Harry Potter and His New Standards

Chapter 35--Breakerfall

"When you long with all your heart for someone to love you, a madness grows there that shakes all sense from the trees and the water and the earth. And nothing lives for you, except the long deep bitter want. And this is what everyone feels from birth to death."

)()()(

For at least twenty minutes, Harry had been awake.

Though he knew it was morning, the darkness beyond the vermeil draperies lingered. The pounding and howling of the extant storm had become a sort of tinnitus in his ears, steadily simpler to ignore. The fire in the dormitory grate had been stoked far too high, and though he was starting to perspire within the knot of coiled sheets, Harry did not dare to move.

Ginny sighed in her sleep, hot breath striking his chest.

Harry bent his head and kissed the part in her hair, ignoring symptoms of heatstroke. He laid with her, tangled, her legs bent through and curled around his own. His arms were wrapped around her, though her flesh was febrile and slick. Ginny shifted, slumber finally decamping her, and when her chest rose with a deep inhalation, her brassiere scratched against his skin. Harry watched the girl battle consciousness fondly.

When was the last time he'd felt so elated? Had he ever awoken from a pleasant dream to an even more pleasant reality?

Eyelids still shielding from her the forenoon, Ginny's hands came to life, slithering lazily up Harry's abdomen and over his chest sightlessly before coming to a rest at his collarbone, fingers twitching. He could just discern a smile on the curve of her face as he gazed down at her.

Before Harry could smirk at her favorable approach to the dawn, Ginny's hands wrapped themselves about his love bitten throat and clenched tightly, thumbs pressing harshly against his Adam's apple, nails digging painfully into the nape of his neck.

He struggled, kicking out of their previous embrace, striving to shout out her name with no result other than a slicing malaise in his esophagus. Harry tried fruitlessly to pry her hands away as her fingers broadened and lengthened, their obstruction on his air supply firming as the teal eyes of Tom Riddle rose to survey his gaze.

)()()(

"I know you're awake." She sat on the edge of her mattress and examined the tousled girl in interest. Holly's eyelids were swollen from late night tears, and her hair was wildly kinked from styling. She had forgotten to remove the diamond earrings before bed, and they glimmered like fire amongst the mess of her black mane. Her face twisted in a look of displeasure.

Holly's reply sounded jaded. Eyes remaining shut, she remarked, "It's still dark, Parvati. Leave me the fuck alone."

"It's almost eleven o'clock," Parvati pointed out, glancing out the window at the stormy sky. Normally she spent these hours in the North Tower with Professor Trelawney. Today, she told Lavender to go up without her; she had other business to attend to. For good measure, Parvati annexed, "At night."

"Just give me another twelve hours," replied Holly, voice rattling as if she was losing it. She turned slowly onto her side and curled herself around an extra pillow, bedclothes pulled tight over her shoulders.

Parvati sighed, casting a look toward Hermione's four-poster; as always, the linen had been studiously fixed so that the house-elves would not have to tidy there. "I want to tell you the things I know about Draco Malfoy." She turned to look at Holly, who had stiffened.

Her eyes had opened. Tone set and scathing, she responded, "Don't."

Lavender had relayed what pieces of Holly and Malfoy's altercation she had seen and heard with what Parvati knew was precision. Though gossip reigned in her life, Lavender had never stretched a story when telling it to her best friend.

"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."

Parvati had seen the request on Holly's lips each time she caught her eye. She had wanted to hear the facts of Malfoy's life outside class that had been miraculously kept confidential. But Parvati saw it otherwise. Holly needed to know. And she fully intended to make things that way.

The witch blinked once, languidly, and Parvati judged it would be hours before the vestiges of a troubled night would leave her swollen eyes.

"Cheer up, Holly," she told her, smiling. "This won't hurt a bit."

)()()(

Hermione kneeled before her cauldron, observing the albescent fumes as they rose from the simmering mixture. Her brow perspired slightly as she pored over the book on her knees, fingernails skimming the parchment as she read. She glanced at her pamphlet on Identifying Infusions, then back at her potion, which resembled water, though somehow so pure it was nearly invisible.

For so long she had toiled... essayed preparing the ingredients in a million ways, adding them to her base in a thousand different combinations. Hermione had lost track of the passing evenings in her hiding place as she vanished so many unsuccessful attempts, scratched out the instructions to what could have been the answer so many times. And now, it seemed so simple. The brew had to simmer, no more.

Hermione smiled at the list of ingredients, their measurements, and the order in which they were added to the concoction. Was it possible that she had finally done this properly? There was no way to test the solution...

She sat back on her heels and smiled. At least something was going right.

Hermione had fled the dormitory early that morning; clothed herself in a rush and departed without a word to her still-slumbering partner. She did not want to talk to him, nor look at him for that matter. She knew she shouldn't have done this. She hadn't even spoken to the boy since he dozed off hours and hours before, and yet Hermione knew things had been altered. She had expected something heavenly and pleasurable, not something embarrassing and gauche.

Think of something else, she told herself while Moaning Myrtle commenced in her noontime lament.

Hermione dabbed the edge of her sleeve along her hairline, got to her feet, and moved away from the incalescent cauldron, turning her thoughts to her upcoming Supantoris tutoring session. Though the idea of being locked once again in Trelawney's North Tower brought on anything but a feeling of enthusiasm, it at least took her mind off the awkwardness of her previous evening. Hermione let her eyes fall shut and opened her Auricle to the lavatory, experimentally seeking the thoughts of a deceased brain.

)()()(

The rain decanted directly from the skies onto Hogwarts, steeply angled sheets pounding against the lake in the gale that continued from the night before. Draco sat on the cold, rocky beach--spare cigarette butts marking his outline in the damp pebbles--and stared out at the turbulent haze beyond. He searched for no song in the nonstop downpour and screaming winds as they echoed from the walls of the inlet; instead, he desperately sought a bedlam that would quiet his mind and soothe his nerves. The ivy swung wildly in the gust, and he recalled the first time he had entered the inlet... the beginnings of an all-consuming slow burn formed as he had watched the bedraggled head of Harry Potter clamber up the slope ahead of him.

He had slept little more than an hour before waking, dressing, and fleeing his dormitory. He had bathed--fiercely scrubbing at his skin in attempts to wash away the sin. Draco scoured his own body until the surface of his skin was colored and sensitive even to the bathwater, and still he felt vitiated.

This time, the bite was pitiless. His deeds tore at him more than ever before, and his conscience screamed in embarrassment.

Appetitus Rationi Pareat, "Let your desires be ruled by reason." This counsel he abided so faithfully by in the day-to-day again had been put aside. Cicero was wise, but desire was not what drove Draco, and reason left him each time.

Draco lit another cigarette before he had put out his last.

For years he had tried to add the facts, to determine how ancient the magic that bound him and Pansy Parkinson truly was. He searched magical theory books in languages he could scarcely decipher. He paged through the Muggle literature kept at the Manor by his father as an alibi against Mudblood-loving, Ministry-sponsored searches. Here, again, he had found no direction. Texts on marital tradition and propriety produced nothing but a reminder of what, exactly, Draco had gotten himself into.

Too dark were the consequences, he now perceived, for them to be mentioned when adult figures cautioned their juniors against premarital sex. The loss of virginity--especially mutual--forged a bond that was archaic, consuming, and far too potent for Draco Malfoy to escape. Pansy retained a hold on him that he abhorred; her presence made sensations unforgettable, and until she was far, far away, Draco wouldn't be able to forget her. His first moments of intimacy--innocent kisses that turned violent with the weeks--were shared with her, this girl he now rejected. He would have adhered to Wilde had he known the words then. It was true: A kiss may ruin a human life. Things went too far, and he stopped the relationship.

But so long as Pansy Parkinson wanted him in her sex life, she would have him.

The end of Draco's cigarette crumbled, and the ashes landed on his trouser leg. He swept them away and took another drag, eyes breaking from the lake for only a moment.

)()()(

Vision gone white about the edges, Harry clawed at Riddle's fingers to no avail, and the more he struggled, the harder his lungs strained for the oxygen that Riddle suppressed.

"Hello, Harry." Riddle smiled at him in a manner that registered with Harry as the look of an assassin surveying an impressive collection of weaponry. A banquet of opportunity lay before him; he only needed to wait for the moment when Harry swooned.

The tips of his own fingernails imbedded in his skin from his efforts to pry Riddle's hands from his neck, a sharp pain shot through both Harry's throat as he made to reply and his scar as Riddle's eyes passed over it languidly. His entire body rolling with it, Harry maneuvered his knee to connect with Riddle's gut.

It did, harshly, and the wizard yelped, curling over. The grip on Harry's throat loosened during that moment of initial shock, and he finally succeeded in tearing Riddle's hands away. He rolled unceremoniously from the mattress, tearing down one side of the hangings as his body struck the stone floor.

Frantically trying to disentangle himself from the bedclothes and curtains knotted around him, Harry kicked his legs and worked his shoulders furiously. While he arced his back and scooted over the dormitory floor, he ignored the searing pains of fresh slivers buried in the flesh of his calves.

Harry stood from the confusion of carmine fabric on the rug, threw on his glasses, and faced Riddle, who was dressed in verdant shorts somewhat reminiscent of swimwear and staring intently at something in front of him. Harry followed the wizard's gaze down to the heap of Harry and Ginny's formal apparel, discarded the evening before.

My wand.

They dove for the pile simultaneously, Riddle's palms skimming above the garments lightly. Harry parted layers of fabric beneath his hands, rifling through all his pockets. He could not light the wand without showing Riddle its location or Summon it without there being a chance that the other would snatch it from the air.

As Harry's cloak was finally exposed, Riddle's left hand came to an abrupt stop. It hung over his pocket, quivering slightly, the long fingers gradually straightening and flaring. He sensed it--the phoenix-core wand that was as good as his own.

At once, they scrabbled for the right pocket of the pelerine. Harry's hand closed around something small and round, but as he held it in triumph, he saw that it was not his wand.

"Take this," Holly had commanded, pressing it into Harry's palm as he obediently held out his hand. Her tone he remembered clearly--they were the first words she had said to him since screaming at him in the Great Hall, and they were wound tightly.

He had examined the potion in the vial and inquired, "What is it?"

"Infusion of Rue," she had told him. "With valerian and ginseng additives." He had looked up at her, and she elaborated, "For Ginny." Holly's eyes had remained fixed on the vessel while Harry's glanced over her features. "Never," her pause here had been minatory, "leave it behind."

Harry looked from the phial, half-hidden by the lax curve of his hand, to Riddle. He trained Harry's wand at its owner steadily, slim fingers twitching in anticipation. His gaze, however, was fixed warily on the hand in which Harry held the vial.

"What is that?" demanded Riddle, a flicker of fear on his tone. His mind awash with hatred for Ginny's residentiary, Harry had not a single notion as to what his next move should be. It appeared that Riddle cognized that whatever was in the vessel could mean trouble, for the next thing that escaped his lips was, "Accio!"

Harry felt the phial begin slipping from his slack grip, but with a Seeker's reflexive clutch he clung onto the infusion. Riddle attempted Summoning the draught again, silently this time, only for Harry to squeeze the vial harder and hope the thin glass wouldn't shatter beneath his grasp.

Harry said, "No."

Riddle narrowed his eyes. "Evanesco." Stumbling over the blankets and hangings on the floor, Harry jumped out of the way. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a trinket on Lila's nightstand vanish. He swallowed; Harry had never known a vanishing spell to work on something positioned more than an inch away from one's wandtip.

Riddle gave Summoning the phial another try to no avail, and he scowled deeply--cheeks sinking and lines creasing his pale forehead. In the seconds he was spared, Harry rethought his predicament. Harry had the antidote, but Riddle had the wand. What could he possibly do?

Riddle's next spell was cast silently, and Harry cried out as sparks skimmed his knuckles. He released the infusion. The vessel barely had a moment to fall before it went spiraling over the bed to Riddle, who caught it ably in his right hand. He tapped the side of the vial with Harry's wand, and nothing happened. Frowning, he did it again.

Still nothing.

Harry jumped onto the mattress frame and, using every muscle in his legs, launched himself at Riddle as if diving into the water. They collided and, yelling, crashed to the floor in a heap. Grabbling frenetically for his hands, Harry registered how hot Riddle's skin was--inherently, it was a sinister heat. Inhuman. It was metallic with an intensity that called to mind the manner in which a light bulb burned its brightest in the moments before it went out.

The tip of his wand dug into the flesh beneath Harry's ribs, and Riddle shouted, "Everte Stratum!"

Empty handed, Harry was thrown violently from Riddle and sent tumbling through the air. Panic seizing his every muscle, Harry couldn't breathe for the juncture that he sailed, unsuspended, through the dormitory. He hit the wall behind the girls' long mirror and crumpled, pain tearing between his shoulder blades. He lay on the floor, the assuagement provided by the cool stone only skin deep.

Get up. The sound of Riddle's careful footfalls was magnified in the otherwise silent dormitory. Harry opened his eyes and looked at the stretch of floor in front of him. He told his arms to come to life, his body to straighten and rise, but no such thing occurred. For one horrified moment, Harry was certain he had been paralyzed. Then, as if to reassure him, his body began to listen. Pain from his spine seeped through all the muscles in his back and in his arms, but Harry was able to rise and rest on his hip, legs kept still.

Riddle moved toward him slowly. Harry was acutely aware that Voldemort's biggest flaw in dueling was the inclination to give his opponent a sporting chance. Though it was a strangely cruel thing--allowing the opposition to believe they could fight their way out of the dilemma for several minutes before he delivered a simple, six-syllable death--Harry could use it to his advantage. Riddle had the full opportunity to use any sort of magical torture on Harry that he fancied--Harry was vulnerable from both the previous jinx and the lack of a weapon. However, the soul would rather relish in the moment, would prefer to have Harry beg.

At least he hoped so.

Harry saved his energy, leaning on his palms and breathing deeply. He tested the strength left in his legs without moving them. If he just kept still...

The elliptical mirror began to turn, the bottom lifting and nearly striking Harry in the forehead. It spun slowly; Riddle's legs were in Harry's vision for a juncture before they receded behind the mirror again--its reflective side facing him.

"Take a look," suggested Riddle. Harry could sense his twisted smile. Harry glanced up at the mirror. Indeed, he appeared helpless. Just as he needed to. "Did you know, Harry, that the resentment of the weak does not spring from any injustice done to them--but from the sense of their own inadequacy and impotence?" Riddle paused to laugh--a sound both nonchalant and cold. "They hate not wickedness," he said, feet drawing closer to the base of the glass, "but weakness."

Harry paused to wonder when the 16-year-old had begun composing haughty speeches.

With all the strength and speed he could muster, Harry flew to his feet and charged the face of the heavy mirror. For a moment, he was sure the surface would merely flip and send Harry sliding over it, but instead it tipped and successfully took Riddle, who shouted something incomprehensible that sent a jet of fire from Harry's wand, to the floor with a crash. Harry straightened, the rending pains coursing through his limbs barely beginning to subside. Riddle couldn't get himself out from under the glass--each time he pushed, the mirror merely began turning over and digging into his calves. He wasn't quite able maneuver himself so as to grab the base, so instead he shot arbitrary curses in Harry's direction.

Harry, not very light on his feet in this moment, hopped to the left, to the right, ducked up and down--Riddle's myriad of jinxes very narrowly missing him. As they tore past him, they annihilated things on the wall behind him--vanishing baubles, slicing curtains, and, finally, setting fire to the edge of Kylie's coverlet.

Riddle rolled onto his side--he was almost out now--and Harry threw himself on his knees and climbed atop the mirror. Riddle's right arm flew out from beneath the mirror, then, and he snatched at Harry with what fingers he could lift without dropping the phial. His left arm twisted frantically to get out from beneath him--the tip of Harry's wand flashed into sight here, then there--and finally Harry's fingers closed around it.

He pulled, and Riddle froze, turquoise eyes locking onto his. His lips formed words Harry couldn't read, and a searing pain tore through his wrist where the wandtip touched it. Blood poured onto the floor in blackish puddles and trickled along his hand, slicking his fingers. Riddle drew Harry's wand away effortlessly, and on some level, Harry, who moved back to the floor, felt betrayed by it.

Riddle wriggled free from the mirror, and Harry pounced, wrestling for his wand with his weak hand. A curse went whistling over his shoulder and struck the ceiling, sending chunks of stone brick tumbling onto Kylie's four-poster; they tore through the hangings and deferred the swelling flames that consumed her bedding.

Harry dug one knee into Riddle's abdomen, and, hissing, Riddle struggled to throw him off. Harry was holding onto his wand again, jerking at it violently, but it didn't seem to want to leave the grasp of a much more powerful sixteen-year-old.

Harry did what he could to tighten his somehow immobile right-hand digits into a fist and whaled Riddle, his wrist limp and sending drops of crimson everywhere. Riddle brought one thin, pale arm up and shoved Harry away with the heel of his hand.

The wand was slipping gradually from his strongest grasp, and Harry wound and made to strike Riddle's face. His fingers no longer flexed willingly, so it was Harry's palm that fell against the other boy's cheek. Though the action looked to be innocuous, Riddle howled when Harry's blood splashed into his eye as if it were acid.

Harry clenched his wand and whirled away from Riddle, finally freeing it. He spun it clumsily in the fingers of his left hand and bellowed, "STUPEFY!"

The jet of light that his wand emitted was weak as though Harry had murmured the incantation lazily, but it was effective. Riddle went limp, his thin hands slipping from his face and hitting the floor. Harry released his wand and, feeling the heat of Kylie's blazing four-poster on his back, skimmed over to Riddle on his knees, leaving a trail of blood on the floor in his wake.

He snatched the Infusion of Rue from Riddle's lifeless right hand and removed the cork with his thumb. Harry poured the potion between the wizard's lips, and fell back onto his heels to watch Ginny reappear, Riddle's lackluster white skin marking itself with freckles and bite marks as he shrunk and reformed into the girl.

He shouldered the heavy mirror from her stationary frame and positioned his wand again in his left hand. "Tergeo." Harry's blood vanished from Ginny's face. He tried not to look at her. Instead he diverted his attention to his right wrist, turning his palm up to examine it.

Riddle's jinx, whatever it was, had cut so deep into his flesh that Harry thought he could see the bone. He mended the bloodless wound and, not giving a thought to the many broken trinkets scattered throughout the room and the flames overtaking one of the four-posters, scooped Ginny into his arms. He gently laid her down on her four-poster and covered her body with a blanket. She didn't stir, and Harry, following an impulse he'd yet to experience a mere week before then (though now it seemed so natural), pressed a kiss on her lifeless lips.

How could Tom own her?--his Ginny, Harry's Ginny. He pushed a stray lock of ruby from her brow, the ringlets were dejected now, and grit his teeth. Harry would brave all for her. As a companion, see past her sickness; like a brother, find a cure.

