All Seamus could think was, "This is mad."

He thought it while he left Lavender at the door. He thought it while he ran past the dinner traffic. He thought it while he tripped into Alberich of Nibelungen's corridor, and he thought it while he positioned himself in a way that neither pained his leg nor allowed anyone to see him lurking while still leaving him with a mostly unobstructed view of most of the main corridor. It was all absolutely mad, but he couldn't stop himself doing it. Not that he wanted to, honestly – he was finished with being the ambushee, finished with always coming out of their encounters even more confused than before. It was his turn to ask questions.

And just then was his chance.

Either Daphne was much lighter than he'd imagined or his injuries had given him some sort of super strength, because what he intended to be a gentle tug sent her crashing against his chest. It was a wonder her books didn't fly off and hit poor old Alberich square in the jaw.

For a moment the thought that they shouldn't be touching in full view of anyone who cared to turn the corner didn't occur to either of them. She was pressed flush against him, so close he could feel her heartbeat. For an instant, anyway. Then there was a sharp blow to the soft bit just above Seamus's hip. "Did you just hit me?!"

Daphne ignored his savage whisper and hissed out her own. "What is wrong with you?"

It occurred to him how often she asked that. Every time they spoke, it felt like. She was acting like it was his fault they'd gotten pulled into their own twisted little conspiracy. Like it was his fault he'd nearly gotten the magic beaten out of him. Like it was his fault the only friends left in his life were slowly pulling away. He'd never before had a real answer for her, mostly because he was preoccupied trying to figure out what in Merlin's name she wanted. But now he did. "Nothing. What's wrong with you?"

She didn't respond.

He pressed on. "Because there's got to be something, that's sure as shite. One second you're crying your eyes out at the idea of seeing me hurt, the next you're batting your lashes at the cute hoor who got me there. Explain that to me, could you? Tell me just why you're doing whatever the hell it is you are."

It was a long time before she said anything. By the time she was through straightening up her bag and fixing her uniform, the corridor had just about cleared out. Finally, though, eyes locked on the frayed threads keeping a hold on his shirt's wonky third button, she asked, "Can we go somewhere else?"

"Not a chance in hell."

For a split second, he was sure she was going to leave. That that was the last straw, not being able to get out of Alberich's sight. But, much to his surprise, she said, "Fine." Then, much more quietly, "I'm afraid."

Seamus couldn't stop the guffaw exploding from somewhere deep inside him. "Too right! What do you have to be afraid of? The recoil from a curse ruining your hair?"

Her face fell. "No."

The tremble in her voice sobered him up. Delicately as he could, as though any verbal misstep would cause him to literally trod on her heart, he repeated, "What do you have to be afraid of?"

Her eyes darted towards the corridor. It was almost empty, but a few stragglers loitered around, talking or looking over their notes for the day. For the second time, she asked, "Can we go somewhere else?"

They ended up not having to go too far. Alberich was large enough that, if they both rested against his base, they were hidden from anyone passing by. The stone floor was freezing, but neither complained. Seamus briefly considered wrapped an arm around Daphne to keep her from shivering, but decided it inappropriate. He stuck his hands under his armpits to keep warm.

"I have a younger sister," she said to her knees. "Astoria. She's a fifth year. We almost didn't come back this year. Tracey didn't – but she's a half-blood, and the new administration thought it wasn't proper for Slytherins to be anything but the purest." For a moment he had no idea who she was talking about, but at 'half-blood' an image of a quiet, dangerously thin girl sprang to his mind. He'd hardly noticed her absence. "My parents moved us to the countryside, but they wouldn't let us stay there; Daddy has businesses to run, Mother has to go out and keep appearances up, and Astoria and I have our 'educations to think about'."

So far, Seamus didn't see a problem. Obligation to socialise with people just as well-off as she was sounded like it would be sunshine and roses, even if there weren't dozens of Muggles and Muggleborns being tortured and killed every day. But the fact that she was still staring fixedly at her own tensed knees kept him from voicing that particular opinion.

His decision to stay quiet was validated almost instantly.

