned consecutively by year. Toward the end of the hall, he burst into a room. "HERMIONE?!"

He surprised Romilda Vane, who was standing at her bedside holding a pile of books. She screamed at the top of her lungs and the books clattered to the floor. Instinctively, she grabbed her duvet and clutched it to her chest, even though she was fully dressed. "Weasley!" she hissed, her dark eyes narrowing at him. "What are you doing?"

"Which room is Hermione's?" Ron panted from the exertion of it all.

"You might apologize!"

"Right. Sorry. Whatever. Where's Hermione's room?"

"Why are you purple?"

"Wha--? Stuff it, Vane!" Ron said, his panic practically exploding. "TELL ME WHERE HERMIONE'S ROOM IS!" To emphasise his point, he took a step forward and pulled what he hoped was a very menacing glare.

"I can't wait to hear the Howler for this one," Romilda sniffed. Sulkily she pointed. "It's the second-to-last door on the right. There'll be a bouquet of bluebells in a little vase, stuck to the door. I'm telling McGonagall about this, by the way. You should know."

But Ron was already out the door. He located the bluebells in a second and flung the door open. "Hermione?" He rushed in.

Hermione was on her bed sobbing, Lavender and Parvati hovering at either side. "GET OUT!" She bawled, completely out of control. "DON'T EVER TALK TO ME AGAIN!"

"I'm sorry!" Ron stalked into the room, not caring that there was an audience. "Bloody hell, Hermione, you've got to believe me -- I didn't-- It wasn't intentional-- Look, Parkinson had some kind of ruddy love bug!" He didn't know where to go. Helpless, he stood at the foot of her bed.

"So it's true, then," Lavender said, her tone biting. "You and Parkinson? How gross!"

"Shut up, Lavender!" Ron spat. It was only his friendship with Seamus that kept him from spewing out who was more vile, Lavender or Pansy. "S'none of your fecking business!"

"Make him leave!" Hermione was crying so hard she couldn't control her voice and her words came out like strange hiccups.

"You should go!" Lavender said witheringly. "I think it would be best for all concerned."

"Shut up," Ron said again, moving forward and pointing an accusing finger at Lavender. "I already said it's none--"

Parvati stood, interjecting, "Ron! Get a hold of yourself. Look, maybe--"

"I'M NOT GOING ANY-BLOODY-WHERE!" he roared, interrupting Parvati's gentle attempt at de-escalation. "She's won't hear me!"

"Oh, she's heard plenty! We all have," Lavender said. Ron thought he detected a note of glee. Lavender mocked him. "Oh, Pansy, let me touch your hair, it's so beautiful! Kiss me, Pansy! Where can we go?" Her eyes narrowed. "Wouldn't have thought you had it in you, Won Won . . . "

Ron shook his finger at her. "That is not what happen--"

"THAT IS WHAT HAPPENED!" Hermione roared, rising suddenly. She launched herself at him from the bed, a sobbing, furious mess. Savagely, she smacked Ron on the chest, shoving him so hard he stumbled backward. "Don't lie to me, on top of everything else!"

Ron caught up her hands. "Hermione, please--" He winced as she snatched them away, recoiling from his touch. "Listen to me--"

"We're leaving, by the way." Parvati stood and firmly hauled Lavender to her feet. "Hermione, we'll be just outside the door."

Lavender protested. "But, Hermione might need--"

"We're leaving! Come on, say bye-bye now."

"But--"

Ron barely heard the door shut behind them. He tried again to take Hermione's hand. "Hermione! I swear, it isn't what you think, and me and Parkinson -- not that there's any me and Parkinson --" He didn't know how to say it. "Look, there's nothing-- She doesn't matter -- anyway, she's a right mean, bitchy berk --"

"DON'T," Hermione hissed. She was looked at him with abject loathing, her face blotchy and swollen, her eyes red. "Don't . . . Don't lie."

"I'm not," Ron said weakly, daring to meet her gaze. He couldn't stand to hold it, though, and guiltily he looked away.

"Don't lie!" Hermione hiccupped, still crying. "Look me in the eye and tell me you don't fancy her!"