Imperfect Ginevra... freckles didn't begin to explain her flaws.

)()()(

The fire was handsome. What was not admitted into its ring of light enjoyed long, dark shadows, but its heat permeated the entirety of the dormitory. Breathing was like swallowing hot coals; each inhalation tore her throat.

Watching the flames rise and lick the empty air was enough to inspire fever. Perspiration had started on Holly's legs, curled beneath the coverlet, and was slowly rising up the surface of her skin. She stared into the grate nonetheless.

Since a young age she had been infatuated with the harsh blend of blue into orange, the beauty of nature's most passionate invention for destruction. Long breaks she would take from books, from homework, from fun to stare listlessly into it, as she did now.

A look of solicitude had painted itself upon Parvati's features, and Holly felt a rush of annoyance as her eyes passed over it. Her voice steady, though scratching but the surface of murmuring, Parvati inquired, "What do you know of him when he's not escorting you?"

With her left hand, Holly balled up the sheets and twisted. Levelly, she replied, "Assume I know nothing."

Parvati, of course, interpreted correctly that Holly did know something of the truth. Her black eyes bled reluctance as she returned Holly's gaze. Silent, she reached forward.

Holly jerked, trying to avoid her touch, but a stern look crossed her dormmate's face. She shut her eyes against Parvati's action and soon felt the tips of her fingernails touch behind her ear. Holly opened her eyes as the other girl gently removed one diamond earring, then the next, and hooked them together.

She took a moment to place the jewelry on Holly's bedside table before reseating herself, adjusting her position anxiously. The fire cast her already darkened skin into shadows darker yet, hiding the valleys of her face completely. Her eyes fell shut, then they reopened. "Do you really like him, Holly?"

Draco, the freethinking son of a Death Eater, and thus, a universal enemy. Draco and his coffee and cigarettes for breakfast, his bottomless fortune and soft spot for Muggle literature. He once spat colorless invectives her direction, and now he showered her in smiles and seductive drawls. She pictured the contours of his face and the manner in which his fall-where-it-may hair always seemed to rain perfectly on and around it. She recollected how lithe of a dancer he was and realized, reluctantly, where else he must apply that limberness.

"No," replied Holly evenly, denying herself an opportunity to admit, at last, the flame set within her. "Not as much as you think." --But more than that.

Parvati looked at her lap, nodding; the shadows danced impressively across her visage. "They say..." her words tailed off swiftly, and Holly saw her bite her lip.

"They." The famed and venerable "they." "They" seemed to have a say in everything; and "they" were never challenged. But who cared about "they," really? In "they" society had never trusted; why should the prophets of "they" be adhered to at all?

"They say it's a complex like no other." Parvati glanced at Holly, who wasn't sure she wanted to know the details of this complex. "You know most boys--they're desperate for sex; they hunt in the corridors for easy girls or for girls equally desperate. Your Malfoy, however, is in no manner a predator." Her dormmate grinned a little.

Her Malfoy. Holly's skin stuck to the silky sheets when she shifted her legs.

"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."

"His disease is the need to appropriate her body." Her dormmate knitted her brow momentarily, searching mentally for befitting words and cadences. "To most, a woman is an object. To Draco Malfoy, she is a subject."

A mild nausea had set in, Holly noticed. Whether it was due to the information coming at her or the tone the teller was using, she was uncertain. Parvati pulled her plait forward, over her shoulder, and started messing with it restlessly, her long fingers slipping in and out of the folds of hair, undoing and redoing the knots. She gazed at Holly in an expectant way, but upon realizing that she wasn't about to speak, the girl continued talking.

"He's amazing... a legend, for want of a better word, amongst gossipers more openly salacious than yourself." A smirk tugged at the edges of Parvati's mouth, but the shade cast on her façade by the fire demented it greatly. "His gift to girls is a curse upon him; he appears incapable of being washed over by the moment or losing control. His discipline will send his partner absolutely reeling multiple times, but Malfoy rarely, if ever, peaks more than once."

Something acrid was slowly filling Holly's mouth, drop by drop. It burned and begged for oxygen, but her lips remained closed tightly. "Be assured that no new stories have cropped up about him for a good month or two. Well, with the exception of Pansy running her mouth off about how, oh, she can make him lose control." Holly's breath hitched, but Parvati didn't notice and instead rolled her eyes toward the canopy. "Lies if you ask me; who could bed that thing without committing suicide afterward? Anyway..."

Holly felt stripped, chilled despite the sweat gathering at her temples, now.

"Word from Padma is the whole of Ravenclaw is green with jealousy at the fact that Mr. Malfoy has eyes for you alone. It would certainly explain why curve-enhancing robes and black hair dye are suddenly so in vogue." Her dormmate smiled and, with a little effort, Holly returned it. "They reckon he even kisses you."

Holly stopped, turning that over in her mind. For but a moment she recalled the feeling of standing at the edge of a bottomless fissure in the earth with her arms outstretched, the wind howling, crooning of the pleasures she would experience if she would only dive. She spoke at last, the acid that had been trickling onto her tongue spilling forth in her tone. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, it's just one of his quirks," Parvati said in a rush to calm her, holding out one of her hands. "The only thing missing from his shags is kissing; he refuses to kiss the girls he's with." Parvati took a moment to paint on a look that suggested this was a new piece of information that somehow perplexed her, then shook it off. "That would denote a romantic attraction, you see, and that, they say, he reserves for you. Thus, the school imagines that your sex life could never be better than it is right now."

Holly leaned her back against her pillow, releasing the insides of her cheeks from betwixt her molars. She felt her heart turn to stone and plummet, shattering ribs on its way down. "Well, you can feel free to tell Padma that Malfoy will brave no further than kissing my cheek. It's like he's winning over an old maid with Victorian charm; there are no fantastic shags in it for me." She recalled the sensation of Draco's lips on her neck, and then she forced it out from her mind and nerve endings.

"A kiss on the knuckles is more than he's given to any other girl in that regard, Holly. Although you are missing out, I think it's out of respect for you that he hasn't tried to bed you. There's more to you that interests him, apparently. The most he does to most of the other girls is give them an occasional seductive glance in passing, just to see how they react."

"Really." It was then that Holly stumbled upon the last piece to this puzzle. "And how would you know?" she inquired, for the sake of certainty.

Parvati pressed her lips together and looked over her dormmate's face without response.

Turning back over onto her side and gently tugging the bedcovers over her shoulders, Holly murmured, "I thought as much."

)()()(

Ginny felt along the edges of consciousness, the sounds of a fire crackling in the dormitory andiron fading in and out. She perceived that she was very hot--sweating--beneath the sheet atop her, but in order to push it off, she would have to surrender to the morning.

She took a deep breath, smelling the fire and something like breakfast Danishes. Pressing her head deeper into her pillow, Ginny wondered why it was that she felt so... happy? Was it happiness?

She extracted her arm from beneath the sheet and pushed it from her, accepting the fact that she had awoken, if reluctantly, from a very pleasant sleep.

Ginny opened her eyes.

Harry sat in a chair at the side of her bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He had changed into a pair of blue jeans and that Christmas's Weasley sweater (sage green), and his bare feet were arced over the stone floor. He smiled, his gaze raking once over her bare skin before coming to a rest on her eyes. "'Morning."

She pushed herself into a sitting position and rubbed her eyes, smiling against the bursts of white that appeared as she put pressure on her eyelids. "Good morning."

Happiness. The feeling was, without doubt, happiness.

"Er--I grabbed some scones from the Great Hall, if you wanted..." He indicated a nearby napkin with a few chignons piled on it. "And juice."

She grinned at him and slipped out of her bed, taking the flat sheet with her. She slipped into an oversized blouse and jeans, the first articles of clothing she saw upon opening her trunk, and went for the gobletful of orange juice, her daily antipsychotic potions hidden in her hand. Ginny took her dose without Harry's noticing and snatched a roll.

She watched his gaze follow her as she moved about the room, and found that, even with the tart taste of her medicine remaining in her mouth and her unkempt, probably unattractive appearance, she couldn't do away with her silly grin. Ginny sat on her mattress again, crossing her legs beneath her, and started pulling apart her roll.

"Thanks," she murmured, raising the roll to indicate what for, before bringing the first bite of it to her lips.

Harry sat back in his chair, delicately rubbing the back of his head. "How are you?"

She swallowed and responded, "Feel fantastic." Ginny cocked her head to the side, hoping to convey coyness. "Why?"

Harry opened his mouth, closed it, and settled for another grin. He shrugged. After a moment he substituted, "Just making certain you were rested."

Ginny gazed at him, tearing at her pastry, and a portion of her happiness expired. "Right." She searched his eyes, but her efforts revealed nothing.

A silence grew between them, and Ginny nibbled away at her scone, looking around the room. Her eyes fell on a portion of the dormitory wall that Lila and Kylie had coated with pinups of pretty boys on broomsticks, photographs of laughing groups of girls, napkins adorned by wizards' fireplace addresses, travel brochures, and a variety of other paper trinkets. A jagged square had been cut into the middle of the collage, all the souvenirs there vanished.

"Should I get back to my side of the tower before your roommates return?" inquired Harry once Ginny had finished her breakfast bun.

She glanced at him, considering for the first time that morning what level, exactly, their relationship was on now. "I suppose you should," she replied as nonchalantly as she could, thoughts suddenly awash with relationship status and general public reaction.

"'Kay," he whispered; he stood from his chair with a grunt and stretched his arms over his head. Harry strode to the door and opened it, pausing. "Ginny," he said, turning back to face her, "would it be all right with you if I considered myself your... you know... significant other?"

He hadn't said it to be sarcastic or charming; she knew this immediately. He looked uncertain--timid, even--as he awaited her reply. It was defined in the set of his shoulders and the weakness of his gaze that he was both hopeful and dubious; he had taken on the look of a little boy asking a parent for something he, although liking it very much, thought impossible. She ran the statement twice through her mind and beamed, doing what she could to not laugh outright at the fact that he actually believed there was a chance of being turned down. She shrugged, mocking indecision as well as she could. "We'll see."

"Kay," he muttered again, turning back toward the hallway. He opened the port wider, glimpsed once at her over his shoulder--a gentle glance--and left, pulling the door shut behind him.

Her boyfriend. The prospect of it alone made her a little dizzy. Ginny smiled at her lap, making room for butterflies in her stomach.

Then, the dormitory door flew open, and Harry re-entered. He strode over to her four-poster, stooped to be nearer her level, and lifted her face to his with his fingertips. He placed a swift, cinnamony kiss on her mouth that was so light, Ginny scarcely felt it.

He made an inch-gap for breathing and went for her mouth again, more urgent this time. Harry brushed his fingertips alongside her temple, the tenderness contrasting against his teeth holding her lip.

He moved his mouth away, took a breath, and soothingly brushed his lips against hers a last time.

Harry pulled away wordlessly and left the room again. Ginny tucked her lank hair behind her ear and laughed softly as she stood from her post on her bed to grab another breakfast roll, which she was sure she wouldn't be able to get down.

)()()(

Ron was sitting atop his mattress with his back against his pillows and his hands behind his head, looking very smug indeed.

"Well, boys," he said boisterously, looking around at Harry, Dean, and Neville superiorly (Seamus had grudgingly accompanied Lavender to a Saturday morning Divination session), "I don't know what you all were doing last night," he grinned wider, "but I was definitely shagging my girlfriend."

Harry gagged on his own saliva, Neville's face took on an expression reminiscent of heartbreak, and Dean managed to reply, "Good on you, mate," offhandedly while reading a letter from home. His eyes scanned the bottom of the parchment, then he turned the letter over to check for a continuance before rolling it up. "How was it?"

Ron took a deep breath and let it out loudly, stretching out, if possible, even further. Harry had a constricted, burning sensation in his throat that could only mean impending vomit. It wasn't that he had expected Ron and Hermione would never... do it; he simply didn't want to think, much less, hear about it. "Let's just say that for a moment--for a long, long moment--'Ron' and 'Hermione' ceased to exist. Instead," he went on, now gently waving his hands to assist in spelling this out, "we melted into one being of illicit, fiery passion... a passion of such degree, I'm surprised her bed held up."

"ACK!" Harry clapped his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut, doing everything in his power to cleanse any image that may have prompted from his mind. "NEVER SAY THAT AGAIN."

He started tidying up the area around his four-poster with a frantic speed that imitated violence. "Virgin ears," Ron affirmed to Dean in a loud whisper behind his hand. Harry lobbed an empty metal pitcher at Ron's head, and judging by the yelp that accompanied the sound of the pitcher making contact with something solid, it did its job.

Ron swore violently and sent the pitcher back at Harry, but missed. "I was only joking, and that hurt, you arse."

Although Neville remained silent, Dean was chuckling mildly. "So, how was she this morning?"

Tearing his glare from Harry, Ron's face relaxed as he looked around at Dean. "Wha'?"

Dean gave him The Eyebrow, walking around his four-poster with the fingers of one hand wrapped about a quill and inkbottle. "This morning," he repeated, deadpan. "Was she... beaming? Talkative? Hungry? Horny?" He sat down on his trunk and unscrewed the inkbottle cap. "Limping?"

Harry shuddered, trying to block out the verbal exchange by pressing his shoulder to his outer ear.

"She, uh..." Ron furrowed his brow, sitting up a little. "She wasn't there."

Dean's half-hysterical laughter had filled the dormitory within seconds. Although Ron looked anxious, Neville appeared considerably happier. "'One being of illicit, fiery passion?'" quoted Dean, heaving. Another fit of laughter overtook him before he squeaked, "Apparently, Hermione doesn't feel the same."

Ron sat completely still for a period of seconds, staring glassy-eyed at the air between him and the wall. Then, without a word, he half-rolled, half-jumped off his mattress and careened out the dormitory door. Harry heard a satisfying crash that indicated the fall of the wall sconce Ron always managed to hit.

Dean's roaring died into a chuckle, and he shook his head. "Alas, a post-valentine treat." He dipped his quill and began scratching on a sheet of parchment. "How about you, Harry?" Harry looked up quizzically from his nightstand drawer. "I presume Miss Chang is a happy Ravenclaw this morning?"

"Who?" Both of Dean's eyebrows raised this time, and Harry could see Neville's head swivel in his direction. "Oh--oh... Cho, right, um... I dunno."

He commenced in fossicking in his junk drawer, concentrating hard on finding something--anything--of some importance to extract. Dean appeared next to his four poster, and Harry could just make out his smart sneer from the corner of his eye. "Oh yeah?" Harry dug with more ferocity, making as much noise as feasible. Dean crossed his arms. "Was Harry being a good boy or a bad boy on Valentine's Day, seeing that he didn't wake up here this morning?"

"How would you know that?" inquired Harry, trying for calm skepticism as he turned to see Dean pointing a finger at Harry's bed. He looked back into his drawer. "I was off, y'know, fighting the Dark Lord."

"Lie."

"Okay... okay..." Harry took a deep breath, thinking hard. "I got up early to attend Remedial Transfiguration with McGonagall, all right? Are you happy?"

Dean looked as if were weighing the probability that this was the truth. Harry wasn't certain whether he should be bothered by the fact that his dormmate believed he would need Remedial Transfiguration or not. "Lie," he decided.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Even if that were the case, I don't kiss and tell, Dean."

"That's okay, mate," he assured him. As soon as Harry thought the pressure was lifted, his roommate annexed, "...Because I think that hickey speaks for itself."

Harry sighed, defeated, and put a hand on his neck. "And that one, too," Dean went on, pointing. "Oh, and just there..."

"POINT MADE," responded Harry loudly, making as though to choke himself, as Neville came scampering to his end of the room to view the proof. He yanked the drawer from the nightstand and sat it in his lap, diving into it.

"Who is she?" inquired Dean languidly.

"You don't know her--oh, look," Harry extracted a slip of parchment from his junk drawer. "Supantoris meeting... have to get a move on."

He made his exit quickly, vellum slip still in hand. His Supantoris meeting was not until Sunday afternoon. In the meantime, Harry had a feeling he would be able to find Hermione before Ron did.

)()()(

The session had started out badly.

Holly had been late, she looked ill and without sleep (which she was), and McGonagall had clearly taken notice of the girl's pallid face, eye shadows, and shaky hands.

The session continued poorly.

Holly's deftness in Transfiguration seemed to slip for that afternoon. Each venture at self-transfiguration she attempted went roughly at best; eventually, Holly doubted whether she could manage first year switches.

After an only three-quarters-complete transformation of her forearm's epidermis into slate-blue feathers, Holly threw her wand at the floor and growled into one hand. "If you cannot complete a transformation with your wand," said McGonagall in a tone that could almost be considered delicate, "you will never change form on sole command of your mind."

Holly made to glare at her professor but flinched when the sun shone into her gaze. McGonagall sighed and moved, ever-so-slightly, to block the light that bothered her student. Holly shook her arm and the almost-formed wing disappeared. She bent her head into McGonagall's shadow and wondered aloud into her palms what the fuck was wrong.

Her professor sighed and gazed down at her silently, eyes scanning Holly's un-parted mane. "No student succeeds on her first attempt," she assured her matter-of-factly.

"Yes," snarled Holly, head snapping up, "but typically they can at least transfigure the surface of their motherf--" She paused, clenching her jaw. "Their skin. Ma'am."

McGonagall's lips tightened. "You would be surprised."

Holly made a noise of defeat and reached in the direction of her wand, which returned obediently to her palm. She let it slip through her fingers until one end rested on the desk, then slid her hand to its base and pulled it close.

"I think you have had enough for today, Black," the professor stated.

Holly stood slowly from her seat, not wanting to explain that, yes, really, Transfiguration was her best subject; not wishing to assure McGonagall that her gift for the craft would be absent only temporarily and that her Supantoris meetings could be resumed soon to notable success; not feeling like explaining why she was exhausted or ill or distracted. Truly, Holly couldn't completely elucidate the latter to herself, much less to her professor.

"Sorry," she told the floor half-heartedly, making for her exit.

"I would suggest, Black," McGonagall began loudly as Holly reached the door, "that you visit Madam Pomfrey before returning to bed."

Holly, who had turned back to look at her professor and rested her back against the door, nodded and took her leave. Once in the corridor, Holly yanked the Charm she had donned before leaving the dormitory from beneath her shirt and eyed the back of it. As she scanned its smooth surface, the absence of the engraving of Cliodna's avifauna from its casing registered with her at last, as did what that meant for her physical well-being.

)()()(

Harry had entered the unused girls' lavatory on the second floor wondering whether it was idiosyncratic that he'd spent so much time in this location in the past five years. Hermione, who had been kneeling two or three feet from a small, simmering cauldron, was looking at him before she was within his line of vision.

They had said very little to one another for some time. So Harry sat silently against an threateningly damp wall while his friend pored over a thick hardback with yellowed pages--thinking, reliving. Any upped, fantasy-grade version of the previous night's happenings with Ginny was shredded by the memory of the morning with Riddle.