"Astoria found two of our house-elves dead on the kitchen table the morning we were set to leave for the Hogwarts Express. The far wall was carved up to read 'blood traitors.'" She took a shaky breath, chanced a weak smile. "Whoever did it spelled 'traitors' wrong. I'm not sure– never mind. At the end of the first week, when I hadn't joined the Inquisitorial Squad, three dockworkers drowned while unloading a shipment for Greengrass and Co." She was silent for a while. "Daddy always used to hire Muggleborns – he said no one worked harder – but he decided it would be in everyone's best interest to let them go after the news from the Ministry came out. Apparently, that wasn't enough."

Seamus grabbed her hand. It felt incredibly fragile, small and thin, but he held tight. She was shivering. A lock of blonde hair had fallen from behind her ear and formed a barrier between her eyes and his, but it was clear that she was crying. "They told me to take care of her. Astoria. But I can't. I don't know– I can barely take care of myself, clearly, and that's with the Head Boy's help. But you're so brave." A choked laugh. "Dumb as a rock, but brave. You can do something. I can't: I can't even stand up to Pansy after seven years of trying. But you can, and you don't care, and I just want you to be able to keep not caring. I don't want them to win. I don't…" She trailed off into a series of hiccoughing little breaths.

An incredible impotence welled up inside him. "Why are you." The question was already wrong, so he started over. "I don't understand why you picked me to help. Why not Neville, or Ginny, or Michael, for Christ's sake? What can I do about any of that? You don't have to– I already know the answer. It's nothing. I can do nothing, all of fuck-all, to stop them, and you know it – fuck if everyone doesn't know it after I've been walking around with my face half beat in because I decided to mouth off to Parkinson, who, may I remind you, is, in fact, a horrible, gaping cunt."

He wasn't sure what reaction he expected. Last time he'd insulted Parkinson, he'd gotten half his face kicked in and a nice visit with Madam Pomfrey for his trouble. For all he knew, she'd hit him too. But she didn't. She laughed. A real laugh – nothing like the tired, beleaguered ha's that he sometimes heard her force out in the presence of Parksinson and Zabini. And then she laughed again. "Neville Longbottom would never call Pansy a… you know."

Seamus couldn't help but smile, too. "But he thinks it."

She laughed once more, but the happiness was gone, replaced by something heavier. The sound faded as quickly as it'd come.

For a long few moments, they sat in silence. Daphne's eyes were trained on the hem of her skirt, and Seamus's on the golden hair still blocking her face. A thousand things to say – many involving more foul names for Pansy Parkinson – ran through his mind, but none seemed right. Instead, he took her hand in his. Gooseflesh rose up where the bare skin of their arms met. Seamus wasn't sure whether it was hers or his.

"I picked you," she said, so quietly that at first he thought he was imagining the soft sound of her voice, "because you don't ever give up. How many times have you ruined a spell, or a potion? But you keep trying." Her voice wavered. "I don't. I give up at the first sign of failure. But with you, it's easier. Being brave is easier."

Despite the fact that Seamus was terribly distracted by her thumb rubbing circles against his own, he managed, "Well, I am a Gryffindor."

The tiniest of smiles left its mark on one corner of her mouth. "You're also late for Care of Magical Creatures."

As much as he wanted to blow it off, spend the rest of the day on a bone-chilling stone floor, holding Daphne's hand, he knew he couldn't. Professors were required to submit attendance at the end of each day, and Seamus couldn't afford an absence. Not so soon after a meeting with the headmaster and his cronies.

So he got up. He hated it, every second of it – his brain protested the movement even more than his still-broken body – but he did it nonetheless. He let go of her trembling hand and got to his feet. He tried not to notice her curling in on herself as he walked away.

It wasn't until he was on the windswept grounds, what felt like miles from a statue's fierce gaze and a pretty girl's tears, that he realised something that made concentrating on Hagrid's mokes near impossible: Daphne Greengrass had his schedule memorised.


A giant-sized thanks to all of the very sweet reviewers for getting me to start up writing again. It was high time.