"I bloody well don't!" Ron said fiercely, feeling that this was not exactly lying. He didn't like Pansy. Not really.

"But you have some kind of feelings for her?" It was a question, tentative and dreadful.

"I--" The words died on his lips and the ensuing silence burgeoned between them as Ron tried to figure out which would be worse: losing Hermione completely or lying to her. He looked down into her sad, hateful face and suddenly his own eyes stung, for he felt at that moment a shattering inside his heart. He was going to lose. "It's . . . complicated?" Ron looked at Hermione weakly. "I'm-- I'm not lying."

"Complicated?" She looked at him for a very long time. "It doesn't matter," she said finally, "because this is how it's going to be." She withdrew and sat wearily back onto her bed. "We'll make it to the end of this school year. We'll help Harry. And then we'll be done."

"That's right! We'll see Harry through, and then you and me'll--" A glimmer of hope had sparked.

Hermione's eyes snapped angrily. "There is no 'you and me'," she said gravely. "Let's just get that straight."

"But--"

"No." She was stone cold.

Ron's insides turned to ice.

"I want you to leave now," Hermione said. Her hands fluttered aimlessly, the tips of her fingers hovering at her bottom lip. Finally, she folded her hands and laid them almost primly in her lap. Ron could see the silent fall of tears dripping from the end of her nose, dotting her skirt. "Just go!"

It was a terrible thing, but what was there to do?

Ron went.

--

A week later, the library was practically empty except for a group of third years researching a Transfiguration project, and even though there was little possibility of intrusion, Pansy Parkinson had found the table in the furthest part of the library, in the most dimly lit, dusty corner. Her books were arranged in a perfect row in front of her, however, she hadn't turned a single page in the entire four hours she'd been there. She stared at the table, downcast.

"Cara?"

Startled, Pansy looked up. "I suppose you've come to say 'I told you so'," she said.

Blaise looked at her sharply. "Well," he said slowly, "I did."

"Good on you, then!" She huffed into herself, folding her arms crossly. Her foot tapped a silent circle as she feigned great interest in the ceiling.

"How does it feel?" Blaise asked bitingly.

"How does what feel?"

"You, who have always gotten everything you've ever wanted, how does it feel to lose?"

Pansy looked at him then, wounded. "Blaise?"

Blaise stared at her for a long moment before pulling out a chair and taking a seat. "You lost," he reiterated, letting his fingertips rest on the table top. "Pansy, you can't have everything your way. You can't have everything you want."

"I don't want him!" Pansy rasped, smacking the table forcefully. "I don't!"

"Tell me you didn't pull with him, then."

Pansy stared at Blaise silently.

"Go on, cara," Blaise said. Anyone eavesdropping might have thought him vicious. "Tell me you didn't shag Weasley."

Her voice was barely audible. "I can't . . . "

"Can't what?"

"I can't tell you that I . . . didn't." She looked at him fiercely then and tilted her head haughtily. "Not that it's any of your business." The shaky undertone belied her defensiveness.

"Mon Dieu, Pansy, why?" Blaise was genuinely incredulous.

"I don't know!"

"Bullshite," Blaise growled. "You just wanted to. And you thought you wouldn't get caught. Well, you did." Pansy held his gaze, but said nothing. Blaise thought she had never looked more unsightly. Her eyes were red and swollen. He guessed she might not have slept in days. He softened his tone slightly. "You got caught."

"Got it, thanks."

"Why'd you do it?" Blaise persisted.

"I don't know!" Pansy rolled her eyes. She continued shortly, "Okay, maybe-- I really can't be sure -- but when we were in the cave--"

"When you were lost?"

"Yes." Pansy's face relaxed a bit and Blaise assumed she was remembering that week months ago.

"What happened in the cave?" Blaise asked. "Did you and him--"

"No!" Pansy said, cutting him off. "God, no. It's just . . . "

"It's just what?"

"It's just that there, in the cave . . . it was just him. And me." Her dark eyes were troubled. "Understand?"

"Not really," Blaise said, not bothering to hide his contempt. "So, what, you fell in love? How quaint."