When he recalled that Hermione could read thoughts, Harry drove all little memoirs from mind and cleared his throat. "So..." he sighed. "How are you?"

"Fine--just as before," responded Hermione, though not tersely. She turned a page, which crackled loudly in the hushed bathroom, and looked up at him. Her expression was friendly, though stretched. "You must have something on your mind," she added knowingly.

Harry smiled. "Just wondering what you have on yours," he fibbed.

She shook her head as though charmed, not affronted, and set her eyes back on her book. His gaze scanned her hair, which hadn't been un-styled from the night previous, and asked, "How was your Valentine's Day?"

"Er, not bad," she replied elusively. "Yours?"

Harry shrugged and answered, "Nothing special."

They said little else.

)()()(

Draco was on his second soak of the day, sitting motionlessly on the edge of the prefect's bath with clear water up to his chin. He didn't dare return to his dormitory after drawing it in his mind as a crime scene and, thus, a place he wasn't welcome. He wasn't certain whether he would prefer that Parkinson still be in there or surprise Draco by joining him in the tub--and didn't give it much thought.

He considered a wank to take his mind off it (it had been a while since his last) but resisted the temptation and instead memorized the details of the already-familiar bathroom ceiling, his arms crossed over his chest.

The tiles went fuzzy in his vision as he stared, and Draco thought of Holly as though any reflection of her would cleanse his conscience. Something told him that the time to make his move was far, far in the future, although it seemed that anytime would work for her.

-And him, for that matter. Ninety-nine percent chaste seduction could be a bore, but so could 75-80 percent chaste courtship.

Calculating when to start the relationship and how long, from there, it would need to be innocent didn't take Draco long.

Algebra in sex. Mind off the Pansy Parkinson factor in the equations for the moment, he leaned his head against the side of the bath and laughed shortly.

It had been two months that Draco had led Holly Black on. It was a lengthy game of chess, and although his charms weren't quite exhausted, he felt somewhat empty for not taking the girl. But he would. Hard, perhaps.

He examined a torn fingernail in disinterest.

Against a wall. The thought of sliding her uniform skirt above her hips and pinning her hands above her head was tempting, but would Holly Black appreciate that? No, no... a prelude was required.

He could back her against the wall and get within inches, then pretend to hold his desperate body back for the purpose of her pleasure--zip up and lower himself to his knees instead. No, that was too fast, too.

He'd have to guide her to a bed--gently, of course--and define his intentions in his kiss. Draco's clothes would have to start coming off first for Holly to be entirely comfortable... she deserved to feel as if she was making the decision for herself. Undo a couple shirt buttons while kneeling around her thighs, inquire whether that's what she wanted. She could do the rest of the job herself--explore a bit. Would she mind being told what article to go for next? If he assumed the role of the one who had been in that position before, perhaps she would entertain a little guidance.

Gasps, shudders, moans--those could very well come to him involuntarily. He'd kiss her once she was heated up, tell her she was beautiful, and take the plunge.

Draco sighed. He was suddenly quite ready for that wank.

He heard the wooden frame covering the bath port shut against the stone. He never sealed it when he bathed; however, since that afternoon he was trying to avoid detection, Draco reckoned it may have been wise to shake tradition, in hindsight. He took hold of the ridge along the tiled seat, Please, gods, not Parkinson, and turned his head to meet the intruder.

It was only a Ravenclaw in pajamas. A fifth year: tall, hair too dark and glossy to be natural. What was her name again?

"Oh," she said, surprised, though not embarrassed. "I didn't know anyone was in here."

"I didn't seal the door," stated Draco in a resigned key. "My fault. Climb in; I'll close my eyes."

He did as he said he would, and the girl shed her layers and slipped into the bath without a hint of caution or chagrin. He opened one eye, then the other, and offered the standing Ravenclaw, whatever her name was, a tired leer.

"Why no bubbles?" she quizzed him lazily. She tipped her head back to wet her hair, giving him a preview of her curves in a manner that was, he imagined, meant to appear unintentional.

"Like to see what I'm doing," riposted Draco. He let his eyelids fall shut and breathed deeply. Draco could hear the Ravenclaw girl moving about in the water, and when he opened his eyes again she appeared to have moved a bit closer to his area of the bath.

He favored her with a half-grin. This bird was far easier on the eyes than Pansy Parkinson. Nonchalantly, he inquired "What are your feelings on premarital sex?"

The girl smiled, a little triumphantly when it first appeared. "Better in the bath?" she replied experimentally, giving him a better look at her teeth.

Draco laughed. "Good answer." He motioned for her to come closer, and the girl complied. Once she stood in front of him, eyes nearly as black as her hair, Draco looked her over like an artist appraising a nameless medium and placed a hand on the small of her back to ensure her balance. The thumb on his other hand circled the point where he chose to begin.

It had been a long time. What was the point of giving up a favorite hobby for Holly Black if she could be convinced that the things she heard were lies?

)()()(

Looking at his dormitory door, Holly raised her hand, knuckles ready, then lowered it. She slipped her thumbs into her belt loops and tilted her head to one side, thinking. Did it seem a bit obsessive, seeking him out a mere 36 hours since their last encounter?

It was totally obsessive. In fact, she was obsessive. She was obsessing over appearing obsessive.

Holly took no further time to stand around and consider it. She spun on her heel and left.

)()()(

Settled between her and Ron, Harry watched dazedly as Holly inked a formless doodle on the margin of her graded theory test: Principles of Necromancy. Somehow, she'd passed with an "E." She had glanced at the grade marked on the parchment in red for only a split-second before turning it over and starting to scribble on its edge.

Professor Lupin handed Harry his test, and Harry took it without looking at the man. He read his grade and abruptly turned the test facedown. Ever since Lupin had decided to balance the theory and the hands-on portions of the class more evenly, Harry had fallen a little behind.

The workload generated by his other courses, already a burden, was now combined with the pressing need to read up on Occlumency and Pellmorphing--two magical concepts that were not coming easily to him. Harry's first couple Supantoris meetings with Professor McGonagall had been so unsuccessful she didn't even bother hiding the disgust in her voice after a while. Yes, mastering one's Supantoris was a long, taxing process that few warlocks completed before N.E.W.T. time, but could he at least succeed once at vanishing his arm hair within 45 minutes?

Harry recalled Gryffindor's recent Quidditch practices as a series of nightmares--Ron's Keeping was anything but top-form; Brandon had developed an unmanageable curve on his passing due to an ugly jinx he'd taken to his left eye on holiday; Seamus had taken to claiming that his bat wasn't working when he completely missed the Bludger (which was happening more and more frequently); and Holly had thrown out her right shoulder three times in four sessions (giving her much less incentive to shoot and pass with her typical force).

As she connected the curving ink strokes in the form of long ovals, Holly's doodle began to remind Harry of the natural lines in the wood of the pine furniture at the Dursley's, marred only by Dudley's occasional food stain. He jolted when Ron got his test back and let out a groan of dissatisfaction audible to everyone in the classroom. A couple people sniggered.

"How'd you do?" Ron buzzed Harry as he turned his test away from Hermione, who was looking sideways at it.

"Probably no better than you did," he replied, giving his friend only a fleeting glance.

He let Ron look for himself and turned his eyes away--Harry had trouble maintaining eye-contact with Ron anymore, due to the fact that he had yet to be informed about Harry and Ginny's romantic status. Harry knew that the cut would be deeper the longer he waited, but at this point--what was one more day? Or week? Or month, if he could manage it?

Just then it was especially hard for Harry to maintain eye-contact with Ron while the recollection of Ginny cornering Harry before class and shoving him beneath a little-used staircase for a spontaneous snog was so fresh in his mind.

Harry felt a smile coming on, but hampered it.

Ron, it just so happened, had spent a lot of time lately looking as smug as he did the morning after Valentine's Day. As it clearly had little to do with his Quidditch prowess (and since his bad performances seemed to damper him very little), his self-satisfied looks left little to imagination.

Hermione had her test handed back to her, and she breathed a needless sigh of relief after reading the "102%, Nicely done!" inked along the upper margin of the parchment. Hermione, as Ron's counterpart, had continually been acting harassed, and Ron seemed to spend a lot of his downtime searching for her.

He knew Ron was blind to such things, but Harry could read those signs. Hermione couldn't always be working on the antidote to Puppet's Wine when she wasn't around, and he was well aware of that.

Making his way back to the front of the classroom, Professor Lupin commanded, "Open your books to page 493." The rustling of pages commenced immediately, and as Lupin charmed a piece of chalk to scroll "493" on the blackboard he began speaking again. "It has been brought to my attention that this class has never studied a full unit on vampires and vampiric beings, is that right?"

There was a general murmur of "yes, professor," and "yes, sir" throughout the room as the ruckus of page-turning died down.

"In that case," Lupin went on as Harry gazed down at the unit title, Vampirism in Warlock Wilderness & Society, "your correction on the realm of vampirism is about to begin."

"Correction, sir?" said Seamus, putting his hand in the air.

Lupin smiled genially at him, leaning sideways against the edge of his desk. "Yes, correction."

"What do you mean?" he pressed.

The class spun in their chairs to follow Lupin's progress as he walked along the edge of the room. "You have all been, to some extent, informed about vampiric activity through your family, your peers, literature, popular culture, the media; the vampire is, in some ways, very present in society. Mostly--" he extracted his sizable, leather-bound edition of The Facts about Halfbreeds and Hominid Eidolons from beneath two twined stacks of vellum, "mythically." He made his way back to the front of the classroom, the students turning in their chairs to watch him, and he half-dropped the volume he was holding on his desk.

"Being informed on a topic, however, is very different from being educated on one. For example," he began paging through his book, addressing the class without looking at them, "Miss Brown: tell me something all vampires have in common."

With the confidence Lupin was evidently looking for, Lavender looked up from the giggle-centric discussion she was having with Parvati replied, "They all drink blood."

The professor found the page he was looking for, raised his head, and smiled at his student. "Incorrect. Some breeds prefer raw fish, others, life force obtained by psychic means. A few breeds, and these are the lucky ones, can survive by satisfying their own libidos." A nervous snicker rippled through the class. "Some of you, I imagine, didn't even realize there were different breeds of vampires, did you?"

"I didn't," admitted Neville bravely.

Lupin favored him with a smile. "Thanks for being truthful, Neville. Anyone else care to try? What is something all vampires have in common?"

To no one's surprise, Hermione's hand shot into the air. Lupin nodded in her direction, and she stated, "Vampires of all breeds are bound by a common virus."

"Indeed they are, Hermione! Take ten house points." Addressing the rest of the class, Lupin continued, "Whether classicals (that is, those brought over), inheritors (those born vampires), or nightbreeds (also known as crossbreeds), they share a virus spread not only by bite but by body fluids. The virus can also infect a human through the use of some old tribal magic."

Harry thought of Dumbledore's vampiric spy, Varian the Bruxsa, being punished for eternity by a tribe that forced the transformation upon her magically.

"Is anyone immune to it?" piped up Dean, who looked a little shifty at the possibility that a vampire may sneeze on him accidentally, and he would be turned.

Professor Lupin replied, "It is rumored that if a person miraculously survives an infection once and is bitten again, he or she will go unturned. But the chance of being victorious over the virus is so slim that few would ever have the opportunity to be infected more than once. Some vampire bites, for example, will paralyze or even kill a victim rather than turn he or she into a vampire, depending on the breed and the circumstances. So, would surviving a paralyzing bite constitute beating the virus? It's a bit risky to test."

"So," began Parvati boldly, her hand in the air, "if bodily fluids carry the virus, it's basically impossible for a human and a vampire to be lovers?"

"Yes, basically," he confirmed, not at all abashed by Parvati's forwardness. "At least, if there is to be no risk of complications that result in the human part of the relationship to be turned, though I would not be uncomfortable discussing the proper use of contraceptives to battle vampirism."

Giggles rang throughout the room, and Parvati said, "That's sad," in introspective tones.

"It is sad," confirmed Lupin, at which the laughter died down. "Vampires, suffering under their own curse, would not want to damn their loved ones, even if it did mean that they could have a relationship that would, for example, allow them to kiss without hazard."

"Note:" murmured Holly, looking at Harry with her brow furrowed gravely, "avoid falling in love with a vampire."

"Holly!" called Lupin jubilantly, upon hearing her muttering. Holly looked up at him. "I haven't heard much from you today. Would you care to read the unit introduction aloud to the class?"

"Love to," she replied, pushing aside her ink-covered test paper and bending over page 493 of her textbook, pulling her hair out of her eyes.

)()()(

The first rainless Friday night of March had given Harry the chance to pull together a team practice that lasted longer than an hour before everyone was waterlogged and Cameron was making hypotheses about possibility of hypothermia and its effect on the team's performance. The practice had, in fact, lasted late into the night--the team appeared to be clicking again.

Thus, when Hermione woke him Saturday at sunup telling him there was potionwork to do, Harry was doing anything but greeting the new day with fire.

"Hermione, why?" he groaned. "Why on earth are you doing this?"

"C'mon--Holly even got up."

Harry sat up in bed, swung his legs over the edge of his mattress, and looked toward the door. Holly was, indeed, upright--but it about ended there. Still in her pajamas, she was leaning against the wall next to the dormitory door with her arms crossed and eyes closed.

"Urgh," was all he had to say after that. After dragging Ron out of his four-poster, Hermione--armed with a satchel packed with things that rattled and clanged--led the other three to the unused girls lavatory on the second floor.

Myrtle, it appeared, was depressed at any time when alone in her toilet including daybreak; her lamentations echoed into the second floor landing the moment Hermione pushed open the lavatory door. They settled around Hermione's spare cauldron, in which there was a considerable amount of what, at first look, appeared to be clean water.

"This is Puppet's Wine?" assumed Harry, looking through the substance straight to the cauldron bottom.

"I think so," said Hermione with more confidence in her key than in her words. "Whatever it is, I have what I believe is the antidote for it, but it must be prepared very quickly as ancient antidotes tended to be, each ingredient cut fresh and added directly to the poison--and I wasn't certain I could do that with only two hands."

Giving the cauldron between them a look of thorough vexation, Holly deadpanned, "Thus the reason you brought us here today," her voice scratchy from disuse.

"Yes." Hermione had already begun dividing ingredients, instructions, and lists of measurements between them. After setting out the necessary tools and removing a considerable amount of the draught from the cauldron for testing, she set them to work.

"How is it," inquired Harry, trying to add admiration to his key while he peeled a Gurdyroot, "that you believe you've come by the antidote for a potion that has the Ministry stumped?"

Hermione, who was pulling her hair back while waiting the required 45 seconds before adding her two dashes of crushed Ashwinder eggshells responded, "The Ministry can't find an ingredient simply because, try as they might, they can't come by the potion in its pure form."

"So," said Holly, gingerly slicing her block of puffapod wax into measured fifths, "instead of turning this potion in to authorities, you took it and duplicated it because...?"

"Because," Hermione rejoined in the curt tones she often used against Holly's accusatorial ones, "being in possession of a potion you stole from Snape would get us into a spot of trouble, don't you think?"

"If he's in the Order," the speed at which Holly cut her wax quickened, "the potion should be ending up in the Ministry's hands anyway, shouldn't it?" She looked up. "He had two beakers."

Hermione scowled, adding the crushed eggshells to the concoction and moving on to the next step. "I don't know how the Order operates in the slightest. But the fact remains that you stole Puppet's Wine from a professor, and whether helping the Ministry by turning it in or not, the offense remains." She gave the substance in the beaker a disappointed look--their antidote ingredients seemed to be separating from the Wine despite Harry's determined stirring.

"Right." Holly began dropping her successfully divided wax block into the potion, one slice at a time. "So when you march up to the Minister of Magic and tell him you have the antidote to Puppet's Wine and he asks how the hell you stumbled upon unadulterated potion in order to form that antidote you'll tell him what, exactly?"

Hermione glared, her hair seeming to stand on end. "At that point, I believe stealing the potion from a professor will be the lesser event."

Although Holly's lips began to form in order to reply, "Ah!" they altered unexpectedly to a harsh grimace, and what came out was a extraordinarily profane yelp. She jerked her hand away from the beaker and let the remainder of her wax splash into the potion as she caught the outside of her hand, which was bleeding profusely.

Ron, who had been reading his instructions while at work, had slashed her hand with his knife while shearing unwilling bark from a branch of yew. Holly shrieked a string of vulgarities at him, accusing him of a number of things that had little to do with potion-making, while blood dripped through her fingers, over her palm, onto the tiled floor, into the fabric of her sleep pants.

Ron, shocked at the wound he had caused and panicked about the threats of castration shortly followed by death he was receiving, struggled to find something to bandage Holly's hand before they could get her to the hospital wing. Ron's pacifying words and Holly's infuriated howls were echoing so loudly through the lavatory that either Myrtle's blubbering was overcome by the ruckus, or she had stopped to listen in.

Harry was watching it all transpire, his objective to brew an antidote to a dangerous potion pushed completely from his mind, when Hermione snatched his wrist with an gasp audible over all the shouting.

Half-expecting to see himself bleeding, Harry looked down at his hand, then to Hermione's face. She was staring into the beaker, which was empty. And, slowly rising to a kneeling position with her, they looked inside.

Where earlier there had been two gallons of the water-like Puppet's Wine, there was nothing... just a modest puddle of crimson gathered at the beaker's base.

)()()(

Half a week later, Harry found Hermione in the least-populated corner of the library near the restricted section--her recent haunt.

The final events in the second floor girls' lavatory the previous Saturday were slightly blurred in Harry's memory... everything had been cleaned up hurriedly as the bleeding Holly stalked up to the infirmary, holding her wound resolutely in one hand and refusing Ron's assistance. Hermione had vanished into the library, looking distraught, and Harry, lost in his mystification at the potion's disappearing act, went to witness Madam Pomfrey (who looked only slightly fatigued as Holly besieged her with threats of an ugly amputation) as she healed his godsister's hand, which was completely sliced open, something he had not realized when she was shrieking about it back in the toilet. Ron, though sickened by the sight of Holly's tendons where he had cut her and by the abundance of blood that resulted from the gash, remained a man despite Holly's verbal efforts. On the other hand, he continued to be reluctant to go near her when she was gripping any sort of silverware.

"It just doesn't make sense..." declared Hermione for the umpteenth time, poring over a stained volume on ancient draughts, her hair mussed from continually tangling her fingers in it. "That much potion cannot be absorbed into that little blood! If a mere teaspoon of Puppet's Wine is supposed to have disastrous effects... it just doesn't make sense..."

"I know it doesn't," said Harry. "But that's magic for you."

Hermione glowered at him. That expression coupled with her tangled mane made her look like a beast he should not have crossed.

"Potion-making is the most basic, scientific part of the magical world--" she stated in a rush, pushing her hair out of her eyes as she looked back down at the book opened in front of her. "The inaccessibility of ingredients and instructions is nearly all that makes it something Muggles cannot perform."

