Harry Potter and His New Standards

Chapter 34--The Switch

Please, love, let's make no impartial vow

Let all fall away

That's not crucial now

I want a brave love, one that makes me weak in the knees

I want a crazy, crazy love

One that makes me come undone at the seams

)()()(

With the recommencement of term after the holidays, Harry found himself standing upon a new stepping stone for stress. He had his fill of balancing schoolwork, social events, and dicey relationships; however, an intermission from all this was nowhere in sight.

It all began directly following his exodus from the infirmary on the last day of term, all healed from his round with Riddle the evening before. Professor Dumbledore met him outside the hospital wing doors, smiling mildly. He greeted him with a "Good afternoon, Harry," and asked whether he had practiced Occlumency as requested. He had not, of course; in fact, Harry had not remembered that he was supposed to meet the headmaster in his office that morning until that precise moment.

Giving him a silent guilt trip, Dumbledore handed Harry an enormous volume on novitiate Occlumency. "With the introduction of Supantoris studies, this semester is going to take its toll on you, Harry. This is especially considering your unique ability, for which you will be holding extra meetings with Professor McGonagall, I'm certain," he had stated. "This book should lead you through the steps of becoming a low-level Occlumens. Study at your own pace; you may come to me with questions. Return the book to me when you feel you are ready. This might be a simpler route for I, too, have a full plate this term."

The Headmaster offered little advice about said "unique ability," nor did he leave a word of comfort or encouragement. He neglected to mention Harry's trip to the hospital wing and the lurking presence of Tom Riddle, as well.

Things did not improve when, the next day, Harry was reminded of another engagement he had forgotten. After lunch, Cho Chang approached him with a coquettish smile and a "Hi, Harry!" that put in mind a date he had promised her before the holidays.

They scheduled it for the middle of February.

After his very first Supantoris-based Transfiguration class of the new year, in which a few Animagus volunteers were transformed into an animal of choice (here, the class witnessed firsthand that sprouting full-grown wings does not mean one knows how to fly), Harry was pulled aside by Professor McGonagall to discuss his Supantoris.

"You will require more than the standard set of individual lessons," she had informed him. "This is an ability that is not easily learned. Holding fire in one's hand and transmuting oneself into a different person are two entirely different things."

"But I don't have to learn it," was his response. "Those final three Newts are optional, right?"

McGonagall had then chosen to tell Harry that being an Adopter was a skill worth having. The dangers of it were cancelled by how it could function as a safety blanket against the threat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, which was just what Harry Potter required when he was forced to face the wizarding world as an adult.

Their first private tutoring was yet to be appointed a time and date, but there was no doubt that it would not slip his Head of House's mind.

As the weeks wore on, schoolwork came in greater and greater loads. Academi-nuts like Hermione were keeping up fine, even basking in it; Harry, on the other hand, was struggling to finish the homework from even a single subject per evening. Hermione was pushing for her, Harry, and Ron to get to work on re-creating the Puppet's Wine that had been stolen from Snape and identified. This way, she told them, they could work on finding an antidote.

"Or test it out on the first years," Ron had added jubilantly.

Surprisingly, Hermione did not approve of this idea, and she subsequently let the topic alone. Harry had already decided to reserve free time for schoolwork before taking time to rescue the wizarding world from a liquid foe. What were the chances that a gaggle of school-kids could find the antidote to a deadly concoction originally composed by Morgan le Fay, anyway?

Ginny had not spoken to Harry for some time. She had wandered around like a zombie for a week or two, clearly running off even less sleep than the rest of them. Then, he had noticed a change. Her posture straightened, her eyes lit up, and her smile reappeared. Harry had been well aware that the parasite had not been lifted, but it appeared otherwise. Later, he was apprised that Ginny had started mixing Antipsychotic Potions into her orange juice in the mornings and taking a rue caplet twice a day. This was some relief; however, he so rarely spoke with Ginny now that he imagined he did not sense even half the weight being lifted.

Holly, on the other hand, did. She had taken to eating a large lunch and skipping dinner to sleep. She slept from the close of classes that afternoon until about eight or nine in the evening, when she would roll out of bed and start on her homework. She would sneak off with Harry's Invisibility Cloak and sit in the fifth year girls' dormitory (her presence known only to Ginny) studying for class and watching for Tom until the girls awoke the following morning. The routine was relentless, and it left her dead on her feet. When Ginny started with her treatment, it was seen just as clearly on Holly. The circles beneath her eyes lightened, her ashen skin came back to life, and she spent a great deal more time smiling.

This, however, did not steal the stress concerning his godsister from Harry's shoulders. Most of the fresh smiles he saw she wore in the presence of none other than Draco Malfoy. She scheduled every available moment of her time to hover at his side, and Harry probably would not notice if the gruesome twosome had switched bodies.

No... he would not have a clue.

)()()(

There was a strangled grunt from the other side of the four-poster.

"Malfoy?" Holly said, securing the final button of his slacks and letting them slip to her hips, where the waist of the trousers rested contently. "Malfoy, are you okay?"

"These are the strangest trousers, Black... what did you call these?"

"Jeans, Malfoy; they're very common. I don't know where you've been, 'cause just as many witches and wizards wear them as Muggles." She propelled her sports bra over the four-poster with a slingshot motion involving two fingers and a thumb, then shrugged his white button-up onto her arms and over her shoulders.

"Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers, more like. And that landed on my head, by the way."

"You liked it."

"I did." There was a sigh followed by the sound of a zipper. "Anyway--I can't see how you can stand them, these jeans," replied Draco darkly. "They're loose all over and tighter than a virgin around the waist."

She grimaced. Those were her best-fitting jeans... though lately they had been feeling a little tight around her thighs. "Never use the phrase 'tighter than a virgin' again," she said through her embarrassment. "Or at least not while pretending to be me; I don't want to sound like a skank."

"Since when aren't you a skank, Black?"

Holly pulled Draco's gray vest over her head and responded, "Since... I'm just not." She extracted her hair out from beneath his collar.

"Right." After the sound of bare feet scuffing against the dormitory floor he said, "These knickers-" she heard the noise that suggested Draco was snapping elastic against his skin, "beg to differ."

Holly fought off the image of a boy in her underwear and stated, "They're cotton."

"They're black."

Through her teeth, she parried, "Well, you're racist."

"What?"

She shuffled to the foot of the bed and announced, "I'm done."

He grunted. "I'm stuck in your kiddy brassiere and I cannot button these fucking trousers." He met her at the foot of the bed nonetheless and commanded, "Help me."

Holly stopped a moment to laugh; all the haughty elegance Draco possessed evaporated when he was wearing unbuttoned blue jeans and had a sports bra rolled up to his armpits which he was struggling to fix. "Turn around," she told him, stepping forward.

He did as he was told, and she succeeded in unrolling the fabric. "Merlin... this thing scarcely covers my nipples!" He scowled and yanked downward on the bra and inquired, "What's the point?"

"Just put on my T-shirt and be glad I didn't wear a normal bra today." Draco pulled on the tee, which was skin-tight over what part of his upper-half it covered, and his frown deepened.

Again, Holly swallowed the impulse to laugh, and Draco deadpanned, "This is nice," through what seemed to be a lack of oxygen.

"The entire reason I wore pink today was to see you in it, girlfriend."

He made an ineffectual effort to pull the material over his lower abdomen and growled, "Just give me your hairbrush." She did. "And you're sure all of this is yours?"

"Yep." He handed her a little sack with bits of pale blond hair that he had saved from the haircut he had had a fortnight previous. She added three platinum hairs to the mud-like potion in the beaker that she had brought from her dormitory, which caused the substance to hiss and froth violently. When the reaction had finished, she was left with a beakerful of beige muck. The butterflies in her stomach turned to plumb dread. "Yum," she murmured, throat constricting at the thought of drinking the potion.

She looked up. Draco was examining the potion in his beaker, which was as black as night and strongly resembled hot tar.

"I'm getting ulcers just thinking about how horrible this could be," she told him. "We should definitely just... get it over with."

"I can't wait to grow myself a pair of breasts, however unremarkable yours may be." He smiled impishly and raised his beaker as she reflexively covered her chest with her forearm. "Cheers."

She touched the rim of her beaker to his and smiled apprehensively. Draco put the container to his lips and tilted his head back without hesitation, taking it down in two gulps. Holly, immediately after, pinched her nose and did the same.

Instantaneously her stomach writhed, working fiercely as the leaden dread it had previously been filled with seemed to transform into hundreds of wriggling worms. She bent double, but before 'upchuck reflex' could fully register, the sensation of fiery heat shot through her--radiating from her stomach and reaching to the tips of her fingers and toes. The heat boiled and rose from her veins to the surface of her skin, which seemed to melt like wax as things began growing and reforming. The pain was incredible--she dropped to her knees, and then to all fours, breathing heavily. Before her, her hands broadened and her fingers lengthened. Her arms stretched from her elbows out, her wrists and forearms widening considerably.

Holly slid into a groveling position and gasped as her upper body seemed to burst--expanding outward where once it had dipped. Her hips receded, her feet grew, and her neck broadened. She felt a prickling sensation along her chin and jaw line as a little late afternoon stubble formed, and she let out a strangled shout in a voice that was certainly not her own once things began growing in places they had once not existed--

Then all the boiling, bursting, and prickling ceased, and she could feel the cold stone floor beneath her arms and against her wet forehead.

Holly rose slowly to the heels of her hands and then tipped back onto her knees, and she was met with a disturbing site. After she tore off her glasses, the image across the floor of her own body, touching its face gently, came into focus. Holly held her glasses out, staring at her, long, pale hands, and Draco took them.

After putting them on he denoted, "Oh my God." That was her voice escaping a mouth that looked remarkably like her own in a cadence that did not suit her at all. Draco rose a hand to his throat and rubbed it.

Holly went to reply and could feel the tones of Draco's gritty voice preparing to escape--her larynx rattled as if, were she in her own body, she was losing her voice. "This," broke a deep voice from her lips, "is about as bizarre as when elder apparitions of Ginny and I showed up in Ginny's dormitory."

Draco stood, brushing nonexistent dirt from Holly's T-shirt and leering. Looking down he said, "Poor Black... you can see straight down to your feet." Holly rocked back to her heels and stood, feeling the muscles in her thighs go very taut beneath her palms as she did so. Draco kicked out a leg to better examine the new feet he had and added, "There's potions that can fix that."

"I don't need breast enhancement, Malfoy," she said defiantly, still unfamiliar with the gravelly new key of her voice. "They're--still--growing."

"Of course they are, diamond." Holly scowled; pet names did not roll off her tongue like that. "Anyway, I'm going to go. I've got the password to your common room--is there anything else?"

Her face smirked unpleasantly in her direction. "Don't," she warned him, "touch me inappropriately."

"I'll try not to." The smile on her replica's face widened before Draco vanished through the doorway.

The dormitory door shut and Holly felt dread fill her stomach once again. Where was he going with her body; what would he do? She sensed that Draco was fully aware that in his current state he could do with her life what he liked. In the time allotted, he could disband her old friends and make new ones, force professors to either love or hate her, and release a myriad of details of her life--whether true or colorable--that could make or break her reputation. His actions while in her frame could mold her future as a Hogwarts student.

Holly tried to divert herself and rounded the four-poster to take a look in the tall, oak-framed mirror along the wall next to Draco's dresser. She met her reflection with a slight jolt. Even while being acutely aware that she would not look like herself, the bright thing that looked back at her was still startling.

"Good morning, Mister Malfoy," the mirror said, its voice dark and aged.

Holly replied with a vague, "Hello." That voice was a difficult one to work with. She watched her long, pale hand rub her even paler throat with interest. She ran her fingers along the sharp planes of Draco's face, his glacial eyes following their progress.

So this is what it is like to be Draco Malfoy. Holly turned up her chin and locked eyes with her reflection. She forced his mouth into a toothy leer. I wonder... is it wrong that I feel much prettier this way? Holly glanced both ways for observers before slowly lifting the shirt she wore just past the base of Draco's ribcage and looked on with interest. He is horribly skinny. Harry-skinny, in fact. However... she prodded at the stomach while keeping her eyes on the mirror, he's done a couple sit-ups.

"Mister Malfoy--" the mirror interjected uncertainly, "what are you doing?"

"Admiring my pulchritude, of course," she replied, mimicking Draco's most self-satisfied drawl.

It worked. The mirror fell silent instantly.

Holly dropped the shirt and smoothed out the wrinkles in his vest. She did not want to run around causing trouble. So, instead, she threw open the doors of Draco's wardrobe with every intention of getting her first chance to wear magnificently expensive clothing.

)()()(

Ginny lay across her bed with her legs hanging over one side of the mattress and her hair dangling off the other. Mignon was batting at her locks, purring. She listened half-heartedly to a re-airing of Fey of the Ravishing on the WWN and stared blankly at the scarlet canopy above her.

There was a knock at the door, and before she could answer, she heard it creak partway open. "Happy Saturday!" came Justin's greeting. "Are you decent?"

"Yes."

The door opened the rest of the way and out of the corner of her eye she saw the Hufflepuff enter. "I seem to be receiving more and more strange looks when I walk into the Gryffindor common room," he remarked.

"Maybe," she said, "that's because more and more people are noticing you when you walk into the Gryffindor common room." He did not respond. "You missed breakfast."

"I didn't," he said, plopping down on the bed parallel to hers and touching his hair loftily. He turned his head to one side, examining her.

"Had your house-elves deliver to your room again, Mister Malfoy?"

He sighed. "Wishful thinking. What a lucky life the rich and beautiful must lead." He smiled. "And, speaking of pretty people and breakfast and bed, have you had your friend ask Draco Malfoy about his sexual orientation yet?"

Ginny rolled her eyes while she sat up and spun to face him--the combination making her slightly dizzy. "Yes," she replied, "and he's straighter than most straight things, he said. Not his exact words, but the description of just how straight Holly relayed to me I'd rather not repeat."

"Damn," murmured Justin, crossing his legs and looking like a great prize had just been stolen out from beneath him. "I was so sure..."

"His mum shops for him," she apprised matter-of-factly.

"That explains a lot. Anyway, I came here to see if you'd let me use up some of that Fairy Face Facial Peel that you got free with your subscription to Teen Witch Weekly. I know you never use it, and it's makeover night in the Hufflepuff girls' dorms." He smiled winningly at her.

"You mean you've used yours up already?" He nodded. "Fine," she replied, sliding off her mattress and opening her trunk. She rifled through its contents for a moment before extracting the bottle he was asking for. She closed the trunk and looked up at him. "Justin, why is it half-empty?"

"Hm?" he responded, looking up from taunting Mignon with a string he pulled from the duvet.

"I said--" A knock at the door cut her short. She turned around. "Come in!"

The door opened and Holly slipped inside, wearing a twisted Mona Lisa smile. Ginny blinked. "You waited," she remarked.

"Sorry?"

"You waited for me to call you inside," elaborated Ginny, nodding toward the door. "Since when are you--cultivated?"

Holly shook her head as if she did not know what Ginny was saying. "Cultivated?" she echoed. "Never. Try considerate." She shrugged, indifferent. "I'm just trying to break some old habits, that's all."

"If that will make you less vile," expressed Justin, "I'm behind you 110%."

Holly gave him a lengthy, measuring look. Ginny stood and tossed the Fairy Face Facial Peel bottle to Justin, who struggled to catch it, and said, "I want enough back that I will be able to use it at least once, Justin."

"Once Finch-Fletchley and Sons Cosmetics is up and running, your supply will be replenished." Justin stood, then walked to the door and opened it, putting one foot out.

"But..." said Holly, "how will you have sons if you're a flaming queer?"

Rather than looking offended, he shrugged and mentioned that the company name was still a work in progress. Before he left, he back turned to Holly and said, "So, that Malfoy angel..." Her eyes widened and then slimmed considerably with a fashion of dawning realization.

"Still as straight as a--"

Ginny took three quick strides forward and ushered Justin through the doorway, snapping the port shut in his wake. She spun to face Holly and attenuated her eyes.

"What?" she inquired. "You don't want to hear my clever simile?"

"I've heard you clever simile, and I'd rather not hear it again," she informed her, stepping away from the door.

"Why are you being so snippy, Gin?" questioned Holly.

"Sorry," said Ginny, moving to sit on her four-poster again. She lay down and Mignon returned to swat at her hair. "I've just had a long, rotten week."

"Why's that?" she asked, easing herself down onto the bed Justin had previously occupied.

Ginny shot her a look. "I told you why." Holly shook her head, looking blank even upside-down. "Y'know... the... thing."

Holly squinted at her. "What 'thing'? There are quite a number of 'things' that could have made your week miserable..."

"The thing," barked Ginny, disgusted by Holly's lack short-term memory and thoroughly wishing she did not have to repeat this again, "about Harry taking Cho out to Hogsmeade on Valentine's Day."

"Oh, yes," Holly replied, shaking her head briefly. "Cho Chang, Valentine's Day... right." Ginny watched her in interest. "Dirty bitch," inserted Holly. "You should just Stun her, hide her body in a closet, and show up where Harry has reservations an hour after Cho's supposed to meet him there to pick up the pieces. It will be pathetic, but well worth your time." The girl forced a strangled look of reassurance.

"I already told you that wouldn't work, Holly."

A twisted grin contorted her mouth. "Okay, let's toss that one out the window. Give me time."

Ginny sighed. "Fine. Just so long as it doesn't put a black mark on my record in the end."

"It won't." Holly smiled comfortingly. "I'm actually hoping that there will be no marks on any records whatsoever--I need to save some face. You know I've only got one."

"Of course," Ginny murmured, smiling a little. "Speaking of saving face," she added, a little louder, "do you have plans for tonight?"

Holly shook her head, brow wrinkling. "Why?"

"It's makeover night in Hufflepuff, Justin says," Ginny apprised her, rolling onto her stomach. "I always have an invite, but can usually think of an excuse as to why I can't attend."

"But, tonight...?" Holly prompted.

"Tonight," Ginny went on, "I feel like listening to a bunch of jealous girls deprecate the Ravenclaws. So, if you'd come along for moral support, that'd be great."

Holly appeared uncertain. "I'm highly disliked by the girls in every House. Including this one."

"That's not true." Ginny received a dirty look. "...Completely," she added, tones uncertain. "Anyway, they'd love to hear a couple Malfoy stories. You're well aware he's the flavor of the year."

"Is he now?" she said smoothly. Ginny gave the look this time. "I mean..." she squeezed her eyes shut, looking as if she had swallowed something unduly slimy, "still?"

"Er--yeah." She blinked. "So, are you going to come with me or not?"

Holly shrugged. "I guess. But, I'd better put a dent in my homework, then..." She stood and made to leave, flipping her hair out of her face.

"Thanks so much. We can make it fun, I'm sure." Ginny stood to let Holly out. "And you might want to put your contacts in..." Holly looked at her curiously. "At least, I'd want to see what's going on while covered in a peel-off mask."

"Good idea," replied Holly, holding up an index finger. "So--when would you like me to meet you? I mean, just in case I don't run into you until then."

"Meet me back here at... I don't know... nine-ish."

Holly smiled. "Nine-ish it is. Later." She disappeared through the doorway and up the stairs, and Ginny shut the port slowly.

)()()(

Ron hurried through the doorframe and slammed the door shut behind him, leaning against it and looking frightened. Harry, who had redirected his gaze at the sound of someone entering, looked back down at his Transfiguration homework and said, "Yes?" aware that the chances an Acromantula had chased him up the stairs were considerably slim.

Ron blew a spare scarlet bang out of his eyes. "Where's the cheapest place in Hogsmeade to eat?" he asked him.

"I dunno, Ron..." Harry dipped his quill in his inkbottle and recommenced scratching away at his essay. "Fortunate Friar's?"

"Preferably someplace without a Knut Menu." Ron stepped away from the door and ducked his head, rubbing his face with his hands. Harry smiled to himself; this was the signal that Hermione, once again, was wanting to go out to dinner, and Ron, as always, was not wanting her to pay.

"I dunno, Ron," repeated Harry. "Why don't you try Dobby and Winky in the kitchens--see if they'll whip something up for you and you can deliver it up here for a," Harry paused for a breath, then exhaled, "romantic dinner for two."

Ron said nothing in reply, and Harry looked up to see how this suggestion struck him. He appeared to be considering it; his eyes were looking far off and his furrowed brow denoted just how carefully the gears in his brain were rotating. "I could set up Seamus' card table, throw a sheet over it, and light some candles..." he mumbled.

"Don't omit heart-shaped confetti and lace doilies from that picture." Harry flipped the page of A Guide to Progressed Transfiguration and read the first paragraph to himself. Ron had not spoken again when Harry looked up from the text to check his mental progress. "I could rent a dozen cherubs to serenade you, if you like." He grinned.

Ron seemed to snap out of his recently acquired state of deep meditation and stated, "I think heart-shaped confetti and lace doilies would throw the fact that it's Valentine's Day into sharp relief, thanks."

"Just remember to put a sock on the door if you're going to stink the room up, mate," said Dean, who had been napping, clandestine, behind the hangings drawn around his four-poster.

A blush started to rise from the collar of Ron's shirt, all the way up to his hairline. "I'll keep that in mind," he murmured. Dean snickered lightly from his bed and Harry could hear the mattress springs bouncing and the bedclothes shifting as he stirred. "How about you, then, Harry?" Ron asked, plopping down on his bed. The burden of contriving a successful Valentine's Day dinner temporarily left him, it seemed. "Where are you taking Cho?"

Before Harry could answer, Dean's feet poked through his canopy and his voice sounded again. "Cho Chang? Pretty little Ravenclaw girl?" The rest of his body followed his feet as he stood and made his sleepy way toward them. "Didn't we establish that she's out of your league?" He smiled genially at him, stretching.

"Thanks a lot, Dean."

"Whatever happened to Ron's sister?"

Harry felt the blush Ron had previously wore begin heating up his cheeks. "Ginny?" replied Harry as if he was not sure which sister Dean was talking about. "What about her?"

Dean wrinkled his nose at Harry and shook his head. "'What about her'?" he echoed. "Didn't you two have a little--thing?"

Harry could feel Ron's icy glare penetrating his temple. "Not that I'm aware of, Dean." Harry faked an incredulous smile, which he directed at Ron's pallid façade for a moment and then redirected back at Dean. It was difficult to predict what kind of day Ron would be having where Ginny and relationships were concerned. Half the time he desperately wanted Ginny to guide her fancies toward Harry and away from whatever male degenerates might be in her life. As for the other fifty percent, Ron seemed adamantly opposed to any boy nearing his sister, Harry included. Today seemed to fall under the latter category.

"Huh--an observer's mistake, I guess," said Dean, shrugging. He pulled a black knit jumper over his T-shirt and made his way to the door. "Good luck with the Ravenclaw girl, then," was his closing remark.

After his exit, Harry called Dean an oversized Cupid and went on to tell Ron, who was slowly regaining color, his Valentine's Day plans with Cho. "I'm not really sure, yet. We'd originally scheduled the date for simply the 'next Hogsmeade weekend'. Little did I know it would happen to be Valentine's Day." He sighed. "The social world seems to go out of its way to make things difficult for me."

"No lie," concurred Ron, finally loosening up. "I have a horrible suspicion that Hermione's expecting an 'I love you' sooner than later."

"Then tell her," remarked Harry.

"What?!" Eyes popping, Ron went on, "No! I don't... do that."

He raised an eyebrow. "Love people?"

"No," he replied, drawing out the single syllable as far as it would go. "I don't tell them about it."

"Not even your mother?" questioned Harry.

"Not unless she tells me first," he growled, a note of defiance in his tone.

Harry capped his inkbottle and said, "You mean to tell me you don't love Hermione?" He sensed a mean little grin tugging at his lips.

Ron froze, eyes darting around. He began to fidget, then said, "Well--I do. But not in that way."

"Why not?" He did not mean to be unkind, but sometimes cornering Ron was a little fun.

"Because... I... whatever, not the point." Ron shook it off. "It's not like you've ever said it."

This made Harry think. No, in fact he had not. But that was not only considering his almost-girlfriends or dearest comrades. Harry had never told any of the Dursleys that he loved them because, frankly, he didn't. His parents--well--he loved them without ever knowing them, he supposed. This did not mean, however, that he had ever told them. He had no family, no pets. He had nothing to love.

Harry, it seemed, had never loved at all.

He shook the thought and closed his book. "I'm going to have a walk."

)()()(

Holly slid her hands into her pockets and stared. Wearing a black Canaleta wizard's tuxedo--complete with tie, vest, and cufflinks--Holly felt richer than rich. Canaleta tuxes were dress robes for the elite--the Minister of Magic could scarcely afford an ensemble like this one on his salary.

And Draco Malfoy owned three.

The ebony wardrobe was charmed to fit unparalleled amounts of clothing within (just as Draco's trunk seemed the size of a small bedroom). Draco did own colors; however, none were bright or attention grabbing. The items that were not black, white, or of the hues between were the deepest shades of mahogany, forest green, maroon, navy, and teal. The closest thing to pastel he owned was beige.

Everything she tried on fit so well there was no doubt in her mind that each item Draco owned was tailored with no less than fifty professional charms. Each jumper was tight here but forgiving there, every pair of slacks were a little loose in the waist and legs but fit well round Draco's backside, and all his robes were slim enough to highlight where he was broad but eased perfectly to hide where he was bony.

Holly had decided if she was not bound to die rich, she would die young (and of her own volition). No one deserved to wear clothing the way it came off the rack.

She tuned into the WWN and sang along with No Qualm's "Just a Witch" with a small, sinful hope that Crabbe and Goyle would walk in on her and agree to sing backup whilst snapping their fingers on the offbeats. After changing into a black jumper and some savvy gray slacks, she jumped up on the bed, hairbrush to her lips.

"I'm just a witch

Just brittle and bonny

I'm fed up to the back teeth..."

"Music is never so artful or exquisite as when it is sung by a person of the wrong sex into a hairbrush." Holly shut her eyes momentarily as she heard the dormitory door snap shut and turned to face Draco. "As wine follows dinner, I swear it." Her face smiled smartly up at her. "My, I've never seen myself so pink."

Holly remained silent, staring at Draco. Her embarrassment may not have been as apparent as her interest in the fact that she was looking at a very debonair version of herself. Somehow, even when looking down upon him from above, Draco made Holly Black look powerful. Potency in an expression she could not feint--under the influence of Draco Malfoy, Holly seemed collected and certain. A particular tilt of his chin or stretch of his lips made that countenance something wizened and intimidating.

When Holly stepped down to Draco's level, she noticed something else. Either she carried herself very badly, or Draco was very practiced in posture for both genders. She looked taller, leaner.

Trying to ignore just how much better Draco imitated a woman in comparison to how she held herself as a girl, Holly asked, "What's happening?"

"Well," began Draco, "Weasley has invited me to a girls' night out in Hufflepuff. I need you to teach me how to be a girl, how to bitch about girls I don't know, and how to put in your contacts." He held up the cosmetic box he'd brought along. "I hope the answer is in here."

Holly laughed, but the lightness she had imagined would be woven within the tones of the chuckle did not sound out. What would have been a mild giggle if she had had the use of her own voice escaped Draco's mouth as the jarring snicker of a learned bully.

She had forgotten what she was going to say, and fell silent. The look on her face seemed to tell him about her shock.

"Yes, you need to work on the laughing."

He sat down on his bed, put the cosmetic box down at his side, and looked at Holly.

"So... a little help?"

She sat, and they spun to face one another, the box between them. While Holly unscrewed the cap to her right-eye contact and rinsed it off, she shared the secret to getting on girls' good side when it came to long-standing grudges and fits of jealousy. "With the Hufflepuffs, don't take a definite position on any particular person." She looked up from the contact sitting in the palm of her pale hand. "Not even on yourself."

"As in me, Draco Malfoy, or me, Holly Black?"

"You, Draco Malfoy." Holly moved the contact to one manicured fingertip and checked whether it was right side in. "I don't mean you should switch off and confuse the poor, stupid things--just kind of shout out 'tramp!' when the rest of them do."

"What about the girls I know your opinion on?" inquired Draco as Holly transferred the contact from her fingertip to his and placed a drop of solution in it.

"Like?"

Draco gave her a dirty look that Holly was certain that visage had worn before. "Like Granger."

"Say what you need to say without making me look like the bitch. I'm highly disliked by the girls in every house," informed Holly. After a moment of thought she added, "Including Gryffindor."

Draco smiled at her--it was a smile she wished she could see on his face, not hers. "I know that," he said, simply. "Now... how do I put this in?"

Holly demonstrated how to move both eyelids out of the way and pop the contact in, then held up a compact mirror.

After about five minutes of one-eyed crying and profuse swearing and three or four searches for the dropped object, Holly washed off the contact and put it in for Draco. He only blinked either one out once this way, but there was still a lot of room for tears and expletives.

"Can I say nice things about myself?" questioned Draco as Holly explained to him the time and place for eyelash curlers. Before Holly could reply, he annexed, "And why didn't you tell me I was the 'flavor of the year'?" to his inquiry.

"You can say some nice things about yourself, so long as I don't come off as obsessed or... whore-y." Holly laid out three lip-glosses for Draco to choose from. "And I didn't tell you that you were the 'flavor of the year' because I knew you'd let it go straight to your head."