"No, we did not fall in-- God, Blaise, are you high or something?" Pansy glared. "Don't be stupid -- I would never love Ron Weasley!"

"You love Draco."

Pain dulled her eyes. "Always," she said, her voice breaking.

"Funny way of showing it."

Her shoulders slumped. "I suppose everyone thinks I'm a horrible bitch. They all hate me, don't they?"

"Of course everyone hates you." Blaise couldn't resist. "But you already knew that."

She rolled her eyes again. "Not them," she said. "You know -- everyone that matters."

"Pansy," Blaise said patiently. He reached across the table, meeting her eyes. She hesitated, but then he felt the cool grasp of her small hand. "No-one in Slytherin hates you. Why would they care? It's between you and Draco." He raised an eyebrow. "Draco probably hates you, though."

"Yeah, no shite," she said, looking away. Blaise could see she was trying not to cry. "What a right royal mess."

"Cara, how'd you get the Timiza Ngoa virus?" He smirked. "As that insufferable twat Granger said, a disease of the sexual kind."

"Everyone knows that Timiza Ngoa is spread by sneezing!" Pansy objected, her cheeks flushing. "I don't even know. Probably bloody King's Cross."

"Maybe you'll start an epidemic."

"Brilliant," she said sarcastically, tightening her grip on Blaise's hand.

They sat in silence for quite a long time, until Madam Pince finally found them at closing time and shooed them away, back to the dungeons.

---

Blaise Zabini had been right. No-one much cared that Ron Weasley and Pansy Parkinson had been caught snogging by Hermione Granger in Draco Malfoy's luxury tent, in Madam Pomfrey's surgery. Of far greater interest was the disappearance of Harry Potter. Hogwarts was abuzz with speculation.

I heard Potter's in St. Mungo's! Tried to off himself

No, he's locked himself in his vault at Gringotts so You-Know-Who won't find him and kill him.

McGonagall's transfigured him into a vase -- they've stashed him in a trophy case in the headmaster's office.

Potter's a Death Eater now! If you can't beat 'em . . .

"No, what really happened," Ron overheard Terry Boot whispering in a conspiratorial tone to a group clustered around him at the Ravenclaw table, "is this: Potter was abducted by magical beings from another galaxy! They came down from the sky in special flying machines and grabbed him right up! Right there, in Hagrid's pumpkin patch!"

"Ooo," someone said breathlessly, "but, why?"

"Simple," Terry said seriously. Ron stopped short, fuming at the absurdity of it all. "They want to probity-probe him--"

"Oi, Boot!" Ron exclaimed, feeling his blood boil. This shite was ruddy nonsense, it was -- it had to stop. "Leave off already! You don't know what the hell you're going on about. Harry's not getting probity-probed! For sod's sake."

"Hey," Terry said, recalcitrant. "It's been known to happen."

"Yeah, well, not to Harry, and I'll thank you to keep your bloody dumb speculation to yourself!"

By far it had been the worst ten days of Ron's life. Not only was he dead to Hermione, but his hands and face and hair were a still a repugnant, muted shade of purple, owing to the exploding dye. As a final insult, somehow the klaxons had managed a hex. Without warning -- and not infrequently, either -- a booming AH-OOO-GAH! fog-horned loudly from his mouth, disrupting his classes, his roommates sleep, the Gryffindor common room and the Great Hall, disrupting everything, everywhere. He'd earned three detentions from Snape alone. He'd been to Madam Pomfrey twice, and had begged for her assistance. However, the matron had flat refused.

"Well, I could cure you, Mr. Weasley. But, I shan't."

"Why not?" Ron had groaned. He earned a severe look.

"I don't make it my business to correct natural consequences," Madam Pomfrey had explained sternly. "It'll go away in time. You're in no physical danger."

"Brilliant." He'd slunk from the hospital.

And now, here he was on prefect rounds.

With Pansy.

And Catherine.

"Guess what I have?" little Catherine said slyly, shadowing her cousin so closely that she practically nipped Pansy's heels with each step.

"Don't care," Pansy said, in a clipped tone. "Bugger off. Don't you have something else you could be doing?"

"Nope!" Catherine practically skipped.

