"You-" Pansy starts, shutting her stinging eyes. The boy's face swims behind her closed eyelids; Nymphadora Tonks' heart shaped face, Andy's smile and something that prickles her skin.

Most certainly Potter's influence on the poor kid.

She closes her mouth to not to degrade herself into getting in a screaming match with a kid that barely comes up to her chest.

"What are you doing with that?" she demands when the boys sips unapologetically once more.

The boy cocks his head to the side, his hair turning an ugly shade of green as if that's what he sees when he stares at Pansy.

"It's a coke," the boy answers, his nose turning up in the air. It's Andy's nose, a Black family trait; long, distinctive and haughty.

Pansy holds back a snort and wipes her nose on the back of her hand, throwing her limp, sticky hair behind. "It's my coke," she sniffs, walking backwards towards the sink without taking her eyes off him.

She taps the handle with her wand, shrieking when it hits her right in her face. On her good days the wand obeys. She hadn't had a good day with the wand in months. She taps it again with a sudden surge of will to prove herself, this time causing it to turn into a dribble. She squares her shoulders and cups her hand until it fills halfway.

"You're not supposed to take other people's food without permission," she repeats when the boy gurgles the coke in the back of her throat. "Didn't Potter teach you that?"

"I didn't know it was yours," he shrugs but a blush creeps into his face and Pansy feels guilty at instant.

"I'll have to shower again, you know," she says, jutting her hip out and crossing her arms. She tries not to think about how undignified she looks and scowls at him when he starts to twirl the liquid in his mouth, some dribbling from the corners of his mouth.

He swallows, patting himself on the chest afterwards. "Sorry."

She huffs, her shoulders slumping. "Whatever. We'll be fine unless you rat me out."

Edward Tonks puffs up and slams the coke on the bench. "I don't rat people out!"

She raises her eyebrows, tapping her fingers against her elbows. There's a story behind this, she's sure. "That's good. No one likes a snitch."

"Everyone loves snitches," the boy protests.

Pansy loses track of what she was going to say as she tries to figure out what he means.

"That's not what I meant," she says when she realises he's talking about the Snitch. "I guess I should've expected Potter's godson to eat and sleep Quidditch as well."

"You cannot eat -"

"That's not what I meant. Merlin," she breathes out, "your vocabulary is lacking."

"You speak rubbish," Edward's eyes glint with outrage, and he flips his hair falling on his forehead.

"Rubbish," she rolls her eyes, "where did you learn that?"

"Why wouldn't I know that?"

"It's a Muggle thing," she shrugs. "They can't vanish by magic so they collect their-"

"I know what rubbish is," he interjects, "We collect rubbish from the school yard every Friday."

"Wow," she laughs, remembering stealing "I knew wizarding kindergartens were strict but this is on another level."

"What're you talking about?" Edward throws his head back in annoyance, "I'm seven."

As realisation dawns on Pansy she walks towards the boy and makes him sit on a stair with her hands on his shoulders. He resists for a second but gives in when she smiles placatingly. She has to hold back a comment on how he shouldn't trust strangers and shouldn't give up so easily when someone manhandles him.

She kneels in front of him and stares into his eyes. "Edward," she starts, clearing her throat, "I'm going to ask you something." She waits for his nod. "Is there a chance Potter is sending you to a public Muggle school?"

Edward's green hair turns black, at shoulder length like hers, and his nose a bit pug like just before her eyes. "He is," he leans towards her, his eyes growing large and misty. "I hate it so much."

Pansy, disappointed but not surprised in the slightest, pats him on the knee and gets to her feet. "My friend Margaret says her public school years were hell."

"Harry says his school years were horrible too but he still forces me to go," his bottom lip quivers and he averts his eyes as his voice drops low, "and Grandma says I'm acting like Aunt Narcissa whenever I say this."

She whistles, "That's harsh. Andy knows where to strike to make it hurt."

