One Wild Night

One Wild Night

***

Harry

Harry was not a good dancer. This had been brought forcibly home to him when Parvati Patil, remembering how he'd sat out during the Yule Ball in fourth year and with the greater part of a pint of vodka inside her, hauled him onto the dance floor and forced him to join in with the Dionysian frenzy of his classmates.

He hadn't really resisted, and the fact that Hermione and Ron were snogging wildly had somewhat weakened his argument that he needed to stay and keep them company, but he felt somewhat uncomfortable with the whole dancing situation, in fact, and as soon as the song finished he made his excuses and wove over to the bar.

The bar was lined with morose Slytherins.

Harry changed direction, and found his way back to where Ron and Hermione, who'd separated, presumably due to oxygen deprivation, were still sitting. Hermione smiled a brittle, flushed smile at him.

'Having fun, Harry?' she enquired, a shade anxiously. Harry stared at her for a second, then at Ron, whose freckled face was slowly turning red, and realised suddenly that they were embarrassed. He sat down, grinning internally whilst letting them stew for a bit.

'Yeah,' he said non-committally. Hermione and Ron exchanged a glance. Harry bit his lip, desperately wanting to laugh at this awkwardness.

'Look, mate,' began Ron uncertainly, 'you don't . . . mind, do you? About, well, me and Hermione?'

Harry couldn't help it any longer. He burst out laughing. Ron regarded him in consternation. Hermione frowned slightly. Harry subsided.

'Of course I don't mind, you prat,' he said warmly, thumping Ron on the shoulder. 'Look, I'm fine with it, honestly,' he added when he saw Hermione's doubtful look. 'You two have been driving me insane lately.'

'What do you mean?' asked Hermione, frowning again.

'What he means,' said Dean Thomas, dropping into the chair next to Harry with a glass of some miscellaneous alcohol in his hand, 'is that you two so obviously fancy each other that you're driving the entire sixth year insane. He,' and he pointed at Ron, 'has not shut up about you-' he indicated Hermione, '- since the end of fifth year.' Hermione looked taken aback. 'And she,' and he fixed Ron with a slightly glassy stare and nodded in the direction of Hermione, '-has been paying more attention to you than to her books. You have supplanted the books, my friend. Consider yourself a lucky man. Even Viktor Krum had to share first place with the library. So start snogging, please, and put us out of our misery.

'They already have,' said Harry with a grin. 'Come on Dean. I want another drink.'

The expressions on Ron and Hermione's faces clearly stated that they had some talking to do. Harry tactfully got up and grabbed Dean's shoulder, steering him to the bar. Harry felt that with the backup afforded by the tipsy Dean he could probably brave the gaggle of Slytherins, even if the Firewhiskey he'd already had had made him feel slightly fragile. He dreaded to think of the headache he'd have tomorrow.

***

Draco

On the other side of the dance floor, lounging with the aristocratic grace he considered his birthright, Draco Malfoy was getting very, very drunk. He watched his peers with a speculative eye, sizing each one up as they wandered past. There was Potter, ambling towards the bar, oh, no, changing direction now. Draco smirked. The imposing line-up of Crabbe, Goyle, Millicent Bulstrode and Blaise Zabini must have put him off somewhat. Typical Potter; not brave enough to take on Slytherins without his posse. Draco tilted his head slightly, considering the retreating back of Potter. Now that he'd filled out a bit, he wasn't half bad looking. Draco wondered if Potter would dance again, later on. He himself considered dancing to be altogether too much exertion to be worth doing, and he left the activity to those more inclined to it. And those who had more coordination than he seemed to be able to muster. That did not exclude him, however, from watching other people dancing. He'd watched Potter dancing with Patil earlier on, and considered that the Gryffindor boy really needed to loosen up. When he realised that he was in fact contemplating Harry Potter's backside with less-than-platonic and non-hatred-motivated intentions, he quickly shifted his gaze to the other side of the club, only to find that he was now apparently ogling the sight of the repulsive Weasley with his tongue down that Mudblood Granger's throat. Draco sighed, closed his eyes in the hopes that this would stop the sight of Potter wandering all through his subconscious, and concentrated on the music instead.

