The Course of True Love

'The Course of True Love'

Chapter One

I have this thing about baths. I love long, hot baths.

To be more precise, I have this thing where my most brilliant ideas are planned and plotted during my regular Friday night, hour-long soak. It doesn't really bother me that Draco oh so often takes credit for the little schemes I come up with during what I like to refer to as my 'Weekly Reflection'. I am happy to remain a humble and generous, anonymous contributor to any Gryffindor-bashing activities that Slytherin House orchestrates. Those 'Support Cedric Diggory' badges in fourth year? Me. The original lyrics to 'Weasley Is Our King'? Me. Hauling Marietta Edgecombe to Dolores Umbridge to uncover the truth about Potter's little 'Defence Club' because we could practically smell the plotting? Me. I can think of at least a dozen other specific incidences where Potter and his cronies have suffered because of my Weekly Reflections, but to name them all would be boastful. I have as much Slytherin pride as the next student, but I do claim to be a great deal more subtle than most of my Housemates.

To be honest, annoying Potter is a role that has invariably fallen to Draco over the years. And I suppose Draco does annoy Potter enough, in his own thuggish, juvenile, my daddy-your daddy sort of way. Given that Granger (smart witch, terrible dresser), is virtually impossible to rile using all the usual techniques, it eventually fell to me to make Weasley's life at Hogwarts as irritating as possible.

I do this in my spare time, of course. A girl has to have a hobby other than books, clothing and boys, you know.

In any case, the Prefects Bath at Hogwarts is a haven for the creative mind. Gryffindor humiliations aside, I often think up lovely weekend jaunts for me and my friends, plan elegant dinners out and other such things. To facilitate my Weekly Reflections, I prefer invigorating scents, like orange and rosemary. When I'm not attempting to resurrect my creative energies after a day of two-hour long advanced Charms, Arithmancy or Tranfiguration classes, I'm inclined to select something more soothing. Like lavender and sweet pea. Very nice.

Today, I'm feeling girly and celebratory. I've borrowed Millicent's passionfruit and mango bubble bath for a decadent soak that smells as good as a tropical fruit salad. My daydreams are interrupted roughly thirty minutes into my bath, however, by a knock at the door.

Thankfully for Zabini, I'm expecting him.

"Come in."

Blaise enters, already dressed in cobalt blue formal robes that have been pressed to perfection, although there is a curious bulge in his pockets (and I know for a fact that he's always happy to see me).

I suppose you might wondering if am at all embarrassed to be seen by a male student without a stitch of clothing on?

No. Not really. As it is, my girly bits hidden out of view by a thick layer of bubbles so dense you could rest a book on them. Also, like Draco, I've known Blaise since he was a pink, tubby little infant with a squashy, bald head and two chins. Unlike Draco, however, Blaise is extremely gay. When I say extremely gay, I mean he's the President of the British chapter of the Weird Sisters Fan Club, he thinks Gilderoy Lockhart was a genius to have made turquoise satin waistcoats fashionable, and has a permanent, oftentimes disabling crush on Harry Potter (a fact which is known only to Draco and myself, thank the Gods). As such, the sight of my nude body is unlikely to induce anything in Blaise, with the possible exception of mild envy.

"I come with news!" he announces, fairly glowing with the light of conspiracy.

Blaise actually comes with flowery epitaphs of love, but I promised Sebastian Reynolds of Ravenclaw that I wouldn't say anything.

"And butterbeer?" I remind him. This is another tradition I'm going to miss: Blaise bringing me drinks and gossip during my Weekly Reflections.

"Yes, yes." The cylindrical bulges in his pockets are in fact a pair of butterbeer bottles. He uncaps one and hands it to me. I accept with a soapy hand and settle back against the edge of the enormous bath, closing my eyes. We drink in contemplative silence for a few minutes.

"I'm going to miss being in Slytherin," Blaise says. I can tell from his tone that he's pouting.

I arch an eyebrow at him. "That's your news? You're a regular Sybil Trelawney."

"Silly girl," he says, rolling his blue eyes. Blaise has been saying this a lot lately, as if he's some sort of old, matronly witch with four husbands and sixteen grandchildren under his belt. "I overheard the Creevey brothers saying that Potter and Weasley have been accepted into the Auror Academy. They got their admission letters today, apparently."

"Pass me that washcloth, would you?" I ask, completely not caring. Blaise obliges.

"Evidently, the DMLE is forming some sort of professional, new unit to track down runaway Death Eaters."

I sit up with a frown, washcloth forgotten. Blaise is right. This was news. "Does Draco know yet?" Lucius Malfoy's escape from Azkaban has been in the papers for the past three months. None of us have been stupid enough to actually ask Draco if he knows where his father is, but we all have our suspicions.

Blaise shakes his head. "Don't think so. And I've already threatened the Creeveys with genital warts if they tell anyone else about that special unit thing. Apparently they only know about it because one of their midget relatives works in the Ministry Mail Room."

The news did not bode well for Draco, who was already one search warrant away from snapping entirely. He was currently convinced that his room was bugged and his Floor communications monitored. I don't doubt that he's probably correct in his assumptions.

"I'm going to have a word with father about having Draco stay with us over the summer," I propose. The last thing Draco needed was to have Potter and Weasley popping at the Manor every other week on some supposed 'lead', flashing their shiny new Auror credentials in his face.

Blaise was taking a long swig from his butterbeer. "Mmh. Good idea. But I think you forget you're going to be busy."

Sometimes I think studying so hard for the NEWTS has permanently damaged my mental functions. "Work," I recall, with a low groan. "I completely forgot."

"When's your training officially start, anyway?"

My voice sounds hopelessly grim. "Second week into the holidays."

I have no idea where exactly they're going to place me. All new Treasury recruits start with lowly administrative jobs at the Ministry proper. Nobody, no matter how well connected ever started at Gringotts in their first few months with the Vault Management Department, which was where I was aiming to end up. As to ministerial postings, I've heard horror stories from my cousins of paper cuts, bad coffee, dark, dingy little rooms with no windows and bosses with tuna breath and wandering hands.

I have long since convinced myself that the end would justify the horrid induction process.

"Here's to seven years," Blaise announces, after a time.

"Seven wonderful years," I grin in return, thinking back to the first time we looked up at the towering monolith that would be our home for the rest of our adolescence. We had been seated together in the small, charmed, row-boat as it made its way across the water. Blaise had taken hold of my hand, and in a squeaky, earnest little voice, had announced that he would tie rocks to his feet and throw himself into the lake if he got Sorted into Hufflepuff.

So many fond memories.

With more sentimentality that was befitting for seventh year Slytherins, we toast our butterbeer, and I think that I might be forgiven for feeling slightly teary eyed at the prospect of leaving this place.

I love Hogwarts like I love nothing else in our world. Well almost nothing. I've always thought that that was something undeniably magical about the art of making one Galleon multiply into two (hence my career choice).

"Panse, you're going all pruney," Blaise points to my wrinkled finger tips. "You'd better get ready or you'll miss the start of the party."

Ugh. End of the year celebrations. Or the end of an era, more like it. I don't really feel like going, but Draco would be expecting a strong, confident turn out. And as a prefect, it's my duty to attend.

Plus, it's always worthwhile to see what sort of robes Weasley turns up in. Poor, clueless sod. Sometimes, he just makes it all too easy.

**