"That's because she's a Slytherin," he blurts out, looking embarrassed for a second later for his outburst. Pansy wonders if she should let it go or express her feelings on the matter.

Edward beats him to it. "I know it's not a bad thing."

Pansy nods noncommittally. She could answer the boy and placate him, or say nothing and let him dwell on it for at least a night.

"So I guess you're not supposed to be here."

He fiddles with his thumbs, staring at her with her own eyes. She'd never realised her eyes were pretty.

"Are you going to tell Harry?"

"I don't know yet," she admits.

"He won't know if you don't tell him," he follows her moves with unblinking eyes.

Tricking Potter is an appealing offer but the last time she gave into the urge like this, she'd gotten her coworker's ankle broken and had to cover for her for three months.

"We'll see. Get rid of that coke, will you? I'm going to have a shower."

The boy growls and the little hairs on Pansy's arms stand with the sudden chill she gets from the sound.

She'd forgotten what this boy is.

Is it a full moon tonight?

She turns to the boy, trying to keep her muscles relaxed. She meets his gaze steadily, ignoring his bared teeth. Her heart beats irregularly in her chest, once too strong, once too fickle, making her dizzy.

She did not feel this way when she learned about Professor Lupin. He always looked like he had full control over himself and it felt ridiculous to think he was losing himself every month to become a deadly creature. But his son, this little boy of seven, doesn't seem to have an ounce of it.

Mama's boy.

"I'll tell Potter you were here," she says, her voice flat, "Sit tight and pray I don't tell him about your attitude problem."

Harry curses himself for what is perhaps the tenth time that morning for forgetting to bring his Invisibility Cloak.

He'd left in a hurry, only barely remembering to stuff the Marauder's Map in the front of his jeans as he took an emergency Portkey to Hog's Head to sneak into the castle. It's not the best of plans, but Harry's really banking on the element of surprise to corner his old teacher into parting with an invaluable ingredient for 'The Moony Project'.

He pauses by the statue of a headless knight and opens up the Map, aware of the portraits' gossipping as he sprints, trying his best to avoid any attention to his presence. After a trying fifteen minutes, he reaches the dungeons, and fruitlessly slicks back his hair. If the Map is to be believed, the Potions Master is pottering about in the classroom just beyond the door, possibly humming a drunken song or two as he works.

Uncharacteristically nervous, he lifts his hand to rap on the door and waits for a response.

It comes a few minutes later as the door swings open, and Harry finds himself frowning at the jolly face of Horace Slughorn, mouth open mid-whistle. It's a bit of a contest to find who is more shocked, but Harry breaks first, grimacing a little.

"Hullo, Professor, good to see you again," he says, and tightens the belt on his robes. "Do you mind if I come in?"

There's a split second delay as Slughorn takes him in, eyes wary and curious, before his expression smooths into something resembling joy. It's enough to convince Harry that the man had not forgotten what happened the last time the two of them crossed paths.

"Goodness, my boy," he says and pulls the heavy door wide open. "Of course! You should have Owled me earlier and I would have saved you some lotus chips I received from an old student of mine. Truly delectable! I think you would have liked it."

Harry gives an empty smile as he follows Slughorn inside, absent-mindedly taking in the changes made to the classroom in the years since he dropped out of school. Bookshelves still line the corner of the room, almost sighing from the thick volumes of textbooks stacked over it, and he can swear that the row of newt eyes haven't been replaced in the past decade. There is more light in the room now, and he sees jars and jars of herbs and writhing plants as he walks by.

"Sit, sit," Slughorn says, and Harry gladly sinks into the comfortable plush maroon chair next to a copper cauldron over low heat. Across him, Slughorn settles into an identical chair.

Harry's caught him in the middle of brewing, and the cauldron hisses and moans as Harry and Slughorn stare at each other in uncomfortable silence, each taking in the other.