Ron trailed behind them as unobtrusively as possible. He and Pansy hadn't had a single word since the incident in hospital. He'd expected a load of ballyhoo from his classmates, especially in Herbology where he and Pansy were still partnered. However, what had happened was the exact opposite. In Herbology, the Gryffindors and the Slytherins ignored each other so thoroughly that it garnered several comments from Madam Sprout. How lovely you all are, she had said. Why, this class has displayed remarkable improvement! Ron and Hermione still shared the same table, but they might as well not have. She didn't speak to him and he didn't dare speak to her, and Harry's absence was like a knife to the heart. Ron never looked behind him, back to where the Slytherins sat, but from what he could gather Pansy was sitting with her pack of vile girlfriends and Malfoy sat with Crabbe, Goyle and Zabini.

"Did you happen to read the Daily Prophet today?" Catherine asked, clearly hoping that Pansy had not.

"I haven't the time," Pansy answered, using her wand to poke behind a hanging tapestry. A flock of golden geese wearing bonnets honked their way out from a hidden alcove there and flapped and squawked down the corridor. "Eww," she sniffed, wrinkling her nose as she inspected the floor. "Weasley, clean that up."

Ron looked. There must have been a hundred little green marks. He wouldn't let her get to him, though. Wouldn't let her win. "Scourgify," he said firmly, and he was satisfied when the floor came out sparkling. "Right then."

"Anyway, there was the most fascinating advertisement in the Prophet today," Catherine continued. Ron had the sneaking suspicion that she wasn't talking about Sleakeazy or Honeydukes. "It was a personal!"

"Merlin, who cares?" Pansy sneered.

"Lots of girls, you should know," Catherine said loftily. "I don't have the paper with me, but it was such a fantastic advert, that I memorised it!" She cleared her throat. "SEEKING ONE GIRLFRIEND! MAY NOT BE HORRIBLE, LYING OR DECEPTIVE--"

"Shut up, Catherine!" Pansy snapped.

"--The successful applicant will appreciate the niceties in life, but will not like, enjoy or covet the following: travel; underage alcohol consumption; luxury wilderness expeditions; mud wrestling on the pitch after a Quidditch match; the fine art of Victorian corsetry--"

"Corsa-what-try?" Ron asked, confused. "What's that?"

"Shut up!"

"Sod off!"

All Ron knew about corsets were that they were old-fashioned knickers or somesuch, and that his great-great auntie Mabel had fancied them as part of her wardrobe, and that Molly had said they were made out of whale ribs. "Stupid girly stuff," he muttered, trailing his wand along the stone wall. He didn't bother lifting any tapestries.

"--may not like to wear faery wings or aprons. Must be Slytherin. Must be female. The successful applicant will force the subject of politics into every conversation, is hopeless at Potions and Runes--"

"What the sod is this?" Ron interjected, not caring if he were subjected to further verbal abuse. "That's the barmiest crap I've ever heard!"

Catherine smirked. "I already said -- it's a personal advert." Pansy had stalked ahead, presumably to get away from her horrid cousin. Catherine promptly chased after her. "Wait, Pansy! There's more!" She continued to recite, singsonging, "The successful applicant shall not love Santorini or Greece and shall not have any inclination to fold socks. Interested parties are advised that I own over one-hundred pairs of socks. All black, some wool, some cotton. I do not prefer blend. My new girlfriend may not hate chocolate and may not fancy butterscotch--"

Pansy stopped short; Ron slammed into her back. "Back off, Weasel!" She threw a glare over her shoulder at him. Turning fully, she advanced on Catherine, pulling her wand. "Leave off, I said!"

Catherine snorted derisively. "Everyone's talking about it, you know. Draco's advert." She started in again, her voice low and mean. "The successful applicant shall disdain ginger-headed twats and their kind and shall most definitely be free from disease and mental defect--" Catherine cocked her head, so very like Pansy herself "--I guess that excludes you."

"What is it with you?" Pansy peered at her cousin, as if she were pieces of a puzzle suddenly coming together.

Catherine held Pansy's gaze. "With me? Nothing's wrong with me. Oh, but one last thing. Under no circumstances shall the successful candidate smell of lemon verbena . . ."