He hadn't meant for his words to be an actual explanation, so he said nothing more on that topic. "Anyway... Holly sent me here to tell you that we have a Charms theory test tomorrow morning and that she hopes you've studied because she doesn't want to hear you murmuring names and dates to yourself all night long." Harry did his best to give her a smile that denoted, "Don't kill the messenger," in perfect, unspoken English.

Hermione rubbed her eyes, frowning deeper, and said, "I think I'm ready for it. I'm just... distracted."

"I see that." A warm palm pressed against the small of Harry's back, and Ginny appeared at his side, smiling.

"Hi," she said, kissing his cheek. Hermione looked up from rubbing her eyes and Ginny greeted, "Hallo, Hermione. Stressed?"

Hermione favored her with a tired smile and confirmed, "Always." With some effort, she closed the potions book and asked, "So... how long until someone tells Ron?"

"We're working on it," insisted Harry, watching as she stacked the books on top of one another haphazardly.

"Yes," annexed Ginny, looking sideways at him for second, "he really couldn't take such an emotional blow what with the final match of Quidditch season coming up and so on and so forth."

"It shouldn't have to be an emotional blow," stated Hermione, standing and stowing her books. "If Ron has had his eyes open at any point in this school year, he should have been able to see this coming."

"It's a pity he's blind as a banshee, then, isn't it?" snapped Ginny as Harry took her hand. "Er--no offense," she added hastily, seeming to recall that Ron was still Hermione's significant other.

"Banshee's aren't blind. Anyway, none taken--if they were blind, I'd agree completely." Hermione waved politely to Madam Pince as they walked out of the library and into the chilly corridor. "Either way," she went on, turning to face the other two once they had reached the center of the hallway, "he should know. And soon. Everyone should be subjected to your public displays of affection, not just Holly and I."

"And Justin."

Hermione gave Ginny one of those looks before walking off, hair swinging wildly back and forth over her back.

"We aren't a P.D.A. couple, are we?" inquired Ginny innocently, swinging Harry's arm gently to and fro as they walked.

Harry shrugged. "Don't see how we could be," he said, looking sidelong at her, "seeing as no one really knows about us being a couple."

Harry would have no problem with letting the school--the world--know that yes-indeed he was "seeing" Ginny Weasley. Or that Ginny Weasley was "seeing" him. They went on lame, on-campus dates together; he did tacky things in the fashion of a romantic novice so that she would laugh; they cuddled, they wrestled, they kissed when no one else was around; and--yes--they brought discomfort down upon their single friends.

Ginny, for want of a better expression, made Harry want to learn to play guitar. He had made the mistake of using that simile on Holly, who laughed so hard she hit the floor, half-unconscious due to lack of oxygen.

Harry had turned into "The Boyfriend," as she'd called him when she regained composure, some minutes later, and frankly... it didn't seem so bad.

"Hogsmeade next weekend," said Ginny conversationally. "Fred and George are going to stop by and get me and Holly into some little pub where a band she likes is playing... the No No Nos or something stupid like that." She shook her head a little before going on. "Anyway, it's open invite, so if you wanted to, y'know...?"

Harry furrowed his brow, and they turned a corner. They walked past a tapestry depicting a rather strange landscape scene involving a yak and a Billywig hive and, while taking it in, Harry replied, "Wouldn't that make Holly all uncomfortable and irritable?"

Ginny responded, "You'd think so, so I also invited Justin. He accepted quite rapidly--apparently the lead singer is hailed for her fashion sense." She sighed softly, looking at the floor for a juncture. "Justin is alone responsible for the enduring gay stereotype."

The group now consisted of Holly, Ginny, Ginny's gay friend, and Ginny's fellow, and somehow Harry doubted that Holly would be any more comfortable with this assemblage. He decided that it would be best to reply, "Maybe I will go. We'll see, I guess."

"C'mon," badgered Ginny, kneading her knuckles into his side, "live a little! You can put on your most tattered hand-me-downs and down free Dragon's Tails from wealthy, Dark Lord-haters and act like a pompous arse and be totally marvelous." She gave him her most winning smile. "I'll even let a band member or two signature your boob!" She poked him hard in the chest with her free hand.

"Shut up," he muttered as they tucked behind a bookcase to take the winding stair shortcut to the seventh floor corridor. It was a painful ascent, but it cut down on time and on the risk of being spotted for those wishing to hide.

They climbed the stone stairs for an eternity; Harry had counted them once but since then forgotten the exact number of steps one had to take to get to the seventh floor from the fourth.

They reached the stone landing on the seventh floor, where, in order to get out into the corridor, a person had to slide beneath the bookcase barricading the hole knocked through the wall. "So," began Ginny, looking at the space they had to crawl through, "what should we start talking about this time when we see other people?"

"Quidditch," he said effortlessly. "As usual."

"Y'know," said Ginny in pensive tones, "as much as we try not to walk into or out of rooms at the same time, people have got to notice that we're always gone at the same time. Haven't they?"

"People are dumb," he replied, shrugging. Ginny was silent for a moment, looking at the wall with a mild frown. "Do you want them to notice?"

"Well," she answered instantaneously, "kind of!" Harry was awaiting a lament on her wish that they "go public," but instead he got, "You think they'd notice if I left a huge hickey on your neck?"

"Wha--no! I mean--" But Ginny, in one of her spontaneous fits of audacity, had attached herself to Harry and was lowering her mouth to his skin. And as much as he would have enjoyed having it there, he pushed her away, and kept pushing until her back made contact with the wall.

She painted a look of bitter mutiny on her face and Harry laughed. "I will not allow you to suck on me as though I'm some common, flavored treat."

"Although that was meant to be witty," retorted Ginny without even a trace of a smile, "I got the wrong end of the stick, and I could nail you for sexual harassment."

"What is with you and your... vulgar sexual innuendos?" Ginny's jaw dropped in a half-smile, half-grimace, and Harry closed the space between them. She met his kiss willingly, almost forcefully, and tangled her thin fingers in his hair. He placed his hands on her waist, more fearlessly than times before, and pushed her into the wall until even his air supply was a little short.

He marveled wordlessly at how soft her lips were, how much he enjoyed the sensation of aligning his body with hers, and how he could possibly hope for acts so much more sinful when this alone was near-perfection. Harry's hand wandered upward--he felt the muscles in Ginny's torso tauten--and his fingers had barely made it over the underwire bump beneath her blouse to a throaty sound of approval when the noise of stumbling and choking reached his ears.

Harry withdrew his lips from Ginny's with anything but eagerness and turned his head. He was met with the site of Ron, just arrived on the landing, who was clutching his broomstick and staring at the site before him with a look of astonishment mingled with a terrifying wrath.

"I know what this looks like," croaked Harry nervously, hastily withdrawing his hand from Ginny's breast upon realizing that his fingers were still curled over it. "And that..." he continued, pointing a finger at Ron for emphasis, thinking hard of what to say to get himself out of this and failing, then settling for, "is exactly what it is."

Ron's eyes were the size of Galleons, and Harry watched in horror as he started going scarlet about his ears. Ginny whispered, "Should we run for it?"

"My best mate," said Ron in low, lethal tones, "and my sister?"

"Ron," said Ginny jadedly, pushing Harry away gently and turning to face her brother, "don't you dare."

"No. No." His mate's knuckles were white where he gripped his broom. "This--" his cheeks turned red, "you--" the color rose past his brow, "I can't... even--" his freckles faded into his flushed skin. Ron opened and closed his mouth wordlessly, and Harry began to seriously consider performing a Memory Charm on him.

"Ron," snapped Ginny in a manner that reminded Harry very strongly of Mrs. Weasley.

Ron, however, didn't cower. "My best friend and my sister!" he burst again. This time, the words were connected and sonorous. His eyes snapped to something behind Harry and Ginny, and Harry looked over his shoulder to see Holly standing up in front of the hole in the wall, brushing dirt off her jeans.

She looked at Ron's face full of ire and back and forth between Harry and Ginny; then, flashed a rare Cheshire grin. "Why hello, friends." She stuck her hands in her pockets and smiled wider yet before inquiring, "What's going on here?" It was evident that she wasn't about to pass by.

Ron rounded on her, half-shouting, "Did you know about them?!"

"Who, them?" She pointed a finger at both Harry and Ginny. "Oh, yeah. It's been a while, now."

"Holly, you're not helping," Harry hissed, glaring at her with aggravation.

"I'm not trying to help," she whispered in return with a small shake of her head. Harry looked over at Ginny, who didn't seem to object to Holly's involvement.

"For how long?" demanded Ron of no one in particular.

Harry began, "Not--" but Holly cut him off, raising her hand. "Since Valentine's Day."

Harry flinched as Ron's jaw dropped further and barked, "Holly! Quit!"

Ron's jaw had officially hit the floor when he realized aloud, "YOU DIDN'T SLEEP IN THE DORMITORY THAT NIGHT!" He made one fearsome step toward Harry, and Ginny stepped in front of him, standing akimbo.

"Ron, you'd better calm down," she told him, somehow sounding unruffled and fearsome all at once.

Ron's broomstick fell to the floor and he put his hands on either side of his head. "YOU SHAGGED MY SISTER?!" he bellowed, voice an octave higher than what was typical of him.

"RON!" Ginny barked, shoulders tense. "No one's shagged anyone!"

She went on to make an argument against his inflexibility and protectiveness, slamming the fingertips of one hand into the palm of the other in order to illustrate her point, and Harry rounded on Holly, who looked sickeningly pleased with her work. "You'd better start contemplating suicide; otherwise, you'll suffer a bloodier fate."

"I'm sure," she deadpanned. Harry drew himself up to his full height, and Holly raised both hands in surrender and walked around him and Ginny (who was now pointing her wand at her elder brother), stopping when she was side-by-side with Ron. "Just so you know," she said to him in a murmur barely audible (Harry prepared to tackle her), "I helped hook them up." Ron glowered at Holly as though she had done him great personal wrong, and she pinched his cheek before walking off.

Ron turned his anger back on Harry and Ginny, muttering various oaths ominously.

"What is your problem?" demanded Ginny. "A year ago you wanted this to happen," she reminded him, motioning between Harry and herself. "Why not now? You liked his godsister, you hypocrite!"

"No, I didn't!"

"Yes--you did!" Ginny looked appalled at this denial. "You know you did! And now she likes Malfoy. I don't see you screaming at her about it."

Matter-of-factly, Ron growled, "That's because I have no reason to tell her who she should and shouldn't be with."

"Nor me!" Ginny spat, looking ill.

"I'm your big brother!" he reminded her, as though close familial ties should be reason enough.

"That's no motive," she told him, exasperation apparent in the way her words escaped as a sigh. "If he's your 'best mate,' he shouldn't be someone you disapprove of at all."

"Ron," said Harry, taking a bold step forward. He felt a little guilty for leaving Ginny to do this deed on her own (although she was making a good job of it). "Please don't be angry. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but I knew you would react like this. I like her a lot, Ron, and if I could make it stop, I... well, frankly, I wouldn't."

Ginny looked over at Harry, smirking. The color faded from Ron's face as he looked back and forth between them. Out of the blue, he began to grin. "My best mate and my sister!" he exclaimed. A moment later, Harry was dragged into a three-person hug.

)()()(

Draco knew whose knuckles belonged to the soft knock on his dormitory door.

Holly entered at his call for her to do so, and she favored him with a small smile. Draco returned it and closed the book in his hands. She had, for whatever reason, turned her mask of coyness into a near-consistent visage, starting about a week after Valentine's Day. In the time between when he left her at the portrait and the moment Holly had allowed her flirtation and availability rise to the surface, Draco had been--for want of a more accurate explanation--cold-shouldered. He had only hypotheses as to why.

"Have you ever loved someone," he inquired, looking down at the cover of the novel he held in his hands momentarily, "and--for whatever number of reasons--been unable to do a thing about it?"

"I'm not sure I've loved anyone, actually," she told him, settling herself on the end of his bed without an invite. She crossed her legs and leaned back on the heels of her hands.

"I should have known," sighed Draco. He reformed the question. "Have you ever fancied someone, then--fancied him to the point that you may have used the phrase 'in too deep' to explain it--and felt helpless to change your state?"

She painted a look of confusion over the one of expectancy that had originally appeared there. "Why do you ask?" Draco held up the book he'd been reading, The Scarlet Letter, but that wasn't explanation enough. "I've never read it," she revealed.

"Really?" It didn't actually astonish him, but for the preservation of her honor, he pretended it did. "You should. Hawthorne does have the tendency to explain things in fifteen line-sentences, but it isn't exactly Greek." Draco laid the book down at his side. "So?" he prompted.

Holly's face did not work in a manner that denoted she was looking for a way to dodge the truth, nor did it seem she was dragging up memories. Instead, it appeared that she was contemplating whether she should continue to suppress them. Then, she nodded.

Using a tone of interest, Draco buzzed, "What was his name?"

She swallowed visibly, then replied, "Booker."

The name slipped out like a sigh, and a painful one at that. Holly was gritting her teeth at the mere memory of this Booker, and, now... Draco was intrigued. Innocently he inquired, "What did he look like?"

She cleared her throat and began, "He was..." Her eyes traveled up and locked with Draco's. "Tall. Broad-shouldered. A little skinny." He was beginning to expect an explication of his own portrait, but Holly went on to say, "He had a mess of black hair. Brown eyes. Fading freckles."

"Perfect nose, luscious lips?" assumed Draco, trying to lighten the mood.

"Big, kind of crooked nose... thin lips." She nodded a little, as though congratulating herself on recalling his face so well.

"Hmm." Draco looked her over, wondering whether it would be better or worse for her to cry. "What happened?"

"He didn't like me back," she replied simply, with a small shrug that was intended to make her look indifferent.

Draco gazed at her in what he imagined was an expression of exasperation. "I think there's more to that story. When did you start liking him?"

"When my best friend started dating the boy I liked at the time."

"Ouch," said Draco.

"Wasn't the first time," Holly informed him, her remaining bitterness apparent in each syllable that escaped her.

"Good friend," he commented. "So, he was no Playwitch centerfold... but a worthy rebound?"

She shrugged her shoulders again. "Basically, I closed my eyes and pointed."

A burst of sparks escaped the fireplace on the wall, and Holly jumped. Draco glanced at it to be assured nothing was wrong, and then looked back to Holly, who seemed a little tense. "So what was so special about him that you went from forcing to falling?"

"He was... different. Not strange... well, a little strange... just a rarity, I guess." A half-smile tugged one side of her mouth. "I'd never met anyone like him. Sarcastic, smart--learned in politics and in good music. We got to be friends through competing school Quidditch teams, saw a lot of each other."

"That's it?" She made no reply. "Then what?"

"Then," she reminisced acidly, "the same best friend who was the reason behind me crushing on him, made Booker her boyfriend." Holly's face contorted into a very sour smile.

"You're kidding." Draco actually had it in himself to be appalled at such behavior. There were menaces and nemeses, and then there were super-villains. Personally, he had yet to befriend a super-villain, so Holly had one up on him there.

Using her fingers to make sharp quotation marks, Holly assured him, "Oh, she, 'didn't mean for it to happen.' And 'it's not like she broke us up.'" She glared at his bedspread. "I watched it develop under my nose for so long without even realizing what was happening."

"And they lived happily ever after, I assume?"

"Oh, no, of course not," she responded with a wrinkled nose and head shake, as though that should have been obvious. "Booker realized within weeks that he and Jade had nothing in common. In a few months, he realized he neither liked her as a girlfriend nor as a friend... he hated her. Broke up with her, then refused to acknowledge her existence."

Draco smiled, reading the signs. "Sounds like a classic case of moving on once the newness wore off."

"No, not really, she was pretty prudish." Holly smiled to herself. "She didn't tell me they broke up." She looked up from the mattress. "He did, though. Minutes afterward.

"We'd remained friends throughout the relationship, and in the last month of it, the friendship somehow... blossomed. Fast. I wish I knew how. My new best friend--turned to her when I saw what was happening those months before--just pointed it out to me one day. 'What's going on with you and Booker?' I didn't know what she meant by that. But when she asked, 'Haven't you noticed how things have changed?', I did notice it. Even he'd noticed."

"So..." said Draco, trying to put the pieces together, "you and Booker lived happily until last summer?"

"No," she replied, the acidity of her tone ceasing with the cessation of the explanation of Jade and Booker's relationship, "we did kind of become... best friends for a while. The coffin that was 'having a crush on Booker' that I'd nailed shut but never buried kind of sprung back open." Draco raised an eyebrow. "Bad analogy, I know, but it's all I have. Anyway, then he made new friends--a group of crazy, felonious kids who, for whatever reason, didn't like me or any of my remaining pals. Actually, I don't think many of them realized that Booker knew my name, much less that we were close. Of course, he still reserved time for me. In fact, all the time we spent together I was picking up some serious signs, as was anyone else who happened to be around."

He blinked, unable to read the look she was giving him. "All right?"

"In the midst of this, I went on a brief vacation. The day after I came back, he told me he liked one of his new friends--out of nowhere, this girl basically described as a superficial, two-faced alcoholic." He wrinkled his nose in response. "I know. She was skinny from the waist down, anyway." Holly smirked coldly, and Draco snickered. "And although word from some of his friends was 'He'll never date her; he doesn't trust her,' (he trusted me; he freely said that he told me everything), he ended up dating her anyway. Yet another girl who was nothing like him when he spent his time telling me he'd never met anyone like me; he thought I was the coolest girl he'd ever known; he related to me the best; he appreciated my thoughts more than anyone else's (including, at that time, his girlfriend Jade's opinion); and I was the only one in the damn country who could make him laugh like he did or who 'got' him."

Draco thought that over. "Really?" She nodded. "So... in the end, you were the only witch he'd ever possibly be compatible with, but he wanted to be neither fellow nor your best friend."

Holly rolled her eyes. "Booker wanted to maintain the friendship, I guess, but only stopped by once a month. And I knew he was busy. At the end of my tenure there, I went to his house to let him know that I was leaving the country that day and probably never coming back." She paused, chewing on the inside of her cheeks. "He didn't even hug me goodbye." Holly sighed, looking away from Draco once more. "I was never sure what was more painful--forcing myself to forget that he ever existed when I saw him every day, or admitting I was head-over-heels for the kid and watching him run around me, forgetting that I existed."

Draco smiled soothingly--he felt as if he'd successfully broken a barrier--and stood from his spot on the bed, leaving The Scarlet Letter behind. He went to his bookcase and touched his fingers to the many bindings of many books stuffed into many rows, feeling, sensing for the little, bottle green volume he sought. Draco spotted it and removed it from the shelf, blowing dust from it. He brought it to Holly, who had gotten to her feet, and held it out to her. She took it. "Page 152." She made to open it, but Draco snapped it shut. She gathered his meaning, and lowered the book to her side. "Byron. And I want that back."