"Did I interrupt your brewing, sir?" he questions, having had enough of the tense atmosphere, lifting his torso and turning in his chair to get a better look at the potion bubbling inside. It's a pale orange, but the liquid is losing the colour with each second. "It looks like it's reacting with the copper walls of the cauldron."

"You figured it out, didn't you?" Slughorn says, clapping his hands in delight like an over-excited walrus. "Always knew you were a natural at Potions, even if your final grade was a very low O."

Harry pretends to agree with that assessment with an embarrassed grin. He has not thought about his school grades in a long time. He has, however, picked up some useful Potion skills at the Auror office.

"I don't recognise the potion though, but if I were to guess, I would say it's a salve - based on how fast it's turning white."

"Right again, Mr Potter!" Slughorn crows indulgently. "I'll award ten points to Gryffindor if this was in the middle of a school year. I hope you will be content with - let me look at my hamper, ah, here it is - these fairy balls instead."

He holds out a tin of glitter covered chocolate balls filled with rum, and Harry tentatively accepts one, knowing that he'd never let Teddy eat one. Slughorn doesn't have to worry about setting a good example for a child, so he pops one in his mouth, and the candy fizzes in his mouth, leaving his tongue coated in bright blue glitter.

Harry follows suit and hides his grimace. As he sucks on the candy, Slughorn continues.

"A unicorn on the grounds broke her horn, poor thing. She was bleeding when Hagrid found her this morning." Harry makes an appropriate sound of sympathy. "I didn't want to report it to the Creatures Department at the Ministry yet, you see, and we both know the Ministry takes unnecessarily long with these things."

Harry reluctantly joins in on the laughter even if he knows the statement to be true. An incident like a unicorn being injured would result in the Auror office being involved, and Harry's old department doesn't exactly have the reputation for acting swiftly.

"I am making a regenerative salve for the horn to grow back by powdering the broken horn. There have been some interesting developments in the field of regeneration of animal cells, Harry. A Potions Master from the colonies was telling me about some remarkable Muggle advancements in regrowing human organs from a collection of cells! In fact, I should introduce you to him - you will love to hear what he says." Harry's panic must have shown on his face because Slughorn chuckles. "Ah, maybe another time, then. One more?"

"No, thank you, sir," he replies, clearing his throat. The glitter uncomfortably pricks the back of his throat. He waits as Slughorn indulges in another fairy ball - this one in yellow - and asks, "I was wondering if you had heard of Knox Suppliers, Professor, I believe you've done business with them in the past."

Slughorn's eyes widen for a fraction of a second, and Harry grips the armrest.

"Barry Knox? My, Harry, don't tell me you're ordering from him. The Potions Masters Guild banned him several years ago for tampering with active ingredients."

"I was," he says. "He left us out to dry this month with some of our supplies."

Slughorn tuts and closes the lid of the box and deposits it in the snack hamper on a troll leg table.

"Your potions masters should know better," the man says, with a severity in his tone Harry's never heard before. It makes the back of his neck heat up. "Are your friends still brewing the Wolfsbane?"

"Terry and Padma, yes, but it was I who negotiated with Knox," he confesses. Rubbing the back of his neck, he says, "I had some evidence on him, and he had just gotten his supply ban revoked. He was three times cheaper than other suppliers in the market."

"You blackmailed him," Slughorn surmises, clasping his hands over his belly. Harry nods. "It seems to have been a reasonable course of action, but Knox must have used your name to regain most of his old, more expensive clients back, and he has the upper hand at present."

"Yes, and he can afford to lose The Moony Project now," Harry replies and Slughorn leans back in his chair. Harry lets a little bit of his desperation sneak into his voice. "Professor, the full moon is in eight days from now, and we're short on powdered silver and acromantula ichor. If you know someone who can help us out -"

"Acromantula ichor?" Slughorn interrupts, curious. "I do not recall ichor being an ingredient of the Wolfsbane potion; Its pH value is too low to neutralize the silver."