Now that the drink had been flowing for a while, the current fad for Muggle music was compounded by the nostalgia that seemed to attack the Muggle-born kids; most of the songs that had been playing for the last half hour were Muggle rock songs; anything that could be shouted at the top of your lungs to the accompaniment of everyone who was still upright jumping up and down. As most of the people only really knew half of the chorus of each song anyway, the effect was rather erratic. The current song was one Draco didn't know, but it had a good beat, and galvanised him into getting up. Maybe he could make Potter loosen up. He happened to be a superb dancer. Now if he could just work out which foot was which . . .

He spotted Potter heading into the bathroom.

It's a hot night, the natives are restless
We're sweating by the light of the moon
There's a voodoo mojo brewing at the go-go
That could knock a witch off her broom

Draco rolled his eyes. So many Muggle songs talked about magic . . . they had no idea what magic really was. Ignorant, the lot of them. He stumbled towards the bathroom, then reviewed his movements and found them less that satisfactory. He was Draco Malfoy, and dignity must be retained, levels of blood alcohol notwithstanding. He resolved to keep a tighter rein on his motor function. As if he'd meant to do so, he leant against the wall next to the bathroom door, waiting for the emergence of Potter, and listened to the song.

One wild night, blinded by the moonlight
One wild night, 24 hours of midnight
One wild night, I stepped into the twilight zone
And she left my heart with vertigo
One wild, one wild, one wild, one wild night

Havin' as much fun as you can in your clothes
Margarita had me feelin' alright
It just might be that I found religion
I've been on my knees for half of the night
Then I'm rolling the bones with Jimmy 'No Dice'
Gonna take him for a couple weeks' pay
Man, if you lose this roll I take your girlfriend home
So I stopped
But you're not gonna believe who comes walking out

On that cue, out came Potter. He spotted Draco, and tensed. Draco rolled his eyes.

'Want to dance, Potter?' he drawled.

Potter looked around wildly, scouting for escape routes, or to see if he was about to be surrounded by Slytherins and hexed into oblivion. Seeing neither freedom nor impending doom, he was forced to answer the question.

'No thanks, Malfoy,' he said coolly. 'I'm not much of a dancer.'

'Ah, but I am, Potter, and therein lies your salvation. Come on.' Draco grasped Potter's wrist and started hauling him towards the dance floor. Potter stood his ground.

'Don't be stupid, Malfoy. I'm not going to dance with you.'

'But think what you're missing out on, Potter. There are girls who would chew their own limbs off to be accorded this honour.'

'Then why aren't you dancing with them?'

'Because the missing limbs are a bit of a turn-off.'

'Oh, and something about me is a turn-on?'

'Entirely, Potter. Celebrity status will make up for a lot of deficiencies. And I would so like to be Witch Weekly's Bride of the Year.' Draco made another attempt to hijack the Gryffindor.

'Malfoy . . . '

'Come on Potter, one dance and I might not hex your underthings.'

'You are not getting anywhere near my underthings,' Potter yelped as he allowed himself to be dragged onto the dance floor.

One wild night, blinded by the moonlight
One wild night, 24 hours of midnight
One wild night, I stepped into the twilight zone
And she left my heart with vertigo
One wild night, hey, c'est la vie
One wild night, welcome to the party
One wild night, life is for the living so
You gotta live it up, come on let's go
One wild, one wild, one wild, one wild night

***

Neville

Dancing appeared to be the order of the day, or night, and Neville had surrendered to the beat, and more directly to the importuning of Lavender Brown, whom he suspected of not actually having a clue who she was dancing with. Neville himself had not indulged in alcohol, reasoning that he didn't want to impair his already stunted motor skills any further, and that there would need to be at least one sober Gryffindor left to shepherd the rest home. Neville felt keenly the responsibility of being apparently the only Gryffindor with any measure of self-control, especially seeing as Hermione Granger, whom he had always seen as rather a kindred spirit in the sensibility stakes, was currently being not-very-sensible at all. Neville felt slightly adrift at this sudden behavioural change; he valued predictability, which was possibly the reason for his abysmal Potions marks, as Potions was not the most stable of subjects, and could also probably explain his excellent Herbology marks; plants being organisms you could reliably set, if not a clock then at least a seasonal tribal calendar by.