"Well," Pansy drawled coolly, "I guess that excludes you, seeing as you typically smell of sick."

"I'm not the one who's sick." Catherine pointed at Ron. "Who's shagging that Mudblood-loving, ugly-arsed git?" Ron opened his mouth to object.

"AH-OOO-GAH!" Livid, he stomped his foot, smacking the wall. "God-bloody-damnit! Fecking klaxon--"

But neither Pansy nor Catherine paid him any mind. Pansy had lifted her wand until it was practically digging into Catherine's chin; the younger girl didn't flinch. "How could you do that to Draco?" Catherine asked. "Any girl'd be better than you!"

"No," Pansy said evenly. Her eyes were dull, the colour of coal.

"Even I'd be better than you." Catherine hoisted her chin slightly. "I would love him better!"

Ron was completely transfixed by this exchange. Something was happening here, but bloody hell if he knew what.

Pansy laughed mirthlessly, and then leaned down. "No-one will ever love you, little cousin. You will never love anyone. Not really." Of all the years Ron had known of Pansy, he couldn't recall a time he had heard her speak more cruelly -- and that was saying something.

"Jesus, Parkinson--" he began. However, Catherine had already launched herself at Pansy.

Pansy was faster. She incanted a spell Ron had never heard before and there was a tremendous bang. Trails of dust shook from the ceiling and the corridor filled with black smoke, and then there was a thin, high shriek.

Ron was coughing as he tried to wave away the smoke. He could make out Pansy's silhouette through the cloud, but her features were obscured. She stood there unmoving, her wand hanging limply from her right hand. "Parkinson?" he sputtered, rubbing at his eyes. "What'd you do?" He stomped through the smoke and when she didn't respond he poked her sharply in the shoulder. "What'd you do to her? She's just-- well, she's a right little wanker-- Shite, Parkinson, she's just a kid!"

"You don't know anything."

"I know-- did you fucking hurt her?" He wanted to take her shoulders, to shake her. However, he couldn't bring himself to touch her.

"Don't worry, Weasley," Pansy said finally, stepping away. Ron fought his way out of the smoky cloud hanging in the hall and trailed her. "It was only a banishing charm."

"Some charm." He cleared his throat several times, trying to get rid of the acrid taste in his mouth.

"It's useful for ghosts, pests, vermin," she said, almost lightly. "I more than thought it appropriate."

"That's nice of you to consider your own cousin to be vermin," Ron said, rolling his eyes. "Your family must be right cosy." They fell silent then, not even bothering to pretend they were conducting themselves adequately as prefects. "Er--"

"What?"

"It's just that-- Blimey, did Malfoy really take out an advert in the Daily Prophet? I mean-- is he mental or something? I mean, I know he's mental, but I--"

She huffed against the wall, planting her foot against the stone. "I don't want to talk about it." She crossed her arms, avoiding his gaze.

"So he really did do that." If it had been anyone other than Pansy, Ron might have said something nice. Or attempted to. He wasn't great at it. He leaned against the wall, towering over her and she looked up at him, and even though he hated her -- he did! -- he recognised that at this moment only they understood their tremendous loss. Theirs was a camaraderie of loneliness. Ron found himself able to touch her shoulder, and suddenly her face was very close to his. He could smell her.

"What are you doing?" she asked, quite faintly.

"Dunno?" Awkwardly, he moved his hand up and sort of skimmed his fingers against her neck. Her eyes closed and she tilted her head up and-- "AH-OOO-GAH!"

"Bloody hell!" Pansy grumped, miffed. She shoved him away and lit off down the hall, walking briskly toward the stairwell to the dungeons.

Ron didn't bother to go after her, but rather he stood in the hazy, dimly lit corridor and watched her retreating figure as a cold, creeping sense of anguish filled him. He didn't long for her -- he longed for before.

Finally she was gone.

My next girlfriend shall not smell of lemon verbena . . .

---

Author's Notes

The song Language is written and performed by Scott Matthews.

The song Hold Me Now is written by Tom Bailey and performed by the Thompson Twins.