He correctly pointed at the product Holly would use (based more or less on the fact that it was mostly empty where the other two were half-full) and responded, "I only let you down there, and you know that, pearl."

She did not reply to this. It was one of the many things Draco could get away with: talking dirty, both directly and indirectly. Holly wondered silently whether Lucius Malfoy was the same way. Perhaps the manor was full of witches dressed in French maid getups whose words Mister Malfoy would twist so as to coo clandestinely erotic things back in their direction when the Missus was not around. Or even when she was around.

She examined the quiet, surreptitious smile contorting her features and cringed. He probably did.

"Do you think that I'll have to do someone's hair or makeup or something?" inquired Draco.

"No." Holly found an image of herself trying to undo a minor crimp and accidentally setting Susan Bones' head on fire. "You don't want to embarrass me like that."

"I could turn someone's hair green!" he offered, smiling.

"I know that," she snarled, reaching to push her dark hair over one shoulder irritably before remembering that it would not be there. "And I know no one who wants a forest-green mane."

"I can do kiwi green--"

"I don't care."

Draco smiled again--always finding a new way to twist his lips and bare his teeth. "I just remembered... you have prefect duty tomorrow night."

"What?"

"You heard me. Your assistance is required for patrolling the dungeon hallway from nine until midnight. Professor Snape will take your watch afterward."

"Are you kidding me?" Holly wrinkled her nose and shook her head in disparity. "I don't want to do that! I need sleep!"

"Who goes to bed before midnight, Black?" Holly continued to stare at her own visage with a facial cast that was a shade of abhorrence. Draco raised his eyebrows and answered himself, "All right, you do, apparently."

"Sunday is a time for sleep," she mewled.

"It's not as if you do anything on the weekend." Holly said nothing, but continued to gawk at him with an open mouth and a knitted brow. "C'mon, Black--" he laughed shortly, "do you sneak into Hogsmeade for the Frigid Frigid Frost concert and let the bassist and drummer shag you backstage half the night?"

Holly closed her mouth, watching his eyes. "Yeah," she lied curtly, "I do."

He reached out and touched her cheek with narrow knuckles. "Don't lie, wildflower." Holly turned her face away. "If anything suspicious happens, send for Professor Snape."

"I don't understand why you all have to patrol the castle, anyway," she said.

"Hasn't Weasley told you?" Holly narrowed her eyes, shaking her head, stray bits of ash blond hair falling into her eyes. "Hm... I thought he would have. Prefects are assigned patrol duty because Hogwarts' defenses are being tampered with. I reckoned you would have figured it out for yourself after making it into Hogsmeade and back without impediments on an unscheduled weekend."

Holly stared at a point somewhere to Draco's right, thinking. "Hogwarts' defenses are being tampered with," she echoed. "And all the prefects know?"

"No."

She blinked. "Then why would Ron know?"

"Because I assumed that Dumbledore would have told Potter who would have gotten word to Granger and Weasley, the latter of which who would have let it slip in front of you." He shrugged.

Holly nodded, looking at her hands. Draco ducked his head into view and asked, "What are you thinking about now, goddess?"

Holly raised her eyes and shook her head. "Nothing--just being worrisome." She gave him a half-smile, and he grinned back.

)()()(

Draco followed Weasley through the tapestry and into the Hufflepuff common room. With a sweeping look, he took in the black and yellow décor and cringed. "Poor things," he murmured.

"Shut up, Holly," said Weasley as though they had gone though this before. He followed her red head though a black door and along the wall of a narrow corridor lined with similar ports. At the second-to-last doorway they stopped, and Weasley knocked. Draco waited silently, praying to any god that would hear him for this thing to go smoothly.

The door swung open and Weasley and Draco were greeted by a gust of girl-smell and a handful of welcoming shrieks. He stood with his jaw on the floor as Weasley, who was being guided by Finch-Fletchley, pulled him inside by the wrist. He forced a smile as Susan Bones asked how he was doing.

"I'm well, thanks..." he told her, nodding.

There were six Hufflepuffs in the dormitory--some wearing day clothes and others, like Finch-Fletchley, in pajamas. There were hygiene and cosmetic products everywhere, bath towels spread out on the rug and draped over chairs, and ponytail holders and cotton balls scattered all round the place. Draco swallowed; this place was not meant for males--except maybe Finch-Fletchley.

"Love that shirt," apprised Bones, looking over at the pink thing Draco had struggled into that morning. "Where'd you get it?"

"Oh, this?" he said, trying to sound nonchalant as he pulled at the fabric. "I've no idea."

She laughed. Susan Bones had a delicate laugh, but she laughed brightly--so brightly, in fact, Draco knew for certain that it was forced. She steered him around the dormitory, having him step over bottles of Sleekeazy's holding spray, M.A.B. concealer, and Peri Pencils on his way to a seat on the edge of a four-poster.

As he wondered whether Holly and this Bones girl were on close terms, Bones told him to kick off his shoes and socks. She positioned a cake pan full of water on the floor in front of him and told him to soak his feet.

Draco was no stranger to being treated in this manner, but he imagined that Holly was. "All right--killer." He smiled up at Bones, and she went away. Though he did not really want to take part in all the girl talk, he felt obligated to tune in. Staring at Holly's long feet in the cake pan, he curled and uncurled his toes, listening.

"Justin," a girl was saying, "told us you had an excellent story about that Cho Chang."

Weasley responded, "He did, did he?" Finch-Fletchley must have made some motion here, because all the makeover night attendees laughed. "Well, I suppose there's no hurt in you all knowing."

"Of course there isn't!" chimed Finch-Fletchley. "Other than you and Potter a total of, what, two people know? Unless Holly told Malfoy."

There was a moment's pause while Draco scraped a big toe against the bottom of the cake pan before realizing he was being addressed by Finch-Fletchley. He looked up, seeing the eyes of all the other students on him. "He doesn't know a thing," stated Draco, recalling what was last said.

"Good," said Weasley. Holly, indeed, had not told Draco about Weasley's current relationship affairs. He did not care, really, but it was nice to know she was willing to spill all secrets--both those that belonged to her and those that did not--to him.

"Well," said Hannah Abbot, "if you want to bash Ravenclaw girls, you're in the right place."

Weasley launched into a story that started in the first term that year; she explained a brief span of time when Potter was caught between her and Chang, later deciding to take a break from both girls. Then, come the holidays, Potter's hint dropping reached an all-time high, and within the span of days they partook in what sounded like at least a dozen missed kisses. Things cooled down for over a month after classes recommenced, and just that week Weasley had inquired as to what Potter had in mind for the next Hogsmeade weekend--Valentine's Day, as it turned out.

"So he gets all shifty, looking torn between embarrassment and pity, and tells me that he'd made plans with Cho Chang before the hols to meet up in Hogsmeade the next time we were permitted to go." Weasley had found her stride about midway through the narration and proceeded to get huffier and huffier as the tale went on. She made a sound of dissent and added, "Said it as if he hadn't a clue at the time that it was going to be Valentine's Day."

"He was lying!" said one girl.

Another exclaimed, "Made the plans before holiday and told you just this week? Bastard!"

"Honestly," spat Finch-Fletchley, "What's Chang have that you don't?"

"Harry could make the obvious choice and cancel with Chang to go with you." Whoever was talking made a malcontented noise and added, "He needn't be the nice guy all the time."

"He wants to go with her, though," explained Weasley. A collective gasp seriously downed the amount of oxygen in the dormitory.

Draco looked up in time to see Ella Midgen, who was working diligently on Megan Jones' eyebrow problem, whip around to say, "He does?"

Weasley shut her eyes and nodded smartly. "Of course. What boy doesn't want to be set up next to the magnificent Cho Chang?"

This went on for some time, and Draco splashed around in the cake pan until he was called on again. After a long rant about Potter and a lot of Chang-bashing, Bones launched into a narrative about her eternal love for Zacharias Smith, who had, at one point, forced her to dye her hair blonde for his satisfaction. Sally-Ann Perks had a story about Wayne Hopkins that pretty much made Draco want to cut his member off with a kitchen knife--the boys at this school were bastards! Later, Abbott had spoken about Ernie Macmillan's demanding nature and how he wanted her to be perfect. He laughed a little when she used the phrase "Hermione Granger-perfect," which reminded the rest of them of his presence.

"What about you, Holly?" It took a moment for Draco to remember that he was Holly. He looked up from the cake pan and smiled into the silence. Midgen, who was so obviously a boy beneath that makeup that Draco wondered why he had not figured it out sooner, continued, "What does that multi-carat gem of yours, Malfoy, do wrong?"

He smiled, trying not to look too self satisfied, and repeated, "Multi-carat gem," under his breath. Was it flattering or disgusting that both Hufflepuff's most famous transvestite and most wanted homosexual were keen on him? Deciding to take a turn on introspection, Draco thought of how others, especially Holly, view him in his worst moments. "What does Malfoy do wrong," he murmured, listening to Holly's voice escape his lips.

He was well aware that the rest of the room was waiting with bated breath, but he figured, let them wait. Suspense is good for the soul.

He turned his hands palms-up and examined the new lines in them. Though the design was duplicated and mirrored near perfection, Draco saw that the "M" in her left palm was much more defined than the one that was supposed to be engraved in her right. His own hands differed in the same way.

He "Hmm"ed briefly. Between looking at her lower half and hearing her voice, Draco felt a little bit like he was Holly for a moment. Child of an ex-convict, sitting alongside a group of chattering girls--and boys--being interrogated on her strange relationship with the son of a Death Eater, the adversary of her other friends.

Draco looked up at the other makeover-night attendees. "He's not really my boyfriend, but--" he informed them.

"Yeah, right."

"Don't lie!"

"He's not," he assured them. "He's usually good to me, but-"

"But what?"

Did these people ever stop? "He isn't good to other people. Just because he's--" Draco looked up at the ceiling and went on, "--rich, good looking, Pureblooded, whatever--he thinks he's better than people." The snappish Holly was the simplest role yet. "'Least that's what it seems like."

"I hear that," affirmed Weasley.

Draco looked at her. "Sorry," he said.

"Don't apologize for him," commanded Finch-Fletchley. Draco shrugged. "What do you think he is?" he went on.

Draco furrowed his brow. "What d'you mean?"

"If he thinks he's better than people--or if you think that he thinks that--what do you think he is? Not him. You." They continued to watch him. Draco shifted a little, not liking their stares.

He thought he knew what Finch-Fletchley meant--but either way, he was not sure how to reply. He would love to spill about his own perfection, but Weasley would catch on. And if she did not, Tom Riddle would. "I think," he said, Holly's voice giving him some hint at or memory of what her feelings might be, "that Malfoy is... confused." He liked how that sounded. They said nothing, though for once he wished that at least one of them would chime in, thus giving him more time to think. "He sees right and wrong twice over--what his father would have him believe, and what his professors and some of his peers would have him believe." Draco could not distinguish whether this was some deep confession or an illusion carried by the sound of Holly Black's voice.

"In his own manner of finding the 'right way', he's made himself a nuisance." Draco nodded, liking the term 'nuisance'. "He throws up fences that betray both sides--Dumbledore thinks he's following his father's footsteps when, meanwhile, Mister Malfoy thinks he's a thorn bent on defying him. Knowing the best of both worlds and the consequences of choosing either side, he's sat himself down before the fork in his path and turned his focus on making everyone else miserable."

He fell silent without really realizing until Bones spoke up. "But--why?"

Though instinct said he should snap, "How would I know?" he resisted. "Being the all-around villain should show him what kind of people will give him a chance. You'd think his logical ally would be the ones who care for him, not the ones who push him to be something he never decided on in the first place."

Draco stopped talking, shocked at his own words. Where did that come from? Had he experienced some sort or hormonal change that moved him to sappiness? Maybe some outside force was compelling him to speak these untruths and, therein, change his own view on himself. Being contemplative had never moved him to these thoughts.

Draco was no trump at heart. He had not chosen a side yet, that was true, but he was at least leaning toward one orientation. He did not befriend Holly Black so as to be pulled in the other direction.

Graduation was a long time away. He did not need fences and heroes willing to conquer them to help him decide. Best bet, he would never pledge his allegiance and would play with absolutes like good and evil until one side sentenced him to death, good and young. Maybe the Death Eaters would conduct the execution, or maybe the Order of the Phoenix. Either way, Holly Black would not be watching from a shadowy corner with tears in her eyes, recalling days at Hogwarts when he had nearly chosen the "right" side.

With any luck, he would be rid of the girl come next autumn.

He looked around at the others, realizing his prolonged silence. "...Oh," said Finch-Fletchley belatedly. They were staring at him, but no gaze was so seeing as Weasley's. Her black cherry eyes were fixed on him so intently one would think that at one point during his oration Draco lost both his put-on accent and his Polyjuiced form.

He directed his glance back toward the water-filled cake pan and Holly's long feet. "So," he said awkwardly, "am I going to sit here with my feet in water all night, or am I getting a pedicure?" He smiled inelegantly at the others and hoped they would forget he had ever said a word and go on beating pixie puffs on their noses and blabbing about the high-mindedness of Cho Chang.

)()()(

Seeing that Draco had a dormitory to himself, Holly had no need to set an alarm to wake her once every fifty-seven minutes to swallow down more Polyjuice. She was perfectly content waking up and having her own hair in her eyes--she did not need to be confused about whom she was along with where she was in the early AM. Between the high-quality sheets and fifty-galleon pajama pants, Holly was well rested that weekend.

While her shift patrolling the dungeon corridor was winding down, she did not feel an ounce of fatigue. She did want, however, to curl up behind the draperies of that oversized four-poster and sleep for many more hours than prefect duty spared her. As far as she could see, the benefits of being Draco Malfoy far outweighed the hardships.

While walking up and down the torch-lit walls watching for some suspicious activity Draco had not specified, Holly turned over his words.

If the castle's defenses were being tampered with, how much sense did it make for Dumbledore to put his students out on the front lines? He would not do that--she was overlooking something. There were prefects patrolling the castle from nine until midnight and from five until eight--the professors took the five-hour gap between.

She thought about switching duty over to the professors at the hour of midnight--when magic was strongest. Any witch or wizard standing without disturbances in a magical place could feel the build up of sorcery until midnight, when, sometimes, it would seemingly explode through the place--every charm potent and charged. Suddenly, she reconsidered the switchover at midnight and wondered whether the students were trusted until midnight because at that point the castle defenses were at their sturdiest or were taken off at that hour because the magic tearing down the defenses was suddenly acting ten-fold.

Who was to say that an attack would be staged only between midnight and five o'clock? That was so cliché--an unexpected rise against Hogwarts at three in the morning. The Death Eaters would not be any less evil for avoiding killing students. But, she supposed, their ranks bursting into the Great Hall during luncheon and killing off all the adolescents who dared to move would cause such a paternal uproar that the 'good guys' would make "Avada Kedavra" their mantra, too.

Holly took a step back... instinct told her she should rethink all of that so as not to scare herself to death. Who was it that said there were outside offenses tearing down the things that made Hogwarts safe in the first place? Maybe it was all astrological; perhaps at this point in the year there were always prefects on duty because something in the alignment of the planets or the brightness of the stars weakened the castle's defense system.

And Death Eater attacks? All something her mind had invented to dramatize the situation. The weakening of magical entrenchment might only be an occasional pinprick-sized hole in the Apparation wards that might allow a lost warlock tourist to appear outside Myrtle's toilet for a split-second before being thrown out again. Or maybe the spells that made the castle appear undesirable to Muggle passer-by disappeared briefly so that a confused woman might wander into the entrance hall only to be Memory Charmed and sent away.

And who said the castle itself was in danger? Perhaps a million Malumi could line up on the lawns at two o'clock in the morning and snarl at the magnificence of the edifice without being able to penetrate the castle doors or break its sweeping windows.

Holly took a swig of Polyjuice and grimaced. Though all this thought on Hogwarts' embankments should have helped her, it only succeeded in making her sicker yet.

She gazed into the darkened entrance hall from the top of the dungeon steps, visualizing it being stormed by an army of Malumi and Death Eaters. She pictured crude flashes of green illuminating the chamber every few seconds as another professor, another student fell to his or her undeserved death. It would all be so unnecessary--if the Death Eaters were looking for the headmaster, he would know it. Dumbledore would storm out to the front and, though he would put up a fight the likes of which no one had ever witnessed, there would be too many of them...

She did not want to picture such horrors, but they played through her head like film footage from a war past. Holly could not change the things happening or capitalize on the things done wrong and change them for the future, no matter how badly she wanted to.

"Draco."

If she were not the only one in the hall, Holly may have forgotten to turn around.

Snape stood several steps below her, one hand against the wall. Looking at Draco Malfoy, he seemed a good deal more pleasant.

She shook herself mentally and greeted, "Hello, Professor."

"It's midnight," he said. "I would advise you to get some sleep--you look troubled." Holly nodded her head, looking away from the professor. "Unless," he annexed, "it is something slumber cannot aid?"

She thought, fast. Holly wanted answers, but she was not sure how to go about getting them. "I'm just tired," she lied, shaking her head. After a momentary pause she went on, "What's happening with the castle defenses, Professor?"

Snape looked hard at her. At night he seemed considerably less vampiric- something about the torchlight alone illuminating his visage made the professor gentler. His eyes were not so black and cold when everything else was that hue and temperature in shadow, and shadow was easier to find after dark. Then again, it could be that Snape looked at Draco Malfoy with geniality rather than malice.

"You've heard this before, Draco," he said, slowly.

Holly's heart sped up, but only a little. "I know--just... anything new?"

Suddenly Holly thought of just what Draco had heard. Did Snape fill him in from the point of view of a caring professor who trusted that his favorite student would not do anything rash and know how to protect himself with this information? Or, since Snape was a spy for the Order and a Death Eater as far as Draco Malfoy knew, did he tell Draco things like how far along the process was and how soon the attack on Hogwarts would be?

She grit her teeth and watched the professor, hoping against finding out that Draco was on the path to fighting for Voldemort. That's in the future, she told herself. Far, far in the future. He could change by then. He would change by then.

"No," Snape told her. "I haven't a single update. I'm sorry, Draco."

"It's fine," she said, maybe a little too quickly. "I was just curious." She wondered whether the expensive sheets and the warmth of Draco's dormitory fireplace would help her sleep tonight. "Goodnight, Professor," she said quietly.

"Sleep well, Draco."

At the base of the short staircase, Holly did her best to walk away with the grace and step-by-step precision Draco had. And until she rounded a corner, she felt Snape's eyes, suspicious, on her back.

)()()(

Ginny sat awake in her dormitory, the hangings of her four-poster hiding her from the dying fire and the other fifth years. Being wide awake in the early hours of Monday mornings was not typical. But, even after rue caplets twice a day and Antipsychotic Potions reversing all the things that made orange juice palatable, Tom Riddle made his presence known in her mind.

When the secondary soul had taken to rising to the surface so as to wander the castle at night, Ginny rarely heard what he had to say. Tom's ubiety in her head was made quiet--he need not interrupt her thoughts every spare moment with his opinions when he could simply surface on her skin and tell the world.

Now, although something told Ginny that the medical potions she was taking should counter this, Tom had set up shop in her mind once again. However, this time things were different. While his outbursts continued to dwindle in number, they happened at the most opportune moments: when she was not sure what to think, when she did not know how to answer, when she was just putting two and two together and he had already worked all the way through the times tables.

Then, other times, Ginny's head was replete with outlines of Tom Riddle's thought process... shadows of his memories. Though all her life Ginny had thought that the soul was something substantial without conceptual thinking or personal memorabilia, in the instance of Soul-Switching things were very different. A second soul came with a plentiful side dish of mind, heart, and physical appearance.

Some nights when she was sleeping, Tom's mind was active with insomnia. But, like tonight, he also slept. His silent musings and retentions chased each other in her mind, and, eventually, they wove into the strings of her own imaginings. Deep into a dream about Merpeople hiding in the icebox at the Burrow, her irrational visions would be interrupted by something very real--an incident at Tom's Muggle orphanage, a Dark self-discovery at the age of fourteen, a suspicious business transaction in his early twenties.

Ginny would force herself into wakefulness, not feeling like unraveling Tom Riddle's memoirs and hypothesizing just where along the line it was that evil took him over when she was supposed to be getting catching Z's. She would sit up and massage her temples, as if willing Tom to rouse and clear her head. But his remembering, his dreaming, was incessant. Though quieted, they played on--refusing to grant Ginny time to slumber.

Tonight she hushed Tom's thinking with thoughts of her own. First about stupid Harry and his stupid Ravenclaw crush. Later, it went on to wondering whether Holly had cooked up a scheme worth Galleons to counter the mess. And, from there, Ginny thought of the way Holly was acting as of late. Most of the time, she was the same old witch--criticism, white lies, and hole-digging. But Ginny had been noticing hitches... little things Holly did that were adopted from another source or minimal changes in her temperament, opinion, and mannerisms that made it seem like she had forgotten how she usually went about life.

All Ginny could come up with was that something must have been bothering Holly considerably. Malfoy problems, most likely. That certainly could be derived from her little effusion in the Hufflepuff girls' dormitories the night before--the few times Ginny had seen Malfoy over the weekend she could only think of him throwing up fences and making himself a villain to all sides. Though Ginny would never--ever--brave the moat in a quest to figure the boy out and steer him away from the Dark Mark, she wondered whether what Holly had predicted was true.

Tom's dreaming overridden by her thoughts of heroes, Ravenclaws, reformers, and villains, Ginny slid back down to lie on her mattress. She curled up on her side, pulling the blankets up to her chin, and slipped into dreams of amendments to the Quidditch rulebook and having to play under conditions she was constantly forgetting and being penalized for...

)()()(

The first class Monday morning was Herbology with the Hufflepuffs. The greenhouse glass was frosty during the winter and looked uninviting; however, all the greenhouses but were magically heated. Luckily, the area the sixth years attended was warm enough that they could remove their cloaks and scarves while they worked.

At the beginning of the semester, the class had been assigned partners with whom they would labor over garden plots that would be graded, it seemed, according to how much was left living come the end of April. Though originally it sounded as if the students would be having a good deal of free time, especially considering that much of the garden was made up of mundane rather than magical plants, this was not so. Keeping up with their gardens and making sure every plant was safe and sound before class was dismissed was a real chore; sometimes Professor Sprout required the students to drop by over the weekend.

Though at the beginning of the term they were not speaking to each other--at all--Harry was assigned to be Holly's partner. At the time he supposed that the animosity between the two of them would not be as strong as that between her and Hermione. And, if Holly had been partnered with Ron, acrimony would rise between him and his girlfriend the moment he chose to ask Holly to pass the Flesh-Eating Slug repellant.

Although they were a far way from friendship, after Ginny started doing better and Holly started catching up on sleep, she was willing to speak to both Harry and Hermione about things other than how to measure out puffapod seeds without them bursting into flower, wand handling, and human transfiguration. She usually did not have much to say (and, actually, had nothing to say to them when class was over), but her openness encouraged Hermione and Harry to speak more willingly to her, as well. No apologies were exchanged; there was just a general reduction in silence.

"All right, class--get in here, Finnigan, slowcoach!--today, due to the fantastic growth we've seen in the Flutterby Bushes, we will be potting and transferring our bubotubers and Fanged Geraniums. I want one person from each group to gather the following supplies..."

Holly pointed at Harry, not looking at him, who reluctantly sat down his dragon-hide gloves to gather their equipment.

Halfway through class, Harry and Holly's Flutterby Bush got the shivers and frightened the not-yet-transferred Fanged Geranium, which attacked. This was the second time this had happened within the course of a week and a half--they pried the insatiable plant off the bush, which then clamped down on Holly's gloved hand. She was so furious Harry would not have been surprised if she bit it back.

Many missing leaves and branches later, they had replanted their bubotuber and Fanged Geranium and had gone on to spread Mooncalf dung around their wounded Flutterby Bush, stunted venomous tentacula, and uncertainly-colored hellebore.

They were busy weeding their patch of fluxweed when Harry, looking at Ron and Hermione, asked, "Is it my imagination, or are all the Hufflepuff girls--looking at me?" Whenever Harry glanced up or turned his head, the eyes of Susan or Hannah or Sally-Ann were on him. He even caught the expiration of glances from Justin and Megan.

Ron looked around, and Holly muttered, "Real high on yourself, aren't you?" At times like these Harry wished Holly would choose impassable quiet over speaking her mind.

"They do keep looking over here," affirmed Ron. He kept watching. "Dirty looks."

Holly spoke up again. "Let's think about this, shall we?" she said. "Finch-Fletchley and all his fag hags are giving you, Harry Potter, dirty looks." She locked eyes with him, and he knew what was coming. "Maybe Ginny told him something." Ron did not seem to hear this, but, then, Holly was speaking under her breath. Harry stared at her threateningly, but she appeared to be in a contradictory mood. "Is it possible you've done something to her that was worth telling?"

Harry glared at her. He had not said a word to Ron or Hermione about what role Ginny had in the drama of his upcoming Valentine dinner with Cho, and she knew it well. He had not mentioned it to her, either--thus, she automatically sided with her confidante. Her face was so relaxed; she wore a look that, instead of being forgettable like the emotion-free expression of someone sleeping, was knowing and malicious. Holly did not desire that Hermione and Ron find out, but she did desire that Harry be punished for his crimes.

"It's nothing to worry about, Harry," said Hermione. She had yet to look up from the page of One Thousand More Magical Herbs and Fungi that explained the differences presented by growth aids--specifically, Mooncalf dung and dragon dung compost. "People will talk. And glance. You--of all living, breathing conversation pieces--should know that."

"I do know that," Harry said. He sighed quietly and added, "It's just that when it happens, usually everyone's doing it. Not just the Hufflepuff girls." As an afterthought, he added, "And Justin Finch-Fletchley."

"Funny thing, isn't it?" deadpanned Holly, flicking some Mooncalf dung off her thumb at Harry's cheek, where it landed and stuck. As he batted it off she smirked at him self-complacently.

)()()(

Care of Magical creatures was, as always, bound to be a struggle. Even as Draco Malfoy.

Holly enjoyed the warming charms woven into the lining of his designer cloak well enough, and the memory of taking a shower as Draco that morning was still fresh in her mind... but neither of these things could lessen her horror at the idea of being followed around by Crabbe and Goyle. Since breakfast they had not left her alone! Their grunting and drooling and knuckle-cracking drove her absolutely insane.

Pansy Parkinson had taken note of her annoyance after Holly had tried shaking Draco's cronies following Transfiguration class and cooed, "Draco, darling--what's the matter?" into her ear.

At this point, Holly's vexation transfigured itself into nausea. She let Parkinson lose her scent with a, "None of your business," and started for the entrance hall at a speed-walk that bordered a jog. Sadly, Crabbe and Goyle matched her pace.

She stood with them at the back of the group, as Draco always did, with her arms crossed and an uninterested look on her face. She caught Draco gazing at her, and looked back. He made a small motion in Hermione's direction, then locked eyes with her again.

Holly examined Hermione, who was doing nothing out of the ordinary. Then she got Draco's meaning... it was something along the lines of, "Here's your chance."

She looked back at him and mouthed, "What do I do?"

He shrugged, as if to say, "I don't care," and turned back to face Hagrid.

Holly thought about what she could possibly say to Hermione to let out her some of her frustrations without starting a blood bath. It would be nice to be relieved of just a sliver of her ferment; logically, it could help prevent another paroxysm of rage-induced magic in the near future.

Before she knew it, class had come and gone, and Draco joined her for their walk to the castle. They allowed the others to move ahead, and Crabbe and Goyle obediently fell behind, as they did every time Holly and Draco spoke.

"Your bodyguards are driving me up the wall," whispered Holly.

He advised, "Just pretend they're not there."

"I tried that," she apprised irascibly, "and the grunting and the knuckle-cracking and the occasional forte sniffle managed to break through."

Draco sniggered a little. "Sorry."

"I didn't say anything to Hermione," Holly told him. "I didn't know..."

He shrugged, nonchalant. "The fewer fights I start on Mondays, the better chance I have at bedding a Gryffindor." Holly rolled her eyes heavenward. "I've found that that's one of the few instances that I will support unblushing and unthinking bravery."

Holly chose to not think on that statement for very long and went on to ask him where he kept his cauldron, potion kit, and copy of Painfully Perplexing Potions--Perfected. He answered her, but before she could say another thing, Draco stated, "All right, so, Ickle Red informed me she's spending Valentine's Day either window shopping with Finch-Fletchley or sabotaging Potter's date with the Ravenclaw. And assuming this leaves you with absolutely no one to do--"

"Nothing to do," she inserted in correction.

"--I was wondering whether you'd like to spend the evening with me. In your normal body, of course, so the sex won't be awkward." A pensive look overtook the match of her face that Holly did not like. "Though that would be interesting..."

"Although that was, quite possibly, the least romantic offer I've ever... even... heard of," she said, "you're right about me being left with nothing to do."

"No one to do."

She ignored this. "So I'll go with you."

"Fantastic." They had just walked into the entrance hall and were greeted by a rush of hearth-emitted heat. Draco kissed Holly's cheek as if it were the most natural thing in the world--which it may have been closer to if they had not switched bodies--and said, "See you in class, you don't want yourself to be late," before starting up the Grand Staircase at a jog and leaving her with his retinue.