)()()(

"So..." said Parvati, drawing the syllable out as long as she possibly could. She and Lavender stood in the doorway of the fifth year girls' dormitory, arm-in-arm, sporting identical grins. "How long have you two been together?"

Harry stared at them. After Ron had been "informed" and had given the relationship his blessing, Harry and Ginny had taken to walking freely through the corridors, hand-in-hand; they sat next to one another in the Great Hall, on the grounds, and in the common room. They made frequent stops to one another's dormitories without needing to sneak, and they had no need to carefully calculate how often they disappeared or stayed back together. Half the school had interrogated them, together and separately, as to how the relationship originated and so on and so forth.

With Parvati and Lavender, however, Harry knew that it was a tabloid interview. They would memorize the words that escaped him without error; then, they would become the Harry Potter-Ginny Weasley experts--complete with facts and, as required, theories to fill in the blanks.

He decided to let Ginny do the talking.

"The middle of February," she informed them, as Harry was certain they'd already heard. Lavender cocked her head to the side. "The fourteenth," elaborated Ginny.

Parvati and Lavender shared a gasp and a whine about how cute it was that made it official on Valentine's Day--Harry thought he heard something along the lines of "anniversary," but he ignored it.

"I knew you'd manage it!" exclaimed Lavender, smiling widely at Ginny, who looked at her lap. "That dress was to die for."

"Yes, well, I had a lot of help," Ginny stated. Then she added, "Thank you, on that note."

Lavender waved her free hand nonchalantly. "So," she began after that, "How does Cho Chang feel about this?"

Harry, upon realizing he was being addressed, said, "Uh... I... haven't talked to her." It was true. Not only did he pull out all the stops to avoid her, but Cho had also up and dropped Advanced Astronomy. Now Harry spent his Thursday nights in the astronomy tower alone.

Together, the girls in the doorway gasped. "Scandal!" proclaimed Parvati, giving Lavender a sideways look.

The interview went on for a while before the girls took their leave, Parvati closing the session by slurring something about the importance of protection.

"Well, that was fun," said Holly, who was having her hair carefully disheveled by Justin Finch-Fletchley while she sat on a wooden chair, one leg curled beneath the other. She had carefully dressed for the occasion (the No No Nos concert that evening) with jeans so shredded Harry was surprised that they were still wearable and a sleeveless shirt so fitted her sharp, nearly out-of-proportion pear-shape was miraculously evident. Holly had so badly wanted to perfect the look, in fact, that she gave her locks up to Justin, who insisted he could make her look, "fabulous." She flinched at the terminology (and, perhaps, the tone) but let him go to work on her nonetheless.

Ginny had been prepared for some time, wearing a skirt just short enough that Harry felt an urge to comment on it and Justin's blazer, which he had, by hook or by crook, pinned so that it fit her quite nicely. She sat between Harry's legs, mussing her ponytail absent-mindedly, chatting up the other two about what she should know about the No No Nos. As far as Harry could collect from Holly, they were a New York-based wizarding quartet best recognized--like many bands--by their lead singer, Kari O., whose stage antics were something to behold. Justin, however, seemed far more focused on the fact that Kari O. was "renowned for her astonishing ability to merge current trends--whether grungy or refined--with punk classics."

The Hufflepuff made the announcement that he had finished with Holly's hairstyle, and she stood, checked the mirror, thanked him, and left, promising over her shoulder that she wouldn't be long. Justin followed shortly after her, murmuring something about needing to see Ella Midgen concerning three Galleons he'd won from her and an Assuredly-Permanent Spikie marker. He told Ginny to meet him in the entrance hall and not to be late.

The door shut behind him and Ginny stood, seating herself next to Harry and crossing her legs. "You're sure you don't want to go? Now that you know how mad and stylish Kari O. is?" She grinned at him.

To quell Ron's remaining anxiety that Harry was having it off with Ginny at least once every twelve hours, he had suggested the two of them go to Hogsmeade together--scarf down magical candy, purchase cruel pranks, enjoy a butterbeer or two each, charm Madam Rosmerta... just relive the good ol' days.

Hermione, after all, had grown tired of Hogsmeade (as many other sixth and seventh years had done) and would merely send a list of things she needed and a few coins with Ron. As it was, she was spending another night locked in the school library.

"No. I'm ditching you for your brother tonight, remember?" he reminded her, nodding gently. "Suppressing his worries, et cetera..."

"Let him worry!" she suggested, waving a hand violently. "Have you ever even been to a genuine wizarding concert?"

He looked sharply at her. "Have you?"

"No!" responded Ginny without a hint of chagrin. "Which would make the occasion all the more memorable, right?" Harry laughed at the hopeful look on her face and shook his head. Harry pecked her on the lips in time to hear a knock on the door. "That's Ron, wondering why I haven't come down to the entrance hall because Filch is almost ready to stop letting students through because it's getting so late." He kissed her again, running his thumb over her cheek, before moving away from her to open the door.

It was Ginny's brother on the other side of the door, hands in his pockets. "Hey," he said, glancing at Ginny as though to make certain that she didn't look suspiciously ruffled, "Filch is ready to stop letting the stragglers through. Are you coming?"

Harry turned, said, "See you later," to Ginny, who waved, and left the dormitory with Ron. They walked down the tower stairs together, ducking around sconces.

)()()(

"Let me have a look at you," commanded Draco as Holly shut the door behind her. Reluctantly, she raised her arms at either side, looking at him apprehensively. Holly could be comfortable around any male, so long as he didn't look at or speak to her as though she were a member of the opposite sex. He pushed her cloak from her shoulders. "Very nice," he observed, eyes too cold to support this truth.

"I'm sure," she muttered, dropping her arms, shrugging the cloak back on, and remaining exactly where she stood.

"Really!" he insisted. "When I forget that the stars shine in air... when I forget that beauty is in the stars... shall I forget thy beauty." He smiled teasingly, full aware of his own charm. It made her ill.

"Shut the fuck up," responded Holly, in no way trying to be coy.

"All right, all right," surrendered Draco. "That's all I needed."

Holly knit her eyebrows--that came as a bit of a shock. "To look at me and recite some random verse?" she deadpanned, almost disappointed that she had trekked those extra steps to visit him.

He spread his arms. "'Tis a poet's dinner." Holly reached for the door handle, feeling a little disgusted with herself, before he said, "Wait!" She dropped her hand obediently and raised her face to his. "One more glance?"

Holly growled with indignation, but remained as malleable to Draco's will as ever. He reached forward to open her cloak, and she honestly wondered what spell he had cast on her and the rest of the female population that, in moments like that one, kept her from batting off his advances and marching away. Most could see through looks, charm, and intelligence to the manipulative bastard beneath. Draco was no angel.

...And that was probably a big part of his allure.

He cocked his head to the side to examine her appearance and Holly watched him without expectation. Was it the promise of skill behind the veneer? His eyes passed over her shape. Holly surrendered her will to Draco before she knew anything about that rumor of skill. He took the liberty of undoing the top button of her little sleeveless blouse, which already cut low. He smiled at his work favorably.

Maybe it wasn't the knowledge of it but the sense of it that kept her in thrall for all that time.

"You'll drink a dragon julep for me, right?"

The sound of speech dragged Holly out from beneath the blanket of her own thoughts and she dropped her gaze to view the state of her shirt. She cleared her throat and looked back up. "Yeah," she replied. "Yeah, sure."

Draco smiled at her. He reached toward her face and swept stray bangs from her eyes. He tried, unsuccessfully, to tuck them behind her ear. The move was deliberate.

His fingertips continued past her ear and along her skin, trailing along her jawline. Gently--later she wondered whether he'd used force at all--Draco tilted Holly's face upward.

Her too-long bangs had fallen into her eyes again. Draco smiled and pushed them up over her hairline.

The sound of wind tore through Holly's ears and her vision faded around the edges. She curled her toes over the edge of the cliff face in front of her and spread her arms, the whirling wind pushing and pulling her in every direction. This was a matter of choice.

Draco searched her eyes for permission, and without a change in her expression, he found it. Screams of dissent echoed in every corner of her mind.

That would denote a romantic attraction, Parvati had explained of Draco's reluctance to kiss.

Holly noticed she was stagger-breathing and willed herself to stop. It didn't happen. Draco's fingers found the nape of her neck. They wove easily through the tangles of her hair, then departed, lowering in time with his lips. Holly didn't dare look into his eyes, expecting only to see vestiges of want. In place of affection, or desire... she feared there would be a look of concentration or the beginnings of his custom victory-smirk.

Draco's face was so near hers, she could feel heat rise from his skin... she was inhaling the taste of his lips. It was intoxicating, addicting... she prepared her legs for the jump. Draco seemed to await her move, but Holly was paralyzed.

At long last, he closed the space between them, his mouth brushing her own. His lips nodded once against hers, slowly, delicately--almost as though fearing she would turn tail and run were he upfront in his touch. Holly lost track of his hands--they did not matter; they could not produce the sensations that his kiss did. It electrocuted her; for a moment, she could not focus on anything else.

Then he pulled away... only an inch or two. The world rushed to rearrange itself around her, and everything was cold, and everything was painful but his hands on her waist. She still stood at the edge of a precipice, though unsteadily. There remained a choice to be made. Holly couldn't move to make it.

Draco's eyes fell shut, and his brow furrowed in thought, or feeling, or both--she wouldn't know. Quickly, Draco swept his mouth over hers again, and she surrendered, closing her eyes and making the leap.

A third kiss, and now Draco didn't pull away. He coaxed her lips to part, and what he did next--whatever he did next--made Holly quiver head to toe. All rationality slipped away, her last flash of thought a mere speculation about whether her eyes were closed or her sight lost.

He had invaded her, and she had welcomed him--Draco tasted of pepper made sweet, of hard liquor meant to be sipped, and never anything more... but she bathed in it, and drank as though parched.

Holly rediscovered Draco's hands as they snaked around her waist, pulling her perhaps abruptly, perhaps gradually, toward him until their middles bumped. Plunging through thin air, with no promise of stopping, Holly dared not breathe for the possibility of losing a single sensation to the function. Draco explored her mouth expertly, and Holly did everything in her power to respond to him. She regained control of her arms, and grasped Draco's shirt collar for support.

His kiss lightened, and his lips nodded against hers in a manner that was so tender it was unexpected, but not at all undesirable. The kiss was so gentle she would not have felt it at all had each touch not sparked and sent fire coursing through her, gathering here and there, making her hot all over. Straining to regain some sort of power over her senses, Holly made out the sound of Draco's breathing. It was harsh and ragged, and, oh, God, it was as though lust had been given a song.

No, she did not trust it. But she did not want to see her suspicions confirmed in his emotionless gaze or smooth, unheated face. So she let him kiss her, and she kissed him back, and she ignored the screaming rage of her rationality, burying it deeper in the back of her mind.

Despite his gentleness, Holly felt intriguing parts of her body gain a pulse. They were places that had never been in possession of such energy before, and it both thrilled and terrified her that a boy had somehow given her entire body a new definition of life.

Draco deepened the kiss again, and Holly let out a little yelp as his teeth nipped her lower lip. The exclamation gave him the access he sought, and he dove into her mouth, sliding his tongue along hers. The gravity of it made her gasp, and he continued to take full advantage, devouring her expertly. Holly gripped his shoulders tightly--she couldn't stand much longer beneath the force of his kiss combined with the weakness that had overcome her--and Draco removed one hand from her waist and walked her backward, slowing once his palm had touched the door. He pushed her against it gently, then pulled his mouth from hers.

Holly's eyes flew open, but Draco wasn't looking at her. He instead seemed to be watching her lips as he touched them with his fingertips, like they were something magnificent to behold. Holly was taking gasping breaths--it embarrassed her, but her air supply had been inadequate for some time since she had been forgetting to breathe. She was overtaken by delirium, and felt both dizzy and desperate, even after yielding to him, trying to answer to him, or doing whatever she was capable of doing before she collapsed and lay useless at his feet... completely spent.

He placed his palm on the back of her head and lunged, and Holly vaguely registered the sound of his knuckles slamming into the door. Her hands were forced past his shoulders as Draco closed the space between them, leaving no room for protest or oxygen. She bent her elbows and tentatively tangled her fingers in his hair--did she just feel him shudder?--and he bit down on her lip again. This time she did not emit a yelp, but, to her momentary horror, a moan of assent rumbled deep in her throat.

Draco did not pull away and look at her as though she had some sort of problem (which was what she had expected him to do). Instead, he slipped his hands beneath her cloak and touched her, his palms and fingertips roving places that would have normally caused her to flinch and pull away. Now it was sinfully pleasurable, and she let him do it, although she knew she should not... she should have pulled away a long time before.

Time became fluid, and Draco kissed years of her life away, sucking on her tongue. Somehow, as he paused to drop an innocent peck on her lips and fill his lungs with the thick air around them before opening his mouth to let her memorize him as he had done to her, Holly became aware that never in her life would she kiss another boy or man without feeling unfulfilled. She was denying herself pleasure in starting at the top of the hill, rather than the bottom. Contentment was never granted to vampires' lovers who had known human touch. This had to be much the same.

Holly began to shiver and tried to concentrate not on the actions of Draco's hands, which had moved higher and just brushed the modest swell of her breasts to skim the bare skin over her collar, her shoulders, her chest. She tried to focus on the taste of his kiss or the warmth of his mouth, but her thoughts still followed his fingers, the touches of which had become as exquisite and dizzying as his kisses as he ran a knuckle from her throat to the dip of her blouse. He touched her face, pressing his hot palms against her cheeks, massaging her temples with his fingertips, then combing through her hair and skimming his touch about the edges of her ears.

His hands--she could see the perfect, sculpted things in her mind's eye--rose from her body and lifted her arms from his shoulders, running the length of them before their palms touched. He entwined his fingers with hers, and the act alone was as exhilarating as the kiss. It was... affectionate?

Holly half-expected him to raise her arms above her head and pin her hands to the door as he did what he liked with her, but he did not. Draco pressed forward and tickled the roof of her mouth with the tip of his tongue. Still holding her hands lightly, occasionally putting pressure against her skin with his fingertips as though to remind her of their location, he aligned their bodies to ensure they touched at every point.

Holly wanted to touch him, to caress his face and neck, to explore and memorize every inch of flesh he would allow her to, even if it started with a layer of cloth between her hands and his body. She squirmed and, upon feeling something hard against her thigh, froze. Oh, God--she didn't have to be told what that was. She gasped into his mouth as he really did quiver and slowly swept his tongue once along hers. As though sensing her alarm, Draco returned to his gentle, though not fleeting manner, dropping hot kisses on the corners of her mouth.

He pulled his lips from hers but remained very close, and Holly found it harder to ignore the erection pressed to her thigh when she was not sacrificing herself to his exquisite mouth. She forced her eyes open with effort--reality hitting her harder than any Bludger ever had--and saw Draco was staring into her like a secret uncovered. His eyes were hooded, his lips were swollen from kissing, his breathing was uneven, but Holly hadn't the power to think rationally, much less anticipate his next move or contrive her own.

He squeezed her hands lightly and cleared his throat. "Would... would you... would you stop back after the c-concert?" he inquired haltingly, voice both deeper and less managed than she had ever heard it.

Holly examined his face, which wore an unidentifiable expression. Desire she recognized, and it took her some time to realize that she put it there. A boy had never--ever--looked at her like he was doing. The very idea of what he may have been thinking (or craving) was more arousing than anything that had happened so far.

But there was much more in his visage than mere want, why had she not seen it before? There were only a certain number of expressions one face could wear; certainly this was not one invented for the occasion. "Um--" Holly's voice was breaking, and she nodded her head while trying to clear her throat, "okay."

"Okay," he breathed, retracting his body from hers until only their hands touched. Cold rushed to replace his touch. He lifted her hands, and kissed her knuckles, sucking a little. He released one hand, and--as though by some magnetic force or unexplained boldness on her part--Holly's palm fell against his chest. Draco's heart was pounding--hammering so hard it threatened to break from its cage. She gasped, and he made no reply. All the honesty, all the assurance she needed, was there in that impossibly swift beat beneath her hand.

A juncture passed in silence, and in it Holly realized she would have to use her legs, which she could not feel, to walk out the door.

"Until later, then," Draco rumbled, releasing her other hand, which he had pressed to his cheek without her knowledge.

She stared at him, at the pink lips and cheeks that were showing a lightening blush and the silvery eyes which had had something darker poured into them. Holly wanted to reply to his last words, but was having enough trouble fumbling for the door handle.

She found it, stepped precariously from the doorway, and opened the port. Staggering slightly, she left, her head spinning and breath barely beginning to slow.

Holly wobbled down the corridor, one hand against the stone wall, then stumbled drunkenly into the common room. The few Slytherins that remained back from Hogsmeade glanced up as she entered the room and exchanged knowing looks as she made her way unsteadily to the door.

Outside, in the damp corridor, she leaned against the wall, struggling with her slipping feet. Her hands over her eyes, Holly wasn't sure whether she should be elated, anxious, or ill. She was weak and lightheaded, that was certain, and when she peeked through her fingers at the opposite wall, it was merely a swimming, green haze.

She covered her eyes again. This isn't normal. There was something seriously strange about Draco Malfoy. Sinister, even. A layer of sweat had risen from her skin, and she did all she could to cool herself.

Holly started down the corridor--she wasn't sure what drove her, as she still had no feeling in her legs--and met an impatient Ginny and Justin in the entrance hall. "Sorry," she mumbled.

"Are you all right? You look sick," was Ginny's reply. She examined Holly with concern, appearing inches away from raising a hand to check her temperature.

Justin crossed his arms and smiled, dissenting, "She doesn't look sick." His eyes scanned her face and hair, and he went on, "She looks sexed."

Ginny gasped, checking her watch. Holly was going to be sick. "But it's only been... well... is that what it is?" she demanded, eyes wider than Galleons.

"No."

"What, then?" buzzed Justin, sounding skeptical.

"Let's just go," she suggested, walking carefully toward the door and praying to any god that could hear her that she wouldn't pass out, "and I'll explain."

)()()(

Draco stared at the closed door for a few minutes, his breathing slowing to its normal pace. It had been a long, long time since he last snogged a girl. He didn't even recall who the last one was. They were never much to remember, anyway.

He swallowed, looking around. He would remember this one.

Draco focused on the design in the rug, the color the walls, the movement of the fire... anything to drown the memory of Holly Black's soft lips and fiery kiss, her long fingers hesitantly pulling on his hair, the throaty noises she released without her knowledge, the way she shivered when he caressed places with that weren't often exposed or explored.

Draco would do anything to drive out thoughts of what he would have done were there more time... he wanted to get lost in the girl, let her kiss him until he couldn't speak... allow her to put that mouth of hers wherever she dared... he'd push the cloak from her shoulders and open the shirt she wore button by delirious button... discover her skin with his fingers, with his mouth. He wanted to taste her, to make her cry his name before he even brought her to the bed... then gather what control he had left to make her comfortable, to make it nearly painless... and kiss her everywhere before crying out himself, over and over.