Anyway, valuable as this self-analysis no doubt was, Neville felt that he should probably focus more attention on his dancing. The occasional winces and expressions of pain on Lavender's face backed this up.

***

Pansy

The Slytherins were people-watching again, or at least people-mocking.

'Christ, look at Longbottom,' said Pansy suddenly, with a whinnying laugh that reminded the less charitable of her peers of a thoroughbred mare seeing her manger being filled. 'Do you think he practises that expression in front of a mirror, or is it natural?'

'I think it's Brown we need to worry more about,' said Blaise Zabini, with an expression of acute disbelief. 'She may need to see Madam Pomfrey after this song's finished. I don't think any of the bones in her feet will survive-' the entire group winced as Neville landed on her foot again '-unbroken. Anyone remember how many bones there are in feet?'

'Who cares? Oh, the song's ended. Dear me, look at that limp . . . '

'Aww, look at Longbottom . . . where's he going? Heading over to . . . move Goyle, how am I supposed to see past your fat head . . . ah, is that a Weasley? It's the Weasley girl, what's-her-face . . . awful name-'

'Ginny,'

'That's it. She's comforting the Squib.'

'He's not a Squib, exactly. Not even a Squib could be that bad at magic. At least they can't do any at all. It takes a special kind of negative talent to be as bad at magic as he is.'

'Has there ever been an entire Potions lesson without him making his cauldron explode?'

'One, I think. Of course, he was in the Infirmary at the time.'

'Why? Too many fragments of cauldron embedded in that thick head of his?'

'Sssh, he'll hear you. And then he'll set the Devil's Snare on you again.'

'How can he be so good with that blasted plant? It's an evil plant! It should be on our side!'

'We don't need plants on our side. Plants are boring. And Longbottom can't even light a candle without his wand exploding. I think we can ignore his affinity with plants and just declare him an all-round failure right now.'

'Good idea. Motion seconded.'

'Anyone see where Brown went?'

'She looked pretty sloshed. Any chances of gossip-worthy indiscretions?'

'She's heading towards Finnigan . . . you know, the boy with the accent.'

'Oh, him. We can probably rule out the indiscretions then. Do you know how long it's been since he brushed his hair?'

'Counting the days are we Pansy? You stalker.'

'Shut up Bulstrode, bitch.'

'Slag.'

'Whore.'

'Ladies, please, calm down.' Zabini spread his hands in a placatory manner.

'Oh, bugger off Zabini. You're no fun anyway.'

***

Dennis

Dennis Creevey, brother of Colin, had big dreams. Big dreams of showbusiness, which had their roots here in the club underneath the Three Broomsticks. He stood backstage in the women's changing rooms, nervously tugging at his outfit, hoping he wouldn't look too stupid on stage. Lee Jordan, who was tonight's DJ, came backstage to make sure Dennis was ready.

'You still sure you want to do this?' asked Lee concernedly. Dennis nodded fervently. 'I mean, they're going to mock you senseless, mate.' Lee added.

Dennis shrugged. 'They might. But I'm sure I'll be fine. Now, no-one knows a thing, right?'

'No-one but you, me and Madam Rosmerta. You're a complete surprise,' Lee affirmed. 'Ready then?' Dennis nodded again, and smoothed his outfit. Lee sauntered off to the sound system, turning and winking at Dennis as he did so. No-one really noticed; they were all pretty involved in dancing.

The music stopped, and people looked around disappointedly. Lee picked up a microphone.

'Aaaand now, the first part of tonight's live entertainment . . .'

The students started looking more interested. They hadn't known there was going to be 'live entertainment'. Dennis straightened up expectantly.

'I present to you . . . Miss Anni-Frid Lyngstad!'

There was general puzzlement. Dennis, sensing the moment was right, sashayed through the curtains onto the stage.

A hush fell over the basement. Lee started the music. Dennis . . . sang.

'I've been cheated by you since I don't know when

So I made up my mind, it must come to an end

Look at me now, will I ever learn?

I don't know how but I suddenly lose control

There's a fire within my soul

Just one look and I can hear a bell ring

One more look and I forget everything, o-o-o-oh'

Dennis could tell his dance routine was going down well.

'Mamma mia, here I go again

My my, how can I resist you?

Mamma mia, does it show again?