)()()(

After Potions, Holly gathered Draco's things with as much grace as she could suffer and tried her hardest to ignore the sounds and smells of Crabbe and Goyle around her. She exited the classroom directly behind Draco and the Trio, listening.

Hermione was going on about the perfect score she had received on the Potions essay she was "certain" she had "failed utterly." Harry and Ron were long-since used to this talk, but Holly got sick of it rather quickly. "I thought I had all the concepts completely wrong! This is wonderful, isn't it?!"

Harry and Ron grumbled their agreement--clearly, they had not done so well. Holly was anxious to see her own score, but she could wait until she met up with Draco later that evening. She knew that he had done exceptionally well also. She skimmed through the essay to see whether it was writing skill or favoritism that got him the grade--but, like in the day-to-day, Draco proved himself very proficient with words.

"This should be helpful for the exam," concluded Hermione, tucking the paper way with a smile.

Silence ensued, and Holly found her window. Draco had not picked a fight with the Trio since... well, she could not remember the last time. Since before the Forbidden Forest incident at least. She took a deep breath and muttered, "Mudblood."

Hermione's head drooped and Harry and Ron went stiff. Ron's neck and the back of his ears had already started turning red when he spun to face her. "Ron, no," said Hermione, grabbing his sleeve. "Stop it--he's not worth it, he's never been worth it."

Hermione gave her a nasty look. Between that and Ron's wrathful expression, Holly was thrilled. Officially, playing the villain was fun. Harry turned round as well, looking worried, and Draco locked eyes with her from behind the Trio, the edges of his mouth twitching.

"What did you say?" demanded Ron, sounding dangerous.

Holly laughed. "I don't understand how it is you're so miffed if you didn't even hear me." She smiled charmingly. "I said 'Mudblood.' And it's honorable of you to court her and all and--y'know--slow the diluting of the pool with your half-blood be-freckled children." She shrugged and, tone drenched in Draco's gritty sarcasm, she continued, "I can respect that. But when it comes to survival of the fittest, the only reason half-bloods like Potter are alive is because their Mudbloods-" she dropped her voice to a whisper, "died for them."

Her words were chasing one another through her lips. She was positive she did not actually mean this obloquy, but the rate at which it all came to mind frightened her a little.

Ron took a step forward and Crabbe and Goyle had immediately closed the space in front of her, cracking their knuckles. "Fucking..." Holly did not know what to say, but finished off with, "God!" She pushed through them, trying not to shriek like the angry girl she was. She rounded on them and half-shouted, "Cold you just back off for, like, four seconds?!" They stared at her dumbly, eyes wide. "You can help out when I'm one exhalation away from death, all right?"

She went on, "Oh, and you--" she pointed at Harry, "--don't have to be mad at me for your godsister choosing my friendship over your warning." She picked up Draco's cauldron in which sat his book and potion-making kit. "I'll be off, then." She grinned, making to move past, nodding to each of them. "Potty. Weasel." After skirting along the wall next to Draco, who winked, she looked back at Hermione and closed, "Mudblood," with a final nod.

At long last, Ron lost it.

He threw down his things and went tearing after Holly, who spun around to face him. She made to dodge his charge, but did not move fast enough. Draco's cauldron went flying as Ron grabbed Holly about the collar and slammed her against the dungeon wall. There was a general yell, and Holly felt her breath catch as her spine seemed to snap on the rough stone. She turned her chin up to look him in the eye, gritting her teeth.

Harry made it into her line of vision and pulled roughly at Ron's shoulder, trying to guide him away. "Knock it off, Ron, don't do this... Hermione said it already; it's not worth it."

"Really, it's not," agreed Holly snidely. She smiled at him, but he did not break his gaze.

Ron replied, "Just leave me alone, Harry." His tones were venturous, and Holly wondered whether Draco's body was up for a fight.

Harry sighed audibly and looked desperately at the back of Ron's head. A juncture of silence passed, and finally Harry turned his head. "Fine," he said. "If you're expelled, I really hope you've got a business plan up your sleeve."

Ron did not seem to hear this. After another moment he said, "Officially," he said dangerously, "you've insulted everyone I care for so many times that I'm not sure I mind what happens to me anymore."

Digging herself a deeper hole, she said, "Temper-temper, Ronnie. Was it the 'be-freckled children' part that pissed you off? Because I can take that bit back..." Well, she did have Crabbe and Goyle to back her up, she supposed. "...They could be buck-toothed, bushy-haired little brats, too, I suppose."

"I wish you'd die," he whispered, looking disgusted.

Holly sneered and announced, "Grab your stake and crucifix, then, Weasley." She sniggered cruelly, surprised at the key her voice could take.

Her laugh was cut short, however, when Ron took a step backward and got a hand over her throat. She took in a labored gasp, staring at him with wide-eyes. She clenched onto his wrist, trying to move his hand away.

"RON!" That shriek belonged to Hermione. "Have you lost your mind?!"

Holly struggled a little against the stone bricks, not focusing on the shouting bouncing off the dungeon walls. Her peripheral vision let her catch a glimpse of Crabbe and Goyle, who were on the move, though no faster than sloths.

Holly dropped Ron's arm, suddenly wondering whether he would do this to her when she did not look and act like Draco Malfoy. It would be just like a Weasley for Ron to let his temper move him to strangle a witch.

By the time her vision started blurring, Holly had grown impatient. She pinned her elbows against the wall and whaled his upper-arm. His grip loosened, if only slightly, but in the meantime, he took a half step forward.

Holly reached out and shoved him, hard, and he stumbled backward. As the pressure released, she reflexively rubbed her throat. But the moment's pause granted Ron an opportunity--he swung, and his knuckles connected with Holly's mouth.

The coppery tang of blood in her mouth, she did not give a moment's consideration to her next move.

Before Crabbe and Goyle could get a step nearer, Holly wound up and swung so hard, she had to do a half-turn to keep her balance. She caught Ron right in the jaw, and the split-second look of astonishment she received from him was enough to stick in her memory for a long, long time--the innocent face flushed with anger and his cerulean eyes Galleon-sized with shock.

He reeled sideways from the force of the shot and fell to the floor, head banging against the dungeon wall on his way down. Ron's eyes fell shut, and his head drooped. Holly stood there, right hand still clenched in a fist, wholly appalled at what she had done.

She looked around her. The expressions worn by Harry, Hermione, Crabbe, and Goyle matched her own--slack-jawed and wide-eyed. Draco, on the other hand, looked impressed... happy, even, with her performance.

No one moved for a period of seconds that seemed to last eons, until Holly, acting as calmly as possible, picked up Draco's cauldron, potion-making kit, and textbook and departed for the Slytherin common room.

)()()(

Crabbe and Goyle went rushing past to catch up with Malfoy, and the three left there took turns staring at each other, staring at the slumped figure of Ron, and staring in the direction that Malfoy had just gone.

After a final juncture of startled silence, Hermione moved to where Ron was lying and kneeled down. Harry followed her and inquired, "Is he bleeding bad?"

Hermione gently touched the top and the back of Ron's head, feeling around beneath his hair for even the littlest bit of blood. "Surprisingly," she said, pulling her hand away and showing Harry her un-purpled fingers, "no." She looked over at him for a moment, then back down at Ron. "Help me move him--position him so he's lying on his back..."

Harry assisted in turning Ron around and lying him down flat. "D'you think I should go to the infirmary?" suggested Holly. She stood behind them, watching over this process.

"No," Hermione told her. "All we need is to get him woken up and get him some ice." She opened her potion-making kit and uncapped a thin vial of armadillo bile. She turned it over on her index finger before touching the imprint between his nose and upper-lip. She pushed up his slack jaw to force him to breathe through his nostrils, and it was a matter of seconds before he stirred and awoke.

He looked around at them, his eyes slightly glazed.

"Can you hear me?" inquired Hermione, and Ron nodded, gaining a slight look of disgust.

"What's that smell?" he groaned, wrinkling his nose.

Harry and Hermione laughed. "Armadillo bile," Hermione informed him, wiping the substance from his upper-lip and laughing lightly.

"Are you feeling all right?" inquired Harry, searching Ron's eyes.

"Yeah..." Ron nodded, propping himself up on his elbows before pushing himself into a sitting position with his palms. "Yeah, I'm fine." He looked up at Holly, narrowing his eyes. She did the same. "Nice job choosing a friend."

"Nice job nearly killing him," she snapped.

Ron looked a little harassed. "'S not my fault he's a bastard."

It seemed Holly had perfected an expression of wrathful calm. "It's not my fault you can't take a little constructive criticism."

"I never said--"

"Good, that's settled then!" she cut him off. She turned to Hermione. "I'll get some ice--how do I get into the kitchen, again?"

"Tickle the pear on the still life of the fruit bowl," she reminded Holly as the girl picked up her things. Tossing them one final look of something that could have been called contempt, Holly walked off with more refinement than she could usually gather. Not a moment later, Harry helped Ron to his feet and they walked, slowly, in the direction of the entrance hall.

Ron was feeling a little dizzy until about the time they reached the fourth floor when he finally said, tonelessly, "Malfoy hit me."

Immediately Hermione apprised, "He could have killed you if he felt like it, Ron; I wouldn't complain."

"I'm not," Ron said defensively. "I was expecting I'd get hit, but not by him." He tenderly touched his jaw. "And it kind of hurt."

For the sake of Ron's dignity, Harry chose not to state, "Kind of hurt? It knocked you over, and your face is already swelling! You're sure you didn't lose any teeth?"

"I'm sure it did, Ron," said Hermione rubbing his arm lightly. "And you took it better than anyone else could have," she annexed for dutiful girlfriend reassurance.

"Oh, definitely," added Harry. He and Hermione looked at each other behind Ron's back and smirked. Their hatred for the Slytherin and every move he made dissolved considerably when they found out that Ron was okay and it fully registered that Draco Malfoy had just done something that starkly contradicted everything he had once stood for.

They sat Ron down in an empty corner of the common room, and it wasn't long before Holly showed up with half a cauldron of ice. "Halfway back I started thinking 'Why don't we just wet something down and use Glacius on it?', but then I remembered that here in Gryffindor we do nothing the easy way."

"That's right," concurred Harry.

"I didn't think of that..." Hermione murmured. She shook her head. "Oh well." She handed Harry a rag and he began lying ice in the center of it.

Before too long, Holly had departed again, this time for her dormitory. The three were left to talk without her--about the progress of the Dominitanis Potion, their nonexistent Supantoris development (with the exception of Hermione, that is), and, when conversation took a turn for the worst, Harry's impending dinner date with Cho.

"The Merrow Cave, no doubt," said Ron, who had been holding ice to his jaw while Hermione balanced more on the back of his head.

"Are you sure about that?" Hermione responded, knitting her brow. "It's not the most romantic of places..." Ron, who had taken Hermione to that very restaurant for a romantic night out, looked discontented by this remark. Harry smirked.

"Oh, how about Belletasse?" suggested Hermione, smiling brilliantly. "I've only heard good things about it--superb food, classy waiters, nice setting--not even the Prophet could give it a bad review."

Harry sighed. "And I suppose the appetizer alone will drain my Gringotts account?"

She shook her head. "I doubt it's that bad. It's on a lane breaking off High Street after Dervish and Banges. Halfway down on the right side, you can't miss it. It's really nice."

"And you would know this how?" inquired Ron, looking toward the ceiling.

She gave him a look behind his back, then turned her eyes back on Harry. "Give it a try; you won't regret it."

)()()(

Draco crept into the girls' dormitory, took a nasty dose of Polyjuice, and lit up. Granger would be in the common room for some time, and both Patil and Brown were running about with their half-blood fellows, so, needless to say, he was safe here if he was quick.

The Polyjuice switch had been mostly unprofitable, but, in the end, he supposed he should not have expected anything different. He had to endure the bleating of many hormonal girls concerning those they were mad at and jealous of, and he was forced to sit and be kind to the Thrilling Three. Bathing and using the toilet as a girl was a whole new experience, and Draco could definitely use the lessons he learned from these activities in the future, but other than that, it was a drag on his front. Not even Brown and Patil insisting on getting dressed in front of the whole dormitory was all that piquant.

His experiences with Ickle Red, however, beat them all to the punch for bore--even excluding Hufflepuff makeover night. They always seemed to be talking about Potter, blabbing about her brothers, discussing "public display of affection" etiquette, and conferring on uncomfortable undergarments. Once, even, Draco was forced to help Ickle Red match chinsy accessories and what he feared might be second-hand lingerie to a set of dress robes that was so pink, it was galling. And, in the process of trying on the finished product, Draco had been treated to seeing Weasley more than a little naked, too.

For fun, he had gotten her to discuss sex. She remained, unsurprisingly (especially judging by the unflattering state of her lingerie) celibate. Ickle Red admitted that, toward the end of what was a pathetic relationship with Michael Corner even to the neutral onlooker, they had come "this close" to doing the deed, when, to her horror, the Littlest Weasley realized she was saving herself for someone else.

Here, Draco inquired as to whom. As expected, Weasley avowed that she had been saving herself for Potter all along; she had been doing so subconsciously both before such thoughts crossed her mind and after she staked that she was "over" him.

Drawing on Holly's fine handle on the English language to express his personal opinion, Draco deadpanned, "Winner."

"Oh, shut it!" retorted Weasley. "It's not like you've ever decided to... to..."

Draco had laughed and filled in, "Give it up for free?"

When he had finished with his smoke, Draco fancied he should check in with his imposter to talk about the magnificent punch she delivered and do their homework. Then Draco thought he should sneak into Hogsmeade and, from there, Apparate to Diagon Alley to do a little shopping at Kuchen and Hütte--he had noticed Holly owned a set of dress robes, but nothing for a Valentine date. And he knew that, with the help of the saleswitches, he could find something that would be complimented by her Non-Heightening Heels.

There was a knock on the door. "Holly?"

Draco jumped to his feet and scrambled to the center of the room. "One second!" He threw his cigarette into the grate and exhaled the last of the smoke before snatching up some body spray from Brown's nightstand and spraying it in the air and over himself. With both hands, Draco waved away what was left of the reeking purple vapor.

He rushed to the entry and ran his hands over Holly's shirt and pants, de-wrinkling them. Putting on a façade that suggested he was calmly inquisitive, Draco opened the door. "Hi," he said to her.

Weasley looked the same as ever, what with her second-hand robes and carefully tied hair. Her freckles were consistently noticeable and her eyes the very same black cherry shade. However, she was looking at Draco in a way that suggested he had done something wrong--a gaze he had come all too accustomed to, but not while in this body.

"Hello," she replied. "I need to grab something for Hermione." Draco opened the door wider and watched her enter.

She went to Granger's trunk and opened it. "So, Malfoy beat up my brother, then?" she said, sounding forcibly nonchalant.

"I wouldn't say that," Draco told her. "He hit him once, that's all."

"Must've been a nice hit." She stood, holding a book to her chest, and stared at him. "Right?"

Draco attenuated his eyes. "Wait a second... are you angry with me for what Malfoy's done to your brother?" He made a sound of dissent and looked at the ceiling. "That's real great, Ginny."

"I'm not angry with you!" she blurted, eyes widening. "I'm just..."

"Blaming me for something I didn't do," finished Draco, feeling Holly's disposition stirring somewhere within him. What was it about getting caught up in the act? Draco played this character well, that was true, but how was it that he could nearly channel the girl like she was some hovering spirit? He imagined it was hearing her voice escaping his mouth--something about the change in how it rumbled in his throat. Like in a dream, he thought. Although it was all the fabrication of the dreamer, more often than not the vision did not go the way the dreamer wanted it to, and the roles being played in the dream scarcely differed from the character's temperament and actions in consciousness.

"No," Weasley protested. "No, Holly... it's..."

"What?" he snapped, looking at her eyes, which were downcast. She did not reply, but furrowed her brow. Even more sharply, "What?"

Weasley's gaze snapped upward, and Draco felt like a vampire thrown into the light. She stared through his skin, paged quickly through his mind. His expression faded quickly or, more like, was covered up. Uncertainly, she murmured, "I'm sorry--just... quick to judge, you know that."

Draco nodded, turning his face away. Quite suddenly, Weasley echoed, "One punch." Draco examined her face, and she fixed a smart stare on him in turn. "H-he must've really wound up--turned back on one foot, and... and... threw himself into it?"

"Yeah, basically. I didn't really pay attention." Draco watched the girl, wondering what was going through her mind. "Why?"

"Well, it's just so funny. U-usually for boys it's all about multiple hits, y'know?" Draco did not show any sign of cognition. "Beating the other to a pulp." Weasley took a deep breath. "Don't mind me," she said bashfully, "I'm just sort of a connoisseur of fighting technique--I have six brothers."

"A connoisseur or a... psycho-analyzer?"

She laughed and flushed, suddenly embarrassed by him. Draco's confusion grew, and Weasley replied, "Psycho-analyzer. A purposeful one-puncher is someone who doesn't really... just--wants to..." she looked down again. "Malfoy doesn't strike me as a fighter who would favor the single hit."

"Malfoy doesn't strike me as a fighter, period." Draco smiled a little; he recalled examining the stunned looks the rest wore as Holly swung at the elder Weasley. "Little surprises every day, right? For example," he went on, "I was shocked that P--" Draco caught himself, "Harry didn't hop right in."

"Little surprises," repeated Weasley. There was a brief silence, and she cleared her throat. "Well--Hermione's waiting," she said, holding up the book in one hand, "so... I'm out."

Draco smiled favorably at her as she walked out the door, wondering vaguely what part of his psyche Holly's fighting technique revealed to Weasley that was so terrifying. It seemed Ginny Weasley treated punches the way that that loon Trelawney treated tea leaves--certain and final.

)()()(

After the first half-turn of the spiral staircase, Ginny took the rest of the steps at a run. She halted at the door into the common room, and walked in, trying to look calm. She strode over to Hermione to hand over the book she had requested, then turned to Harry.

"Harry," she said, trying to sound offhand, "I've just remembered--I'm supposed to ask you something.

"In Defense Against the Dark Arts, we're doing something with Foe-Glasses," she fibbed, "and Professor Lupin ran out by the time I'd gone to pick one. And I remembered you had a miniature from Percy, and I was wondering whether I could borrow it so he doesn't have to go and buy some more." He did owe her a favor for being a bastard about Valentine's Day, and she made that fact clear by directing a split-second glare at him. "Only for a week or so."

"Yeah... yeah, sure," he replied. "I'll go and fetch it." He stood up and added, "Just a second," holding up a finger. She watched him go, and after his back had disappeared behind the door to the boys' dormitory, Ginny had to do her best not to fidget nervously.

She half-listened to Hermione and her brother talk to one another--something about Ron's Supantoris--and looked at the empty common room. Most of the others were down at dinner. Ginny glanced at the door to the boys' dormitory anxiously; meanwhile, Ron switched topics and turned the fight around on Hermione (from what Ginny understood, anyway).

"Fine, whatever," said Ron, shutting his eyes and thus closing the topic of Supantorises. "And you never answered me about Bell-wherever."

"Belletasse?" said Hermione. "What about it?"

Ron narrowed his eyes and set his shoulders. "How is it you know how wonderful it is?"

Hermione was silent for a juncture, then, when Ron continued to stare at her, sighed impatiently. "Now, don't fly off the handle, but... I went with Viktor, all right?"

Ron's jaw dropped, and he snarled, "Krum?" Hermione glanced at him irascibly, as if that question was silly. "When?"

"Two years ago, Ron," she growled in return. "And it was 'wonderful' not because of Viktor but because of the food, waiters, and setting! You know I wouldn't suggest a place to Harry simply because I had fun there once."

Ginny tuned in just in time for Harry to return and hand her the Mini Foe-Glass, which reminded her strongly of a cosmetic mirror. Hermione and Ron stopped bickering with Harry's reentry into the common room, but Ginny had heard more than enough. "Thanks," she muttered in Harry's direction, before announcing that she was going to leave.

Ginny let the girls' dormitory door fall shut behind her before taking the steps two at a time, all the way up the spiral staircase to the sloping roof of the turret. She burst into the seventh years' dormitory and looked around, but it was empty.

)()()(

When Draco entered his dormitory, he found Holly, panicked. She was pacing the floor, scuffing her toes along his rug. He stopped her, laying his hands on her upper arms, and inquired, "What's wrong with you?" sounding as innocently concerned as he could.

"Oh, you know what's wrong," she snarled, looking down at him.

"What? I didn't make you do it!" He leered at her, trying his hardest not to bend over and laugh at the expression she wore. Holly looked away.

Miserably, she responded, "I know you didn't." She turned on one foot as if to start pacing again, but instead made her way to his beside and plopped down onto the mattress, covering her face with her hands. Draco sat down next to her and turned to watch her screened face. She looked at him between her fingers.

"Since I imagine you're wondering," he began, turning his head away and looking at his wardrobe, "Weasley is fine. Just a bruise on his cheek and a bump on his head. Oh, and a scar on his pride, but I'm the one who will enjoy that." Holly dropped her hands and sighed discontentedly. "The hit was magnificent, Black. And between comments such as 'diluting the pool' and 'stake and crucifix', victory was sealed before you knocked him to the ground."

"I hope you didn't take offense at the vampire reference," she mumbled.

"None at all. It just threw into relief the feelings the Thrilling Three have toward me." Draco smiled in a somewhat opulent manner, and he saw Holly's eyes lighten. "If anything you should be proud--you've successfully saved face for me."

"By pissing my other friends off?"

"No," he corrected, "by making me into some sort of capable Muggle dueler."

She smiled. "A fighter, you mean?" He returned the smile as confirmation. Holly's face fell again, if only a little, and she said, "What bothers me is that I just... did it."

He narrowed his eyes. "Did what?"

She glanced at him sideways. "What I mean is that that was... Ron. All the insults were running off my tongue without me even having to think about what cruel thing I could say to him next, and then, instead of bearing his hits and waiting for someone to hold him back, I punch him like it's the most natural thing in the world."

"Fighting back is a natural thing," Draco assured her. "And the insults were probably things you'd bottled up over the course of the past six months."

"Against Hermione, yes," Holly agreed. "But Harry and Ron?" She gave him a dubious look.

Draco looked skeptical. "Have they never wronged you?"

It appeared Holly was turning that statement over when she looked away once again.

"Anyway, call Muffy up here and get some dinner. We need to start on our homework--I've got errands to run." He stood to get Holly's bag, which he had dropped when he entered, but she didn't move.

"What kind of errands?" she asked, her tone mistrustful. Draco turned around, slinging the book bag over his shoulder, and grinned at her.

"Errands in my own body, so I'll need to borrow some of my own clothes, too." He sat down on the rug and poured out the contents of her over-stuffed knapsack and looked up at her. Holly reluctantly rang for the house-elf and went to get Draco's bag.

After working their way through a couple steak-and-kidney pies, four bowls of salad, three pitchers of water, several chocolate biscuits, and innumerable rolls of parchment, Draco snatched up an outfit and took his departure, grabbing his cloak and scarf at the door.

He made his way back up to the seventh floor and through the portrait hole into Gryffindor tower. Draco skirted along the wall in the common room unnoticed before entering the turret for the girls' dormitories, Holly's Non-Heightening Heels in mind.

When he entered the seventh years' dorm, Draco found Ginny Weasley sitting on Holly's trunk, a mirror in one hand. As Roux rushed to greet him, yipping happily, Weasley flipped the mirror open and looked at what it revealed with a sort of ghastly satisfaction.

)()()(

"It's you!" she exclaimed with horror on her key while looking at Draco Malfoy's leer in the Foe-Glass. "I knew it!" She snapped her head up, and Malfoy stared at her, eyes attenuated. She gazed at the Foe-Glass, mouth agape and brow twisted with antipathy. "Oh my God," she murmured, "for how long?" Before he could answer, she gasped and half-shrieked, "You know everything!"

Comprehension dawned on Malfoy's typically casual veneer, and his eyes darted between her face and the Foe-Glass. "Well... shit," he murmured, accent dropped. "That's a Foe-Glass, isn't it?"

She snapped the Mini Foe-Glass shut, stood up, and thrust it at him. He caught it gracefully as it slid down his chest and flipped it open. Ginny imagined he could see her face in the Glass just as clearly as she could see his a moment before. With three fingers, Malfoy folded it down before leering at her. "Surprise!" he drawled.

Ginny let out a sound that was something like both a scream and a grunt, and shoved him. Malfoy stumbled backward, still looking smug. "Why didn't you tell me?!" she howled. "I can't believe I showed you... you saw me..." she opened and closed her mouth a couple times before continuing on her string of unfinished statements, "and I told you..."

"Oh, that you're saving both yourself and your icky lingerie for Potter's enjoyment?" Though normally hearing Malfoy's drawl in Holly's voice and looking at his sneer on her face would be nothing short of erratic and frightening, Ginny was too caught up in her pique to take notice. "Like I couldn't have figured that out on my own, cherie."

"Don't call me that!" Ginny shoved him again, then pulled out her wand. "I have half a mind to hit you with the Bat Bogeys again, because I know you liked them last time." She brandished her wand at him, and he held up his hands.

"No... no, that won't be necessary."

Again, she demanded, "Why didn't you tell me?!"

"Me?" Malfoy made a noise of incredulity. "Aren't I the villain here? What about Holly--why didn't she tell you about the switch?"

"I don't--" Ginny fell silent and scowled. "Why did you switch in the first place?" she asked harshly.

"For fun." He shrugged. "I reckoned her short temper and instinct to hit people would be good for my image."

Ginny stared at him, transfixed. "You were taking notes for your Death Eater father, weren't you?" she accused.

Malfoy rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and responded, "Please, Weasley, that's so cliché..."

"Well, were you?"

He went taciturn and watched her sideways. "May I remind you of an occurrence that I would like to call the 'fork in the path incident'."

Ginny remembered the night in the Hufflepuff girls' dormitories in which Holly--or, Malfoy, she supposed--slipped into an oration about Malfoy's temperament, saying things like, "He throws up fences that betray both sides," and "You'd think his logical ally would be the ones who care for him, not the ones who push him to be something he never decided on in the first place." She stared avidly at Malfoy and said, "That was you?" He didn't reply, and she took his silence as a 'yes'. "Is it true?"

"Fuck if I know... I tend to get caught up in the moment, I guess." Malfoy rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a pack of Melas cigarettes. He lifted it up and inquired, "Want one?" She shook her head fervently. He shook one into his palm, stuck one end into his mouth, and lit up with an Oppiz lighter that Ginny assumed was actually encrusted with emeralds. Contorting his lips so the bluish smoke he exhaled didn't move in Ginny's direction, Malfoy apprised, "I'm surprised it took you this long to figure it out."

"You accidentally dropped the accent earlier," she explained. She was considerably more comfortable around Draco Malfoy when he looked like one of her dearest friends. "Then things started falling into place--you nearly referred to Harry as 'Potter', and the fight thing--I knew that Malfoy wouldn't... wait..." Ginny smiled--almost laughed, in fact. "That means Holly punched my brother!"

Malfoy laughed loudly, pulling the cigarette from his lips between two fingers. "Yeah, she did. It was spectacular."

"Oh my God--she must've been really miffed!" said Ginny, looking up at Malfoy for an answer.

"No..." he took another draw from his cigarette, and blew it away from her face once more. "She was joking around a moment before--telling him to grab his stake and crucifix when he said he wanted to kill me. She probably just hit him after he hit her, instinct you know. But then, maybe not."

Ginny laughed a little. She was comforted by Malfoy's light-hearted attitude, even if beneath the light-heartedness was general cruelty. Talking about their friend punching her brother in the face was much better than him teasing her for the things she had revealed to him whilst under the impression he was Holly Black.

"Look, Weasley," he said, moving to Holly's wardrobe and digging out a pair of strappy black heels that had been bequeathed to her by Ron, "I feel bad about letting you spill your deepest secrets to me and showing me not only your lingerie but your mostly-naked body."

He puffed on his cigarette as if this kind of comment was customary, and Ginny felt the heat rise in her face. "Wow..." she blabbed covering up her chagrin, "real feelings. Are you okay?"

He ignored this. "I wanted to make it up to you."

These words were the things that porn was born of. "How so?" she inquired, her voice squeaking a little.

He smiled in a gratified manner. "If you can tell me where Potter and Chang are going for their Valentine date," he told her, "I can get that Ravenclaw whore out of your way."

She shook her head fiercely. "Malfoy... he chose her, not me. That's the end of it."

He rolled his eyes. "So, you didn't make the kill. That doesn't mean you can't feed off the carcass." She winced.

Ginny thought of all the horrible things Malfoy could be plotting against Cho Chang and weighed these horrible things with what horrible things she would like to see happen to Cho Chang. Her greed overtook her abashment in the end, however. "Belletasse," she told him, glancing at her feet.

When she looked back up, however, Malfoy was grinning widely. He tossed his cigarette in the fire and, with a jerk of his head toward the door, said, "Come with me."

)()()(

"People are looking at us," Ginny murmured out of the corner of her mouth.

They had left the castle in cloaks and scarves, seated together on Malfoy's Nimbus. She held him around the middle uncomfortably, choosing to take his advice and hold on rather than fly off the end of a broom that moved much faster than anything Ginny had ever owned. She focused on the substantiality that Malfoy smelled exceptionally nice (he had given himself time to change back in an old lavatory on the second floor) rather than thinking about the defense boundary they were certain to hit at any moment.