He would sex her until she fell asleep... and then again when she woke in the morning... and in the bath... then in the afternoon... and that night again, and he would sneak in kisses between classes, in every corner of the castle and...

Draco choked on the air he was breathing, and turned and fell onto his bed, lying face-down. Oh, God. This was abnormal, twisted, animalistic... a wank wasn't about to help him now.

Kissing another girl to prove that his feelings toward Holly were wholly primal seemed petty, but he would do it if it would shift is focus. He stood, did what he could to hide his arousal, and stormed out of his dormitory.

In the common room, Draco spotted a brunette with her nose in a book. What was her name? Kate? "Psst, Kate!" She looked up, and he motioned for her to come closer. She set down her book and did so, and as she drew closer he realized he'd slept with her before. It was at the manor one summer--she was part of a Death Eater family. Funny he hadn't gotten back around to her.

"Busy tonight?" he inquired, examining her sharp features before locking eyes with her.

"Not at all," she replied, smirking. He jerked his head backward toward the door, and she followed him through it. He walked in a daze as before, vaguely registering the glow of the sconces as he passed them and the sounds of their footfalls echoing in the barren hallway. I told her to come back? Oh, Jesus. As he and Kate drew nearer his dormitory, she noted, "I thought I just saw Holly Black leaving your room."

"Er--yes," was his response. He thought of the transition between the moment when he carefully calculated each move and the one when he lost control... wondered when it passed.

"Isn't she your... erm... flame?" Draco let her through the doorway.

"No," he said, wondering what she would be considered come daylight tomorrow, "not remotely."

"She looked ill," Kate went on. Draco, who had been lowering his mouth to hers, halted in annoyance. "Why was that?"

Whether his heart was to sink or soar at that revelation--or do anything at all--he wasn't certain. What his heart did do, he couldn't tell. "Bad Pepperup Potion," he lied.

And to Kate's astonishment, Draco leaned in and treated her to a long kiss.

)()()(

Harry and Ron had decided that shopping could wait.

Instead, they had taken their seats at the Three Broomsticks. Harry was poking aimlessly at the scoop of ice cream in his non-alcoholic Blushin' Bugbear as Ron spoke animatedly about his Supantoris lessons with Flitwick. From what Harry paid attention to, it sounded as though Ron had finally succeeded in summoning a spark by clicking his fingers.

Harry hadn't been so successful. The pellmorphing process was a lot like the one training animagi went through in that it was attained easiest when forced through desperate situations. Harry had been in a lot of desperate situations, but never had the solution seemed to be turning into someone else. Though being someone else would, altogether, keep Harry out of danger.

Asking Holly, who had been making some progress, for assistance in Transfiguration spell-casting was much like asking Hermione for proofreading help... whether or not it was purposeful, she had a way of making Harry feel incredibly dense. As many people whose understanding of a subject seemed inborn and automatic, they couldn't properly explain it to the completely lost. Holly's fumbling "It's just--you just--gah!" clarification left Harry more befuddled by the process than before. "It'll come to you," she had concluded, leaving for Quenya lessons.

It hadn't so far.

"Speaking of Supantorises--" Harry grimaced, "Supantori? Well, speaking of that... how is it having a girlfriend who can hear what you're thinking?"

Ron downed what was left of his butterbeer and looked warily at Harry before, as one of the kings of spontaneous maneuvers, he stood up and stalked to the bar. Harry watched him lean over the bar and charm Madam Rosmerta for a moment, who, after a little laughing, handed Ron two tall glasses filled with semi-transparent liquid.

Ron, who had drank so much butterbeer already that he'd spent most of his money, taken two toilet breaks, and tottered a bit while he walked, returned to the corner table Harry was seated in and banged the glass down in front of him, slopping a little of the drink on the table.

Harry wiped it up with the sleeve of his cloak and inquired, "What is this?"

"A Wilfred Elphick. Drink up."

Harry, who only remembered the History of Magic oddities, went on to ask, "Wasn't Wilfred Elphick the first wizard to be gored by an African Erumpent?" He looked at Ron, who was in the middle of a long drink. He shrugged. "I'm not sure I want to drink this."

"Just do it," said Ron, setting his own half-empty glass down. "So, Hermione can read minds..."

"Yes, I know this," replied Harry, looking suspiciously down at his Wilfred Elphick before picking it up.

"And it scares the hell out of me. I'm afraid to think. I've turned into Goyle." He took another drink.

Harry laughed a little and finally sipped his beverage. He gagged. "Oh my God--there's alcohol in this!"

"Yes, lots," replied Ron. "Madam Rosmerta said there was gin, triple sec, and... what was it... oh, dry Vermont."

"You mean vermouth?" Ron didn't appear to hear him. "Is there anything other than alcohol in it?"

Ron nodded in the middle of a sip and slopped some down his front. "Orange juice!"

"That sounds healthy," commented Harry, looking more closely at his drink, which he didn't think should be clear. Ron nodded and raised the glass to his mouth again. "I can't drink this," he claimed.

"Sure you can!" Harry frowned. "What?" pressed Ron, giving him a very serious look. "You're in Gryffindor, remember?"

"Bravery has nothing to do with it."

"Sure it does!" Ron reached out and lifted Harry's glass for him. "It won't kill you."

"Well then it's definitely lost all its appeal." Ron did something reminiscent of glowering, and Harry grudgingly took the drink from him.

"There's a good boy." Ron finished his Wilfred Elphick and left the table to get another. Harry took a drink while Ron was leaning over the bar, smiling toothily at Madam Rosmerta as she rolled her eyes and filled another glass for him. It wasn't so bad, he supposed, while pouring a bit of it into a nearby potted plant. Ron returned, plopped down across from him, and went on, "I wish she could do more than read minds though... like, to telecommunicate would be awesome."

"Wouldn't spoken word do the job?" Harry had set his beverage down again, watching Ron guzzle his between breaths.

"I dunno. She's been so moody lately." He knit his brow and shook his head, staring at a point beyond Harry's shoulder. "I'm really giving it my all!" Ron assured him, snapping his gaze back to Harry's face.

"The relationship?"

"No, the sex."

"Oh God..." Harry took up his Wilfred Elphick, squeezed his eyes shut, and drank fast. He didn't mind it... the burning in his throat wasn't completely unpleasant, anyway. Before letting Ron go on, Harry stood and strode up to the bar. Madam Rosmerta favored him with a smile.

"What will it be, Mr. Potter?" she inquired, magicking a few clean highquaffle glasses back to their places on a shelf.

"Madam Rosmerta," he said sincerely. She leaned against the bar with the heels of her hands, cocking her head to the side. "Ron just started talking about having sex. With my best friend."

Madam Rosmerta smiled and Summoned six bottles and three pitchers, all of varying size. She lifted a bucket of ice from beneath the bar and conjured a long-stemmed glass. "One Wizengamot Wahoo it is." Harry watched as she combined all the ingredients with the ice, catching labels on the bottles such as 151-proof Rackharrow Rum, Vipertooth Tequila, and Cordelia Misericordia Amaretto. She speared a cherry with an orange plastic umbrella, and after the drink had filled the glass, she set it on the rim.

Harry examined the drink and said, "Can I have two?" He didn't intend on sharing with Ron, either. "Blue umbrella on this one, please."

)()()(

The night was calm, but cool. Ginny, Justin, and Holly kept their eyes peeled for a twin set of red heads while they huddled against a wooden building that had once been a hat shop. Cloak wrapped about herself tightly, nose reddening, Ginny listened in growing horror as her best friend reluctantly related an outline-version of what went on in Draco's dormitory before she made her way into the entrance hall.

"So," said Justin upon wrap-up, "Draco Malfoy--Hogwarts Don Juan, wizarding world's Casanova, alleged sex slave of the divine, et cetera, whose kisses are said to be as hot as his shags with the additional thrill of genuine affection... kissed you." Holly made no reply. "On the lips. Passionately. For an unspecified period of time." Holly, who still looked disoriented, merely watched the expressions play across Justin's face. "How are you feeling?"

Holly blinked slowly. She had had some trouble maintaining balance on the trek to Hogsmeade, and was now leaning her full weight against the wall, breathing a bit unevenly as she shuddered in the cold. "Very dizzy."

Justin looked pensive--he actually ran his thumb and forefinger over his chin for a moment. "A kiss that causes intense, and prolonged, vertigo. Reports from his various bed-partners have never included that post-symptom. There must be some sort of magic at work." Justin shook his head in incredulity, looking more serious than Ginny had ever seen him. "You've succeeded in making me want to do research."

"'Kay," she murmured, rubbing her eyes.

"She's probably just feeling the onset of her transformation into a vampire," snapped Ginny, moving between them. She pulled Holly's hands from her eyes and looked at her, as though searching for that very change in her irises. "He asked you back up, didn't he?"

The other girl nodded, looking almost miserable. That was a good sign. Ginny advised, "Don't. Go."

"Are you kidding?!" burst Justin, rounding on her. "This girl has an opportunity to experience the full weight of Sir Hottie McHot's affection and adeptness." He looked enviously at Holly. "She has to go."

"You think so?" replied Ginny through her teeth, releasing her hold on Holly's wrists.

"Abs-and-pecs-olutely!" he cried, tossing his head backward.

Ginny turned her face back to Holly and took hold of her biceps--not shaking her, but gripping her tightly. "As much as you may like him, Holly... as incredible as he may be in the sack... you do not want to be one of the hundreds of girls Malfoy's shagged and forgotten about."

"Please," interjected Justin, rolling his eyes heavenward. "It's the middle of March," he said in an undertone, putting one hand on either girl's shoulder. "The tales of Malfoy's late night sessions have been on hold since December. No lecher in his right mind would give up his favorite hobby for four months in order to pump and dump one girl." He shot Ginny a look that suggested he had triumphed in that altercation.

Ginny had thought the same thing. Instead of seeing it as verification of Malfoy's adoring intentions, however, she viewed it as an ominous sign. Malfoy clearly wanted more from Holly than a shag, but Ginny hadn't a clue as to what that could be. She was quite certain that Holly remained a virgin, and she knew that there was a lot of potent, ancient magic that came with the loss of virginity... but as to what that magic entailed--again, she was ignorant.

Harry was the expert on Death Eater plots. And he was spending the day with Ron. And was consistently unwilling to talk about what went on between Holly and Malfoy.

"Go for it, girl," encouraged Justin when Ginny failed to respond to his hypothesis. "If you decline his proposal, you won't be able to sleep for thinking about what you could have done. And if you have to spend a night tossing and turning, wouldn't you at least like to wake up smelling like--"

"Fred! George!" called Ginny, straightening up and waving after catching sight of her brothers tromping up the street. Fred raised a hand in greeting, and the twins doubled their pace. Ginny introduced them to Justin as they approached.

"Very good," said Fred, rubbing his palms together. He had an orange scarf wrapped tightly about his neck that clashed with his hair in ways Ginny had never imagined orange could. "So, who's ready for the phenomenon that is the No No Nos?"

"Or the thrill that is drinking underage in a sexy little nightclub?" George annexed.

"Indeed," responded Fred, deciding not to await a reply. "Look edgy."

"Yes--muss up your hairses; smear eye-makeup all over your faces; purposefully miss buttons on your blouses," George clarified, adding a jab with his index finger to each command. "Embrace conformity by acting like a nonconformist."

"All set?" said Fred with a wide smile. Ginny, Holly, and Justin hadn't moved a muscle. "Excellent!" Then, in unison, the twins said, "Follow us."

)()()(

Upon making Kate peak three or four times, Draco had decided to be finished with her. He'd rolled sideways off her steamy, quivering body and pushed his hair from his brow, shutting his eyes. The girl, breathing heavily, fit herself against Draco's side and laid her smiling face on his chest.

He realized, now, why he had not made his way back around to her. That entire session was very unfulfilling. He didn't dare let himself explore reasons as to why, and he settled for the enticing "she's a bad shag" explanation.

Some minutes later, Kate climbed out of his bed, dressed, and walked over to his side of the bed. Draco, whose eyes remained shut, had only his hearing to base these assumptions upon. Kate leaned over him and placed a kiss on his lips, reveling in the new thrill he had added to his sex that evening.

He kissed her back, without enthusiasm. Kate pulled away and whispered, "That was great, Draco..." in his ear. He heard her leave.

Draco opened one eye, then the next. Kate was, indeed, gone from the dormitory. He got out from beneath the bedcovers and slipped back into his clothes. What he had craved, however animalistic it was, had not been satisfied. The feeling of continued emptiness after such an effort was nearly worse than the feeling of intense need he began with.

Draco started fixing his bed, doing what he could to forget Kate. Memories of Holly's tangy kiss refused to leave his consciousness. Fantasies of coaxing Holly to a peak over and over until her muscles could no longer handle it kept swimming to the front of his mind.

Draco violently shook a pillow deeper into its case and tossed it against the headboard, feeling ever-so-slightly ill. He told himself that his yearning to bed Holly Black was nothing more than part of his inherent desire to take every girl in the school before graduation... except Granger. So that did include Weasley. He straightened his bedspread. Oh, he could only imagine what Potter would try to do to him once he found out that his befreckled little lady-friend had writhed under and cried out the name of his archrival.

That fantasy was completely unsuccessful.

"Not in Hogsmeade with your wholesome, little girlfriend, Draco?"

Startled, Draco spun to be greeted by the unwelcome sight of Pansy Parkinson, hand twisting about the door handle strategically.

"She'll be back soon," he told her.

"Hmm..." Pansy shut the door slowly.

Draco gave her a quick once-over, taking in her scrunched-up skirt and open-collared blouse, which made visible the edges of a lacy brassiere. "Leave, Pansy."

"Oh, Draco, why do you even bother?" she asked, a laugh on her tone. She leaned against the bedpost nearest him, and he backed away. "This goes back so much farther than you and that chubby little tart."

Evenly, Draco stated, "She's not a chubby tart, Pansy."

"A curvy tart, then?" Draco scowled. "You know this runs so much deeper." The emphasis she had put on those last syllables was very careful.

"This," he repeated.

Pansy smiled at him. "Us."

"Pansy, why don't you just whore yourself out to someone else?" She looked hurt by such a suggestion. "Anyone else."

"I have," she assured him, leering again. She began to advance toward him. Same tacky routine, every time. Every time, the routine worked. "But I like how you fuck."

Draco tangled his fingers in his hair in frustration before painfully running his nails down his face. "I don't even try on you!" he half-shouted, hands in the air.

"I like to watch you lose control." Pansy Parkinson had such a tainted little giggle. "I give you what you need... why would you need to try?"

"Wanking off gives me what I need. You give me nothing."

Draco had backed himself against the wall between two bookshelves in his effort to stay away from the girl. He could have shoved her away, left his own dormitory... but something kept him stationary. Although he was growing increasingly nauseous as she neared him, Draco couldn't deny how good it would feel to...

Pansy was so close he could feel her breath on his skin. Her hand dipped beneath the waistline of his trousers. Draco, horrified at how his body responded to her rough touch, couldn't help but groan in contentment. The physical kind, that is. "Why don't you pretend I'm your little tart, then?"

She squeezed, and Draco did something like grunt. He couldn't wait a moment longer. Draco gripped her waist tightly and pushed her backward. He could sense her smiling at him, but refused to look in her face... as he always did.

He shoved her and she fell back, lying sideways on his mattress. She moved backward a little while Draco unzipped. He crawled atop her, forcing her legs apart, shoving her little skirt up over her hips, and moving her knickers out of the way.

Pansy reached out and tried to pull down Draco's trousers, but he grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head. She seemed alarmed, but he didn't pay her too much attention. She liked to watch him lose control, did she? Settling between her legs, Draco screwed his eyes shut and did just that.

)()()(

At the Three Broomsticks, Harry and Ron had discovered a drink called Hero's Scar.

Harry wasn't sure what all went into it, but it did include ginger ale. And it came with a spiral of lemon peel dangling from the glass' rim.

He spoke animatedly to Ron about starting a professional Quodpot team in London after they graduated, using the orange plastic umbrella from one of his Wizengamot Wahoos to scratch an outline of their signature play in the table.

Harry knew nothing about Quodpot, but he was quite certain that there was one Chaser, two Keepers, three Seekers, and at least a dozen Beaters involved. And everyone was literally on fire.

Actually, Harry was more knowledgeable about Quodpot than he'd realized.

Ron seemed to know a lot about Quodpot, too. He explained the fouling system to Harry in excruciating detail--from the number of referees (six and a half--either six warlocks and a centaur or five warlocks and a half-giant) to the penalty method (the offending player flew once around the field at approximately 10 kilometers per hour, and the crowd was allowed to hex him--Unforgivables were permitted).

Su Li, a Ravenclaw who had joined the party somewhere along the line, ordered a round of Vampire Bites. Su's friend and Holly's astronomy partner, Mandy, had quarreled with Ron on the six-and-a-half referee rule--it was a matter of blood, apparently. She was gone to the lavatory. She'd been there for a while.

Harry enjoyed the first shot of his life... what the hell, neverblur and Tabasco sauce?!... and chased it down with a black olive. Su proposed that Harry start campaigning to be Minister of Magic, and he bought her a Cajun Magic Carpet with an extra large jalapeño... just because he liked the way she thought.

)()()(

In the steamy, low-ceilinged, upper level of Mother Abraham, Fred, George, Ginny, Justin, and Holly labored over a large plate of... something crunchy drowning in melted cheese. Whatever it was, Fred said it was a favorite of his.

The show had yet to start, but the handful of middle-aged couples that sat at nearby booths were starting to look suspicious as young adults sporting all varieties of denim, leather, lace, and chains poured in by the dozens.

Justin, who had somehow procured a list of all the mixed drinks Mother Abraham served (it was the size of a small novel), had begun talking animatedly about Kari O. again as he scanned the pages, keeping one manicured nail on the parchment at all times. Holly seemed to be pretending to listen, at least, and Fred and George were busy with the dish between them, so Ginny gazed down at the stage and the instruments on it and let her mind wander--to Harry, to Holly, to Malfoy...

"I'll have a Flagrate Martini, and... are you going to order something, Gin?" inquired Justin. Ginny looked around and saw the waiter, a handsome wizard of about twenty wearing a rather tight set of robes, gazing at her with a look of impatience. She awarded that expression by saying nothing.

"She won't," replied George, looking at his little sister. "But fix up a Moontrimmer Coffee for her." Ginny didn't object; coffee actually sounded quite good at the moment.

The waiter, his floating Petite Parchment Pad, and his quill (rocket red, to match his tie) all vanished and were soon replaced by drinks, which appeared in front of them one at a time. Ginny watched Holly, whose drink came first, heartlessly bite into the slice of pineapple that came with her julep before putting the end of the straw into her mouth.