My my, just how much I've missed you

Yes, I've been brokenhearted

Blue since the day we parted

Why, why did I ever let you go?

Mamma mia, now I really know,

My my, I could never let you go.'

He hadn't realized just how well it would go down though; most of the audience was singing along. Luna Lovegood was waving, trying to catch his attention. She made her way up to the side of the stage and whispered something to Lee, who grinned, grabbed her by the arm and swung her up on stage. She made her way to Dennis's side, and joined in.

'I've been angry and sad about the things that you do

I can't count all the times that I've told you we're through

And when you go, when you slam the door

I think you know that you won't be away too long

You know that I'm not that strong.

Just one look and I can hear a bell ring

One more look and I forget everything, o-o-o-oh'

More people suddenly became inspired, it seemed, and the bewildered Dennis found himself joined by Cho Chang, her friend Marietta, Susan Bones, and, most worryingly, Zacharias Smith, who probably exhibited the most feminine shimmy of the entire line-up. Dennis grinned. This was fun!

'Mamma mia, here I go again

My my, how can I resist you?

Mamma mia, does it show again?

My my, just how much I've missed you

Yes, I've been brokenhearted

Blue since the day we parted

Why, why did I ever let you go?

Mamma mia, even if I say

Bye bye, leave me now or never

mamma mia, it's a game we play

Bye bye doesn't mean forever'

The little chorus line jumped off the stage, and moved through the crowd. Dennis no longer knew quite what he was doing; adrenalin swept him up and kept him moving. Everybody in the club appeared to be singing along.

'Mamma mia, here I go again

My my, how can I resist you?

Mamma mia, does it show again?

My my, just how much I've missed you

Yes, I've been brokenhearted

Blue since the day we parted

Why, why did I ever let you go

Mamma mia, now I really know

My my, I could never let you go'

The performance ended in laughter and disarray. Dennis found himself clapped on the back many times. The only disappointment in the entire evening was when he retired backstage to change, and discovered a run in his stockings.

***

Michael

Michael Corner was a drummer. This was one of the defining new facets of his life. He'd played a bit as a kid, and had returned to it after the whole 'Ginny Weasley' debacle. He thanked her, and the circumstances, for returning him to his first love. Really, really, really loud music. He'd lost count of the number of bass drum skins he'd gone through already. Together with Ernie Macmillan, probably the world's most unlikely candidate for lead guitarist, but who'd turned out to be somewhat of a Cobain wannabe, and Terry Boot, who dabbled in bass, he'd surreptitiously signed up for one of tonight's live performance spots.

There was one problem. None of them could sing. At all. Not for lack of trying, it must be understood, because they did try, repeatedly, and often had concussion from the objects hurled at them during their limited practice hours in the DADA classroom. They needed a vocalist, and fast. Somehow tonight had crept up on them, and none of the three had actually got round to asking someone to sing for them. And after that stunning, and rather surreal performance by Dennis Creevey, they desperately, desperately needed someone to sing.

Terry lugged an amp onto the stage, and pushed his fringe out of his face. 'Come on guys, think,' he urged. 'There has to be someone.'

He'd been saying this for the past half an hour. Michael decided it was time for action. He paused while adjusting the wing-nuts holding his high-hat together.

'Look, Ernie, slip out into the crowd,' he said. 'Find the first person you can who's humming reasonably in tune and drag them back here. I don't care if you have to use the Body-Bind curse on them, just get us someone.'

Ernie put down his beloved guitar, and did as instructed.

He returned five minutes later, trailing a miraculously un-Body-Bound Justin Finch-Fletchley.

Terry nearly dropped a cymbal on his foot.

'Justin?' he asked.

'Can you sing?' Michael asked, thinking this was the most important issue.

'Yes,' said Justin primly. 'Of course I can. Part of the reason Mother had me down for Eton was my singing. They do have a choir.'

Michael stared at Ernie, and mouthed 'Choir?' at him. Ernie shuffled over.

'He's the only one I could find,' the guitarist hissed. 'Sorry. It was him or Dennis, and Dennis is still trying to get out of his dress, and didn't look like he wanted to be disturbed, I think the eyelashes are giving him trouble and his stockings are laddered really badly but I didn't like to say anything-'

'It's fine, Ernie,' said Michael soothingly to the babbling guitarist, and then to Justin; 'Do you know a song called 'Smells like Teen Spirit'?'