They hit no magical wall, however, and flew right into Hogsmeade, where they landed at the local Floo depot. After Malfoy disappeared in the fires, Ginny followed him to the Leaky Cauldron. He had not given her a lot of details--she had gathered from a few things he had said that they were going shopping. She was not certain what for, however.

Malfoy made a noise. "Well put a hat on," he told her. "I can't conceal my pulchritude, but you sure can hide your head."

Ginny stared forward, staying at Malfoy's side. She wasn't sure that her hair color was the problem; seeing two school-age kids walking along Diagon Alley in the middle of term was odd enough, not to mention that one was a Gryffindor and the other, a Slytherin. And, to the Purebloods amongst the crowd, the fact that he was so clearly a Malfoy and she so clearly a Weasley was yet another reason to stare.

It was after a few minutes of strolling along Diagon Alley that Ginny realized that if this was a trap, she had walked right into it.

Malfoy led her down a secondary street alive with witches in oversized hats, wizards in Canaleta robes, and fancy restaurants with lights turned low. They came to a halt in front of a dark store with sweeping windows whose whole purpose must have been to show passerby how wealthy the buyers inside were. Ginny rubbed her gloved hands together and looked up through the haze of winter breath above them to read what store they stood in front of.

"Kuchen and Hütte?!" she exclaimed, grabbing Malfoy by the arm. "You're mad!" she whispered, shaking him. "I can't afford--"

"Weasley, you can't afford even to appear at my side in public." He looked sideways at her, and she gritted her teeth. Malfoy smiled at her through stray argentine hairs and stated, "This is my treat."

She let go of him, crossed her arms, and said, "It's closed anyway," nodding her head toward the dark windows.

He smiled even more widely and said, "Not for me, honeypot." He stepped up to the wall and appeared to be counting the bricks. When he found the one he wanted, Malfoy lifted his left hand and pressed his palm against it. The brick glowed white for a moment, and Ginny heard the ringing of a doorbell on the level above the store.

Within moments, behind the windows Kuchen and Hütte came to life. Chandelier after chandelier was revived, and the spectacular mannequins and clothing displays came into sharp relief. A woman was rushing to the front doors in a nightgown--she had a head full of brown corkscrew curls, a thin face, and a long nose. When she threw open one of the front doors and smiled, Ginny noticed age lines around her eyes and a beauty mark near her mouth.

"Well, if it isn't Draco Malfoy!" she greeted happily, her key tainted very slightly by a German accent.

Ginny averted her attention to her escort, who smiled endearingly at the woman. "Evening, Melia." He bent to kiss her cheek.

"What is it you are needing, Mister Malfoy?"

"Two gowns for Valentine's Day, actually," he apprised the saleswitch. Ginny gasped, staring at him. He looked sideways at her, and she could tell he was pleased with himself.

"That shouldn't be a problem. And who is this blushing beauty?" Melia inquired, giving Ginny an approving once-over.

"Was auch immer unbekannt ist, wird vergrößert," he said to the woman, winking. Ginny glared at him, and, though not knowing what it was he had said, she assumed it was nothing pleasant. Melia let them inside, and as she ran behind the counter to do something, Ginny demanded to know what it meant.

"It's a phrase typically used in Latin--but the woman has only just gotten a hold on English," he elucidated. "'Omne ignotum pro magnifico.' It means, 'Whatever is unknown is magnified.' Haven't you ever read Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?"

Assuming Doyle was some sort of paunchy Pureblood author who wrote about the extermination of Muggles, Muggle-borns, and Muggle-lovers in Latin, she snapped, "No."

"Okay, okay," said Melia, clapping her hands as she walked toward them again, a pair of rectangular glasses with plastic frames placed low on her nose. She had pulled her tightly curled hair back into a bushy ponytail. "I assume both gowns will be for this young lady?" she said, looking at Malfoy.

"No, actually--one will be." He gave Ginny a once over that wasn't so much offensive, like a crude come-on, as it was evaluating and pensive. "D'you have anything in gold?"

"Copper, Mister Malfoy," the saleswitch responded. "She would look spectacular in bronze." Melia slid Ginny's cloak from her shoulders and took her scarf and gloves. She then walked a quick circle around Ginny, giving her the same appraising look Malfoy had a second before.

"Aureate will do," Malfoy said off-handedly, though Ginny could sense that he was mocking the woman. "Classy. Something that says--oh, I don't know... 'Forget that Chinese bitch, I'm here!'" He grinned at Ginny, who glowered back. "Or something along those lines," he added, not breaking his gaze.

"Very good, very good," murmured Melia, finding a cessation in her orbit and choosing not to question the reference to a 'Chinese bitch'. She looked at the boy. "And for the other gown, young sir?"

He held up Holly's heels and said, "Long, black--compliments a..." he motioned with his hands before the words came to him, "pear-shape. I have some Polyjuice here, and a better fit of clothes... could you tell me where the loos are?"

After Malfoy left for the lavatory, Melia pulled out her wand and rushed around the store, flicking it at a rack every so often so the dress came sailing toward her and folded over her extended arm. Ginny was being measured by a tape that had flown her way shortly after Melia began making her rounds, and she held out her arms awkwardly while watching the saleswitch Summon every black or gold dress in the store.

Malfoy returned, looking like Holly again, wearing the same clothes he had been earlier. He stood next to Ginny, threw out his arms, and a second measuring tape began attending to him.

"I'm not sure I want to do this..." Ginny apprised as her tape measured inseams. "I hate to owe you a favor."

"You won't owe me a favor," he drawled, tilting up his head as the tape measured the distance from Holly's chin to her collarbone. "This is my payment to you, remember?"

"I'm not sure I need any sort payment," she said nervously. She thought of what could happen if Lucius Malfoy or, worse yet, her brother caught word of Malfoy buying her dresses at Kuchen and Hütte as a Valentine's Day treat. And what kind of plan was he cooking up concerning Cho and Harry's date? He would not set his Death Eaters on them or something, would he? She continued, "Y'know, on second thought, Harry can do what he likes with Cho. Date her! Marry her!" The lies set anger alight somewhere in her subconscious, and soon Ginny snarled, "Make her Missus Four-Eyed, Messy-Headed... flaming..." She ceased her fumbling and scowled deeply.

"Missus Scarhead," substituted Malfoy, smirking. She did not reply, and he went on, "As much as I hope Potter experiences anything but happiness, I'm willing to help you out, here. Personally, I think he was telling the truth about making the plans and forgetting them. They say a man's ability in passion and devotion compares with his mastery of potion-making."

"Who says that?"

Malfoy shrugged. "They? Anyway, Potter couldn't make chocolate milk without a dozen jinxes on hand, three escorts to back him up, and a house-elf to hold up the ingredients, Weasley. So, basically, someone's going to be at a loss here either way."

Ginny struggled to stay silent as her measuring tape sailed back to Melia; she didn't think it would be right to laugh raucously at one of Draco Malfoy's clever banters, even in private.

"So, would this mean that someone like... Snape would be a remarkable lover?" inquired Ginny, looking innocently over at Malfoy, whose breath hitched as the measuring tape squeezed around Holly's waist.

Malfoy, it seemed, didn't fear laughing in a stentorian voice at things said by Ginny Weasley. "I guess so. And I know you Gryffindors are brave, but please don't take that upon yourself to find out." He snickered, quieter this time, and annexed, "There's only so much one's stomach can take."

"Don't you fret. I have no desire to be any nearer Snape than I have to be." Ginny cringed as the image of the pallid, hook-nosed professor wearing less than several layers of high-collared robes flashed through her head.

Malfoy, who had apparently seen the expression cross her face, laughed again. Ginny had never imagined that such an amoral presence could comfort her to the point of surrendering her pride to allow a new (and expensive) gown into her life. However, she supposed that compared to the soul of the young Dark Lord abutting her mind, even Draco Malfoy was agreeable.

From that point onward, Malfoy and Ginny changed in and out of what must have been 500 dresses between them. They walked into and out of the dressing rooms, sporting styles that were both choice glamorous and--well--indelicately smutty. This went on for nearly two hours--she judged this by how many times she saw Malfoy sip some more Polyjuice Potion--before Ginny reluctantly decided on a dress.

Standing on a platform while Melia charmed and transfigured the fabric while adding additional aureate ribbons and strips of material to the getup, Ginny said, "You're sure this isn't too much?"

Melia was too busy directing pins through the bodice to answer, but Malfoy replied, "You're talking to the boy whose mother recently imported ceramic shower curtain rings from Morocco for the unused guest bath." He had dressed Holly's body in a black gown with a sweeping neckline that went both wide and low. He had decided on that one the moment he tried it on; it was a slimming confection made of silk and lace. He was drawing on yet another cigarette, exhaling smoke as he laughed.

She didn't find this comforting. Melia spun her around, and Ginny examined herself in the multi-pane mirror she now faced. Malfoy, too, had assisted in the election of this dress. It was a shade of deepest bronze, and though he said it made her "glow," Ginny felt it that it made her radiate dangerously--an entirely different sort of action. Her shoulders mostly bare, she rarely showed this many freckles. White chiffon poked up out of the gown to more fully cover her bust, and Melia had added a sparkly brooch to enhance Ginny's "natural curve". She vanished a gaudy bow from the garment upon Malfoy's command and replaced it with a frightening slit up one side, then widened the silk straps that had been digging into Ginny's shoulders.

After Malfoy had Holly's dress magically tailored, they both changed back into their own clothes (which now seemed spectacularly boring) and allotted twenty minutes for Malfoy to transform back into himself.

He slapped a great deal of Galleons down on the counter when it came time for them to depart; there was so much gold there, in fact, it made Ginny slightly nauseous. They departed, Malfoy holding both dresses, and Ginny saw the lights of Kuchen and Hütte go out in their wake.

)()()(

There was a knock on Draco's dormitory door. Holly looked up from her book--a collection of Muggle short stories she had found in Draco's bookcase--and called out, "Yes?"

"It's me, you silly boy," someone giggled from the other side of the port. "Open up!"

Holly froze. She stared at the closed door, clutching the volume tightly. "Uh..." she responded loudly, "I can't! I'm... um... enjoying a little alone time!" As an afterthought she added, "Entirely nude!"

"Alone and unrobed already?" the voice replied. "That's fine, sugar--just another ph-phase of the... process... behind us!"

Holly glanced at Draco's watch on her wrist--it was nearly eleven o'clock. She had been in his dormitory this late numerous times without a single visitor--and that was outside the time she spent being Draco Malfoy. She marked her page in the book--she was in the middle of a story titled The Interlopers--and swallowed.

Holly stood and opened the door, trying to look perfunctory, as she imagined Draco would in such a situation. Smoothing a smart leer on her face, she opened the door, fidgeting with one hand at her side.

Her nonchalant look disappeared long before she could secure it there, however, for when she got a look at what was on the other side of the port, she yelped. She jumped backward and gagged, "Parkinson?!" ogling at the girl.

Pansy hiccuped loudly. She leaned sideways against the doorframe, and Holly stared unwillingly. Pansy was dressed in nothing but a pair of black panties and a matching camisole that was made mostly of see-through mesh. "Draaaaa-co!" she called, cackling madly. She reached out and touched Holly's face with a finger, and Holly backed away further.

"You're drunk?" she said incredulously. Pansy giggled and nodded, taking a hazardous step into the dormitory, stumbling, and catching herself on the hook where Draco's cloak had been before he came to pick it up. "It's Monday, you idiot!" Holly went on, not bothering with the accent, the signature drawl, or the nonchalant smile and glance Draco normally sported.

"Oh, me and the girls are just having shome fun!" She curved her back, throwing out her stomach, and moved away from the wall. She fell forward on to Holly's chest, and if this wasn't horrifying enough, she murmured, "Make love to me, Draco," watching her blearily.

Holly shouted and jumped away from Pansy, who overbalanced and fell on the rug. She spread her legs and laughed hysterically, sitting up with a lot of effort and mussing up her hair. Holly held up a hand to block her view of what she felt was a little too much of Pansy and said, "Get out of here, Park--um, Pansy."

"Well, you gotta help me up!"

Keeping her eyes averted, Holly bent and extended a hand. It took her a moment, but Pansy managed to grab hold of it with both her hands, then did her best to help Holly get her off the floor. She wondered off-handedly how it was that Pansy had managed to get up the few steps that preceded the entrance to Draco's dormitory.

Pansy regained a little sobriety as she got to her feet, it seemed, because once she was up she laid her hands on Holly's chest and shoved. Caught off guard, Holly stumbled backward, shins connecting with the boards of Draco's four-poster. She tipped over, her back bouncing against the mattress.

Pansy threw herself down on Holly and affirmed, "I promishe I won't make as much noise as I did... tast... tast lime."

Holly, not particularly caring with what her knees and elbows connected with in the process, kicked off the floor and squirmed beneath Pansy, scrambling up to the head of the bed. The corner of the book she had been reading dug into her side uncomfortably, and she cast it away.

"What do you mean, 'last time'?" she demanded, but Pansy didn't seem to hear her. She propped herself up, crawling forward on all fours. Again, Holly raised a hand to keep herself from viewing more of Pansy than she had to.

"It's just," said Pansy, voice higher than normal, "you're normally so nice, and that time it kind of hurt!"

"What hurt?" Holly inquired, knowing full well, but filling in her panic with words.

"You know," she said in a scolding fashion, pointing to where it hurt, "shilly." Pansy's giggle was like a shriek.

"Oh my God..."

Pansy continued to crawl toward Holly, who was paralyzed with horror. Draco and Pansy? When? Why? There were so many things wrong with the thought of Draco and Pansy beneath the coverlet she now sat on, him covering her mouth and groaning for silence as he had his way with her.

And who else? How many girls? All along Holly had thought he was all talk...

Pansy was reaching forward for the area between Holly's legs that she had left quite unprotected because of her bent knees. She screamed--or made a noise along the lines of a scream, considering her new, deeper voice--and kicked out, foot connecting with Pansy's shoulder. Pansy, who had been careening on the single arm that held her up, toppled sideways, and Holly rolled off the bed and roared, "GET OUT!"

"But, Draco!"

Holly grabbed Pansy by the arm and dragged her off the bed and over the floor, practically throwing her out into the corridor landing beyond. Holly slammed the door so hard it rattled ominously afterward, and she stormed around the room in a sort of infuriated pace.

Why had she not thought of this before? Pansy was nearly always hanging on Draco's shoulder and cackling disturbingly at his jeers--it only made sense that the flake was willing to give herself to him. And, similarly, it was only fitting that the snake took full advantage of that.

Though she had felt sick after a drunken Pansy came on to her in the first place, now Holly felt sicker. And she hated herself for it; she should not have even be concerned. But there it was, that heartbroken ache and that discouraged nausea she had once been so accustomed to suffering. But this time, she was experiencing it tenfold. Draco Malfoy really was the monster she had heard about. And at this rate, Holly was bound to be the vampire's next victim.

She sat awake on his bed miserably, allowing herself to change back into her normal physical form, dark hair shielding her eyes from her reflection in the mirror. When Draco entered the dormitory later, telling Holly that the gig was up and he had left something for her in her dormitory, she had to restrain herself from bursting into tears of pained confusion and charging at him. Instead she left, silently, still dressed in his clothes.

)()()(

Ginny stood in front of the mirror in her dormitory, slumber eluding her. The only light in the room was created by the dying embers in the fireplace and a single candle she had lit when deciding to do something to distract herself from how much time was passing without sleep. She slipped into the coppery dress Malfoy had bought her and stared silently at her shadowy reflection.

The full force of what she had let happen was just beginning to hit her.

Earlier that evening Ginny had not only let her guard down--she had dropped all her fences in order to let Draco Malfoy get a clearer view from inside. The little sparks of her typical defenses--pride, skepticism, rationality--were smothered by the boy's gentle leer and clever solace.

And suddenly, Ginny was dressed in a getup that cost more than her house awaiting news of what plot a Death Eater's son had cooked up in order to sabotage plans made by Harry Potter.

--She supposed she was looking at it all the wrong way. The gown did probably cost more than her house, true. And Malfoy was a Death Eater's son. But the plans he was sabotaging involved a date on Valentine's Day, and it was for a good cause, right? And Holly would not allow Malfoy to do anything genuinely wicked to Cho, even after receiving a lacy confection that cost many Malfoy Galleons.

But still, Ginny had followed the boy blindly to Hogsmeade, and from there to Diagon Alley with barely a peep of protest. With little effort, he could have raped her... or handed her over to You-Know-Who as a tool. Maybe not to catch Harry, who did not particularly care for her, but to lure Ron into his lair and, from there, catch Harry.

In the far back of her mind, Tom was laughing at her.

You're right, she thought. I'm being stupid. I guess Malfoy really does exhibit irresistible charm when he tries. And for giving in, I got myself a pretty dress. She twirled a little and wondered off-handedly why Muggle fashions were becoming steadily popular with the youth and whether the generations above her own would soon be known for how dated that "classical warlock" look they sported was.

She spun about once more, noticing in the partial light that "glow" Malfoy said the dress gave her, smirking. If Harry did not forget all about Cho after seeing Ginny in this thing, he was positively asinine. She sang in her head--swaying, stepping, dancing languidly. She knew she should not be so happy about the prospect of ruining someone else's evening, but something about the way Malfoy put it was worth dancing for. And so was this gown.

One of the girls shifted in her bed, the springs of her mattress squeaking and her sheets rustling. Ginny froze, the sound jarring against the silence otherwise broken only by her footsteps. She changed carefully back into her nightgown, tucking the dress away in the back of the wardrobe. Ginny crawled into bed and, for what seemed like the first time in a long time, slipped into pleasant dreams.

)()()(

"Does Holly look sick?" asked Harry, examining the girl from a bench in the chilly courtyard. Hermione had chosen to take the time after breakfast to return library books, so it was just he and Ron awaiting the warning bell signaling that their time before Defense Against the Dark Arts was growing short.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Ron look around at her. Holly was leaning against the wall in the adjacent corner of the quadrant, reading the Daily Prophet. She seemed oddly twitchy to him, and she had yet to speak to Harry, Ron, and Hermione that day. In fact, she had not even dropped by the Slytherin table to visit Malfoy that morning. Instead, she sat with Ginny who, when Harry nodded his head toward Holly with a questioning look, shrugged.

"What kind of sick?" Ron inquired.

"Feverish," clarified Harry, watching Holly bend to retrieve a page of the Prophet that had slipped out of her grasp and fluttered to the ground. Pansy Parkinson walked past her, and after what Harry assumed was one of her pathetic jeers, the girls with Pansy laughed shriekingly. Holly watched Pansy's retreating back with a black look that quite expressed how badly she wanted her to rot in Hell, and Ron grimaced.

"Yeah, a little," he confirmed.

Harry stated, "I haven't seen that look on her face for a while," just in time for her scowl to subside.

"I actually saw her give Malfoy that look when she passed him on the way to the courtyard." Ron shrugged nonchalantly and added, "I wouldn't go and try to get matey with her, though."

He did not elaborate, but Harry thought he knew what Ron meant. Her dark mood was contagious, and currently it seemed to be snowing harder where Holly stood, and the charmed hedges at her side appeared to be withering.

"Did I tell you I got Dobby to help out with me and Hermione's Valentine evening?" Harry shook his head, watching as Ginny marched up to Holly and snatched the Prophet away from her. Holly said something, jabbing a finger at the paper as Ginny folded it up and began speaking to her. "Yeah... he's got a meal planned and everything. He offered to serve us and try his hand at a little violin playing, but I shot that down."

"Hermione wouldn't like that," Harry affirmed. Ginny was waving the paper around while she spoke, and though she was giving her a rather dirty look, Holly seemed to be caving. She commenced in explaining something to Ginny, using sweeping motions with her hands to add to the story.

"I know. But I found the card table and saved a sheet... and without the Hogsmeade deadline pushing us--"

"No one makes it back to the castle on time when it's Valentine's Day," Harry interjected.

Ron stopped and raised an eyebrow at Harry. "Hermione would. Anyway, without the deadline pushing us, no pressure, right?"

Holly had finished speaking, and Ginny's arms fell limp at her sides. She said something and Holly nodded, then Ginny added something else, and the other girl shook her head. "Yeah," said Harry, "except that you're supposed to be telling her you love her."

"If she asks whether I do, I'll snog her," Ron said fiercely. Harry winced, looking sideways at him. "What?" was his reply. "She'll take it as a 'yes'."

"Okay," sighed Harry, looking back at Holly and Ginny. It was snowing harder yet over in her corner, and if he was not mistaken, those hedges were losing their leaves.

"What about you?" asked Ron. "Have you made reservations at what's-it-tass?"

Harry nodded grimly, imagining that blood curdling look Holly had been wearing being directed at him by Ginny. "It was practically full. I'm meeting her there at 6:30. With my luck, if I'd spent the entire afternoon with her she would have left me by then."

Ron laughed, and the warning bell rang out across the grounds. "Let's go," he said, and they slung their bags over their shoulders and headed for the castle.

Holly's mood shed darkness on Harry's usually cheerful Defense Against the Dark Arts session, and it rained on what proved to be another difficult day of Transfiguration. Not even Neville's being transformed into a toad that much resembled Trevor lifted Holly's mood. And although her draining influence was seated elsewhere during Advanced Astronomy, Cho was at his side, speaking with him excitedly, and reminding him of how he had left Ginny, who was to spend the evening window-shopping with Justin Finch-Fletchley.

Ginny had felt uncomfortable around and alienated by Harry after the experience during the holidays when Riddle found his window at a very inconvenient moment, and now she probably thought he was pushing her away because of her curse.

But, ever so slowly, Harry was realizing that he and Ginny had a burden in common.

"--don't you think?" Cho was whispering. "Harry?" He looked over at her, and she had ducked her head as if to get a better look at him from that angle. She smiled, and he did the same.

"Yeah," he concurred, not sure what he was agreeing to. "Definitely."

)()()(

Hermione sat cross-legged behind the hangings of her four-poster, eyes closed. She let her back sink further into the pillows propped against her headboard and, as was her custom, swept the thoughts of the other dormitory occupants.

She had met with Professor McGonagall earlier that term with questions about her rare Supantoris, which she dare not mention in any of her classes. Most wizards did not believe Perceivers (commonly known as Mind Readers) existed, her Head-of-House had apprised, and the talent, like many, could also serve as a curse. Hermione had read all about it, of course... how, eventually, many warlocks could not turn off their Auricle and Perceived every solitary thought in a one-mile radius playing through their own heads.

"This, however, isn't the final result of a fully-developed Auricle." Never had a book Hermione read told her that information; then, she imagined no author would truly want to assist a Perceiver to read past pages. A fully developed Auricle meant that Hermione could, once again, switch the ability on and off but have the aptness for Perceiving thoughts from a great distance. But, as McGonagall had reminded her, she needed to break through the feared phase of Mind Reading first.

What her professor neglected to mention, however, was that most wizards did not make it past this phase because the many voices ringing in their heads drove them into madness.

What McGonagall suggested was that Hermione focus on developing her Supantoris only to a certain point during the school year. The stage of interminable Perception would be easier for her to bear, they agreed, if reached during the holidays when there were fewer ever-active minds around. McGonagall said that Trelawney--who, sadly, would be meeting with Hermione for Supantoris training as Perceiving fell into the field of Seeing--would probably agree. And, until then, Hermione was to keep what she Perceived silent.

She tried hard not to think of those whose minds she read as victims.

Hermione rid herself of thought and ignored the noise in the room while she sensed the level plane of the dormitory around her. She recalled the enigmatic maze of Holly's mind, always being thrown in and out of the shadows, shifting with her mood. She had not been in the dormitory at this time of night for a few days now. When Hermione felt herself connect she dug deep before the opportunity slipped away.

Holly's system was relatively silent this evening--she seemed to be slipping in and out of consciousness, and each time she awoke, her only thoughts concerned the lax apprehension of what Parvati and Lavender were saying.

Hermione pulled out of Holly's head and swept the mental horizon of the room, groping for another feed. She located Parvati's mind, recognizing its even division--heart, rationality, and desire. I'm thinking pink, Lavender... Seamus won't object. Hermione sensed Parvati's intake of Lavender's response, the swift and unconscious defining of each word she used. A reply formed, vague opinions shooting out of the back of her head and stretching into sentences.

Hermione sensed downward, feeling her abilities slowly pull away from this plane and move to the next--the fifth years' dormitory. Ginny's roommates' minds were overcome with dreams--Hermione recognized the slow ebb of cause and effect and could feel the girls both creating events and discerning their meaning, opinions already bobbing out front, prepared for their unconscious use.

As Hermione cautiously reached for Ginny's mental system, as if tiptoeing through this undefined space, she hoped desperately to be welcomed. Hermione could sense that she was drawing nearer and nearer; she slowly realized the outline of two very different mindsets, one of which grew over and fed from the other.

But, as soon as her presence was noticed, Hermione was thrust out so harshly that her eyes flew open and she stared around her, feeling dizzy. She recalled her location and remembered the mission she had been on more abruptly than usual, and she shut her eyes and began again--ridding herself of her disappointment before probing the stratums of the turret as far as she could reach.

)()()(

"Hey... look at this," Ron said, nudging Harry with his elbow. Harry looked over at him, and Ron pointed forward.

They had all exited McGonagall's classroom for the second time in two days, and not even the fact that it was the final bell of the school day made up for how much homework they had been given.

Harry followed the line to where Ron was pointing, and saw that Malfoy had come to head Holly off further on up the corridor (completely without help from his cronies once more). With Hermione, they slowed to a near-standstill. Holly allowed Malfoy to guide her away from the sloppy queue, hands on her shoulders, but once to the side of the throng of people heading for dinner, Holly shook him off violently. She hissed something at him, and Malfoy appeared to be equally taken aback and annoyed with her.

"We shouldn't just watch them like this," warned Hermione. "I don't want her to blow up on me again, anyway..." But she made no move to leave the spot where she stood, and Harry and Ron continued to watch the ordeal as if it were a highly intriguing soap opera.

Holly shoved Malfoy, moving into the snarling stage. She kept her eyes on him, baring her teeth fiercely as they spoke--if you could call what they were doing speaking. "Shouldn't have let it ferment," stated Ron, as if speaking from professional experience. They had come to a stop now, just out of earshot. Harry could see that, though most people from other Houses had passed by, the other Gryffindors had done quite the same--Parvati and Lavender, Dean and Seamus... even Neville was listening from behind an oversized vase.

"She was definitely festering for at least twenty-four hours," said Harry in concurrence. "Git. You can never let them do that." Ron nodded vigorously

Hermione laughed bitterly. "As if you two would know." They looked around at her. "It's either five minutes or 72 hours... you can't cut a girl off at any old time. He's far too early."

Ron agreed to this as though his opinion had yet been concealed. "Bastard. She should give him a pop in the jaw."

Malfoy and Holly were talking very quickly to one another, gesturing angrily, but from this distance it was difficult to tell what they were saying. Holly gave Malfoy another firm push against the chest, glowering at him. It appeared she was demanding something of him. When her words had stopped, Malfoy looked around at all the people watching them. He moved around her and opened the door of a spare classroom, gesturing in a gentlemanly way for her to enter in front of him. Holly stormed inside, and, throwing a final glance around at Harry, Ron, and Hermione, Malfoy followed her.

As the door shut behind the pair, Seamus announced, "I don't know about the rest of you, but..." He walked forward and pressed his ear to the door.

"Tell me what happens!" said Dean, and Seamus nodded. After a brief, whispered conference with Lavender, Parvati left with him. Neville and Lavender went to the doorway and, seeing as there was room for only one of them, Harry moved to the port to listen in while Ron and Hermione hung back behind them.

Hermione looked a little disapproving, but she agreed when Ron pointed out that they had not seen Holly turn her ire on Malfoy since Christmas, and she decided to stick around.

"Can you hear them?" inquired Seamus, pressing his ear to the door so hard that his cheek was pushed up to the point of concealing his right eye. "I can't hear them."

"Shh!" hissed Lavender, cupping her hands around her ear and staring avidly at the floor.

Harry could hear the pair of them, but not what they were saying. Malfoy was talking smoothly, and Holly was doing a little shouting. He could hear the abstracted sound of wood scraping against stone as Holly pushed desks around.

"Open the door a bit," said Harry.

Seamus cautiously turned the brass handle and pushed the door inward so that less than an inch of the room was visible beyond it. Holly's shouting reached them, and though it sounded distant, they could just make out the words.

"--completely fucking drunk, talking about how it hurt before and how she'd be quiet this time--how could she make that shit up, Malfoy?!"

Malfoy's indifferent key was marred slightly, and though his key was as gravelly and even as ever, he was speaking faster, as if vexed. "Girls talk, Black," he told her. "Drunk ones have delusions... and then talk."

"'Delusions'?" Holly echoed incredulously. Malfoy did not reply, but Harry imagined that he was nodding. "Somehow I don't think your despoilment of Parkinson was something that just popped into her head; drunk girls don't have delusions--drunk girls let slip the truth."

Malfoy inquired, "Is this argument about Parkinson or is this argument about sex?"

"This argument is about y--" A whooshing noise overrode Holly's retort and the door slammed shut again. There was an audible click from the handle and Seamus swore.