With her thumb, Ginny rubbed cinnamon and sugar from the rim of her mug once it arrived in front of her. She tested how hot it was and took a sip; there was definitely more than espresso in a Moontrimmer Coffee. Before she could mention it, the stage lit up and a roar rose from the crowd below. At the end of the booth, Holly downed her julep and got to her feet.

Two pale, wiry men with raven hair had taken the stage--one taking up a guitar, the other sitting behind the drumset. A bald wizard snatched the other guitar and threw the strap over his shoulder. They started playing a simple, steady beat. Ginny took a long drink of her coffee (or whatever) and squinted at the stage, searching for the infamous vocalist.

It was then that a little woman with a plaid newsboy cap pulled over her black bob emerged from backstage, and the noise from the witches and wizards on the floor tripled. So that was Kari O. Her fashion sense, Ginny thought, was questionable--she wore a suffocating black shirt, an array of black bracelets and metal belts, and the biggest tutu she had ever seen.

Fred tapped her with the lip of his bottle of--whatever it was--then used it to motion toward Justin once he had gotten Ginny's attention. "Are you coming?" shouted Justin over the racket, just as Kari O. pointed her wand at her throat and greeted the crowd, who screamed even louder in reply. The vocalist laughed, and a wizard with letters printed across the back of his robes that Ginny couldn't quite make out walked onstage with a polished microphone stand. She used her wand to tap the microphone before handing it to the wizard, who disappeared with it.

Ginny drank her coffee as fast as she could as Kari O.'s singing joined the drums and guitars (to another eruption of cries).

"Watch out, kid, sleep with the lamp lit

Watch, kid, or you're gonna get it

Roll kid, rock your bod a bit!"

Ginny slid out of the booth, leaving her mug behind, and held onto the back of Justin's shirt as they took on the crowded stairwell. Holly was already gone.

"You're a whole lot like an accident

The way you scurry and hide, a precedent

Now roll kid, knock your bod a bit!"

Kari O. came into Ginny's view, thrashing about with her hand cupped over top of the microphone for a brief instrumental before putting her lips to the mike again for an ever-so-slightly orgasmic shriek. "Isn't she fabulous?!" gushed Justin at the top of his voice.

"Sure!" responded Ginny, patting his arm and glancing at his face, which was positively exuberant. She watched him strain to see over the heads of those taller than him as people moved in and out of his vision path. "I'm going to go and find Holly, okay?" she shouted, standing on tiptoe in order to be nearer his ear.

"Good luck! Need a body guard?"

"No." In that regard, she was almost certain that Fred and George were carefully tracking her progress from the level above.

Ginny disappeared into the crowd, looking around for anything characteristic of Holly on the club-goers. Everything in Mother Abraham basked in red, orange, or yellow light, and that combined with the numerous dark-haired, black-bloused witches scattered about the area made Holly Black a very hard girl to find.

Squeezing past the stage and between the jumping fans, Ginny got sprayed with beer that Kari O. had spit into the crowd at the introduction of the No No Nos' next song, "Needle." Doing what should could to shake it out of her hair, Ginny stepped on anyone in her way as she hurried toward the other end of the nightclub.

Ginny scanned the wall, where the less avid fans sat on couches and smoked, then the bar. There was Holly, leaning against a stool and chatting up the platinum-haired barman. Ginny reached her side just as the barman turned to Summon a few bottles from the shelf behind him. She could see him watching Holly through the mirror.

The barman sat a highquaffle glass filled to the top with pinkish liquor and ice, and Holly said, "And my girlfriend will have a Muggle Vice, please." She slid a couple coins across the counter, and the barman, with a look of mingled disappointment and intrigue, turned his back to them and went to work again.

"Holly--" groaned Ginny.

"Oh, c'mon, Gin. It's tequila! You don't have to drink anything else tonight, promise." Holly took a long swig from her own roseate beverage after saying this, lowering the highquaffle glass from her lips when the barman brought Ginny her bi-colored Muggle Vice. "Thank you so much, Quitman!" gushed Holly, holding a worshiping hand out toward him.

"Quinton," he corrected her.

"Same thing," she dismissed the wizard, waving the arm she had raised. She shoved the glass into Ginny's hands and walked off in the direction of the sofas. Holly plopped down, a little unsteadily, and sipped from her highquaffle glass as she sunk deep into the plushy cushions.

Aimlessly stirring her Muggle Vice with the straw that came with it, Ginny watched Holly's motions with apprehension. Finally she burst, "Are you or are you not going back to Malfoy's dormitory tonight?"

"Haven't figured it out yet," responded Holly coolly, setting her glass down on the table in front of them, a little too hard. "Depends on my mood at the end of the evening."

Ginny took a sip of her Muggle Vice through the straw and wrinkled her nose, putting distance between herself and the drink abruptly after swallowing. She hoped against hope that Holly got herself drunk beyond comprehension and function so that she could do nothing but let herself be carried to the Gryffindor dorms that evening.

"I know you have more respect for yourself than to want to go back to Malfoy for the sex," said Ginny, struck with an idea for a way to prompt Holly to rethink her situation. "What is it that calls you back?"

"As simple as it may be to make one's breathing ragged, shudders and racing hearts cannot be feinted," she said quickly, holding a hand out in front of her in some form of expression.

"True," said Ginny, not at all reassured by Holly's deadpan delivery of this fact. "But the intention behind an upped heart rate is difficult to define, isn't it?"

"Maybe," exhaled Holly, leaning toward Ginny and looking just a little dangerous. "Though that's for me to discover."

"I'm not trying to stop you--" stated Ginny calmly, searching her friend's eyes.

She interjected, "Of course you're not."

"I'm merely trying to expose you to all possible explanations and outcomes so as to avoid you getting yourself hurt," she continued loudly.

Momentarily, their attention was diverted to the stage, where Kari O. was treating the crowd to a short, alcohol-centric narrative while pelting them with grapes.

"I've been taking care of myself for a fucking long time," Holly informed Ginny facilely, turning back to her. She took another drink from her highquaffle and continued, "Through a rough series of trial and error I have become the, shall we say, strong young witch I am today." She leered.

"Holly--" Ginny had become desperate, "don't do it. Don't go to him." She shook her head, completely aware that her pleading was failing to do anything but anger the girl in front of her, who had just finished off her drink. "You may like him--you may love him--but Draco Malfoy is no good."

"I have spent too long wasting my fucking time on boys deemed 'good.' Let me do as I please. If I hurt myself, I will make certain that you are blameless." Holly stood from the sofa. "I never imagined that you would join the ranks of those who consistently challenge my judgment, Gin." She pointed at Ginny's Muggle Vice on the table and commanded, "Finish that," before walking off.

Ginny leaned her elbows on her knees and put her fingertips to her temples. Holly wasn't on her way back to the bar; she was leaving the building. Going after her would prompt disaster. Instead, Ginny did all she could from her present location by saying a short, silent prayer.

)()()(

Through the oak doors, across the entrance hall, and down into the dungeons. Holly walked a straight line through the middle of the damp corridor, determined. Her footsteps echoed too loudly. She entered the Slytherin common room and strolled along the wall, then slipped into the boys' dormitory hallway. She passed seven wooden doors and sixteen dimming sconces before taking the short flight of stairs at the hall's end in three measured steps.

She knocked lightly on Draco's door. After a moment, she heard his voice reply.

All apprehension, the memory of his delirious kiss renewed, Holly slowly opened the dormitory door. She was greeted by the site of Draco, completely clothed, moaning with his head thrown back, as he moved roughly back and forth between the open legs of Pansy Parkinson, whose hands clutched the wrinkled bedclothes beneath her.

Holly closed the door. She took three measured steps down the stairway, passed the same sixteen sconces and seven wooden doors. She strode calmly through the empty Slytherin common room. Upon her exit, she walked a straight line down the dungeon corridor. Into the entrance hall she went, then to the Grand Staircase. All the way to the seventh floor, hands in her pockets, she climbed. There, the Fat Lady accepted her password.

Into the Gryffindor common room she went; next, up the spiraling staircase of the girls' dormitories. Outside the sixth years' top-floor room, Holly sat down against the wall. Then she cried.

)()()(

Harry paused from searching for the Snitch in the clear blue skies to squint at the game below him. He could tell from Dean's commentary that things were going badly for Gryffindor, who, for the first time in years, was struggling to keep up to the canary-yellow blurs that composed the Hufflepuff team. But when he actually watched the game, things were uglier... the Beaters were inaccurate in their swinging, Ron was letting nearly every shot through his fingers, and the Chasers were moving more sluggishly every second.

Brandon took a Bludger to the face, and Harry descended through the air, calling fiercely for a timeout. The Hufflepuffs and Slytherins around the pitch cheered loudly for this.

When the team took the ground, Harry's instinct to be furious was quelled immediately. Ginny was tending to Brandon, whose nose was bleeding so badly that nothing seemed to be stopping it. Seamus had many swollen fingers that he was busy trying to bind, and Cameron, his counterpart, had just spit a tooth into his own hand. Ron looked queasy, but appeared to be experiencing only nerves. He was helping Holly put cold pressure on her right shoulder, which was swollen beyond belief.

"Felt like you all needed a rest," he mumbled. Harry repaired Brandon's nose, but the blood wouldn't stop coming. He helped Seamus bind his fingers, and then called for some water to give to Cameron so he could wash out his mouth. As Harry made his way over to Ron who, upon being asked, claimed he was feeling all right, Holly pulled her robes back over her bare shoulder and slowly raised her arm.

"Help me pop it back in."

Ron put away his wand and said, "Holly, you'll only make it worse..."

"I've done this before."

"Maybe we shouldn't risk it," suggested Harry, looking at her profile.

"Just fucking HELP ME." Warily, they conceded. Following Holly's directions, they pushed and pulled where necessary, and with an incredible "pop" her bones shifted. She yelped, but when they asked whether she was all right she merely said, "thank you," and went to help Ginny with Brandon.

When their time was running short, Harry hurriedly reminded his team that Hufflepuff had had a winning season, and, in order to keep the cup, Gryffindor would have to win by 220 points. "I take full responsibility for 150 of those--but 70 are up to the rest of you, all right?"

Madam Hooch was blowing her whistle fiercely, waving for the Gryffindors to rejoin the game. The Hufflepuffs, who hadn't even touched ground during the timeout, were hovering above them, looking smug. The team kicked off again, and Harry resumed searching for the Snitch, listening hopelessly to Dean's commentary.

"Cadwallader dodges a Bludger sent by Finnigan with ease--passes up to Laura Madley--and, c'mon--!" Dean sighed deeply as half the pitch started cheering. "--she scores. That there makes it 220-190, in Hufflepuff's favor."

"C'mon, Ron!" shouted Harry, doing all he could to sound encouraging rather than vexed. He had seen the missed save, and it had been brutal. "You were real close!"

"Weasley passes to Weasley, who tosses to a... very bloody Emerson, who throws it to Black--BLUDGER!--good dodge... shit, Smith steals the Quaffle and is heading back to--NICE! Black tackles the hell out of Smith and hands the ball to Weasley... she's heading up the pitch now..."

"Language, Thomas!" snarled McGonagall.

"How many times do I have to tell you, Professor? It's De--GRYFFINDOR GOAL--Emerson assisted by Weasley... it looks as though the W.E.B. is back in action, my friends! It's 220-200, and the Quaffle is under the arm of Hufflepuff's Laura Madley."

The Gryffindor crowd was still roaring when Cameron sent a Bludger straight at Madley, who took it in the back and dropped the Quaffle, which was recovered by Ginny. Whitby's Bludger missed her, but Cadwallader's tackle did not. Holly's answering tackle sent Cadwallader reeling, and she proceeded to send the Quaffle straight past Summers, bringing them within 10 points.

"Summerby--I mean, Summers--checks the ball out to Smith. Smith hands off to Madley, back to Smith, then to Cauldwell--I mean, Cadwallader--WHY DOES EVERYONE ON THIS TEAM HAVE THE SAME NAME?" raged Dean. Harry laughed despite himself and circled above the Gryffindor goalposts, scanning for the tiniest metallic flash. "Emerson recovers the Quaffle, and a Cauldwell Bludger-attack ended that pretty soon... Madley with the Quaffle, sailing up the pitch alone... Finnigan's Bludger misses the targ--WEASLEY TACKLE! OUCH!"

Harry smiled and found the shape of Summerby above him; he showed no sign of seeing the Snitch, either. Gryffindor had eight goals to go...

"Weasley sends the Quaffle to Emerson by some little sleight of hand, who passes to Black. Black dives... her co-Chasers fly to the end of the pitch... Black starts to ascend and she WHAT THE F--"

McGonagall yanked the megaphone from Dean, who, along with half the fans, was on his feet and bellowing at Whitby, who had descended upon Holly and hit her with his bat. Before Madam Hooch blew her whistle, Holly retaliated, flying backward and whipping the Quaffle at Whitby, hitting him in the face. Madam Hooch got in between them as fresh cheers and jeers were raised by the spectators.

"One shot for each team!" The Gryffindor crowd was displeased by that, and they showed it. "For a blatant Hufflepuff foul and a Gryffindor show of unsportsmanlike conduct!"

Harry flew to join the teams, who gathered at Ron's end of the pitch to watch Holly take her penalty shot across the green. Summers wasn't good at surprises, and Harry hoped against hope that Holly remembered that.

Holly flew crosswise, straight for the far-left hoop. Harry held his breath... Summers hovered exactly where he needed to be between the left and center goals... Holly veered to her right as she drew toward Summers, and as he followed her movement, she shot for the far-left hoop.

"Shot--GOAL! Left-handed, too!" Harry sighed in relief. Scarlet and gold flags were flying as the tension broke, and they could just make out the far-off roar of Luna's lion-hat. "Someone kiss her for me!"

Cameron made to grant Dean that wish, but Holly flew away, pointing her index finger at him in a threatening fashion.

Zacharias Smith flew forward to take Hufflepuff's penalty shot. He bent low over his broom and shot straight toward Ron, who looked nauseous. But to Harry's surprise--and everyone else's--Ron saved the shot easily. He lowered the Quaffle, grinning from ear to ear, and the Gryffindors erupted again, chanting a stanza of "Weasley Is Our King."

"Keep that up!" shouted Harry, shooting away from the team as the game recommenced.

They did as they were told. The game climbed from 220-220 to 230-220 in Gryffindor's favor, then 240-220, then 250-220. It wasn't until Harry's team led by 60 points that Hufflepuff got another Quaffle past Ron.

Harry was busy cheering for his Chasers--they were ahead by 60 again--when a metallic flash got his attention. It turned out to be a mirror reflecting the sun that was being waved in midair by a female member of the Slytherin crowd. Annoyed, he looked away and caught sight of the Hufflepuff Seeker, careening through the other players at top speed.

Harry cursed wildly and flattened himself on his Firebolt, charging beneath the action. He pulled his broom back to level with Summerby, whose fingertips were within inches of the Snitch. Harry knocked Summerby's arm out of the way and nudged him sideways--as roughly as he could without being penalized.

Go, go, go!, he thought, for once not urging his Firebolt to move faster but hoping for the Snitch to make an escape. Summerby checked Harry sideways, reaching again for the Snitch. Harry accelerated and pulled up and directly in front of Summerby, who crashed into him.

As the Snitch darted from his focus, Harry saw Brandon pass the Quaffle vertically to Holly, who was speeding toward the goalposts alone.

"It's Black with the Quaffle now and--Bludger from Cadwallader--I mean, Cauldwell--Okay, Madley has... no... Weasley. Weasley has the Quaffle, quick pass to Emerson, who volleys to Black--she's within inches..."

The Snitch was gone... but so was Summerby. Frantically, Harry looked around the pitch. Incidentally, Summerby, a mere blur of yellow several meters above him, had not lost sight of the Snitch.

Wind flattening his uniform and drying out his eyes, Harry flew so fast he was sure that his Firebolt was going to up and quit on him. The sound of waving flags, rippling robes, and encouraging shouts were a constant hum in his ears as Harry raced along the stands, gaining on Summerby inch by inch.

The crowd burst into fresh cheers as Dean announced a goal--voice cracking midway through--and Harry cut in front of Summerby, reached out his hand, and caught the Snitch.

It hadn't been entirely unexpected, but when Harry realized that it wasn't his fans cheering, he couldn't help but be crestfallen. He hung his pounding head and watched through half-closed eyes as yellow and black shapes flooded the pitch and, although they were the losing side, the Hufflepuff team was partaking in a joyous, seven-person hug. They had held off the Gryffindors and, for the first time in years, regained Hogwarts' Quidditch cup.

Harry flew to Madam Hooch and held the struggling, indifferent Snitch out to her. She took it, looking at him with a little pity. "Good game, Potter."

He tried to reply, but no noise escaped his mouth when he opened it.

By the time he made it to the dressing room, fighting through waves and waves of Hufflepuffs pouring onto the pitch, his team was already inside. They sat on the benches, relaxed on the floor, or leaned against the walls, looking bloody and miserable. Some had taken off pieces of their equipment, others had yet to straighten their robes.

Harry looked around at them--only Brandon and Cameron gazed at him with some hope of coming comfort. The rest had their eyes set on their feet, on the wall, or closed completely. Harry cleared his throat and said, "Er--good game, guys."

"We lost the cup," stated Ron matter-of-factly.

"Well, yes..." Harry replied. Although this knowledge was still fresh in his head, hearing Ron say it caused his heart to drop just a few more inches. He squeezed and released his broom rapidly and went on, "But it's not whether we win or lose that counts--"

Seamus, head still hanging, deadpanned, "Whoever said, 'It's not whether you win or lose that counts,' probably lost."

"You're right," said Harry. "He probably did." He started removing his elbow pads, feeling emptier and emptier as he did so.

"But we won," was Ginny's input. Harry looked around at her, as did everyone else. "Technically," she added.

Harry thought about this, and felt the beginnings of a smile tugging at his mouth. "If the Hufflepuffs can take pride in gaining the Quidditch Cup from losing to a better team who had to forfeit a match due to illegal Slytherin plots," he said, "that's pathetic. Don't you think?"

"Sure," said Ron, narrowing his eyes. "But we still lost." A murmur of general assent came from the rest of the team.

Harry gave up and threw his elbow pads into the general equipment crate unceremoniously.

)()()(

Hermione scanned the human interest stories in the Daily Prophet, relaxing in an armchair by the cold grate. She was one of the only people who decided to remain in the common room after the Quidditch loss, and, frankly, she was reveling in the peace.

Brandon and Cameron were the first fliers to enter the common room from, she reckoned, the infirmary, looking disheveled and defeated. As they passed, she assured them that they had played brilliantly. They thanked her--they were sweethearts, those two--and retired to the dormitories.