'Yes,' said Justin, breaking into one of his rare grins. 'Why, is that what you want to play?'

'We were considering it, yes,' said Michael, smiling nervously while thinking 'Christ, what is this going to sound like? A choirboy singing Nirvana?'

Just then, Lee stuck his head behind the curtain. 'Come on guys, one minute till curtain. You nearly done?'

'Nearly there. You can start,' said Terry, plugging his bass in. Michael picked up his sticks and settled behind the kit.

'Mic's over there,' he said, pointing a stick at the microphone stand. Justin took the microphone out of the stand, and took centre stage. Ernie joined him. They could hear Lee's voice:

'And now for the second part of tonight's live entertainment, I'm proud to present . . . the Hecateens!'

Ernie started off.

All three musicians were tensed, anxious about what Justin's voice would sound like.

'Load up on guns and bring your friends

It's fun to lose and to pretend

She's overboard and self assured

Oh no, I know a dirty word'

They needn't have worried. Apparently Eton liked gravel-voiced choirboys. Justin's singing voice was quite a surprise, actually. It completely clashed with his usual soft, posh voice and carefully polite mannerisms. Michael made a mental note to have a word with him about growing his hair. Nothing said 'grunge musician' like chin-length hair. He wasn't sure how Professor Sprout would react to it, but at least Justin's Head of House wasn't McGonagall. Michael was rather convinced that she wouldn't have much truck with long hair on one of her students. Her persecution of the dreadlocked Lee Jordan was a case in point.

'Hello, hello, hello, how low?

Hello, hello, hello, how low?

Hello, hello, hello, how low?

Hello, hello, hello

With the lights out, it's less dangerous

Here we are now, entertain us

I feel stupid and contagious

Here we are now, entertain us

A mulatto

An albino

A mosquito

My libido

Yeah.'

The dance floor had been turned into a mosh pit. It was insane, Michael thought, the reaction wizard kids had to Muggle rock music. This couldn't possibly be normal. Any minute now he had the feeling something was going to get trashed, and the best bit was that he didn't give a damn. It seemed like something getting trashed was completely natural and the right thing to happen, and how about smashing the drum kit after they were finished the song? Maybe the guitars too?

'I'm worse at what I do best

And for this gift I feel blessed

Our little group has always been

And always will until the end'

Everyone was up and jumping for the chorus. Justin prowled around the stage like a tiger on acid, Eddie's guitar was on fire, and there were what looked like . . . knickers? on the stage.

People were throwing knickers at them. Michael was taken aback.

'And I forget
Just why I taste
Oh yeah, I guess it makes me smile
I found it hard
It was hard to find
Oh well, whatever, never mind'

Justin was in his element. Definitely ask him to stay on; Michael's brain prompted him as the final chorus rolled round. As Justin took a deep breath, Michael suddenly missed the sound of the bass. He turned slightly, his movement hampered by the need to keep hitting the drums, but he distinctly saw Terry put down his bass. Michael groaned. They'd never quite cured Terry of the tendency to stage-dive, something that is often fatal in amateur musicians playing to small audiences. Michael watched as Ernie surreptitiously tried to head Terry off. Not working. Oh well. At least this crowd was thick enough that he should get away with only light bruising.

Yep. Here he goes, thought Michael, and watched, helpless, as his bassist took a running leap off the stage, only to land on the outstretched arms, shoulders and heads of his audience. Justin, over whose shoulder Terry had leapt, was naturally shaken, but recovered well, and actually managed to fish Terry back up onto the stage when the audience started to groan under the weight. His singing was slightly breathless after that.

'With the lights out it's less dangerous
Here we are now
Entertain us
I feel stupid and contagious
Here we are now
Entertain us
A mulatto
An albino
A mosquito
My libido
Yeah, a denial
A denial

A denial

A denial

A denial

A denial

A denial

A denial

A denial . . .'

Justin growled the final line into the microphone as the guitar squealed to a halt. The roar of the audience was deafening. The band stepped back as the curtains came down again. Ernie and Michael didn't even have to say anything, just stare pointedly at Terry, who blushed and looked down.