Lavender, whose hair had gotten caught in the door, began working it out and whispered, "It's no mystery that Malfoy's a lecher, but that sounded really bad."

"Malfoy's a lecher?" echoed Ron from behind them. "But... how?"

Lavender threw him an 'oh, please' look before focusing again on listening in while extracting her hair from the door. Seamus used Alohomora on the lock and pushed the port open again.

The yelling ceased, and the unmistakable sound of someone being Disarmed made it to their ears. That was followed by a stammering gasp of pain as a body crumpled to the floor. "Open it!" said Harry, throwing himself against the door.

Seamus and Lavender did the same, and the door swung open, the handle banging hard against the stone wall. And although Harry had been expecting to see someone lying on the floor, it came as a shock that it was Holly who remained standing tall, her wand sitting on a desktop some ten feet behind her.

Malfoy, on the other hand, had crumpled to the floor with his face deformed in pain. From the positioning of his hands, his punishment was evident. Seamus "Ooh"ed sympathetically shifting his legs a little.

Holly, who was staring over at the five Gryffindors clambering to get a good look at what had happened, bent over, plucked Malfoy's wand out of one of his preoccupied hands, and jabbed it violently at the door. It slammed shut, and a system of clicks told them that they would not be getting back inside.

)()()(

"I hate you," muttered Draco, taking on the mutinous tone that, out of the two of them, Holly would more frequently use. He turned up his head so he could look at her furiously--his eyes were slightly watery and his face rather pale. Somehow when he was looking so helpless, Holly forgave him a little.

"You deserved it." Draco curled away from her, moaning. "Never again will you use Ginny as a miserable standard for comparison." She threw his wand down at him, sending off a few sparks. "You nearly violated number 155 in the Evil Overlord A-Z," she told him. She had found a copy of the pamphlet that past Sunday. "'If I know of any heroes in the land, I will not under any circumstance kill their teachers, families, mentors, and/or best friends.'"

"I didn't kill her," he grumbled. "And you're no hero."

"I know," Holly said, sitting down next to him. "All you did was indirectly insult the only person I can trust. And since that was only a taster of what you're capable of, I returned the favor."

"The only person you can trust," he repeated vaguely. Holly did not feel the need to impress this point upon him any more. He sat up slowly and turned to face her, wincing slightly. "You want the truth about Parkinson?" Draco was staring her straight in the eyes, and his face bore no trace of a malevolent leer or a jaded eye-roll. "Well, unless you can sneak me some Veritaserum, all you have is my word. And I'm telling you, sex is the last thing on my mind when I look at her." He gained a look of thoughtfulness. "Well, until now, since I imagine that the next time I see her that's all I'll be able to think about." He shuddered.

Holly smirked, shook her head, and glanced in another direction.

"And I didn't mean what I said about Weasley as an insult to her be-freckled semblance or second-hand lingerie," he added smartly. "It's positively true that I would shag her--and the rest of her family, at that--until the point of impotence before thinking about hopping between the sheets with Pansy Parkinson."

Holly held back a smile. "You do realize that the only other female in her family is her mother, right?"

"Absolutely," he replied, without a hint of chagrin. "I'd take you and what's left of your kin too, now that I think of it."

She bit her cheeks to keep from laughing aloud. "I'll let Sirius know."

"Good," responded Draco. "He'd be first. He's a sexy, sexy man." When Holly's smile blossomed across her face, he appeared to be satisfied. They got to their feet, Draco moving gingerly as they walked off. Holly's anger with him had evaporated quite quickly, but she was still going to question Parvati and Lavender about his history as a profligate, as that left her deeply unsettled. If he was not about to take on Pansy Parkinson, hushing her moans of passion and pain, whom had he done these things to? And whom did he aspire to violate in the future?

She made an attempt at pushing the thoughts out of her head, an effort that was made considerably easier--for the time being--when Draco started explaining the plot he had cooked up concerning Harry's Valentine evening.

)()()(

"Parvati, we need to share the hairspray... I'm out." Lavender shook her empty aerosol can in the air before tossing it in the bin. Parvati handed over a similar bottle (though hers was a very lurid pink whereas Lavender's had been fiercely green), and Lavender went to work on Ginny's hair once more.

"Damn, Lavender..." Ginny, who had given up all hope of Lila or Kylie helping her prepare for her date crashing, was watching the progress of her complicated beautification in the mirror with a little horror. "Haven't you used enough? And is it safe to mix hairsprays?"

Lavender laughed airily and went on with the occasional spritz of finisher into Ginny's mane, which was currently set in heavy ringlets similar to those Holly had once sported in the day-to-day.

Though it was quite strictly against the rules, many couples took advantage of the open gates on Hogsmeade weekends to leave precisely when the rest were to be getting back. And on Valentine's Day especially, it was nearly a given that this would happen. And, as usual, every professor in the castle seemed to know about these tendencies, which were passed on from generation to generation of students, and they paid them no attention. Filch, on the other hand, was not about to catch on. And if he did, Ginny seriously doubted that there would be much volunteering to help him stop such a widespread rebellion.

Reluctantly, Ginny had informed the gossiping Lavender and Parvati of her plans to sabotage Harry's date with Cho. They gave their word that they would not spread it around, but that rarely counted for anything. However, after hearing a brief synopsis of what Malfoy had in mind--which involved copious amounts of a gag product called Phlatulence Philter and a skillet--Ginny did not see it going very far anyway. And she told them this.

"We can fix that," stated Lavender. Parvati had fished a comb out of her pocket and told Ginny to have a seat.

But it was not the babbling birds Ginny was most worried about when she spilled her secret. It was Hermione, Harry's closest friend--apart from Ron--and the most rational, anti-plot witch Ginny knew.

Shockingly, however, Hermione had said, "Good. I don't think Harry and Cho are right at all. I buzzed Harry about it last year, asking what was between them mostly because I knew it pleased him. He's one boy who doesn't spend enough time being happy. You'll need to see to it that he starts." Afterward she whispered, "He doesn't really want to be there with her anyway."

Ginny had wondered why it was, then, that Hermione had told him where to go and had not done a thing to change his mind.

"I told you I didn't want bangs," Holly growled darkly after trying once, twice, three times to blow a chunk of hair out of her eyes. Parvati went on snipping at the girl's steadily darkening locks and assured her that she was not wearing bangs so much as face-framing layers.

"All done," Lavender announced, setting down the hairspray bottle triumphantly. "Not bad, right?"

Ginny turned her head this way and that, examining her reflection in the mirror, which agreed readily in its creaky voice. "I do like it," Ginny admitted, touching the curls that, due to Parvati and Lavender's high-end hairspray, were not one bit crunchy.

Parvati commanded, "Now throw on some makeup and slip into that gown. I overheard a reliable source telling a friend of his that it's 'fabulous'."

Ginny had no need to question whom that source was, and she went to apply M.A.B. concealer to her freckles.

Parvati, who had swept Holly's hair up into a very simple--if time-consuming--sort of twist, finished the style off with a pin decorated by a small, black lily. Holly argued that it was sinister--"Lilies don't grow that color in the wild!"--but the rest maintained that it was positively cute, and she caved.

Hermione walked out from the other side of her four-poster, having fit herself into a part of her periwinkle-blue dress robes that was both a little too short and a little too baggy. "Does this look all right?" she inquired.

"If you gained about thirty pounds it would," confirmed Parvati. "Lavender, get those pins, we've got another job to do." Parvati dropped promptly to her knees, and drew her wand. "And, Merlin help me if this cuts into my preparation time..."

Parvati left the sentence conveniently unfinished. "Does it really take you that long to squeeze into edible panties?" came Holly's inquiry from behind her four-poster, where she was dressing.

"You're hilarious," Parvati snarled in return, which Holly laughed loudly at in concurrence. Parvati had Lavender hold onto the hem of Hermione's frock while she ran the tip of her wand diagonally across the front and, after scooting around on her knees, the back. A large portion of the gown fell away and Hermione gasped.

"Hey!"

"Oh, shut up, you'll thank me later," responded Parvati through the pins she had stuck between her teeth. Still on her knees, she drew the fabric of Hermione's unfinished garment to the side, creating many wrinkles that all pointed in the same direction. She inserted a few pins unceremoniously, but effectively, and told Lavender, who had finished arranging the wrinkles in a more evenly spaced fashion, "Ribbon."

Lavender gave her wand several whip-like flicks, a short length of ribbon flying out of the tip each time. First purple, then gold, followed by green, pink, black, and, finally, white.

Ginny felt that seeing the two Gryffindors at work was far more mind-boggling than watching Melia outfit her and Malfoy at Kuchen and Hütte. Using a combination of Muggle and magical techniques, probably because of their lack of warlock education in the field of tailoring, Lavender and Parvati fastened the white ribbon to the severed hem of Hermione's dress. Then, Parvati commanded, "Arms up!" and a slightly frightened-looking Hermione obeyed without hesitation. They wrapped the wide ribbon once around Hermione's bust and Parvati Vanished the straps.

"Bow," said Parvati pointing to the edge of the dress near Hermione's right under arm. Lavender tapped her wand on the white ribbon and a miniscule matching bow fixed itself to the dress. "Bigger."

"Engorgio." The fancy knot swelled to a size so out of proportion to both the dress and Hermione it caused her to yelp and stumble back into Lavender's bed, gripping the post so as not to collapse under the weight of the larger-than-life ribbon.

"LAVENDER!" exclaimed Parvati.

"Sorry!" Lavender promptly shrunk the bow to a more appropriate size.

Parvati vanished the knot on Hermione's hip, and the pins fell to the floor. She Summoned them, and, meanwhile, Lavender swished her wand at Hermione's middle and the periwinkle getup became pinker and pinker until she withdrew the spell when it had turned a vivid red.

"That's the stuff," exclaimed Parvati with a smile. "Nice shade selection, Lavender."

"Thanks."

Hermione looked down at her outfit, stunned. "Okay?" she said, looking confused. "How am I supposed to get this off?"

"Oh, honey," said Parvati, shaking her had. "If he wants it off, he'll get it off."

"Okay," said Holly, stepping out from behind her four-poster outfitted in silk and lace and gazing into the mirror. "I--look--like--Vampira."

"It's only fitting," said Ginny who, after watching the work Parvati and Lavender did on Hermione's dress in awe, had gone back to her makeup. "Look at your date."

Holly did not argue with this, just stared herself down in horror. There was a polite knock on the door. "Come in!" called Lavender, who had gone to work on her own hair. The door opened and Ginny looked around. It appeared that there was no one there, until she lowered her eyes.

A small house-elf outfitted in a scarf-like toga embellished with the Hogwarts crest had entered the dormitory and was walking purposefully in Holly and Ginny's direction. Parvati and Lavender looked confused, and Hermione watched the creature sadly. "Muffy?" said Holly, looking puzzled. "Muffy, what're you doing here?"

"Muffy hases gifts for the young misses!" She was carrying two flat, black boxes carefully in her arms, which she now held up high. They each took one. "From Mister Draco. He says to me to tells you both 'Happy Valentines Days!' and he will be seeing yous... erm... soons."

Muffy turned around and made to leave the dormitory. Holly half-shouted her thanks as the house-elf had one foot out the door. The creature did not reply, but snapped the port shut in her wake. Ginny opened the box she held and picked up the note that sat atop the silver, gauze-y wrapping. In his slanted, practiced hand Malfoy had written,

Weasley--

Walk into Belletasse at 6:45 this evening and tell the wizard at the front your name. If he doesn't catch on, let him know you're with me.

P.S.: I thought you could put these to good use. Potter, too. Enjoy.

But before Ginny could pull the wrapping away, Holly's scream of shock pierced Ginny's left ear and rang throughout the dormitory. She snapped her own box shut and stared around, her mouth so wide it appeared her jaw would drop off. Holly peeked carefully beneath the cover of the package once more, as if what she had just seen may have disappeared between then and now, and did a complicated little bounce and boogie on the spot, clutching the gift to her chest.

"Oh--my--God, you guys..." she said after a lengthy juncture, voice shaking.

There were half-frightened, half-excited demands of "What?" all throughout the bedchamber. Holly pointed the box toward Lavender, Parvati, and Hermione and flipped it open.

Lavender let out a little shriek, bringing her fingers to her lips. Parvati gasped, her inhalation so deep and swift that she began coughing violently. Hermione's mouth fell open and she recoiled slightly.

Holly turned the box to face Ginny, who bent double, covering her nose and mouth with her free hand. Malfoy's gift to Holly was an earring, necklace, and bracelet set that Ginny imagined cost more than a million Galleons. The innumerable square-cut diamonds shone so brightly they were blinding, and Ginny was certain that the necklace alone weighed two tons.

The others, even Hermione, came rushing forward for a closer look.

"Oh my Lord..."

"Malfoy could've built himself another mansion with the Galleons he spent on these..."

"Whoever said money can't buy love never met a Malfoy... my God..." Parvati looked around at Holly, gaping. "If you don't marry him, I most certainly will."

Ginny reached tentatively forward and touched the necklace gently with her fingertips. She was absolutely astounded by such a showing of wealth--the dress she wore alone had awed her, but these diamonds... she could not picture a price tag on which there could be printed that many zeroes.

"Holly..." she murmured. "You aren't even together."

The taller girl fixed her with a stony gaze. "Does this mean I have to give them back?"

"No, it's just..." Ginny shook her head, momentarily speechless. "What would he buy you if you were? The sun?"

"Don't be silly; he couldn't buy the sun," was Lavender's response. She gently took one of the earrings between her thumb and index finger and reckoned, "Maybe Jupiter, though."

There was no time for anyone to consider that dim-witted Lavender might actually be serious before Holly looked over at Ginny and said, "He didn't get you jewelry too, did he?"

Ginny didn't want to analyze her key, but she thought she heard a slightly jealous, accusatory tone on Holly's voice. "No, he wouldn't have," said Ginny honestly. "He knew I'd do my nut and make him take it back." He's spent far too much money on me already... especially considering he doesn't even like me. She gingerly lifted the wrapping from her gift, and spotted something very lacy underneath. Ginny hid her look of horror behind the cover of the box and lifted the wrapping away completely.

Tom's laugh rang out through her head, echoing off the walls of her cranium painfully. In Ginny's box was a carefully laid out undergarment set--strapless brassiere and panties made entirely of bronze-colored lace and white silk ribbon. Ginny poked at the underwire of the brassiere and felt an odd combination of nausea and excitement rising up in her.

Draco Malfoy sent me replacement knickers. And yet... if I were to be seen in... these would be much nicer than what I.... I wonder what would happen if my mother found out. "Where did you get these?!" -- "Oh, just Lucius Malfoy's debaucher child, Draco. He thought my other ones were uncomely."

Ginny stared at the contents of the box, transfixed. Holly popped her head around and gasped.

"What is it?" buzzed Lavender excitedly.

Ginny looked at Holly desperately, hoping that she had fresh lies on hand. The split-second Holly took to plan her next move seemed to last an eternity. Holly laid the wrapping back down over Ginny's lewd little gift and crunched the paper with her hands. "Fucking... bastard." Holly snapped the box shut and snatched it away from Ginny, looking irate.

"What?"

"Nothing in there," she lied. "Just a little note insinuating that she, too, would be receiving something that cost more than this castle."

There was a collective outcry against the general depravity of the Slytherin, and Holly nodded in fierce agreement.

"But..." said Hermione. "But I thought Malfoy got you that dress." She pointed at Ginny's gown, looking confused.

"He did," said Ginny readily, prepared to procure this little fib. "But only after Holly threatened him with..." she lost her train of thought as Lavender inadvertently knocked over Parvati's hairspray, which rolled into the fire and caused a minor explosion.

As Hermione stopped the flames, Holly picked up, "devices Muggles know as 'handcuffs' and a room full of unsexed Hufflepuffs. Girls and boys alike--really, looking at him from a certain angle, Malfoy is very feminine." She sat the box beneath her own, which she had carefully emptied of the million-Galleon gems, and slid them beneath her four-poster.

Myriad hairpins, tweezers, perfumes, pixie puffs, breath mints, brushes, and nail colors later, the Gryffindors were ready for their evening. Lavender was an Irish eyeful in a striking emerald green with her hair pinned back a spiky up-do; Parvati wore a scant amount of pink gown, her signature braid undone to reveal careful waves; Hermione looked very petite indeed without shoes, but stunning in her red getup with her curls specially smoothed for the occasion; Holly gave off the air of someone dangerously beautiful, looking uncharacteristically wealthy and held-together (Ginny had seen Melia apply posture-enhancing charms to the gown).

Ginny had slipped out to use the toilets, stealing her gift from Malfoy beneath her arm. Hidden in her stall of the empty lavatory, Ginny had tried on the undergarments, feeling more than a little unchaste. She had taken a moment to seal the door before stepping out in front of the mirror, wearing only the lacy gifts.

Ginny had stared at her reflecting, feeling a rush of something that told her she was doing something very forbidden. The garments were a perfect fit, she wondered how Malfoy had gotten these, and she felt absolutely spectacular dressed up in them. Ginny was well aware that all her freckles were perfectly visible, her untanned skin remained just that way, and her slightly awkward stance was ever present. But, as she had straightened herself up as best she could, Ginny felt more mature... more attractive. Somehow worthy of any young wizard's favorite centerfold.

And, deep, deep down, she had hoped that by some freak chance she would get caught wearing only these garments before they ended up like the rest of the lingerie she owned. She found herself imagining that this thing would happen tonight while her hair was still set in these finical ringlets and this intimate feeling still relatively new. The instruments that took part in the exposure would be Harry's hands, those hands she knew so well--they were not shapely or at all taken care of, but somehow they summed up everything that was Harry.

She had imagined he would be careful and uncertain, though not fumbling. He would focus on her lips, for there Harry had a little practice, but the more of Ginny he exposed, the hungrier his kiss, his eyes, would grow...

When she had realized the course her thoughts were taking, Ginny's reverie had ended so abruptly it was as though Ron had burst into the picture and roared, "GET OFF MY SISTER!" Ginny had dashed back into the stall and slipped back into the gown, feeling a little embarrassed (which wasn't at all helped by Tom's sonorous, "Thank you!" when her daydream had cut out).

In the present, Parvati passed out shot glasses to the rest of the girls as they gathered up their cosmetics, cloaks, and umbrellas. Ginny took her shot glass warily while fastening a buckle on her shoes which, despite a myriad of enchantments she had put on them that made them presentable with her dress robes, looked woebegone in comparison to her new gown from Kuchen and Hütte.

Hermione looked at her own glass a little sheepishly. "Parvati... we probably shouldn't..."

"It's not Firewhisky, it's butterbeer," she replied abruptly, bending down to scoop up a bottle next to her nightstand. "And I only have one bottle on me, so this is what we're doing."

The four other girls put their tots together in a square, and Parvati poured them each a glassful--butterbeer slopping onto the floor--before pouring herself some. They held their glasses, looking around at one another, before Lavender raised hers. "To love," she sighed.

"To the potions master at Sleekeazy's," Hermione added, touching her jigger to Lavender's.

Holly went next, lifting her glass and putting it to the middle. "To wizards with entirely too much money," she said.

Ginny smiled and further extended the toast. "To nicking someone else's valentine."

Parvati touched her glass to the others and said, "To Saint Valentine, in whose name we are blessed with a day in which sensuality isn't only accepted, it is encouraged." She smiled, and Ginny thought that this had not been the Catholics' original intent when canonizing Valentine. "And if we don't come out of this a step closer to womanly completion..." Ginny wondered what, exactly, the lascivious Parvati needed to further herself in this direction, "we turn to lesbianism."

There was a general groan of disagreement as the other four glasses were withdrawn from the penta-toast. "Oh, c'mon," said Parvati. "What are the chances we all come out of this utterly empty-handed?"

Holly was the first to rejoin the toast. "I'm in. I don't like boys that much anyway."

The rest raised their glasses once more in accordance with an unstated assumption that, already, they were far from empty-handed. The Gryffindors drank down their butterbeer, some with a single, muscle-less swallow, others with careful sips. They all left the dormitory, deadlines drawing near for the closing of the gates to Hogsmeade.

)()()(

Harry gave his name to the irritable-looking wizard that stood behind the podium just inside Belletasse's front doors. His eyes widened slightly after the last syllable of "Harry Potter, party of two" died out, and he ran a palm over his wet-looking black hair. He appeared to be scanning a list of reservations for a moment before nodding to another wizard, who took their cloaks, and saying, "Ah, yes... right this way, Mr. Potter."

He and Cho (who was looking stunning in a pinkish gown that seemed to match the blush on her cheeks) followed the waiter into the main room, which was full of round tables hidden by white tablecloths. White and black candles floated high above them, reminding Harry somewhat of the comfort that came with the Welcome Feast each September. This, accompanied by the widespread chatter of the busy restaurant, consoled Harry a little.

They were seated at an empty table in the center of the room, the waiter pulling out Cho's chair for her (which Harry was thankful for, as he would have forgotten to otherwise). He handed them menus and bowed himself out of their presence.

In the center of the table was a set of unevenly melted candles, one black, the other white. Harry looked warily at the array of silverware in front of him--why did he need three forks?--and then opened his menu.

The prices were outrageous. He scanned the names of the wines, course meals, and desserts in horror, figuring in both his willingness to throw down Galleons and his ability to pronounce the dishes in order to help him make a decision. But before he had found the cheapest thing on the menu, a waiter was at their table.

"Would you like to order an apéritif?"

Harry stared at the wizard for a moment before turning to look at Cho over the candles, hoping she knew what he was talking about. "Er... whatever you want," he said.

Cho glanced down at the menu and inquired, "Should we try some Dubonnet?"

He nodded, still confused, and said, "Yeah, let's."

A pad of parchment and quill appeared in the air in front of the waiter, the quill scribbling something across the face of the paper. "I will return with your drinks in a moment," replied the wizard, smiling down at them.

As he walked away, Cho said, "That's funny... I've been here before--" You too?! "--and they just conjured the apéritif and the glasses then. Maybe it's because it's so busy?"

Harry nodded again, looking at the forks. A juncture of silence passed before Cho asked, "So... what are you thinking of ordering?" He shrugged, and was relieved of further pointless conversation when their apéritif arrived. The waiter sat down two wineglasses and poured their Dubonnet, smiling at them smartly.

"You may signal me when you are ready to order," he told them politely before turning to go.

"Thank you!" replied Cho in the direction of his retreating back. She smiled at Harry over the flickering flames and said, "Thanks for bringing me here, Harry... it's really nice. And if I forget to tell you later, I had a wonderful time tonight."

Harry flushed slightly, hoping sincerely that he was capable of showing her a good time, considering it consisted of only sitting in this restaurant before walking back to Hogwarts together. She looked so pretty, in that new dress with her hair done up carefully and her skin glowing slightly in the candlelight. And there sat Harry in his boring Muggle best, a pair of black pants and a white button-up shirt, his hair as embarrassingly messy as usual and his desire to be here with Cho Chang less than ever.

It wasn't fair to her, he thought, but would it have been less cruel to cancel the evening entirely?

She raised her glass, and Harry did the same. They made an unspoken toast and drank, Harry feeling slightly ill.

)()()(

Hermione knocked on the door of Harry and Ron's dormitory, trying unnecessarily to smooth the fabric her old-cum-new dress. The port swung open and Ron poked his head out. He smiled at her and opened the door all the way, revealing a mostly-dark dormitory behind it.

He, who had donned the dress robes that Fred and George had bought him, looked her over. "Wow..." he murmured, and Hermione flushed. "I... you look..." he shook his head in what appeared to be incredulity.

"Thanks," she said, looking at her feet. She had found that the shoes she once wore to the Yule Ball were a color that did not match the gown Parvati and Lavender had created in any way, so she had arrived barefoot.

She spotted the source of feeble light once she had entered. It was coming from a few candles that had been set on a square table that was draped with what appeared to be a sheet and centered by three roses sitting in a vase. She did nothing to keep a smile from breaking across her face. "Oh, Ron..."

Ron moved forward to the table and pulled out Hermione's chair, which she sat down on, allowing him to push her in. In front of her was a dinner plate on which was arranged a buffet's helping to what she imagined was Hogwarts' finest.

She spotted a metal bucket on the floor, filled with ice. In it sat a magnificent black bottle, a silvery label wrapped around its middle and a cork stuck deep into its mouth. "Ron..." she said, excited and disbelieving, "Ron, is that--?"

"Pumpkin juice?" he finished. Hermione looked around at him, a laugh she had tried to hold back, bubbling finally between her lips. Ron smiled. "Who knew it would come in such nice bottles?"

He stooped to pick it out of the bucket and poured the beverage with unfaltering politeness all the same, and Hermione appreciated the gesture more than any dinner reservation at a stuffy restaurant. As Ron sat down across from her and informed her he would feel stupid if he ate on his own, she tucked in, stealing blissful glances at him all throughout the meal.

When they had finished off everything but the chilled pumpkin juice, Hermione posed a question. Ron's goblet had been raised to his lips, but judging by the widening of his eyes, he was not ready for it.

"So..." said Hermione. "Now what?"

)()()(

Holly was sitting at a circular table back against a wall in Belletasse, watching Harry and Cho intently over the rim of her wineglass. It was almost emptied of whichever expensive drink Draco had ordered to keep her busy, as she had been fidgeting impatiently since the moment they stepped inside.

At the front, a raven-haired wizard who had at first appeared petulant looked up as they entered. When he had recognized Draco, who was busy shaking water from the umbrella he had just taken down from above his and Holly's heads, the man beamed.

"Mister Malfoy!" he had said, rushing forward as another wizard came to take their cloaks, "We've been expecting you! And who is this ethereal woman?" he inquired, stepping in front of Holly and looking her over. Here, her fidgeting began. "I haven't seen her with you before."

"No, indeed, you haven't," replied Draco calmly, leering at the wizard after handing off his umbrella. "But I'm quite enjoying keeping her identity a secret this evening, so don't ruin it for me quite yet, Mister Hartley." The waiter had bowed his head obediently, still smiling. "It just so happens, however, that I have something to ask of you."

"What is that, sir?"

Sir? Holly had taken a moment to glance sideways at the boy. His resemblance to Lucius did impress something of superiority on those around him, and when fully groomed and dressed in his Canaleta robes, his aristocratic air was magnified. Yet, was Draco quite yet worthy of being a 'sir'?

Draco had leered more widely at Hartley and held up a small, corked flask filled with fine, white grains that Holly knew to be powdered Phlatulence Philter. "I want you to know," he had said, lowering his voice and dropping his smirk for a more serious look, "that this transaction is to be kept twice as silent as this young woman's name, which is Holly, by the way." Holly had shot Draco another sideways glance when he referred to her as a 'young woman'. "You are the only wizard here qualified for the job, Mister Hartley, and after years of faithful service--not only to this restaurant but to my family when we came by--I know I can rely upon you wholly."

The wizard had taken time, here, to look warily at the powder in flask. "It's a small, harmless task, Mister Hartley, but I can think of no wizard more worthy of my trust, if you don't mind me saying so." Draco stretched his lips into a candied grin that was only fitting for the gossamer compliments he had been blowing at the wizard, and Hartley followed suit. "I need some of this powder to be dropped into the apéritif of the young woman who accompanied Harry Potter here this evening." The wizard, who had been looking very pleased a moment before, frowned immediately. "It's completely innocuous, I would hold onto that if it meant the death of me. You may have it tested, if you like."

Holly had taken a moment to wonder if swearing that the container in his hand was powdered Phlatulence Philter could somehow result in the execution of Draco Malfoy. She held back snickers, wondering if the sentencing or the obituary would mention death due to obstinacy on flatulence.

He had held out the vial then, and Hartley took it, examining it covertly so as not to anger Draco. "Thank you very much, Mister Hartley," the boy had said, continuing with his string of exaggerated respect. "All I will be needing from you further is a table, an ashtray, a bottle of that grand griffin vermouth, and a skillet." He had smiled charmingly here, and although Hartley looked very curious as to why he needed a skillet, he did not challenge it.

The wizard had led them through the restaurant along the wall so that Harry and Cho would not see them, and, now, there they sat. Draco lit up a cigarette on the flame of one of the candles in the middle of the table, a habit that Holly did not mind so much anymore, and sat back in his chair. It was a moment before he noticed Holly was nearly out of beverage. He flicked his wand and the bottle tipped up and filled her wineglass right in front of her nose.

The glass began overflowing onto her hand and fingers, and Holly snarled, "Okay," at the bottle, which promptly sat itself back down on the tablecloth. She siphoned a little of the drink off the top, and glared at Draco. "You'd better not be getting me drunk."

"As amusing as that would be," replied Draco, pausing to draw from his cigarette, the end burning hot and bright, "I'm afraid that's not the case. Something about you tells me you'd have incredible alcohol tolerance, anyway." He exhaled a stream of blue vapor, which rose toward the ceiling.

She watched the smoke. At that moment, Hartley had brought Cho and Harry their apéritif. Holly turned her gaze and watched closely as they toasted and drank, her stomach indicating something that could not be distinguished between excitement and apprehension.

Though it felt like hours, it was a few minutes before Cho excused herself from the table and half-strutted, half-waddled in the direction of the lavatories, her purse flying behind her. "That's your cue," said Draco, smiling at her through his cigarette smoke. "You're sure you don't want the skillet?" he asked, lifting it from his side of the table and waving it crudely.