"You're right, of course," Harry says smoothly, and wracks his brain to quickly come up with a half-truth. "The Acromantula ichor is for a healing potion we are experimenting with, to treat werewolf wounds and such."

Slughorn's face is pensieve.

"I suppose that might work in certain cases, especially where an injury has led to blood loss," he mutters. "There is, of course, a certain difference with how a werewolf's body might react to a potion transfusion instead of blood."

He stands up then, fastening his robes and walking over to stir the potion in the cauldron. When Harry moves to join him, he holds out his hand to stop him.

"However, any Potions Master would know that it is too expensive in the long run - especially if it needs to be sent out to hundreds of werewolves all over the British Isles." Slughorn fixes Harry with an incomprehensible look. "Unless it is being made for one individual only."

Harry shifts in his seat.

"For someone who is an anomaly of nature." Slughorn lowers the flames even further with his wand. "It's happening with your godson, isn't it?"

"Sir?"

"The effects of the moon...the curse in his blood rising to the surface as the full moon is near?"

"Sir, with all due respect, I would appreciate it if you didn't speak about my godson that way."

"Of course, of course," Slughorn says unconcerned. "Is he antsy? Does he request specific foods around the full moon? Are Boot and Patil studying him?"

Harry's mouth thins into a line.

"Teddy is not a specimen, Professor Slughorn," he says sharply. "I will not allow him to be prodded and dissected like a lab rat."

Slughorn claps him on the shoulder and lets out a booming laugh that echoes in the cavernous room.

"Harry, my boy, I see your perspective on the matter has not changed," he says, still chuckling. "Your godson is unique, the first recorded case of a werewolf procreating. We are all entitled to uncover the mystery, don't you think?"

Harry's fingers curl up in a tight fist.

"I don't think so," he says, voice low. "I remember explaining this clearly the last time we met."

Slughorn freezes momentarily, his face matching the colour of the healing salve he's brewing.

It had rained the day they buried Remus and Tonks, a week before the full moon in May, and Teddy had howled in Andy's arms. A week later, he had bit Kingsley Shacklebolt at the Hogwarts memorial to honour the Fallen Fifty, when the Minister had tried to caress the boy's cheek.

Despite trying very hard to not let the incident make it to print, that the Minister was being treated for a minor infection of lycanthrosis had appeared in the front page of the Prophet, with a petition for the Ministry to study Teddy and 'contain' him. It would have gathered steam, too, if Kingsley hadn't stepped in and spinned the bandage around his right hand as the result of a curse from Voldemort during the battle.

Harry and Andy were all ready to forget such an incident had happened if Slughorn hadn't cornered Harry at a Ministry ball in an isolated room months later and offered his superior skills to "fix" Teddy. In response, Harry had punched a hole through the wall next to the man's head.

Slughorn chuckles nervously, no doubt remembering their last encounter.

"Well, if you feel strongly about this, there is no point in me convincing you," he acknowledges, and finally extinguishes the fire under the cauldron. He produces a few vials from inside his pocket and holds out a few to Harry. "Would you mind helping me to bottle this as we talk?"

It's not a request, and Harry complies. He works deftly next to Slughorn, and follows his instructions as closely as he can, and observes him as he demonstrates how to prevent his fingers from being burnt.

By the time they have bottled up the contents of the cauldron, Harry has calmed down.

"Would you like the owl addresses of my suppliers, Harry? They should be able to get you the powdered silver in an hour or two if you've got the gold," Slughorn informs as he arranges the vials in a neat row inside a velvet lined briefcase. "I wonder if they will be able to procure the ichor."

Here's where you turn on the charm, champ.

"Actually, Professor," he begins. "I was hoping that you would be kind enough to give me 12 ml of Acromantula ichor."

Slughorn chuckles.