'Sorry guys.' He looked so repentant that Michael decided to let it go, and turned to the vocalist instead.

'Nice, Justin,' he said, getting out from behind the kit and wincing at the pain in his shin from the kick-pedal of the bass drum. 'Very nice.'

Justin grinned, then remembered himself. His entire posture changed, and when he spoke, his voice was back to its gentle, well-bred tones. 'Thank you,' he said graciously, and started to move off the stage.

Michael dropped a hand on his shoulder. 'Hang on,' he said. Justin turned.

'Yes?'

'I'd, that is, we'd,' Michael looked to Terry and Ernie for confirmation, 'really like you to stay on. We need a good vocalist, and you were really great out there.'

Justin appeared to consider this for a moment, and then suddenly nodded. 'When's band practice?' he asked.

'Whenever we can make it,' said Ernie. 'And I hope you're better at silencing charms than we are, because the audience don't always offer this much support.' And he glared at Terry again.

***

Lavender

Lavender had long ago lost track of how much she'd had to drink, and to be quite honest she didn't give a damn. She was having too much fun to be counting drinks. And besides, her horoscope in the Prophet this morning said:

'Something nice will happen today. Steer clear of Murtlaps. An artistic opportunity will present itself.'

And she was having a brilliant time and hadn't seen any Murtlaps today, and just to prove the whole horoscope right, here was her artistic opportunity. Professor Trelawney was going to be so proud of her.

Seamus Finnigan had finally succeeded in his long-term ambition to transfigure water into rum. He was so successful, in fact, that he was now comatose on the dance floor, having been lured out there by Lavender, and promptly collapsed after the band had finished. Lavender dragged him back to the bar and propped him up on a stool, hoping that proximity to more rum would awaken him. When it didn't, she started feeling around in her pockets in the hopes that she had something that would wake him up, smelling salts perhaps, she vaguely remembered her granny having smelling salts in her handbag, and knew they had something to do with fainting.

She had no smelling salts.

However, she did have something else. With an expression of triumph, she produced a Muggle felt-tip pen. Her artistic opportunity had arrived.

Several minutes later, Padma Patil wandered over to the bar, only to find Lavender, with an expression of extreme concentration on her face, putting the finishing touches onto a stunningly luxuriant moustache on an apparently unconscious Seamus Finnigan's face.

'Can I have a go?' Padma asked.

***

Ron

Ron was, proverbially, an over-protective brother. The 'quiet talk' he'd given Dean Thomas after discovering that he was seeing Ginny was Gryffindor House legend. And Dean had looked so traumatised afterwards; staggering out of the dormitory (tripping over the five people who'd been sent by their own dorm mates to listen at the keyhole and then report back) and muttering things like 'baseball bats . . . ', that everyone expected him to be the most faithful, attentive swain in the school.

Nevertheless, here was said Dean Thomas, in the middle of the dance floor, snogging Parvati Patil.

Slowly, the dancers around them noticed, and stopped dancing to stare. The cessation of movement expanded out around the couple like ripples in a pond, and the talking, shouting and singing along stopped as well, until simultaneously, three very involved couples noticed what was going on.

Detecting the lack of noise (even the DJ, Lee Jordan, had turned the music off in shock) Ron pulled away from Hermione, and surveyed the dance floor.

Harry and Draco, who had been dancing quite energetically, stopped when the music did. As Draco had been almost mid-air when this happened, this meant that Harry had to grab him to prevent him overbalancing and falling on top of Susan Bones and the three pints she was trying to avoid spilling. This close proximity was the subject of several graphic rumours that circulated through the school for about two weeks afterwards.

And Dean and Parvati noticed all the attention, and stopped as well.

Ron's face was about the same colour as his hair, and with the same sheen. He looked like he was about to have a hernia. Storming across the floor, trailing an anxious Hermione, he scared Dean shitless.

'Look, Ron mate, I'm-'

Ron didn't even bother to say anything. He just grabbed Dean by the collar, anger lending him strength that ordinarily he wouldn't have possessed. Dean blanched. Hermione tried reason.

'Ron, please just put him down. It's not worth it.'

Ginny joined in. She'd spotted the furore from the bar, and, flanked by Neville, had joined the group. 'Ron, honestly, leave it. I'll deal with this myself.' She scowled at Dean, who winced. 'I don't need the over-protective brother act right now, please?'