"I'll be fine, thank you," she hissed in return, snatching her wand and standing up. Draco laughed, setting down the skillet, and watched her leave.

)()()(

Ginny gave her name to the wizard at the front, and he searched the list lazily. Was he not in the mood to accept stray spinsters into his restaurant on Valentine's Day? After a moment of hesitation, she added, "I'm with Draco Malfoy," in her most self-satisfied and Malfoy-like key.

The wizard looked at her curiously for a moment, then flipped directly to the page he wanted to see and gazed at it. He signaled for another wizard to take Ginny's cloak, and she was soon being led along the wall of the packed restaurant, grasping her clutch tightly in her right hand.

She was seated in the chair across from Malfoy that Holly had clearly been in a moment before, and Malfoy said, "Thanks again, Mister Hartley." He pressed some gold into the waiter's palm, handed him an empty frying pan that was sitting on the tablecloth where his dish should be, and added, "We shouldn't be long. Enjoy your evening."

Hartley gazed into his hand, spreading the coins around with his fingertips and counting beneath his breath. When he was sure that there was a sufficient amount of gold there, he responded, "I shall, Mister Malfoy. You too."

"Always a pleasure." The waiter bowed himself out of their presence, and Malfoy smiled handsomely at Ginny over the centerpiece. "Evening, angel." He motioned toward the wineglass that sat before her and offered, "Vermouth?"

Ginny knew very well that Draco Malfoy was scum, but she could not help but secretly enjoy that comely grin when his eyes were on hers and his prolific pet names being directed her way. Even with that horrible coffin nail sitting between his fingers, Malfoy looked just like the kind of wizard in whose company one would want to be seen.

"Wasn't Holly drinking that?" she asked, pointing at the wineglass. Malfoy leaned forward and promptly turned the glass around so that the other side was facing her.

"No." He poured what was left of the vermouth into her wineglass and sat the bottle aside.

Ginny picked up the glass with a resigned sigh and tried the beverage. "Somehow, you don't strike me as the kind of wizard who would recycle before spending unnecessarily."

Malfoy smirked. "Was it the necklace that gave it away?" Ginny shook her head, trying not to look at him. "It's true, I need to cut back on my spending. Oh, and how do the lacies feel?"

She made eye contact again, and his casual smirk stretched into a roguish smile. And, much to her chagrin, Ginny felt she would not mind Malfoy seeing her in the garments alone, either... she imagined he would be gentler than Harry at first, his white fingers moving her hair away to bare her neck... he would know just how to maneuver, and would touch her simply to boast what he could do with those hands alone and make her imagine--neigh, crave--all that he was capable were he to simply...

She blushed crimson and glared at him. For a moment she wondered whether he had enchanted the knickers, and she shifted in them. Passing it off as the elated feeling of what could turn out to be a worthwhile Valentine's Day, she said, "Fine, thank you. But you shouldn't have gotten them for me..."

He waved a hand vaguely, putting out his cigarette. "The only recompense I expect is to watch you ride a broom in them some time." Malfoy moved right from one addiction to what could possibly be another--he lifted his glass of vermouth to his lips and smiled lasciviously at her.

"Y'know," Ginny said, putting her own wineglass down a little harshly, "Holly was really unhappy when she found out about you and Pansy Parkinson."

"Oh, all I ever seem to do is talk about Black..." he groaned, looking at the ceiling.

"Don't give me that," she snapped, "just hear me out." Malfoy tilted his head slightly to one side, clearly feinting his look of infinite interest. "If you're going to lead the life of a depraved rake, at least be honest with her about it."

Malfoy set down his glass as well and narrowed his eyes, his pulchritude being replaced by a very stern, Lucius-like expression. "Let me guess, you're under the impression that I count fucking Parkinson as one of my favorite pastimes, too?"

Ginny leaned over the table, squeezing her clutch tightly. "Malfoy, she may not have known it of you before now, but the rest of us have all seen you sneaking off with girl after girl."

"Parkinson included?"

"Yes!" Ginny made a noise of disbelief when he rolled his eyes "What, Malfoy? It's not as if you weren't shagging her at the innocent age of fourteen."

Malfoy joined her in leaning over the table, scowling deeply. "Fourteen? Weasley, please..."

"What?" she demanded again. "Getting snogged by sixth years a year or two before, weren't you? Malfoy, even if the things about Parkinson floating around are false, you shouldn't allow Holly to go on believing that you're..." She fell silent, clamping her mouth shut and hoping her stare conveyed the thoughts she could not put words to.

Looking as if he had no idea where Ginny gathered the idea that she was free to accuse him of such things, Malfoy gnarled, "And when have I ever said something that would put hopes of innocence into her head?"

"When have you ever hinted that you aren't all talk?"

His look of stupefaction became deeper still, and he continued with the string of unanswered questions by inquiring, "What difference does it make? To Black or to you?"

Ginny crossed her arms, looking at him huffily. "I'm a confidante, Malfoy, and I know that she cares for you more than she will admit. And so far it looks like she's laboring under the misapprehension that you have eyes for her." Though she could tell Malfoy was meaning to appear dumbfounded, she caught a split-second smile flitting across his features. "What with the pet names, designer gowns, and million-Galleon diamonds, I can't see how she would think otherwise."

Malfoy did not speak. He sat back in his chair and studied Ginny, looking suddenly nonchalant. Bits of his fair hair had fallen into his eyes, and the dim restaurant threw shadows on his face that only succeeded in making his sharp, vampiric features more pronounced.

Ginny looked quickly in the direction of the ladies' restroom and spotted Holly poking her head around the doorway. She fixed her eyes back on Malfoy and finished her accusations in an articulated rush. "In choosing to sit by you at that Elvish dinner, Holly succeeded in shocking and angering her closest friends. And over the past two months, she's gotten her father, teachers, and House absolutely mystified while she's quietly staked her allegiance. And I know you don't appreciate that, and view it all as another victory in the name of flattery. But, and you'll have to humor me here... what will your next move be when you fuck up and she comes to her senses?"

Holly, who was winding through the tables and waiters with considerable speed, grew closer and closer yet. Ginny watched Malfoy, awaiting a reaction rather than an answer. And it was but a few moments until she got one.

A cruel smile erupted onto his previously indifferent face, and he laughed loudly, as if Ginny had just told a clever joke. When he had finished, he added, "Very good handle on the English language, Weasley."

She stared at him, aware that her mouth was hanging slightly agape. Malfoy's words, though befuddling, were vacuous. She had a stunning vision of his smile, however, and wondered whether that, too, had no substance. Was he simply entertained by her brief oration and had no mind to respond?

Holly arrived at the side of the table, holding her wand and looking annoyed. "Okay... that would have been much easier if there weren't four other people in there. I had to clear the place out with a lot of flashes and smoke and then, before the managers could come running, I Stunned Chang and shoved her out the window." Ginny's mouth dropped open again. "I covered her up real well. In fact, she looks like a drunk sitting out there under the eaves and next to the Dumpster."

Ginny felt a twinge of guilt. That was just what Cho wanted, of course... to spend Valentine's Day looking like a sot passed out behind a fancy restaurant. "Oh, don't worry... they'll find her when they close tonight," Holly said reassuringly.

"Well," said Malfoy, getting to his feet smoothly, "our work here is done." He smoothed his hands over his robes and smiled. Holly grabbed her purse and hung it on her arm. "Enjoy your evening, Weasley," he said, grinning smartly.

She nodded in reply, and Holly whispered, "Good luck!" as Malfoy took her arm and led her away.

Ginny sat alone now, swiping her fingertips idly through one of the flames. She needed to give Harry a couple more minutes to figure out that Cho was not coming back. Ginny extracted the borrowed Foe-Glass from her clutch and opened it, watching the sneering face of Draco Malfoy fade out of the forefront.

)()()(

The air was far too cold to browse the rooftops for students peddling used trinkets and giving away Chocolate Frog cards to whomever could toss gnomes through magical rings. Besides that, it was raining, and Hermione disliked flying. The corridors were busy with first and second years thus far banned from Hogsmeade visits, older students who found themselves without romantic trysts, and stay-ins like themselves, so a quiet walk through the castle was out of the question. After offhand, unromantic games of Exploding Snap, Gobstones, and Kelpie poker, Ron and Hermione ran out of things to talk about and got bored with a self-started game of Name That Tune during the WWN's Oldie Oasis slot.

With lack of anything better to do, the couple took part in a lengthy, Valentine's Day snog on Ron's bed.

Hermione slid her hand beneath Ron's, which had been resting against her cheek, and twined her fingers with his. She pulled her lips from his briefly, as the kissing had slowed down considerably and become a lasting, casual gesture, and he opened his eyes.

Hermione pushed on his shoulder, and he allowed her to roll him off his side and onto his back. She got to her knees and pulled the hem of her dress out from under her, gathering the fabric in her palms until the hem had risen above her knees to make the climb over Ron's abdomen a simpler task.

She sat down on his middle unflatteringly and looked at him. "Another Valentine gift?" he said, looking up at her with what he hoped was a quaint grin. He shifted his head on the pillow and heard the faint crackle of static working through his hair.

"No," she said, placing a small hand against his chest and pressing gently. She looked comely still, with her hair mussed and her lip-color smeared. "I do have a question for you, though," continued Hermione after a juncture of silence.

"All right." Ron's hopefulness dissipated.

Hermione sighed and bit her lip, looking at him as if wondering whether she was doing the right thing. Ron braced himself for the worst, and then it came. "Ron... do you love me?"

He bared his teeth in a smile that he hoped that appeared bona fide and pure. Hermione lowered her eyes. Ron propped himself up on his elbows, and from there, pushed himself into a sitting position on the heels of his hands. She squeezed his hips with her knees and looked up again, her expression desperate for a 'yes'.

Ron's heart was beating wildly--Just say it, just say 'yes'. He swallowed audibly and, falling back on his original plan, reached up and pulled her mouth down to his. But when their lips connected, Hermione made no move to kiss him back. Ron pulled away and looked at her. "What?"

"I'm serious," she said, something like dismay on her tone.

"Well--I..." Hermione's eyebrows rose. "I don't know."

Her knees squeezed tighter. "You don't know," she echoed darkly. "It's a 'yes' or 'no' question, Ron."

"I know." She shook her head, clearly not following his train of thought. "--that it's a 'yes' or 'no' question. I mean..." Ron's heart jumped and lodged itself in his throat as Hermione attenuated her eyes suspiciously. "I know that now. I thought it was... y'know..." Hermione's chin dropped as she watched the progress of his gaze. "Rhetorical?"

"It wasn't."

"Right." He made one more desperate stab at kissing her, and Hermione pushed his hand away and pulled her lips out of reach, glaring now.

The door opened and Dean entered, holding a hand to his eyes. "It's okay," he said loudly, as though speaking over something, "carry on, don't act like I'm here... I just need to grab something to smother Cupid and ensure an accident-free Valentine celebration..."

"It's okay, Dean," said Hermione, who had swung her leg over Ron's middle and stood on his mattress. She stepped to the floor and announced, "I was just leaving."

"What?" Ron scrambled off the bed after her. Hermione walked out the door and Ron dodged around the card table to go after her.

"Cool--can me and Parvati use the dormitory, then?"

Ron turned and looked at Dean, who was smiling hopefully. He yanked the door open and replied, "Whatever, just... put a sock on the door." Ron shut the port in his wake and took the staircase three steps at a time.

He caught up with Hermione on the landing of the girls' dormitories staircase. "Stop! Hermione--" he launched up the steps after her and grabbed her arm. "Stop."

She whipped around and looked him straight in the eye (which was easier for her than usual since she was standing two steps above him). "What?" she snapped. "What? Are you going to explain the real meaning of what 'Uh... I don't know'?"

Ron paused, looking up at her. Yes. Now that she had mentioned it, that was exactly what he was going to do. Ron took a deep breath and stated, "I've never loved a girl before."

"And what, Ron? You're not about to start?"

Hermione looked at him fiercely, but even her veneer of choler could be seen though. The last thing she wanted was to come out of this argument victorious; she wanted to come out of this argument sitting on Ron's middle, only in a different bed.

"No." She gasped and went to turn again, but he grabbed the ribbon at her waist--which tore away from her dress and revealed a patch of skin and undergarment. She shrieked. "Oh... oh no..." He lifted the loose material, mumbling frantically as he tried to replace the fabric and keep it there. He fumbled with his wand, attempting to mend the tear to no avail. He grunted angrily and slapped his hand against her side, holding the torn cloth there.

"Love could... could..." Ron swallowed. "Love could throw me down and kick me in the face, and I would be completely oblivious."

Hermione's features contorted into a look of mingled curiosity and terror. "Was that supposed to be romantic?" she inquired, turning to face him once more. Ron stumbled sideways in an attempt to keep his hand on her side and, thus, keep her dress in one piece.

"No. Yes. I don't know!" He glared at a stone brick on his left as if it was what had gotten him here. "Hermione," he said, knowing in the back of his mind that if he messed up this time around, Hermione's ocean of patience would run dry, "You mean more to me than any girl I've ever known. And if this--" he pointed at the ground with his free hand, "--is what love feels like, I wish you could have explained it to me before now." He laughed and added, "You know I would have stopped passing around my fourth year if it weren't for you."

"Second year, more like," she muttered.

"That's probably true." As though he had rehearsed the moment many times in his mind, Ron reached out and took her thin, fragile hands in his own. It was not until he had touched Hermione Granger that he knew how susceptible she was to being broken. "Couldn't you tutor me in this, too?"

The torn fabric of her gown fell once more, again revealing her fair skin and panties. They looked at the gaping hole in her dress, then back at one another.

Hermione swallowed, her eyes flickering between Ron's. She appeared to be fighting an internal battle, but Ron could not muster the strength to wonder what it was about at the current moment. She sighed, lips stretching in a gratified smile.

She took a step upward and apprised, "I think I have some notes on the subject--in my dormitory, of course..."

"You do, d'you?" Ron followed her up, step by step.

)()()(

Ginny snapped the Foe-Glass shut, drained what was left of her vermouth, and stood. A small twinge in her stomach reminded her that this plan was the making of Draco Malfoy, and that meant that from the very beginning it was a bad idea. But as she wove through the shifting chairs, gliding waiters, and laughing couples, something about the inebriating scent and song of Belletasse told Ginny that it was all right to cheat Cupid.

'Especially if it means you can be ravaged by little Harry now that you're heavily medicated.'

Shut it, Tom--I don't want to hear from you again.

"Harry?" she said, putting on her most convincing tone of uncertainty.

Harry, who had been toying with his empty wineglass, looked up in alarm. "Ginny!" He slammed his glass down and put his hands in his lap. He looked rather lonely sitting alone when the tables nearby seated happy, if strange, couples--a shockingly fat witch smoking a cigar with a Flitwick-sized partner and, on the other side, an elderly wizard draped in an excess of gold chains sat across from a twenty-something witch with bleached hair and magenta lipstick. "What're you doing here?"

"Oh, er--" she recalled Malfoy's look of concentration as he thought up this script, "blind date." She motioned toward the now empty table she and the boy had been sitting at moments before, the two empty wineglasses and bottle of vermouth still not removed. "One of Justin's straight friends, I guess." She sighed for good measure and finished, "I polished off my own apéritif, so, time to go, I reckon. I could always fit in a book before bed."

She recalled Malfoy's suggestion for what she could fit in before bed. "I'm not going to tell Harry that I can fit in a little masturbation before bed, Malfoy!"

"Pity factor, Weasley," was his reply. "Ninety percent chance he offers to do it for you."

Harry nodded, looking distracted as he gazed over at the lavatories and murmured something about a book. "How're you?" she questioned, digging in her clutch as if the borrowed Foe-Glass was not sitting right on top.

"Oh! Um..." he rapped his fingers against the table and replied, "I'm fine."

"Great!" she said, nodding. "That's really great." She extracted his Foe-Glass from her purse and passed it to him. He took it and absently flipped it open, looking up at her. "Thanks for letting me use that..."

"Oh..." he waved a hand, looking steadily more uneasy. "Not a problem." Harry tucked the miniature Dark Detector away and ran his knuckles harshly against the edge of the table, watching the doors into the bathrooms again.

"Er--Harry?" He snapped his head up to look at her. "If you don't mind me asking... where's Cho?"

Harry cast another glance toward the toilets, squirming, then looked back up at Ginny. "Oh--erm--she's just... using the loo," he told her, emerald eyes faded either by the dimmed lights in the restaurant or by the smoke exhaled by the fascinatingly obese woman sitting at the nearest table.

The waiter Malfoy was familiar with, Mister Hartley, had appeared next Harry's chair. He looked between Ginny and Harry and buzzed, "Are you ready to order?"

"Er..." Harry looked down at the menu that was opened in front of him, then back to Hartley. "Could you give us a few minutes?"

Looking jaded, the waiter nodded and walked off.

Harry appeared to be slightly sick, his face wan and his stirring ungovernable. She hoped sincerely that it was nausea based on his nervousness to ask her to sit down rather than nausea derived from his worry over whether the Ravenclaw had ditched him. Wearied by standing, Ginny seated herself across from Harry and suggested, "How about I just order for her? I mean, there's no use waiting for her to slather on three more layers of makeup..."

Harry laughed tersely and agreed.

Ginny flipped open the menu, which was leather bound and complete with a meaningless tassel, then scanned the meals Belletasse offered. The twenty-something, blonde witch shrieked with laughter at something the elderly gentleman said, and Ginny's train of thought was successfully derailed. Sometime after watching the spectacularly enormous witch on Harry's left try to leave her seat, knocking into a waiter, the wizard in gold chains, and a dessert cart before nearly upending the table onto her tiny companion, Ginny spoke up.

"So... what're you thinking?" Harry's eyes, which had been staring listlessly at the tassel attached to his own menu, snapped to her own. "About ordering, I mean."

"Oh!" He looked back down and apprised, "The penne rigate with all the... sausage and tomatoes." He looked up from the menu and added, "You?"

Ginny laughed and riposted, "I, too, was eyeing the cheapest thing on the menu. Anything to drink?"

He shook his head, wrinkling his nose. "Honestly," he informed her, "I'm really just in the mood for butterbeer."

"Me too," Ginny responded truthfully. "Maybe we--" she gasped, "sorry, I mean--maybe you and Cho can drop by the Three Broomsticks on your way back to Hogwarts."

"Yeah... maybe..." Harry replied absently, looking back in the direction of the lavatories.

Replying to the unstated proposition, Ginny said, "I'll just stay with you until she gets back, shall I? You shouldn't sit here alone--it's bad for your image."

Harry lightened up considerably after this. They ordered their lemon chickens and requested a pitcher of water for drink. After Ginny's plate sat in front of her for fifteen minutes, they finally spoke aloud that they should no longer await Cho's return, and Ginny shared a suspicion that the girl had simply hopped out the loo window.

)()()(

"I'm getting wet."

"Well, lean in closer, you idiot--I'm not going to contaminate you in any manner."

"I'm not an idiot."

"I know that." Draco turned abruptly, and Holly was briefly drenched by the open sky he exposed her to. She shouted with her lips shut tightly, rejoined him beneath the umbrella, and threw her arm across his lower back, curving her palm against his side. "That's right," he said gently.

"Where are we going?" she inquired, sounding piqued.

They were walking together along the High Street, away from the eaves of the buildings at their right from which water was cascading down onto the cobblestone. Draco's wide, black umbrella above them, it was a mystery to him how she managed to stray so far from his side so as to get wet.

The windows of the shops on either side were saturated with shades of red and pink, announcing promotional Valentine sales, romantic events, and the release of new, holiday-oriented products ranging from quills to socks to fudge. But disregarding the blush they painted on the village and the warm glow of the candles burning inside the street lanterns hanging just out of reach, the night was dark, though not lonely.

Hogsmeade was alive with couples young and old wandering the streets, voices mingling with the pounding of the incessant downpour. Groups of three and four passed in the form of dateless Hogwarts girls who had no better location for a bitter girls' night out. Elderly pairs who had decided to celebrate outside the house but didn't have the energy to travel to Edinburg or London strolled past occasionally. Witches and wizards who had found no room at the restaurants and dance halls of the more urban wizarding alleys lingered against shop windows here and there, discussing plans. And the back of an intermittent loner still searching for a valentine retreated into the dark night every now and then.

"We're going to the Pivot."

"Okay?"

A brief gust of wind came up suddenly, and Draco tilted the umbrella against it. He enlightened her, "It's the closest thing to class you can find in a village this small." He steered her down a side street where the roseate glow was lessened severely. They passed obscure designer shops and cafés that had been closed, or were in the process of closing, for the evening.

"I thought the 'closest thing to class' was Belletasse," she remarked.

"Please," he replied. "Belletasse is an unrefined bistro with stained tablecloths and a French name. And, sadly, it was the most distinguished place for a meal in the village up until about a year and a half ago."

Draco took down his umbrella beneath the eaves of the Pivot, which was a large, single-story building with so many windows the glass overrode the timber panels and made the restaurant appear to be constructed from it rather than cedar.

"'Lotta blue-hairs in there," remarked Holly from his right, gazing into the windows and silently counting the elderly couples.

"Our callow, rising generation status combined with my ostensible youthful wealth will have them all green with jealousy." Draco wrapped the strap of material around the middle of his folded umbrella, buttoning it serenely.

"Oh, I'm sure the witches will all see us enter and begin to reminisce on the status of their relationships half a century ago--how it felt to be young and deep in their carnal obsession with a rich vampire." Holly crossed her arms but, due to the posture-enhancing charms woven into her gown, did not slouch.

"Carnal obsession?" he echoed, extending an elbow. Holly linked her arm with his with a sigh, hand curved against his upper arm. He brushed his lips against her cheek and said, "I'll continue buying you gifts, if that's the case."

They entered the restaurant, and Draco just made out Holly's gasp over the brassy sounds of trumpet, tuba, and trombone from the stage erected in a far corner of the restaurant. She tightened her hold on his arm, looking around at the sweeping windows that provided a skyline view of a sparkling, floodlit city where few structures exceeded six stories. On one wall of windows Draco could see a section of edifices that embraced more modern tectonics, the buildings--which were accessed through an abstract, rectangular archway--were taller there. A little further to the right of this district stood a landmark shaped curiously like an 'A', scintillating with what appeared to be thousands upon thousands of camera-flashes. Holly stared at it while Draco led her toward the sapphire-colored podium, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the flashes die out and leave the projection with its previous amber glow.

"Mister Malfoy!" cried out the witch behind the podium, holding her arms wide. The receptionist snapped her fingers at a wizard standing by in black and navy dress robes, who jolted and rushed forward to rid Holly and Draco of their cloaks.

Draco smiled at the woman, who, though lower class, was pleasant. "Good evening, Miss Forsyth. Paris tonight?" he said conversationally, glancing around.

"Indeed--a romantic sight. I recall you like the New York horizon?" Draco nodded. "We could always change--"

"Oh, no need," he said, cutting across her. "J'adore Paris! My parents have a summerhouse under construction on some Unplottable land in the Bois du Boulogne... we are quite fond of the city."

"Very exciting! How are Lucius and Narcissa?" she inquired, beaming. "I haven't heard from them for some time."

"Fine, fine." Draco, who had been detached from the girl when the wizard came to take their cloaks, lifted his hand in her direction. "This is Holly. Holly, this is Miss Forsyth, possibly the most endearing witch involved in warlock cuisine this century."

"Wonderful to meet you, dear," the witch said, extending a hand, which Holly shook.

She replied, "You too," smiling brightly. As he had suspected, her mood had lightened considerably upon entry into the Pivot. What with its enchanted view of a different city each evening, it was easy to forget one was in the vapid hamlet of Hogsmeade while within its walls. Or windows.

A waiter Apparated next to the podium, dressed in the same navy and black robes as the wizard who had taken their cloaks, clutching two leather menus and wearing a forced smile. "Good evening, sir," he said, bowing slightly. Draco inclined his head. "Miss," the waiter added, doing the same to Holly who, instead of returning the gesture politely, went rigid. "Your table is ready."

Draco thanked Miss Forsyth, tossed an offhand compliment her way, and gave Holly his arm again as they were led to their table. Draco had owled ahead for a window seat, which he was, of course, granted. Holly took her chair, which the waiter had pulled out for her with a flick of his wand, and Draco seated himself, opening his menu readily.

"Are you ready for your appetizer and apéritif, Mister Malfoy?" the waiter asked, standing with his arms behind him.

"Holly?" She was staring, transfixed, out the window at the Parisians wandering the snowy streets below. She waved a hand, as he knew she would.

"We'll have--" the waiter conjured a pad of parchment and a turquoise quill, which sat on the surface of the vellum, poised to write, "--the shellfish ceviche, go heavy on the sweet chili and orange vinaigrette, if you would, then two glasses of the Rosier Estates Brut before our entrée."

The quill scribbled his order and two sheets of paper tore away from the pad and vanished. The quill and parchment pad disappeared as well, and the waiter said, "The appetizer will be here in a moment, Mister Malfoy. I will return when you're ready for your salad and entrée."

"Thank you, Montag." The waiter Disapparated. Draco would have stretched his fingers forward to touch Holly's hand or arm if the skin was in reach. "What d'you think?" he asked, voice full of inculpability.

She did not look at him. "Your parents are building a summerhouse in Paris?"

"Mmm."

Holly blinked, glancing upward toward the black sky where stars shone brightly. The Eiffel Tower abandoned its tranquil glow in order to begin sparkling white again, and she smiled at it. "Does it really do that?"

"Yes." Though Holly was clearly sitting happily in the center of his trap--and she looked astounding in the black dress and diamonds--Draco was not in the mood to seal any unbreakable, virginity-stealing magical bonds later that evening. Holly trusted him enough, though she would never admit that, and he was fully capable of maintaining control and being gentle. Though romantic as Valentine's Day happened to be, tonight was not it for the girl.

What with the designer gown and matching knickers, Draco had been quite sure he had Ginny Weasley's confidence as well, even though she had heard rumor of his life after class. And, following some Weasley instinct to be fiercely protective of her friends in all circumstances, she took his gifts with her chin held high and her suspicions unfaltering. But, her last words to Draco had stricken him. What would his next move be once he fucked up and Holly came to her senses? There were certain things flowers and Memory Charms could not fix.

Draco considered this as fireworks erupted all along the Parisian skyline and Holly laughed, sitting back in her chair. Their appetizer appeared in front of them, and a small note attached to the toothpick that stuck itself into the center of the dish. Holly grabbed it and read, "'The Pivot reminds you that eating raw or undercooked meats, poultry, seafood, shellfish, or eggs may increase your risk of food borne illness, especially if you have certain medical conditions.'" Instead of alerting him that she was opposed in any way to food borne illness, Holly cringed and said, "Oh my God, this is raw?"

"Shellfish ceviche," he responded with a revising tonality. "With avocado, cucumber, bell peppers, and sweet chili and orange vinaigrette." He grabbed Holly's fork and used it to stick a piece of meat and a cucumber slice, then dip them in a pool of dressing along the edge of the plate.

"Okay, so it's raw seafood?" Holly drew back as Draco proffered the fork. "I'll pass."

"Try it," he said, unwavering. "You won't be disappointed."

Though leaning forward and taking the bite in her mouth would have been reassuring in the issue of reliance, she at least took back her fork and, after a moment of hesitation, stuck the prongs into her mouth. When she slid the silverware back through her lips, it was empty.

Draco had gone to gather himself a bite and, once succeeding in sticking some meat on his own fork, looked up at Holly, who was in the process of swallowing. "That was... actually pretty good."

"I knew it would be. I wouldn't lie to you," he fibbed, offering her his own fork and taking back the one he had handed her previously. "Second bite is better."

They plowed through the appetizer and were soon treated to the glasses of toasty brut Draco had ordered--a sparkling wine to prepare them for the meal to come. Draco browsed the soups, salads, and entrées lazily while Holly scanned the view of Paris that the enchanted windows gave her and pointed from time to time at buildings, asking what they were.

"Is that the palace museum?" she asked pointing at the distant Opéra.

"No," said Draco, looking up from the menu. "The Musée du Louvre is over there--see the glass pyramid?" She nodded, looking in the correct direction. "That's it."

"Have you been there?" she inquired, gaze sweeping the building. She took a small sip from her wineglass.

"I have." Draco ran a finger down the list of red wines to accompany their dinner.

"What's it like?"

"Boring," he told her honestly. Holly looked up at him and laughed. "The wizard and Muggle sections alike. The Winged Victory is amazing, true--it's on a landing between stairs, and the Venus de Milo is nice to look at, but the whole staple of the place--the Mona Lisa--is pathetic." He looked up in time to see her eyebrows rise. "No bigger than a Petite Parchment Pad. And there are so many people packed into the room with her in it that you can't get very close, and she doesn't like to talk anyway. Few of the portraits there do. Stuck up, the lot of them."

The moment both Holly and Draco's wineglasses ran dry, Montag reappeared. He vanished their wineglasses and, once again, conjured his pad of parchment and quill. Draco ordered right through dessert. "Let's see... the proscuitto-wrapped mission fig and arugula salad--no cheese selection, Parmesan will do--followed by the black trumpet crusted lamb loin with some of that Nine Pinions vin ordinaire."

"Two glasses, sir?" the waiter inquired.

