Written for the four houses comp on HPFC. Michael Corner, friendship, endless road. Not very sure of the ending…Oh well. I had fun writing it.

Have I ever mentioned how much I love him? Because I do.

My Michael smokes. Sorry. Don't smoke kplzthanx

Of endless roads

The moonlight glints of the lake as the boy sits down. The tree above him casts a giant shadow and his friend, who has followed him out of the ancient castle, shivers as it covers them entirely.

Michael Corner, tall, handsome and at that moment incredibly afraid, leans his dark head against the bark of the beech tree with a sigh. Terry Boot (shorter, blond, just as afraid) joins him, and Padma Patil sits on the other side.

It is nineteen ninety eight and the three teenagers are completely breaking the rules, and it is exhilarating in a different way to their usual discrepancies. Normally, the rules they break are bigger; don't graffiti, don't save people. Don't think for yourself. Don't look after the younger ones, don't tell the truth, don't support good.

But just breaking curfew; that's simple. That's easy. That's a normal teenager thing to do.

Padma (who is tall and beautiful and terrified) leans her head on Michael's shoulder, and his arm slides its way around her waist as, with the other, he pulls a cigarette from his pocket.

"Do you mind?" he asks, to be polite more than anything else. The others have known him since far before he started smoking; they aren't likely to protest. He doesn't even wait for an answer. He flicks his wand at the end, which flares before settling into a more gentle orange, then glows with a steady light. Padma stares at it and allows the tiny pinprick to fill her vision; she imagines it to be a sunrise, a hope.

Michael winces, he shifts slightly and she jerks upright, an apology hovering on her lips before he shakes his head at her. Terry looks at him.

"Mike," he starts, "are you sure…"

"They beat me up, Ter, they didn't cripple me."

Terry subsides, and the confortable silence returns until he breaks it once more.

"Those things will kill you eventually," he states. Michael looks at him; even in the darkness Terry can make out his eyes rolling.

"In my eyes," says his friend, "we're going to die anyway."

He takes a defiant inhale of the cigarette, and the end flares again. Padma returns her head to its place on his shoulder; he sighs, one hand playing with the ends of her black hair.

"I'm sorry," he says finally, and Terry grins, his teeth suddenly very white in the shadow.

"It's fine. It's true. Anyway, I have no right to tell you what to do."

"You have more right than most," points out Michael darkly. He blows out a cloud of smoke and Padma breathes it in. It smells like Michael, and she nearly smiles.

"Sometimes," she says quietly, "I think that some of the moments this year have been better than…you know…" she trails off, uncertain of where she was going with the thought, but Terry is nodding in agreement.

"Yeah, I know what you mean."

There is silence once more, and the smoke curls into the clear night air. The stars are obscured for a second, then they peek through. Terry wonders if he should take it as symbolism.

"I used to see my future stretched out in front of me," says Michael, "like some long…endless road. I was going to be a Healer, remember. Like dad." His voice catches, Padma presses herself against him, hiding from the sudden chill. "And now," he continues, "there's nothing. I look ahead and…it's just…blank. You know?"

Terry is going to reprimand him for his pessimism, Michael can tell, but then he doesn't. "I know," he agrees, and that's when Michael knows that he's right. They're all going in only one direction.

"I was going to do languages," murmurs Padma. The wind is entering her bones now; she shudders. "Something in the DIC. And Parvati and Lav were going to open that shop, and I was going to get married, have kids, and we would pop in there sometimes…"

Michael doesn't miss the 'we'- he drops a kiss on the top of her head, but she shakes him off. She straightens up, her hands moving in circles as she warms to her theme.

"And they would be rich- not as rich as Potter obviously, but close-"

"And Mike would make some discovery…cure cancer or some such," interrupts Terry, and Michael laughs.

"Wouldn't that be ironic."

They all realise what he means as he gestures with the cigarette (there's not much of it left, now). The laughter returns and they have hysterics for what seems like the first time in forever, with Mike clutching at his broken ribs and Padma's hair falling into her eyes, and Terry trying to breathe desperately as he smacks his head against the old tree.

\ /
/ \

Years later (well, two or three, they haven't been counting), in an old pub in south London, a blond man (now) waits at a table in the back. It is a place with a vaguely disreputable air- it fits him perfectly. He is slightly unkempt, like the place itself, his hair just brushes his collar and he seats himself with ease. The lack of effort with which he downs his drink suggests a long history of association, and yet he looks respectable enough that this doesn't really suit him.

Terry Boot is joined at his table by another blond man, one with a strong Irish accent, a pretty brunette, a man with scruffy dark hair and brilliant green eyes, a woman with violently red hair that slides down her back like a waterfall. Her brother, just as fiery, his girlfriend, an elegant black man and his girlfriend, a beautiful woman of Indian descent. There are a lot of people around the ancient wood, but there are gaps; Fred should be sitting there, plotting, there should be Colin, with his arm around Demelza, Seamus shouldn't have an empty space next to him, it should be filled by Dean's graceful presence.

Parvati shouldn't be the only one there. Michael should be flirting with Ginny. Padma should have been reprimanding him. Anthony should look disapproving, but already be on his third shot. Blaise shouldn't be the only Slytherin (Theo would have had fun- he was always more of a Gryffindor, anyway).

As it turns out, the endless road wasn't blank for Terry Boot. But cigarettes didn't help Michael Corner on his way. Dolohov did that job well enough.