Harry had abandoned Draco on the dance floor. He steamed over, and put a hand on Ron's shoulder. 'Ron,' he said warningly. Ron rolled his eyes and let go of Dean.

'Fine,' he said. 'There, I've put him down. Everyone happy? So back off.' His expression was so furious that everyone did as instructed. He smiled grimly. 'Good.' Then he punched Dean. Dean fell to the floor, taken completely by surprise. Ron descended upon him, smacking seven bells of hell out of his dorm mate.

Chaos ensued. Harry leapt after Ron, trying to pull him away. Ginny and Hermione stood and watched in horror, while Madam Rosmerta, seeing the fight begin, bustled over from the bar. Most surprising was Neville's reaction. He joined Ron in the 'beating-up-Dean-Thomas' main event.

As fists flew and the tangle of Ron, Dean, Neville grew more involved, Harry eventually realised he couldn't do a thing, and backed off a little. As the other three boys rolled around on the dance floor, each seeking an opening, they inevitably collided with other students, who depending on their level of drunkenness, either protested or joined in. The fight grew bigger, and bigger.

'You stupid cow, look where you're going!' Pansy Parkinson spat at Millicent Bulstrode, who'd stepped backwards to avoid Cho Chang and Zacharias Smith, right into Pansy.

Not noticing this, Zacharias slapped Cho. Cho retaliated with a fist to the gut, which overbalanced Zacharias and sent him barrelling into Millicent, who in turn collided with Pansy, who squealed and kicked Millicent in the knee-cap.

And then chaos, as it so often does, ensued.

***

Epilogue: Colin

It had definitely been an interesting evening, Colin Creevey mused whilst in his tiny dungeon darkroom a week later. He was busily developing his photos from the evening, and enlarging some of them for easier display.

There had, of course, been several surprising matters arising from events; Ginny dating Neville was quite a shocker, everyone agreed. They'd announced that little bombshell after lunch today. Colin considered that quite shrewd thinking on the part of the happy couple; it meant that Neville and Ron were together in a public place; their classes, for several hours; giving Ron enough time to calm down and get used to the idea without allowing him enough time alone with Neville to actually commit murder, or worse, have one of his 'talks'.

Another romance ended with Dean Thomas and Parvati Patil's extremely public row and the subsequent break-up; it turned out they'd been carrying out quite a clandestine little affair right under everyone's noses without anyone being any the wiser, and this was astonishing given the ability to ferret out gossip that some of the sixth year had. Colin, of course, had actually had photographic proof of this for several months, but felt it incumbent upon him to keep their secret. His art was for posterity, after all, not to fuel sordid tittle-tattle. The photo boards he was planning for the last day of seventh year, however, should be quite entertaining.

One photo he particularly treasured, and was looking forward to displaying prominently on said photo boards, was the one of Harry awakening in the Great Hall the morning after that wild night, in a grass skirt, a lei and a couple of coconuts that would have been placed quite strategically had he been female. It turned out that Draco Malfoy's interest in him that evening had not been entirely platonic.

OK, well nobody had actually thought for a minute that it was platonic, but seeing the close proximity in which they'd danced, everyone had assumed that the non-platonic-ness was of a rather different nature, and this conclusion had surprised no-one; most of Gryffindor had definitely had doubts about which team Draco Malfoy was batting for at some time or another. Fortunately, their shock at finding the Boy Who Lived dressed in a hula outfit after a night of debauchery was somewhat mitigated by the relief that they hadn't found the Boy Who Lived deflowered by Draco Malfoy, widely acknowledged Scion of Evil and famous Bouncing Ferret. Although that might have happened; Harry had developed a distressing amnesia about that evening.

Colin hung up his prints to dry, and carefully washed his hands, then turned off the light and left, pausing only to pick up his camera. He was fully expecting Ron to have one of his famous 'talks' with Neville this evening, and wanted to be there to capture Neville's expression afterwards. The poor boy was unlikely to be able to speak for several hours later, but as Colin had discovered for himself many a time, a picture really was worth a thousand words. And in the case of special, moving, wizarding pictures, what they were worth was often an entire essay with footnotes.