"Four. Then... how about an assortment of your artisan cheeses and then the vanilla crème brulee for dessert?" Draco closed his menu and handed it to the waiter, who had already taken Holly's unopened one from her. "And which ice wine would you suggest, Mister Montag?"

"The Dewitt Jaegar, sir. From Germany."

Draco watched the quill vibrate slightly, awaiting his response. "The brulee won't be too sweet for it?"

Montag smiled knowledgeably. "No, sir."

Draco "Hmm"ed, impressed. "Very well, then. One bottle of the Dewitt Jaegar ice wine. Thank you very much, Montag, your service is always first rate. I sincerely hope you have a friend at home to entertain you once your shift is over. It's Valentine's Day, after all." He smiled winningly at the waiter, who bowed, smirking, and Disapparated. His and Holly's salad, featuring his requested Parmesan, arrived shortly after Montag's disappearance.

"Is the Notre Dame nice?"

Draco shrugged, spearing shaved fennel in his salad bowl. "It's big. The stained glass windows are impressive, if put back together poorly after the Muggles' second World War. There's a stone scene with a woman feeling Mary up to see whether she was lactating, but other than that... all cathedrals look about the same."

Holly laughed. "Are you kidding me?" she said, a forkful of salad halfway to her lips.

"No."

She laughed again and took another bite. "How is it you like Paris so much if you hate everything in it?"

"I cherish the city as a whole--it's not so overwhelmed by Muggle technology as, say, London or New York," he apprised.

"Could you tell me something significant about Paris that you like that I would understand?" she inquired.

Draco considered this for a juncture, then smiled to himself. "I like the catacombs," he said innocently.

Holly lowered her chin and shielded her eyes with one hand. "Oh, God... underground chambers full of bones?"

"And Père Lachaise is... charming."

"Isn't that a cemetery?" Draco smirked at her. "It is, isn't it?" She made a noise of dissent. "Jim Morrison's buried there, right?"

"I think he's somewhere in that section that always smells like narcotics." He finished off his salad and said, "Wilde is buried in Père Lachaise, as well."

Holly shook her head and did not look at him. "I'm sure he'd be thrilled to know he was laid to rest in a 'charming' Parisian cemetery."

"Oh, me too." Their crusted lamb loin and claret arrived. "Try a bit of cippollini onion." She shook her head. "You don't like onions?"

"No, I like onions. I just don't like how they taste," she told him simply, sampling the lamb.

"Well, don't forget about your wine." He pointed at her wineglass. "Nine Pinions' vin ordinaire is extraordinary--has a spicy nose, but rich fruit flavor. Elf-made. You've got two glasses." Holly nodded, focusing on her entrée. "Speaking of Wilde... Basil Hallward's masterpiece hangs in one of the wizarding sections of the Musée du Louvre."

"Whose masterpiece?" She swallowed. "Oh! You mean the Picture of Dorian Gray's in Paris? I thought Gray destroyed it."

"Gray destroyed himself, not his portrait." Draco stirred his onions and took a drink of red wine. "All the Dark magic packed into that painting--it's a wonder the man lived so long with it smirking cruelly at him, reminding him of his sins."

"Does he talk to passerby?" inquired Holly. "The picture, I mean."

"Sometimes. Usually just laughs at badly dressed tourists, criticizes this and that. He told me the last time I visited with my mother that I would make a pretty picture myself."

"Serious?" Holly tasted her third wine that evening and annexed, "Even portraits hit on you?" watching him over the rim of her wineglass.

"Even portraits," he confirmed.

They sailed through their lamb, vin ordinaire, artisan cheeses, vanilla crème brulee, and finally their Dewitt Jaegar ice wine, which was so deep in color it was nearly black. As Holly had predicted (sort of), the elderly witches all around them had sighed when they walked past and took their seats. They did, indeed, begin to reminisce quietly with their white, gray, bald, or toupee-ed spouses about the joys of their youth since lost. They recalled heartwarming memories that didn't involve couture gowns, jests at vampirism, mentions of familial orgies, webs of lies, or simmering plans for eventual betrayal.

"What time s'it?

"Do you care?"

She shrugged. "I guess not."

Draco cast a look toward the space in front of the stage that had been cleared of chairs so as to function as a dance floor. It had not been exploited all evening--with their youth had gone the seasoned couples' energy. Draco smiled at the open floor and the band of brass and string players.

He turned his gaze on Holly. "Are you in the mood for dancing?"

)()()(

After several attempts at repairing the torn material of Hermione's old-cum-new frock, they determined that it was supersaturated with the magic from Parvati and Lavender's enchantments and would simply not have any more charms in its thread.

Ron sat on the edge of Hermione's bed as she burrowed into her trunk, looking for a change of clothes while holding the drooping fabric to her side. She extracted a pair of trousers and a top, finally, and told him, "Don't look," as she straightened up and turned her back to him.

Ron obeyed, if reluctantly, and shielded his eyes as well as turning his head away. Some time later, he heard an irritated grumble from his right side. "You all right?" he inquired, still not looking at her.

"No. These stupid charms... I told her I wouldn't be able to... ugh! Ron, could you help me with this?" Ron turned his face toward her and peeked through his fingers, grinning. Hermione was still sporting the gown (had it moved a centimeter?), and she had also donned a flustered expression while yanking at either hemline. Ron dropped his hand and stood, moving over to her and searching for a way out of the dress.

"Where's the zipper?" he asked, looking at her back and her sides.

Hermione sighed. "There isn't one," she told him ominously.

He wrinkled his nose and questioned, "How'd you get into it?"

She looked at him, half-exasperated, half-amused. "It was looser when I put it on. Parvati and Lavender changed that."

Ron looked her over and amended, "You mean 'fixed' that?" Hermione laughed bashfully, pressing a palm against one of her eyes. "All right, we'll sort this out."

Several failed Severing Charms, Engorgement Charms, and even a Reductor Curse later, the dress had not budged. Its unwillingness to have itself magically repaired matched its reluctance to have itself magically ruined. Finally, Hermione sent Ron looking for the scissors Parvati used for haircuts, stating that she did not care if it dulled the blades--Parvati had gotten her into this dress, and Parvati would be getting her out of it.

Ron sat down on Hermione's mattress once more and snipped the scissors in the air as Hermione, looking a bit disconcerted, approached him. "Try along the side, here... and make it as straight as you can; I'll fix this dress somehow."

She stood between his knees, and Ron sliced away... starting by cutting through the ribbon at the hem and working his way up. Hermione pulled her arm across her collarbone once the scissors were high enough, and Ron had to slow progress considerably so as not to leave her with bodily incisions.

Finally, he cut through the upper hem and the gown fell away, crumpling at his feet. She could not quite grab what was left of the ruined frock in time.

Still standing between his knees, Hermione hurriedly crossed her arms over her breasts, blushed, and cast her eyes at the floor, looking supremely abashed to be standing in front of her fellow in only her knickers. Ron's conscience told him that he should gather up what was left of her frock and look away, but, as was the case any time Veela were around, the male in him yielded for no action but gawking stupidly.

Certainly, he had dreamed such situations up, but never had the transition from a clothed Hermione to a mostly nude Hermione been so sudden or so awkward. Ron's eyes traveled from her tucked away breasts down to her bared stomach (which she sucked in abruptly and unnecessarily), then lingered on her lingerie, and finally swept her divested thighs. He swallowed down the instinct to pounce and brought a fist to his mouth to bite the edge of his index finger.

Ron's stare flickered upward to Hermione's blushing face, and she met his gaze briefly before tearing her eyes away. Ron yanked his hand away from his lips and stammered, "I... I'm s-sorry, I just..."

"It's okay," replied Hermione in a small voice, bending at the knees and taking one arm away from her chest to grab what remained of her red dress. She stood, the curve of her arm at her elbow revealing more of herself to Ron that she was aware of, and he gnawed at his knuckle this time, watching and trying to ignore how his stomach was constricting painfully.

Part of the ribbon that had been adhered to the gown snagged on the wood beneath Hermione's mattress and she worked fiercely with one shaking hand to release it, bending her chest almost to her knees. Ron leaned over to help her, staring resolutely at the caught ribbon.

They released it and Hermione straightened up immediately, holding the severed edge of the frock up to conceal herself. She was shivering visibly now, and Ron wondered why she did not simply tell him again to look away and go to clothe herself. She stepped forward, again standing between Ron's knees, and watched his eyes with an expression that reminded him of despondency. She wanted him to make this decision for her.

As if she did not know where he stood.

Ron reached out slowly, and, shamed, he noticed that his own hand shook in the process. Very manly, idiot. He grasped the edge of the ruined gown. Maybe his own quivering made Hermione more comfortable, because she let the material slip through her fingers as he pulled it gently.

Hermione crossed her forearms, wrapping her fingers over her shoulders, keeping herself partially barred from observation. She dropped her chin and shut her eyes, and Ron felt his heart go out for her. Look at how embarrassed she is. She's scared. Did she really want to do this? She would not really sacrifice this solely for his happiness, would she?

Ron, acting as tenderly as he could, guided her arms away from her bared chest and held his breath as he got an unhindered look at her. How did someone so radiant accept and partake in her own daily concealment? "Hermione, look at me," he managed to say. Reluctantly, she did so. Dreading an answer in the negative, he inquired, "Are you sure?"

There was a moment's pause that seemed to span a millenium. Hermione twitched once, as though wishing to go back to hiding her body from his prying eyes, but did not. Instead she responded, "I'm sure."

Ron got to his feet and held Hermione's waist, guiding her to the bed. She sat on the edge of the mattress, then scooted herself up toward the head of the bed. Filling in the silence, Ron suggested, "I'll... I'll pull even, shall I?"

Praying he did not appear as eager as he really was, Ron shook off his robes, his shirt, and stepped out of his trousers a little faster than he needed to. Hermione drew the curtains shut on the opposite side of the bed before crawling beneath the coverlet, watching him with very dark eyes. Ron joined her there, his stomach doing peculiar flips, and he slid the hangings shut on his side.

Feeling both exhilarated and embarrassingly lanky at once, Ron turned his head and wondered where to start. Hermione appeared to be thinking on the same lines. Did people just randomly decide they were going to do this like the two of them had just done? Ron was sure that this was supposed to be one of the instances in which when one confessed the act to another he or she was supposed to be able to utilize the phrase "one thing led to another." He tried to establish a series of logically connected events that landed he and Hermione in this spot.

Ron took a deep breath, looked Hermione in the face, and reached out to run his knuckles gently against her cheek, along her jaw. Taking her chin between two fingers, he kissed her. She kissed back, and it was not long before they had fallen deep into it, their goal--or agreement--pushed into the backs of their minds.

He ran his fingers past her temple and buried the tips in her carefully pulled-back hair, little pieces slipping from the pins and falling onto the back of his hands. Hermione held onto his shoulders, his neck, her palms leaving traces of heat as they slid back, forth, up, down.

Ron let his own fingers trail downward, along her collarbone and against her chest, subconsciously awaiting the moment when his fingertips would encounter a barrier of fabric. When the moment did not arrive and he found his hand in a space it had before neared but never touched, Ron had to draw his lips away for a quick breath and a navigational glance.

He finally touched, and Hermione gasped. Ron jerked his hand away reflexively, moving his face away from hers and searching her eyes. "No," she said, though not in a dictating tone. "Don't stop, I just didn't realize it would... would..." She blinked, glancing down. "Oh, whatever..."

Ron smiled against her cheek and sunk deeper beneath the bedding, kissing and nipping her neck, her shoulder, her collarbone. He rose up to her lips and took the plunge again, less honeyed this time--hungrier. Hermione answered readily, clearly pleased to have him there with her again and to return to a more familiar place.

Ron pushed himself up with one arm, not daring to detach himself from Hermione's lips, and swung over and atop her, hands finding hers to hold for a moment, or a minute, or perhaps five... he saw no necessity to pay attention. He kissed harder, coaxing little moans of assent from the back of her throat.

He wanted to hear more, a primal craving for encouragement or reward....

Ron broke the kiss and moved his mouth downward, progressing past her collarbone and the gathering incline of her chest. Hermione left one hand in his hair, and he could sense her eyes on him. His lips closed over the object he sought, tongue flickering over it, and her reaction was instantaneous--she pulled his hair almost painfully, her legs bent up between his own immediately, and she, indeed, mewled in ecstasy... timorousness replaced instantly by appetite.

Once Ron had resurfaced, Hermione kissed him so fiercely in what he imagined was gratitude, he was quite sure he was going to suffocate. She rolled him on his side and threw one leg over his hip while slipping the other knee beneath, splaying her hands against his chest.

Hermione slid her hands downward, along Ron's ribcage, and then around his sides and up his back. To his surprise, she initiated a ferocious, if very brief, sort of bump and grind--and though there were two layers of fabric preventing anything from connecting, Ron had never experienced anything quite like it.

She rolled him over and kissed him like this, sitting just above an area that had suddenly gained a pulse. She ran her fingers through his hair and kissed beneath his ear and along his jaw, pulling away once or twice to gaze at him questioningly. She scratched a little at his chest, and he touched her face, briefly forcing her lips to return to his.

Hermione allowed him to tip her onto her back again, and she squeezed his sides with her knees and he kissed her neck fervently while his hands grazed all the skin he could reach for some time. Ron pulled away, his nose against hers and his fingertips just dipped beneath her panty-line and pressed to her hip.

He searched for a handle on the English language that he had for some time neglected in order to make use of more gasps or groans and once, even, a laugh. "Are you ready?" he asked.

Hermione examined Ron's face though pupils much wider than he had before seen them and, after a juncture, nodded wordlessly.

)()()(

"I didn't come prepared for this much rain," Harry half-shouted over the pounding sheets of water and the harsh gale. He turned up the collar of his cloak and jumped out of the way as a nasty turn in the wind pushed the sheet of rain cascading from the eaves of Belletasse in his direction.

Ginny fumbled with her umbrella for some time, which was a faded purple color, until it opened. "I came prepared for rain," she announced loudly, holding the umbrella over her head, "but not wind." The umbrella began slipping from her palm, and she clutched it with both hands.

"I've got it," he told her, taking the umbrella by the metal bar rather than by the handle.

"Purple is really your color," said Ginny, joining him beneath the umbrella.

"You don't think it makes me look peaky?" She laughed and he held out his arm. "Stay close," he told her.

Ginny linked her arm with his, causing a few goosebumps to fly up Harry's neck that had nothing to do with the cold. They strode out onto the cobblestone, cold water running into Harry's informal black trainers and over Ginny's sandaled toes.

How could this have worked out better, Harry wondered. Cho chucked him for a night with someone new, and Ginny had left enough space in her heart to forgive him for doing something quite similar to her. And she looked so stunning in that gown with her hair curled so carefully that, in his nicest outfit, Harry felt shabby--in the best possible way.

And to think that she had gotten all dolled up for some Hufflepuff that did not care enough to show up at Belletasse as scheduled.

Harry strode along with her tucked against him now, moving in what he hoped was the direction of the High Street (between his rain-splattered glasses and the low rim of the umbrella, he could scarcely see a thing). And he had an inkling that, considering the incredible way that circumstances seemed to have fallen into place, their spending Valentine's Day together was due to a fate deeper than what Eros could offer.

They found their way to the Three Broomsticks, which was alive with a welcoming glow, and the pair of them rushed right inside. "Close that umbrella!" said Madam Rosmerta reprovingly. Her back was to them, but she was watching the entrance through the mirror over the bar.

"Sorry!" they both cried, and after Harry struggled for a juncture with the process of shutting the umbrella, Ginny took it from him. It took her a moment, but eventually it sprang shut, pinching her finger, which she withdrew with a sharp, "Ouch!"

The Three Broomsticks wasn't its busiest, but business certainly was not slow. The majority of the barstools and the tables were occupied by both chattering couples and loveless factions--students and qualified warlocks alike. Many eyes had turned to watch them, and the occasional whisper of 'Harry Potter!' had flown up here and there.

"What'll you be needing, then, m'dears?" asked the barmaid, one hand resting against the curve of her hip and a fond look replacing her previous scolding tone.

"Two butterbeers, Madam!" replied Ginny sunnily, not at all dissuaded by the stares of the other customers. She untoggled her cloak and told Harry to find seats as she made her way to the bar.

Harry sat down in a booth in the corner that just provided a view of the stormy world outside the sunshiny comfort of the Three Broomsticks. Ginny found him shortly, carrying four uncorked butterbeer bottles between her fingers. He had watched her when she could not see him, weaving through the others in the pub with her arms raised so as not to spill the beverages. Her cloak open wide, Harry had been given a better view of her shape within the robe she wore, and he felt a muzzy churning in the center of his abdomen. He felt rather dizzy, in fact, watching her.

She sat two bottles in front of Harry and the other two bottles in front of her empty seat. Ginny shook off her damp cloak, everything around them basking in her aureate, ethereal glow. She absently rubbed one bare, golden shoulder, and it was not until she had attempted to make eye contact with him with a rather confounded expression and said "Er.. Harry?" that he noticed that he was staring at her, jaw slackening.

Harry cleared his throat unnecessarily and looked very intently at his butterbeer, trying hard to ignore a stirring in an area that, thus far in his life, was relatively uncharted. "Why so many butterbeers?" he asked, finally registering that they had ordered two bottles, not four.

"Two for one Valentine special," answered Ginny, shrugging as she set her cloak and clutch in the corner of her seat. "I suppose she has to sell all the ones with the heart-shaped labels by the middle of next week at the latest."

Harry looked at the heart-shaped labels on his bottles, one of which read, "Kiss Me," and the other, "Marry Me."

He snatched up the "Kiss Me," bottle first and Ginny held up one that read "Be Mine."

"D'you have anything to toast to?" he asked her, acutely aware of the warmth of Ginny's fingers as his knuckles brushed against them.

"...Not really. You?" she asked, allowing her fingers to linger against his.

"Erm..." throwing caution to the wind, Harry inquired, "Where'd you get that dress?"

Ginny's eyes widened momentarily, then she replied, "Kuchen and Hütte," watching him closely, her words drawn out in caution.

"All right, then... to Misters Kuchen and Hütte!" Harry turned his hand so that their fingers touched in still more places.

Ginny laughed brightly. "Cheers!"

They spoke with one another and laughed, and laughed--how was it that their lives, this world, were both suddenly so hilarious? Mention of Filch, Snape, Riddle, and Malfoy had become lighthearted jokes that made Harry's heart swell as if he were flying around the woods behind the Burrow on a warm, clear day, taking in the redolence of the flowers and trees. It was all so very blissful, so very comical.

The pub emptied considerably as they made it through their butterbeers leisurely, and Madam Rosmerta was issuing an early last call once they were at the door, buttoning up their cloaks. Harry wished Ginny would not... she was so breathtaking in that gown...

Ginny went to reopen her purple umbrella, but the barmaid, whose reasons for closing the pub early on a Friday night revolved around the desire to have herself a decent Valentine's Day too, scolded, "Don't you dare! You brought enough bad luck in the first time with that thing!" Though she laughed, Harry knew Madam Rosmerta wad not kidding around. "You're hurting business, you two... take it outside."

Harry and Ginny laughed--being kicked out of the Three Broomsticks was so very droll--and went outside.

The eaves outside the pub did not extend enough to keep a pixie out of the rain. Ginny struggled with her stubborn umbrella, giggling, and Harry shouted, "Hurry up!" over the fierce rain that was succeeding in drenching every inch of him. Rain had once again soaked through his trainers and socks.

Ginny laughed and laughed, trying pointlessly to put up her umbrella. The other witches and wizards that had been in the Three Broomsticks left it, rushing off in each direction as they were released into the storm, and Madam Rosmerta dimmed the lights as she cleaned up.

Harry bent to help Ginny with the umbrella, pressing the button on the handle, flipping and unflipping the metal switch beneath the folded fabric. They struggled with it, still laughing, shaking the stubborn contraption and beating it against the wall of the pub. After a particularly fervent attempt at getting the umbrella to serve its purpose, the handle slipped through Ginny's fingers and fell into a puddle at their feet.

Both she and Harry bent to retrieve it, and as they stood, a stray witch wearing aviator goggles and riding a two-seat bicycle by herself rolled by, spraying them as she sped through a nearby puddle. Laughing, they jumped away from the water that her wheels kicked up.

Harry was closer to Ginny than he had been all evening, his shoulder pressed against the wall of the Three Broomsticks and his middle aligned with hers as they clutched her silly purple umbrella between them.

And Harry did not have to give it a second's consideration, as their laughs died and their smiles began to fade... he released the umbrella and, after Ginny did the same, heard it splash in the puddle they stood before clattering against the bare cobblestone surrounding it. He kicked it out of the way, grabbed Ginny's waist, and--knowing that this time he would allow no interruptions--he kissed her.

Harry pulled Ginny's form to his, shutting his eyes, and clutched her waist as if it were the only way he would not be defeated by this exquisite sensation of falling and leave this world completely. Breathing was impossible--and unnecessary... he had no need for oxygen if he could have Ginny's lips, Ginny's waist, to animate him instead.

Ginny's hands found his face, and then her fingers found his hair. She tangled them in the wet strands and pulled him, if possible, closer. They pulled their mouths half an inch apart and took a simultaneous, gasping breath, staring at one another, before diving back into the kiss.

Harry pressed against Ginny's side until she was trapped between him and the wall, and he tried to push closer yet, to melt into her. She, in turn, kissed harder, dived deeper; Ginny pulled on Harry's hair in efforts to bring him closer, to bring him down to her height. Harry's nose was so crushed he was certain it was broken, and Ginny's teeth had grazed his lips so many times he assumed it was cut and bleeding. But if she did not mind, he would not stop.

Harry released Ginny's waist and let his fingers roam higher--he could feel her shape, indeed, but this cloak was so thick.... He took her face in his hands and kissed harder, sliding his tongue along hers, then briefly against the roof of her mouth. Ginny, whose hands had slid from his scalp to scratch gently against the back of his neck and grab at his collar, released little noises from the back of her throat that made Harry shudder and try for her to do it again, and again, and again...

There was a springing noise and a tinny rattle of metal against stone. Aversely, Harry pulled his mouth from Ginny's and perused her face through his fogged glasses--a smile breaking across his face as his eyes roved over her pinked cheeks, smeared lip-color, and glassy, slightly unfocused eyes, a darker black cherry than ever before. Her heavy breathing matched his own, and Harry caught the glisten of rain on Ginny's nose and cheeks against the dimmed lights of the Three Broomsticks as she turned her head to the left.

He followed her gaze to the finally opened umbrella, which was rolling back and forth with a tink-tink-tink as the metal prongs protruding from the dome hit the cobblestone street. The wind was just light enough not to take it away.

Ginny cleared her throat and, using a weak, gritty tone that Harry imagined would much match his own key, recommended, "We should go back to the castle, now." He felt a sick, hollow feeling open up in his stomach at the mention of the evening ending--a bottomless pit had formed behind his navel, and Harry admitted readily to himself that he would rather stand in the rain until he was too hypothermic to properly function than go back to Gryffindor Tower and act as if nothing had happened. Then quietly, gloriously, Ginny added, "I don't think Lila and Kylie will be back."

)()()(

Was she in the mood for dancing? Holly cast a look in the direction of the space that had been cleared for jivers, which was completely devoid of witches and wizards (and had been all evening). Stepping onto it with him would attract more attention to her inability to ballroom dance than she would have preferred.

Holly turned her face back toward Draco, who was putting out his cigarette. She answered, "No."

He smiled handsomely at her for a juncture and corrected, "Yes you are." Holly's eyes widened as Draco got out of his chair and pulled hers out too, yanking her to her feet. He linked his fingers with hers, and--too panicked to enjoy the handholding while he pulled her along at a pace fast enough to qualify as a jog--Holly began stammering.

"No... Malfoy, no! I don't want to... you know I'm no good... I can't..." She tried to resist the force of his hauling, but he overcame her quite easily, sending her flying forward onto his shoulder. Holly stumbled past the chairs of married couples, who raised an occasional shout of dissent when she knocked into their table and made their beverages flop out of their glasses and onto the tablecloth or inadvertently forced one of their desserts to tip over. She apologized hurriedly when she knocked off the hat of a thin, gnarled witch and promised to pay for the bottle of elf-wine that had belonged to a bald wizard before she managed to send it clear across the table and onto the floor. She told Draco, "I've had, like, five glasses of wine."

"Oh, you're fine," he responded skeptically, guiding Holly around a witch who was getting the help of two waiters to stop the motion of her cane that had somehow been enchanted to spin around frantically above her head, tapping and sliding against an unseen barrier. They flanked the three-legged stools pulled up to the lengthy bar and the occasional back atop one, truly running now, Holly accidentally pushing a lonely wizard's nose into his mead. She shouted her apologies over her shoulder, and when she turned her head she accomplished in knocking a spare stool onto the floor.

They finally reached the dance floor, where Draco stopped abruptly and turned to face her. Holly ran into him and, feeling the flush rise into her cheeks, let her forehead fall onto his chest and screamed in closed-lip fury.

The song, another not-so-Parisian mixture of strings and brass, came to an end, Holly's protests quickening--"I can't ballroom dance in any way! I vaguely remember your little fox... step... thingy and that's where my knowledge of choreographed dance ends!"

"We'll improvise." Draco pulled Parvati's black barrette from Holly's hair and conjured a very white lily by turning his hand palm-up and gathering his fingertips to a point in the middle. He tucked the barrette into one of his pockets. "That's better," he said, placing the white one in her hair. "I don't think lilies grow black in the wild."

She smiled hesitantly, though appreciatively, up at him. The band's trumpet player moved around the chair of the fat cellist and smiled at them. "Finally!" he exclaimed, spreading his arms. "Diners who vant to move!" He leaned over the edge of his platform and inquired, "Vat can ve play faar the young laavers?"

Draco looked up at the trumpeter and suggested, "How about something in 6/8?" The musician nodded shortly. "All right--start it off slow and build up to a comfortable andante, would you?"

"Mister Malfoy!" He put on his widest smile yet. "Anything faar you, sir!" The trumpeter disappeared behind the cellist again, and the band struck up a slow, sweet tune.

Replying to her fear of forgetting the steps before she voiced it, Draco whispered, "Count it... one-two-three-four-five-six." Holly nodded, getting the rhythm and pace into her head. She straightened up, legs together, and he pointed his toes toward hers. "I'll help you the first time through... this leg goes back first," he said touching her right side. "Ready?"

The diners were watching them intently, as if this dance was a show preparing to start. Her nervous swallows rived her throat rather than soothed it. Old people Holly handled quite well. Old, rich people who had tread the path of secular advancement to a comfortable place among society's best--usually even better. She did not, however, feel her skill in the dance was anything that would make a soul there take her seriously. Draco was probably more than prepared to show her up, to demonstrate just how high he sat above her.

Draco left his hands on her hips, giving her skin a gentle squeeze when she was supposed to move this foot or that foot. Back, one-two, back, three-four, right foot, five, left foot, six... Holly recalled the movements as she did them, and as Draco murmured, "Left turn," she spun her left foot on its toe quite easily, three-four, and swung out her right leg readily without his assistance, closing the gap between her feet again for the final beat.

Draco took her hands for the conversation step, and Holly crossed her footfalls over one the other as they walked, determined not to confuse it. The steps fell into place, one-two-three, keep the gait even for the box step... and then the turning box... side step, four-five-six, right turn, back to the beginning.

Holly allowed Draco to guide her through the tread of the dance once more, though not because she needed his aid but because she took guilty pleasure in the sinful warmth of his palms against her hips.

The song's tempo began to quicken, and they stepped quicker--strands of Holly's hair escaped her twist and fell onto her face as she twirled this way and that with her left turn, turning box step, and right turn. Draco became a black, white, and blond blur that she glanced at in passing; the rare moment that he came into focus and his gray watch seared her own was cut short by the need to spin in opposite directions. The many surveying looks of the diners became one endless, churning sea of silly stares, the expressions of which mattered not.

Their steps swift, though measured, the tempo left no time for Holly to find Draco's hands when she needed them, but it was required that she trace their presence in the air and let her palms fall against his with magnetic certainty. Then she would disconnect again, spinning off in the opposite direction. The imagining that she and he fit and clicked together as easily as gears in some bigger device grew strong, and the exhilaration that accompanied that feeling (combined with the sailing pace of the dance) was, if anything in that entire Parisian scene, full of light.

Halfway through their third conversation step, Draco whispered, "Hold on, and I'll dip you."

"You'll what?"

Without a split-second for the formulation of a complaint, Draco spun Holly and tipped her backward. She shrieked in surprise, clutching the collar of his robes behind his neck in one fist--she was certain he was about to drop her. But Draco's hand, splayed against the curve of her lower back, held Holly up--easily, it seemed--and he smiled at her through stray bangs before bending her back up and twirling her away from him, her hand in his.

She spun back to him and mirrored his clap... laughing, now, at the plunging sensation the dip had left in her stomach.

Draco and Holly abandoned all choreography and flung themselves around like the youths they were, jumping this way and that, throwing their arms in the air. When had Draco demonstrated that he took part in anything impromptu, anything that had not been carefully rehearsed? Now she could just make out his breathless laughter as she twisted and bent, worm-like, absolutely out-of-sync with the tempo. Draco thrust one hand into the air and bent his head, bangs casting jagged shadows across his face. Jerking up and down, he shifted his weight from the ball of one foot to the other. Holly caught a brief flash of smiling teeth as his bangs flipped back, and she laughed wildly--what Draco was this that danced as if he were attending an All-Wizarding Dregs concert?