Hermione looked back down and read on about Gwylan Worchess and Sir William, her potbelly pig capable of human speech. The measures that witch went in order to prevent the execution of Sir William, who had the habit of revealing secrets of the wizarding world to Muggle passerby, exceeded admirable.

Gwylan, who was photographed with Sir William while wearing a plumed hat, waved jovially at Hermione.

Seamus stepped through the portrait hole next with Lavender on his arm, cooing into his ear. Although he looked far from elated, Lavender's words--however mindless they were--seemed to keep his spirits up. Or, Hermione considered as she noticed Lavender's digits toying with Seamus' belt buckle, perhaps it was the placement of her hand.

Hermione's stomach constricted. She said a silent prayer, begging that Ron be devastated beyond comprehension and exhausted to the point of imminent coma when he returned. Feinting continuing anger over his failure to bring her what she wanted from Hogsmeade those weeks before had only produced a Ron more willing to please... the exact opposite effect she had been hoping for.

Vanishing to the library now would be cruel, and even Hermione could be depended upon to be supportive of the house team in a big loss, despite how much time she spent scorning the negative effects of the game on Hogwarts' scholarly atmosphere.

Hermione finished off the Daily Prophet's Crooked Crossword before the rest of the team returned. Ron, Harry, and Ginny entered the common room all at once, answering the other students' murmurs of "good game" and "well done" so politely it looked painful.

When they made it to her end of the room, Ron flopped down on the sofa without a word (Hermione breathed an inward sigh of relief), and Harry took to the armchair. Ginny gave him a kiss and announced that she was turning in for a nap.

"You were amazing today, Gin," Hermione told her as she turned from them. Ginny thanked her and took her leave, hurrying up the tower stairs.

Silence enveloped the remaining three for a minute or two before Hermione piped up, "Should we visit Hagrid?"

"No," was Ron's reply, muffled by the pillow he'd thrown over his face.

Hermione looked from Ron, whose dark cloud she would have preferred to leave behind anyway, to Harry, who shrugged. "Okay," he agreed.

Hagrid was pulling weeds around his doorway when Harry and Hermione arrived at the Forbidden Forest's edge. Fang came bounding out to greet them, spreading a healthy amount of slobber in his enthusiasm, as always. When Hagrid got to his feet and shook Harry's hand (or arm), sharing congratulations and condolences, Hermione could see proof that Hagrid had done a little crying himself at the Gryffindor loss.

Inside, as Hagrid put on a pot of tea and Harry hung his blazer over one of the kitchen chairs, Hermione examined a horrible, slimy something in a feather-strewn cage next to Fang's bed. It had many legs, many eyes, very floppy ears, and a magnificent pair of antlers. She decided not to inquire.

"Do you reckon there are any centaurs left in the forest now, Hagrid?" asked Harry, gazing out the window toward the trees.

"Nope. Not-a-one," replied Hagrid confidently, digging around the mugs in his cupboard in search of appropriately-sized teacups.

Fang rested his head on Hermione's lap, and she scratched him behind the ears. "Why so sure?" she inquired.

"Well," he said, delicately placing cups and saucers in front of his guests, "after yeh maniacs went on tha' holiday adventure, I did some trackin'. A strong pack never would o' let yeh lot near its territory, and yeh tramped righ' through it!"

"It wasn't problem-free, let me assure you," said Hermione as Hagrid poured hot water into her teacup.

"I've bin checkin' again now this spring, and not a single hoofprint in tha' forest belongs to somethin' bigger than a deer." Hagrid shook his head while he poked his teabags around his mug with a fork. "Whole colony disappeared."

"I don't know about you," said Harry over his cup, "but I'm not sorry to see them go."

"No matter how much trouble they gave yeh, they were a good colony. Kept the forest good an' safe," countered Hagrid before lifting his mug to his lips.

"Safe?" repeated Hermione, thinking of all the little horrors the Forbidden Forest had visited upon she and her friends over the course of six years.

"Yes, safe," Hagrid exhaled, setting down his mug. "Safer than it'll ever be now, anyway." Hermione recommenced in petting Fang when he swiped her leg with a heavy paw. "Wha's interestin'," he went on, lowering his voice, "is tha' just the other mornin' I was goin' ter wash up when I spotted none other than an Elf peekin' roun' an old oak."

Harry choked on his tea. "An Elf?" he echoed, after some coughing.

Hermione asked, "Are you sure, Hagrid?"

"'Course I'm sure," he shot back, looking exasperated. "Seen Elves before, haven't I?" He shook his head at them. "Beau'iful, he was..." Hagrid continued, "real tall with all that golden hair. Holdin' a bow and jus' lookin' out at the castle, all majestic-like." Hagrid beamed, more than a little proud.

"I can't imagine why he let you see him there," stated Hermione, shooing Fang over to Harry's side of the table and using her napkin to dry her pant leg. "Was there more than one, Hagrid?"

"Mos' likely," he told her. "Can't hear the damn things when they run off, though, an' yeh can't find footprints for the life of yeh, either. Like I said, I only saw the one."

"That's strange," remarked Harry, trying to ignore Fang. "Do you think that maybe the Elf had been to see Dumbledore?"

"No," replied Hagrid. "Dumbledore's bin strugglin' with the Elves for years--provin' ter 'em that they are needed in this war is next ter--"

There was a firm knock at Hagrid's door. Fang jumped up with such eagerness that he hit his head on Hagrid's table and retreated to his bed, whimpering.

Hagrid squeezed around the table and lumbered to the door. He opened it only to reveal Dumbledore himself behind. "Good afternoon, Hagrid," he said pleasantly. "May I enter?"

"'Course, Professor..." Hagrid moved to give Dumbledore appropriate space to enter. To Harry and Hermione he said, "Yeh got ter be gettin' back ter the castle, now..." and they had already gotten up.

"I am sorry to shoo you out, Harry, Hermione," apologized the Headmaster, nodding to them each. "But it is necessary." They were on the stairs before they had even pulled their sweaters on.

"Oh, and Harry!" They turned. Dumbledore, still standing in the doorway, said, "You flew magnificently today," with a twinkle.

"Thank you, sir."

The door of Hagrid's hut shut behind them, and Harry and Hermione began the climb back to the castle. At their next Care of Magical Creatures lesson, their professor was absent.

)()()(

Ginny and Harry were on their second lap around the lake on a windy Thursday afternoon, discussing--as they did when topics ran thin--their futures.

"So, if not an Auror, then...?" prompted Ginny, as she always did. "You need a backup plan." She squeezed Harry's hand tightly and smiled at him in a faked look of anticipation. "What are you going to do," she said slowly, "if they tell you that you couldn't defend yourself against a puffskein, and they don't want you in their department?"

"I don't know," he groaned for the umpteenth time.

"Quidditch," she suggested excitedly, eyes wide. "Go pro."

"Already kicked that option about," informed Harry. "Too high profile. Don't want to be such an easy target; don't want my head that big." Of course that didn't mean he wouldn't fantasize about it from time to time.

"Inventor," Ginny enunciated dramatically, squinting against the setting sun. "I can see it now: 'Harry Potter unveils elixir that vanishes magical scars.'"

"Yeah, no."

"Teacher?"

He smiled and responded, "I've thought about that one, actually."

"WHAT?!" exploded Ginny spinning to stand in front of him. She clutched his upper arms, staring at him with her mouth wide open. "Another option? What?!"

"Yes," said Harry, sniggering at the mock look of sheer joy she painted upon her face just then. "Teaching."

"I've always thought you'd make a fabulous Herbology professor," she rejoined seriously, lacing her fingers between his again and tugging him along.

"On that note," said Harry, kicking a rock along the path, "seeing as Neville is, bless his soul, bad at everything--" Ginny laughed lightly, "--do you think he might come back here and teach Herbology?"

"Professor Sprout is getting pretty old," admitted Ginny, glancing instinctively toward the greenhouses. Despite classes being over, activity was visible within. Whether any of that was human activity was questionable.

"I mean, it's either that or warlock landscaping."

"Or farming," she added, kicking Harry's rock, which had strayed to the right.

"That's true." For a moment, Harry tried to imagine Neville as a migrant bubotuber farmer. He wore denim overalls and nothing else.

"On the other end of the spectrum," Ginny went on, stepping on a flowering weed that had grown leaning over the path, "Hermione. Good at everything but Quidditch. What're her plans? Invest more in... spew?"

"S.P.E.W.," Harry corrected haughtily. "And I wouldn't be surprised."

Silence blossomed, but Harry didn't mind. He continued kicking his rock. In the corner of his eye, Harry saw the giant squid flash a tentacle or two. Fang was lumbering along the edge of the forest, Hagrid-less, sniffing out rabbits no doubt. In the distance, a pack of first years were rushing the Whomping Willow. He hoped offhandedly that someone would be kind enough to tell them that they were being stupid and should knock it off.

Harry glanced over at Ginny, who looked distant. She was focusing on a point he couldn't see, wearing a scowl. At his own risk, he ventured, "What's wrong?"

Ginny didn't reply. It was as though she didn't even hear him. Harry stepped over the loose rock and tried again. "Ginny?"

"Ugh, just shut up," she shot back, still not looking at him.

"Okay." Confused, Harry's stomach turned over, and he averted his eyes. He swallowed and murmured, "I'm sorry."

Ginny turned to face him, furrowed her brow, and said, "What?" Harry looked around at her, confused. "Did you say something?" she inquired, searching his eyes. "Sorry... I wasn't paying attention."

"Oh." Harry's stomach stopped churning and dropped. "No. Just... talking to myself." He tried to smile at her, although he knew the look was strangled.

"All right," she returned, grinning, before turning her eyes back to the path.

)()()(

He found her in the darkest, dustiest corner of the school library, a haunt he should have checked long before then. Her chair was turned parallel to the table, and she leaned her head back against the bookshelf she had pushed it against, eyes closed. She was not dozing, however. She was listening.

Draco walked toward her slowly, watching the half-hearted glow of the sconces flicker over the books, both open and unopened, that were scattered on the table, shine on the silver rings she wore on her left hand, and illuminate her hollow face. His stomach churned, although he wasn't certain as to why.

He pulled out the chair opposite hers--the noise it made as the legs scraped against the library floor was ear-shattering--and sat down.

Draco swallowed and inquired, "Did you ever look up that quote?" She didn't react. "By Byron," he added.

Holly's eyes opened, but she stared straight ahead and down the row of books rather than in Draco's direction. "Who loves, raves--tis youth's phrenzy; but the cure," she paused dramatically, finally turning her gaze to him, "is bitterer still." The expression she wore was foreboding.

Draco smiled despite himself. "You've been avoiding me," he noted, in a serious tone.

"This is true," she confirmed, removing her hand from the desktop and laying it in her lap. She gazed at him unfalteringly.

Holly had not come by Draco's dormitory for days and daysl. She had not made an effort to speak with him in any other locations, either. Whenever Draco had sought her out or made to catch up with her, it was as though she had evaporated. All her typical stomping grounds and retreats were abandoned, no matter the time.

He had long since run out of options. And still, Draco found himself wandering about the castle now and then, never looking, but always sensing and hoping for her presence... subconsciously.

Draco felt strangely nervous. "You never stopped back that night," he stated, thinking back to the unfortunate evening when he had kissed her.

"Oh, quite to the contrary," she enunciated dramatically, eyes widening momentarily. Sarcasm, a tool Draco was quite fond of when casting about for something humorous to say, was very unsettling coming from Holly in this instance. In a mutter she explained, "You appeared busy."

Oh, Jesus. "What?"

Apparently the word or the tone he applied to it was not what Holly wanted to hear. Without touching the books spread across the table, Holly took to her feet abruptly and walked down the aisle and out of sight.

Reflexes momentarily slowed due to the cold, hard something that had wrapped itself about Draco's middle and was cinching more and more tightly by the second, it took Draco a juncture to react. When it hit him what was going on, he sprung to his feet and dashed after her.

Madam Pince shouted something at Draco when he rushed past her circular desk, but he ignored her. He bolted through the double-doors, which were always propped open as if to appear enticing to passing students, and skidded to a stop in the dim corridor beyond, looking around for a sign of the girl.

He just caught sight of the ends of raven hair as she turned a corner some meters away. Draco went after her, and he caught up sooner than he expected. Holly was merely walking from him.

"Holly." Draco reached out and wrapped his fingers around her upper arm, feeling all the muscles there harden immediately as she made to pull away. "Holly, stop." She did, turning sharply to look at him. The expression she wore was difficult to read, but involved a wrinkled nose, a furrowed brow, and parted lips. She twitched, and her gaze moved to Draco's hand on her arm. He released her, and she looked back into his eyes.

"Yes?" she prompted, her tone of expectancy almost mocking.

"I don't know how to explain." This was, for once, an absolute truth. Besides not possessing the knowledge of what, exactly, Holly had seen or heard, Draco did not know what to divulge and what to keep quiet. He did not know what she would believe, what she would dismiss, what would set her off... he had no proper gauge of her feelings whatsoever, he realized. It was the first time, Draco later thought, that he was completely without a plan to adhere to.

"You don't need to," came her flesh-slicing reply. She started walking again, hands buried deep into the pocket of her pullover. Draco hurried to keep up with her. "I explained it to myself," she added proudly.

What? This time, he didn't say it aloud. Swallowing, he told her, "I'm sorry," doing everything possible to erase his drawl on the occasion. It was all he could think of to say.

"I'm not," she replied, in a key mocking brightness.

"You're not sorry?" Anything--anything to get her to reveal what she had seen...

Holly's face twisted into something that may have been a smile. Or not. "No. I'm better off."

"Look, I--" no, that statement wasn't going anywhere. "You have to understand something."

"Oh, is there something I'm missing?" she inquired sardonically, throwing him a sideways look. "Some detail I have yet to pick up? I know all I ever needed to, Malfoy."

He inquired, "Do you?" adding a splash of doubt to the words.

"You kissed me," she spat. The words, which took obvious effort, appeared to have caused her physical discomfort.

"Trust me," he responded, "I haven't forgotten."

"Of course you haven't." She shook her head, eyes trained on the corridor ahead. "You asked me to come back, and although every force of nature disagreed, I did." Suddenly, Draco was quite certain he had an upset stomach. "Couldn't you have waited? Just not do it, that one night? You could have at least locked the fucking DOOR!"

Draco wasn't sure what point it was that Holly had started to yell, but she had.

"And you lied to me! Pansy Parksinson?! Pansy Parkinson?!" Holly's face was reddening, and her motions were becoming steadily more jerky and arbitrary. Draco half-feared that she might hit him accidentally. Next he thought she might hit him on purpose, too.

He decided to answer, "I know," although there were floods of words he could have used in their place.

"What is it, Malfoy, that draws you to her over me? Is it her additional experience? Her wiry little frame? Will she dote upon you when I tell you you're being an insufferable little bastard? Maybe it's just her smooshed up little pug nose!" Holly cocked her head to the side in a tense moment of silence before bursting, "TELL ME!" She turned to face Draco, placed her palms on his chest, and shoved him. "TELL ME!"

"I never chose Pansy over you," he said softly.

Holly shrieked like a banshee, tangling her long fingers in her uncombed mane. Startled, Draco took a step backward, heart hammering. "You were having sex with her!"

"I KNOW!" For as much yelling as Holly did, the look that crossed her face when Draco shouted told him that it was rare for someone to yell back. "It meant nothing."

"NOTHING?!" she shrieked, bending slightly at the middle. "Nothing?! If fucking Pansy meant nothing to you, I can only imagine how much emotion went into kissing me!" she exclaimed, struggling to inject sarcasm into her voice, which shook.

He snarled, "You don't understand."

"Then, EXPLAIN AWAY, Draco Malfoy!" she commanded, throwing her hands into the air. She pushed him again and repeated, "Explain!"

Struck mute, Draco said nothing. He watched Holly quiver angrily, eyes shining with tears, and was overtaken by the sudden urge to reach out to her, invite her into an embrace. He would wipe her tears away as they splashed onto her cheeks and drop kisses on her contorting lips until she relaxed and her crying stopped...

Draco jolted, and reality crashed down on him.

"I like you, okay?" she said, fighting with her cracking voice. "I really fucking like you." She bared her teeth in a half-hysterical smile, raising her arms as if to showcase herself. "And I'm sorry, but I think you led me on a little."

She fell silent, and Draco took note of her breathing, which had grown ragged in a pattern reminiscent of sobbing. But crying she was not.

"No," he said, shaking his head a little.

"No?" she repeated dangerously.

"I--" again, Draco decided against saying what he was thinking. "No."

"So the pet names, the gifts, the dancing, the dating, and the kissing weren't meant to lead me to believe that you were a little interested?" Holly inferred, visibly trembling.

Draco elected not to answer.

"Maybe," she suggested, the tears that had for so long been gathering in her eyes finally starting to slip down her cheeks, "you should rethink the life you lead."

"Oh? This is your expert opinion?"

"Yes, Draco!" hesitantly exclaimed Holly, looking wounded by the sharp edge of what he said.

"How would you know anything of the life I lead?!" he shot back at her, matching the rise in her voice.

"I'VE BEEN HURT BY IT!" she roared, finally losing control. Her words echoed all up and down the corridor; Draco even thought he saw the torchlight from the sconces flicker under their force.

He took a deep breath and bellowed back, "HAVE YOU REALLY?" barbing his words with mockery.

"YES!" she yelped, looking, amongst other things, offended at him doubting his own ability to wound her. "YES! AND I'M SURE I'M NOT THE ONLY ONE!"

"WHAT, HAVE YOU ASKED AROUND?"

"NO!" The tears were really splashing down her cheeks now, and her hands shook as she raised them to her temples. "Never!" she sobbed.

"Then for you and any other witch I may have injured in my dealings," he growled belligerently, "here's your chance to hurt me right back!" Draco planted his feet and spread his arms wide, examining the look of disbelief that passed over her face. "Beat me, jinx me, whatever you please!" he cried, shaking his hands to illustrate the offer, "Then let me die by inches if I break your poor little heart again."

Holly stared at him, lips parted and quivering. She wiped her cheeks on the edges of her sleeves nervously, and a tear immediately began gliding down her cheek as she lowered her hands. The air had grown suffocatingly tight all around him, but Draco anticipated his punishment with near-excitement... anything had to be better than standing there, arms wide open, and watching the girl cry.

A look of resoluteness found its way into her eyes as Holly did what she could to regain composure--closing her mouth, setting her shoulders, and batting away more tears. With her jaw clenched and brow furrowed, Draco was almost certain that she was about to stomp up to him, grab him roughly by the hair, and pound his head into the stone wall.

Then, Holly turned and walked away, clutching instinctively at her throat.

His ill temper fading with the tautness of the air around him, Draco lowered his arms and watched her disappear on the grand staircase. He felt positively queasy and, without commanding it to, his body descended onto the floor. Draco laid against the tiled floor on his back, covering his eyes with the heels of his hands. He used what willpower he had left to battle the urge to pull out his hair.