Holly ski-hopped, hair really falling out of its twist now, and pirouetted harshly on the spot, stomping her lifted foot down and falsely rebounding from it, reverting back to her skip. She threw out her elbows and re-found the song's pulse, keeping count with the heels of her hands. Holly was reminded suddenly of the sights and sounds of the Elves' Geol, dancing like an idiot to the speeding sounds of woodwinds and strings with a young Elf who usually only exhibited practiced grace.

Draco grabbed her waist and wrapped his hands around her back, pulling her forward until her middle bumped his. Holly could just make out the slowdown of the brassy tune, winding from a gallop to a canter and, finally, to its careful stride. She rested her wrists against Draco's shoulders, hands wrapping about his neck while his palms slid to the lowest point they could reach on her back without being indecent. Draco sat his forehead against hers, the tips of their noses touching, and snickered. Holly closed her eyes and laughed, too; though she felt little love in this, there was definitely something on the air--the scent of which was dizzying.

"Look," he said, making a slow circle.

She pulled her forehead from his and peered around his head and over his shoulder at what he was showing her and gasped. A couple--a frail-looking witch topped in a mauve hat that might cause her to overbalance any moment and a tall, lanky wizard who sported suspenders and a toupee--were dancing together, entwined hands stretched out to one side and matching smiles on their faces. Further away Holly noticed a short little wizard leading his bottom-heavy wife onto the dance floor and, when they arrived, he bowed politely to her before taking up her hands.

"We've made the old people dance!" she whispered, looking at Draco's face. He smiled widely and spun her back around. The song came to an end and they pulled apart, Draco bowing politely and Holly doing her best at a curtsy. The couples who were not already dancing or had not gotten up and started weaving through the tables toward the cleared space clapped loudly, and Holly laughed, knowing very well that they were applauding her and Draco's exhibition--not because it was in good taste, but because it reminded them of the flying, rumbling ride that was juvenility.

Probably all thinking we're completely in love, she thought with a feeling she feared was bitterness. The strings fired up again and Draco took her fingers between his, bending his head to press his lips to the back of her lifted hand. Stomach churning, Holly conceived that the kiss left a searing brand of possession on her skin... a circular burn that bore his mark.

The feeling barely faded as Draco took her hands and swayed in a very simple shuffle to the new tune, but she swallowed her suspicions for the time being, trying to revel in the uplifting sentiment of a purely noncommittal dance. If there was any tenderness in a loveless tryst at all.

)()()(

Closing her eyes and disregarding any possible hurdles, Hermione opened her mind and reached out toward the one nearest hers. Once she connected, she found a brain that, rather than being warmed by a tide of loving passion, was overcome by a thick film of amoral satisfaction and accomplishment. He had done it--finally. She opened her eyes, and the connection was severed.

Though she had not expected to discover much different, it was in that moment that what little intimate afterglow Hermione had experienced was overcome by contrition. You should not have done this. The quiet pounding of guilty conscience in her head quite matched the dull throb of pain between her thighs for rhythm. There was a moment, her shame revealed. There was an instant when you could have said 'no'. There were many intervals when you could have changed your mind. Now, look. Look at what you've done.

But who else? she asked herself. Who else would she have given this to? Surrendered this bond to?

There is a right and a wrong time for this. There was still time for anticipation. It was too soon; this is irreversible.

Hermione had no parry. She listened to the faraway sounds of the rain pounding against the windowpane and the dull crackling of the declining flames in the grate. Ron kissed her lips, and she turned onto her back and stared at her scarlet canopy. It was a lengthy juncture of earsplitting silence before she noted that Ron's breathing had become even and slow. She turned her back to him, edging along the mattress and away from the criminal warmth his body emitted, and closed her eyes.

Irreversible.

)()()(

Ginny lit a candle.

She had let go of Harry's hand reluctantly, so much enjoying the feeling of his rough, worked palm against hers and the swooping sensation that accompanied every little squeeze, every little twitch of his fingers that reminded her that he was there. Ginny placed the candlestick on her nightstand, a sightless, perfunctory action, and began undoing the toggles of her cloak.

Striding slowly to the three hooks that hung next to the doorway, Ginny paused to watch Harry, who was in the process of undoing his own cloak, in mild awe. It had worked; it had actually worked. The silly plan had operated better than she had ever imagined it could. And, for the brief instant she could focus her thoughts on someone other than Harry Potter, Ginny hoped sincerely that Holly and Malfoy--wherever they were doing whatever they happened to be doing--were having an incredible time.

Harry shook his cloak from his shoulders and looked at it a moment before deciding to lay it across the foot of Ginny's bed. He stood next to her trunk and pulled his feet from his sodden black trainers, and as Ginny undid the straps of her heels, Harry mechanically removed his soaked-through socks as well before sliding his footwear beneath her bed. Ginny threw her shoes against the dormitory wall and joined Harry next to her bed.

She felt a little silly--her carefully prepared ringlets drooping with the weight of the rainwater that had fallen into them and her makeup probably washed away. But Harry, who also remained looking very waterlogged, was not watching Ginny as if she were silly at all. Instead, he was unknotting his bow tie, looking sure of what he wanted but uncertain as to how to get it--nervousness, a rarity.

Ginny reached out and removed his glasses, and she broke the silence that had grown between them once their joyous laughter had been reciprocated with wordless anticipation outside the Three Broomsticks. "Can you see without these?" she inquired, folding them up and placing them atop a paperback novel on her bedside table.

It was a rare occasion that Ginny was able to feel the full weight of Harry's stare, his eyes unshielded by his glasses. He looked so different--maybe older, maybe younger, she could not be certain. But his face seemed suddenly sharper with no feature being softened by the rim of his spectacles--Harry's nose was thinner, his cheekbones were higher, his eyelashes were longer. And his eyes were thrilling things to admire--lush green and bottomless. In fact, if Ginny had her way she would peruse Harry's eyes for hours...

He swallowed and replied, "Well enough." Ginny reached up to his face and ran her fingertips along his forehead, moving bits of coarse hair to the side so she could further examine his visage. She would have been even more enamoured with him if she had realized before now precisely how handsome he was. "Up close," he annexed fairly.

Ginny stepped closer to Harry, who made the same motion while swallowing again. "How late can you stay?" she inquired as they neared one another. She managed to open up one, two, three of his shirt's buttonholes before they finally bumped into one another.

Harry's lips were parted and his breathing was quickening. Was he having more trouble restraining himself than she was? Did he really want access that badly? She smiled to herself.

"I don't think anyone's waiting up for me."

Ginny opened her mouth to reply, but the words that had been forming were mislaid when Harry seized the opportunity and lunged, closing the space between his mouth and hers. He kissed her hard, leaving no room for tenderness, protest, or oxygen. Whatever she had been preparing to say--she did not remember it now--escaped her as a feeble moan.

She was not certain what message this sound conveyed to Harry, but it was in all probability it was a good one. Emboldened, he tangled his fingers into her hair and pushed the kiss deeper; Ginny complied and opened her mouth as wide as it would go to surrender more ingress. He kissed fiercely, and it was so like him--the intrepid, forward Harry--to take all he could. He pressed against her gently, and she moved backward as he indicated.

Later, Ginny reflected that the manner in which Harry put his lips to hers was unlike the fashion practiced by any boy she had ever kissed--in mistletoe-related passing or in a more serious relationship. Boys who wanted to be dominant, who wanted to brag to their friends, she had once thought, were rough kissers. And, perhaps that was true of most wizards. But not Harry... Harry's harsh kiss was clinging rather than earmarking. He kissed as though their fates had been thrust into the action taken by his lips, as though if he chose to be tender or insouciant they would lose their hold on this plane.

He kissed as though he feared that any minute Ginny would tear herself away.

Ginny's legs connected with the wooden frame of her four-poster, and she stopped moving, but Harry continued to press. She sat, him bending double to keep from drawing his mouth away. He continued to impel her downward, backward--she inched toward the head of her mattress while continuing to lower herself down, mussing the bedclothes considerably. He crawled with her, refusing to disunite.

Ginny lay defenselessly beneath Harry, sucking at his tongue and grabbing at anything she could reach from here--his hair, neck, arms, sides. She accidentally removed a button from his shirt completely, feeling it fall on her chest before sliding away, and she continued to do it once more, then twice more without a word of protest from him. She slid her palm up his chest, and when he quivered Ginny smiled against his mouth before pushing him away.

"What?" he inquired, scanning her eyes solicitously.

Ginny beamed. "Draw the hangings shut," she directed.

With a muted, "Oh!" Harry straightened up and tugged at the curtains, throwing them into a darkness challenged only by the light of her candle that entered through a space in the draperies. She watched Harry in interest as the shadows closed over his face. He leaned back down and took her hands, pinning them above her head while trailing his fingers through hers.

A Malfoy move if I've ever seen one.

Ginny bent her free knee (the terrifying slit up one side did serve a purpose, after all) and pinned it against Harry, pushing hard, wearied with her innocuousness. She released her hands and shifted her weight, flipping Harry onto his side, and then onto his back. She pulled part of her gown out from underneath him and threw that knee over his leg, sitting on his thighs victoriously.

Harry soughed in approval, and Ginny touched his face now, memorizing the contours she knew so well by sight with her fingers. She pushed back his fringe and tucked some hair behind his ears, his blackened eyes keeping her in thrall. She traced his jaw line with her fingertips, then ran her hand down his chest, stomach jumping when she felt his hammering heartbeat. It reminded her briefly of their adolescence and inexperience--Ginny was in the hands of no veteran, but somehow Harry's callow (though fearless) delirium comforted her more than a practiced, reassuring touch would.

Ginny placed her hands on either side of Harry's head and leaned over him, watching his face intently through curtains of crimson that spilled over her shoulders, observing as his pupils widened and his breaths started coming and going in ragged gasps and exhalations. Ginny smirked at him and rested on her forearms, rising from his pelvis to support herself on her knees, meanwhile noting that the lower portion of her gown had inched up her waist and that the sliced side of it no longer hid her hip. She slid downward and bit the curve of his skin where his neck met his shoulder, and Harry jerked. She felt rather than heard the rumble of a groan in his throat, moved her lips higher, and marked his skin again.

Harry held tightly onto her waist as she yanked his tucked-in shirt upward--there went the last button--and let her palms stray over the whole of his lean torso. Harry pulled her down to him coarsely and took control of her lips, slipping tentative fingertips against the skin beneath the chiffon just visible above the bust of her gown. He slid his fingertips against the fabric along the outside of her breast, then beneath, palm rolling once over its center. Ginny gasped into his mouth and bit down on his lower lip. Harry smiled against her lips and dropped a quiet kiss on the edge of her mouth.

She opened her eyes and searched his for some sort of guidance... an indication as to where they were to go from here. Harry stared back, and his wet lips remained parted and esurient as his panting leveled. Ginny sighed and her eyelashes obscured her vision as her lids washed an abrupt image of an inner demon of hers assailing an unaware Harry from her mind.

There was a rustle of sheets as Harry moved to align his face with hers. He brought her lips down to his and kissed her delicately, now--adoring and solacing. Ginny did not need touches of such nature... whom in the whole of the wizarding world deserved to be comforted by the Boy Who Lived? The tortured soul of a teenager too wise to survive without withering need not reach out to someone not being relentlessly hunted by the Dark Lord.

Ginny pushed such things from her mind, now is not the time, and tautened the muscles all up and down her legs to help Harry peel away his shirt without losing her balance. Once it was loose and limp her grasp, she discarded it, flinging it over her shoulder. She allowed her knees to glide downward so she could rest part of her torso against his. Ginny delighted in savoring the steadily accelerating rise and fall of Harry's chest and the insistent drumming of his heartbeat that threatened to pierce his flesh. She pulled on his hair and scratched his shoulders, and whenever he shuddered, she gasped unsteadily and did the same. Harry's arms snaked around her and his hands, on the small of her back, urged her downward once more.

She could not get any closer without surrendering her balance and lying, maladroit, atop him. She needed to get out of this senseless gown... feel the full weight of his skin.... Harry held tight onto her sides and placed another seal on the edge of her neck with the tips of his teeth; he then took a second to soothe the deliberate wound with his tongue, and Ginny mewled in a fleeting rapture.

Then, beneath her, Harry gave a singular, violent buck.

Ginny exhaled sharply at sat up. The precise status of their predicament came flying back to her, and, rather than feeling ravished and hungry for more, she sensed herself disheveled and cold. Harry sat up and stared at her, and the only thing that kept him from looking like a frightened second year was the absence of his glasses. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly; he appeared to be searching for some sort of apology, some sort of explanation. Ginny weighed her options transiently before a thought hit her. Not only was he speechless, but--

--Harry Potter was losing control.

As if in validation, Harry finally found his voice--which was much raspier than what was customary--and stumbled, "I'm--I didn't--a-are you...?" He swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut for a trice. "Sorry."

"Don't--" she bid, starting at the equally throaty key her own voice had taken. Getting over it, Ginny wondered whether she had planned for her next word to be 'be'. She took up the hem of her dress and slipped it along her legs until it gathered in many brazen folds around her upper thighs. She rose to her knees and inspected his countenance in the half-light. He leaned further back on his hands to gaze up at her sanguinely.

Ginny held out the many wrinkles of her gown to Harry, who shifted his weight and took them from her. After casting another look up at her, he acted on Ginny's nod and trailed his palms up her sides, the dress following them, turned inside out. She lifted her arms above her head and caught the gown once Harry had gotten it that high, slipping it over her head and arms, then expelling it completely with a backward toss that suggested it was not a many-Galleon expenditure.

Harry gawked at the freshly exposed flesh, exhaling very harshly after a juncture as though he had been holding his breath. His gaze trailed slowly upward from the lacy waist of her knickers until he locked eyes with Ginny who, mysteriously exhorted by her own nakedness rather than chagrined, smiled. She sat back down on his legs, fixing her gaze on his waistband. She reached for his belt.

"Don't get your hopes up too high, now," she told him nonchalantly, unfastening his belt and then unbuttoning his trousers, not acting on the swooping thrills she felt in the region beneath her ribcage that told her to move faster. He raised his hips slightly to help her remove the slacks--the color of the shorts beneath Ginny could not make out, not that she particularly cared at the moment.

"I'll try not to," croaked Harry, staring at her as she added his trousers to the mounting pile of clothing at the foot of her bed and crawled back atop him. She gave him credit for his efforts, but she could see his hope rising from where she was.

Ginny straddled Harry's hips and wrapped her arms around his neck, her lips nodding against his for a few seconds. "Now," she said, prying herself from his mouth and speaking directly into his ear, "do that again."

He had been waiting desperately for her permission, it seemed; Harry did not hesitate to roll his hips beneath her, abrading the space between her legs roughly. Ginny clutched his hair, praying silently that he would will himself to stop when the time came if she could not do so herself. She gasped, holding his shoulders now, and--surprised at her own audacity--commanded, "Again."

Harry did, and he turned her back over so he resumed his post on top. Ginny wrapped her legs about his lower back tightly and, when he politely, though roughly, inquired "Again?"--his breath hot on her cheek--she found that words had finally been rendered useless, and she gyrated against him in response.

)()()(

Her and Draco's trail was marked by rainwater that drizzled and dripped slowly from the tip of his umbrella. They employed the chief corridors for a route to Gryffindor Tower as they knew that Filch would not be prowling them in search of snoggers to throw into detention and that the prefects, due to Draco's status in the school, would have to let them pass.

When a hush grew between them, Holly stared at the quivering shadows cast across the hallway ahead and made no move to break it. Instead, she was fighting a pitched battle of locutions in her mind, and it was the usual battalions facing one another again: instinctive curiosity and categorical imperative.

Just ask him! cried her itch. Better to know the truth than to wonder.

The truth hurts, reminded her conscience. Let her be; it has nothing to do with you.

Yes it does, curiosity challenged. Why every macerated, under-aged Slytherin harlot and not her?

Before she could piece together an inquiry that sounded offhand, Draco prompted, "What's bothering you, Black?"

She folded her arms, not looking at him, and replied, "You."

Holly could feel his smirk from where she stood. "I suppose this is something that I can't help you with?"

They turned a corner and Holly chewed on the insides of her cheeks. "Actually," she observed gingerly, "you can."

Draco reply was, "Tell me how,"--a phrase Holly was certain he rarely, if ever, used.

She watched the torch-lit floor as they strolled on, attempting to assemble a sentence from a completely vacant word bank. "Why--" she began, knitting her brow. What next? "Why me?"

He laughed shortly before responding, "Are you certain that's something you should be taking up with me?"

Holly looked over at him, clenching the insides of her mouth between her teeth again--she imagined this habit had left her skin very scarred. "Why buy me an excess of lace and diamonds and take me to your--your--softy, provisioning restaurant with its wine and unpronounceable entrées?"

He leered, directing the expression to the portraits they were passing just as much as to her. "What, are you complaining?"

"I'm not complaining!" Holly nearly reached to greedily caress the jewels on her throat, but she caught herself. "I'm just confused."

"Are you being insecure, or are you suspecting foul play?" She did not answer. "Ah, yes..." he inferred, "insecure."

Why every macerated, under-aged Slytherin harlot and not her? "Why not one of your Slytherin hookers?" she suggested, uncrossing her arms and hiding her hands in her pockets.

"Dates are for conversation," he apprised simply.

She grit her teeth. "Oh, and not for fucking?" she parried, making an effort at sounding as though he had just corrected a stereotype she had long held onto.

"Not for fucking, indeed." As he said this, they passed a Ravenclaw prefect whose name Holly was not sure of. Momentarily bewildered by the words escaping Draco's mouth, the prefect neglected to accost the wanderers. Draco gave her a vague wave as if to say "You know who I am," and they were allowed to pass without answering questions as to who they were, why they were out so late, and what their destination was.

He seemed to weigh his next words with linguistic prudence, pondering how to go about articulating this declaration so as to make it less contemptuous. While he did this, a silence grew between them that may have lasted a few seconds or several minutes; Holly did not keep track. It was broken only by their footfalls, which echoed against the walls of the deserted corridors loudly and were no substitute for words, which may have made the stroll considerably less uncouth.

"What a fuss people make about fidelity," said Draco finally, sounding as though he had given up on a previous idea for a statement. "I suppose that you're looking for answers to things you've heard."

No, actually, she had not been searching for such a thing. Holly had yet to buzz Parvati and Lavender for any sort of gossiper's dispatch on Draco's intimate relations within Slytherin House, and thus she had nothing but obscure suppositions on her illusory list of accusations.

"No," she contradicted before she could give proper thought to her reply. Holly swallowed and went on, "I don't need any answers." She hoped the addition was elusive enough to get her a confession in the form of a confirmation.

"Of course you don't," murmured Draco, more to himself than to her. They were nearing the entrance to Gryffindor Tower now--Holly could just see the rise and fall of the Fat Lady's snoozing form in her frame. He said nothing more on their journey through the hall, and when they reached the portrait, Holly turned to face him, fidgeting again.

"Date's over," she announced quietly, looking between his eyes. Draco had succeeded in throwing up an additional shield--no trace of thought or emotion was piercing through his veneer of sheer indifference, now.

Dates are for conversation. She definitely did not mean for that to sound inviting.

Holly watched as the boy gathered his fingers in a point above his palm and conjured a sanguine rose with a long, thorny stem. She took it when he held it out to her and gazed into the partially opened bloom, subconsciously counting the petals.

"I have never disrespected a negative answer or forced a witch to compromise her integrity," stated Draco evenly. Holly looked up, grimacing. "I celebrate the sacred feminine, nothing more."

Holly blinked. "Are you kidding me?"

He smiled, or did something like it. "About celebrating the sacred feminine." She shook her head slightly, trying to convey her befuddlement. "The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden itself. Still, I want you to know that I don't prowl the corridors at night searching for fourteen-year-old innocents to bed, nor do I take advantage of the willing." As an afterthought he added, "Or the drunk."

"Okay?" she said blankly.

"Just straightening the record." Another half-smile pulled at the edges of his mouth.

Draco stepped closer and Holly clenched the stem of her rose, a single thorn resting perilously against the crevice betwixt two fingers. She watched him near and felt the dull thud of her heartbeat begin to gather speed and vigor. He grazed spare, razor-cut bangs from her vision, fingertips brushing against her forehead, and examined her face while Holly allowed her own eyes rake over Draco's features, studying the sharp outlines and shadows that identified with his mien.

Fingers curled against her jaw and beneath her chin, Draco ran the tip of his thumb gently over her closed mouth. Her lips opened for him, though she was not certain as to whether he had forced this or she had parted them herself, and he gazed intently at her mouth as if solidifying his resolve.

He tipped up Holly's chin, drawing in, and what had previously been a dull hum in her ears became a screaming wind, and as Draco closed the space between their mouths, Holly stepped up to the edge of a bottomless pit, toes curled over its edge. It seemed she stared over the cliff and wanted nothing more than to fall forever--to take a deep breath and dive into the cavern that, though so sinister, was so very captivating...

But just as she took a step back to assure a strong push-off, the roar in her ears ceased, and Draco dropped a lingering, apathetic kiss on her cheek.

Holly felt his breath against her skin for a second before he drew away, and she reluctantly opened her eyes, sensing that a canyon had been hewn where a moment before there had been anticipation. Draco's icy eyes smiled compassionately, and his hand fell away from her chin.

"Don't feel left out," he told her gently, and she could see his whole face was smiling now. "Happy Valentine's Day, Holly."

When the portrait swung closed behind her she felt her eyes heat with tears. No, she thought, ignoring the clutch that seemed to take hold of her throat. No, no, no. She did not weep over boys that, once she graduated, she would never see again.

She blinked. One tear, then two, fell onto her cheeks and Holly's sorrow left with them. It was replaced, as her grief often was, by a screaming, consuming self-disgust.

)()()(

Ron's sleep faded. He stirred and woke from an agreeable dream and was presented with an equally agreeable sight--the curve of Hermione's bare back, stripped of bedclothes from unconscious tossing. Her hair, which had come undone through the course of the evening, was scattered across her pillow. Ron was reaching out to touch it, take a spare lock between his fingers, when the click of a closing door distracted him.

The reverberation was accompanied by a terse, crushing sob.

Ron rolled onto his back--who was it?--and listened hard. He heard the dormmate lose her shoes somewhere near the door and pad along the floor, shedding things that made tinny metallic noises after they fell, things that plunked heavily on the floor, and things that rustled against the stone bricks. Ron drew the hangings of Hermione's four-poster back an inch with his fingers, peering through the crack but seeing nothing--only a shadow passing over the walls now and again, the owner of which he could not ascertain.

What time is it? Holly's four-poster was empty, and the one beyond that--Lavender's--had the curtains drawn. It was a few minutes of unsuccessful spying, broken occasionally by a dry sob, before Holly appeared on the other side of her bed. Her hair was crimped and tousled wildly, her inside out T-shirt wrinkled as though it had been left in a crumpled ball for a week. There were but a few shining streaks of tears on her cheeks, Ron saw, and her jaw was set in something that resembled fury much more than grief.

Fury with whom? Holly threw the long-stemmed rose she had been clutching to the floor between her bed and Hermione's, a few petals went flying, and Ron drew back, afraid she might find him peering through the draperies at her and have a conniption. The girl shut her eyes and brought the hand with which she had thrown the rose, trembling, to the back of her neck. Ron felt a familiar stir in the center of his chest that told him to go, to jump out from behind the canopy and reach out to Holly, to soothe and aid her, take her into an embrace and let her weep... warm her...

She drew back the bedclothes atop her mattress--a little too harshly--and raised herself onto the bed. On her knees, she bent forward, back curving dangerously as she held her head in her hands. Another racking sob escaped her.

Ron felt the atmosphere in the dormitory shift--it tensed, grew more inert, and he braced himself for the worst. He wondered whether her ire would grow if, after the breaker, she found nude bodies rising from the dormitory rubble. He grit his teeth, prepared to be overwhelmed any moment by a seismic outburst of anger and wishing half-heartedly that he knew where his shorts had gone. The room's ambiance tautened again, and the stillness was suffocating.

Unconformably, Holly's rage never came.

Ron made an eyehole in the hangings again and looked anxiously in the direction of Holly's four-poster. She remained resting her weight on her knees, back curved harshly. Her hands had moved from her unruly mop of dark hair to clench her sheets. He could just make out her harsh breathing, and Ron wondered whether Holly was practicing some form of incredible self-restraint or simply adjusting to the shift in the dormitory's atmosphere.

She straightened up and, furiously wiping tears from her cheeks, drew the hangings on the opposite side of her four-poster shut. She turned to finish closing herself in, fresh teardrops spilling from her eyes. Ron saw the muscles tauten in her thick thighs as she reached for the drapes facing Hermione's four-poster and begin to pull it shut, and he felt a brief surge of carnality that Holly Black rarely, if ever, had given him.

She froze, fingers tightening on the edge of the scarlet curtain. Ron looked up and locked eyes with Holly, his stomach tightening. She could not possibly see more than his eyes and fingernails, and yet her recognition and accompanying horror was evident.

She stared at him for what seemed like centuries, the set of her face unreadable while her watery gaze screamed of some pained emotion Ron could not place. He watched a single tear roll down her cheek and fall onto her lower lip, which had parted from the upper portion of her mouth in a gasp. Was she livid beyond words? Chagrined? Disconsolate? Ron found himself petrified, incapable of letting the hangings fall shut to hide him; her watch kept him in thrall as he wondered what sort of terror could possibly be flying through her mind.

A terse sob broke her ossified quiet.

Then, the strain on the room twisted until Ron felt trapped by a steadily tightening garrote, unable to move or stir without suffering death. And, just as suddenly, it released completely, the tension evaporating from the air around them so swiftly that it felt drafty and vacuous without the stillness and tension the girl's towering temper had instilled.

Collectedly, her eyes still tearing into his, Holly drew the hangings shut.

)()()(

He could have done it. He should have done it. Holly was on the edge; Draco knew that tonight she would have given him all of her. Though at the time instinct told him to wait, to show her the proper respect that he showed no other willing witch, now he felt pangs of regret.

He could have brought her to his dormitory, allowed her to lead him into her own, or even steered her into an abandoned classroom and lay out his cloak for them to tangle upon.... She had yet to uncover the whole truth, and, stolen up by her own passion and tension, Holly would have yielded to his kiss, his touch, and while Draco put to use the caution and tenderness he had practiced on the softer of his captives, she would scream for more once she overcame the initial anguish....

He could have kissed her at least--tilted up her face and taken the plunge, sealing that bond and manifesting his interest. But on either plane, later would arrive the questions about why he did it, where they stood, what happened from here. Inquiries Draco could answer easily, of course; however, he was not quite willing to purge other portions of his life of all intimate activity to spare her ears and raise a shield against her eventual loathing of him arising sooner.

"Deorc."

He was admitted into his common room, which was empty with the exception of a spindly wizard and his black-haired hostage gyrating on one of the leather divans who, by the sound of things, were having an exceptional time. Draco entered through the port to the boys' dormitories, following the hallway down to the very end. When he reached his own dormitory, he was not at all surprised to see that it a fire had been lit within.

He sighed, entered, and tossed his umbrella in its stand.

"Evening, Pansy." The girl was sitting with her back against his pillows, her open legs bent at the knees. "How many witches did you need to Stun to get in here alone this time?"

"Three." She cocked her head, smiling coyly. "It's late," she informed him, toying with the strap of her rubescent camisole. "You aren't tired out from your date with Black, are you?"

Draco looked up from unbuttoning his cloak. There was a form of revulsion on Pansy's tone when she enunciated Holly's surname that he did not like. "No," he responded, shrugging the cloak from his shoulders and hanging it next to the doorway.

"Good." She slid off the edge of his mattress, walking toward the door. Not looking at her, Draco loosened his tie and moved over to his wardrobe.

"Go to bed, Pansy," he commanded, ridding himself of his coat and placing his bow tie in one of its inside pockets. He could smell her as she drew near. "You need sleep, as do I. I want nothing with you."

She spoke into his ear--a low hiss. "Are you sure?"

Draco jerked and stepped away, unbuttoning his vest. "Absolutely."

Pansy moved with him, her body heat warming his back. She took her time wrapping her arms around his middle before running her palms idly up his chest and back down again. Draco let his eyes fall shut, feeling slightly off-balance as Pansy aligned her body with his. "A difference, of course, between want and need, isn't there?" The tip of her tongue fluttered out against his earlobe, and he held his breath. "Draco," she crooned, her thumb hooking briefly beneath his waistband before she let her fingers brush fleetingly against his groin. He grit his teeth, willing her away. "Draco, do you remember our first time?"

He did remember it, though he wished he could forget. It was because of it that the witch retained this strange hold over him.

Hands splayed over his chest, Pansy guided him away from the wardrobe, and he moved with her helplessly. He placed one palm on the closed door of the cabinet and rested his weight there, instincts numbed by a stronger urge. She circled him and sunk to her knees. Hands on his zipper, Pansy watched his face, lips already parted.

Clutching a shelf in his wardrobe with his other hand, Draco looked away, the forthcoming darts of pleasure mingled with the deepest self-loathing.

)()()(