"My dear boy, nothing will give me greater happiness than this, I assure you. My, what an honour it'll be - to help treat the Boy-Who-Lived's godson! But you see, Harry," Slughorn says, closing the briefcase with a snap and turning to face him. "I'm afraid I'll need a written approval from the Headmistress if I were to loan you a vial."

"Approval, sir?"

"Oh, yes," he says, overlooking Harry's frown. "It's in the amended charter rules."

Harry tries not to look too hopeful.

"Could we go up to see the Headmistress now? I can familiarize her with the situation."

Slughorn's smile turns downward in sympathy.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible today. Minerva's with her family this summer, you see. Something about her brother passing away."

"Right." Harry blinks. He hadn't known McGonangall had a brother. "Should we speak to Flitwick, then, sir? He's the Deputy Headmaster."

"I apologize," the man states, patting Harry's arm. "I would like to play this by the book and wait for Minerva."

But I don't have time, Harry wants to scream. It's the only way we can keep my godson sane. Why aren't you listening to me?

"I understand," is what he says instead. "I was planning to invite the Headmistress to my charity gala next month, but I understand now that she will be occupied."

Slughorn's ears prick up at the mention of festivities.

"A gala?"

"Yeah," Harry shrugs. Merlin, please let this gamble work. "Say, Professor, you won't happen to be available, will you? Entwhistle planners are handling it."

Slughorn's eyes widen in delight.

"If Entwhistle is involved, it is sure to be grand!" he comments. Grasping Harry's forearm, he simps, "I'll make myself free for you, Harry, anything for my favourite student."

Harry pretends to be flattered even if it makes his mouth taste like chalk.

"I'm glad, sir. If you can pass me the Owl address of your supplier, I'll be glad," he says and waits as Slughorn begins scribbling on a spare bit of parchment. When he's done, Harry adds, "If you can also write down Mr McGonagall's full name, I will take it to the Ministry to find the nearest public Floo. Time is of the essence, you see."

Slughorn's quill stills above the parchment, and Harry holds his breath. Take my bait, he implores, I know you were being difficult as petty revenge.

"Actually, Harry," Slughorn says, smiling beatifically. Harry very nearly pumps his fist in the air, like he's caught the Snitch after an arduous match. "I don't see a reason why we should disturb Minerva with a favour between old friends. She deserves some time off, don't you think? Poor witch works herself to the ground year after year."

He presses the parchment to Harry's waiting hands and disappears into the storage in the back with an 'I'll be right back'.

"Thank you!" Harry calls out to Slughorn's retreating figure and memorizes the address. First, he is going to get Terry and Padma the things they need, and next, he's going to fire Barry Knox.

He's still debating if he can get away with giving Knox a black eye when Slughorn returns with gleaming eyes, holding a large vial with the milky pus-like fluid extracted from an Acromantula. As he pockets it shakes hands with an enthusiastic Slughorn, only one thought remains:

Parkison was right - I really could have been a Slytherin.

Pansy flees upstairs, her pulse beating so frantically in her throat that she's certain the boy can hear it even with multiple walls between them. She tries to lock the door behind her but the key keeps disappearing just a tiniest bit of second before she can grasp it.

She gives out a laugh, turning her eyes heavenwards and yells for Kreacher.

When the elf doesn't appear she yells again, this time accompanied by a thump on the floor.

She gives a loud sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose when she remembers he left for Andy's house. She isn't a superstitious person. She doesn't believe a day or a year continues as it starts. She'd had days where it started sunny and warm and ended up with her hugging her knees as she sat alone on a damp, wet stone. She had days where she felt like throwing up her breakfast, only to lose herself in the flow and end up laughing for hours.

This day will take a turn at some point. She knows. She just needs to wash up and wait for it.

She gives a sharp nod to herself, tugging at the hair tie. It snaps in half, hitting the thin skin inside her wrist. She hisses, putting her lips on the burning area.

She closes her eyes. And for a moment, she lets herself believe it's someone else's lips on her. Of a mother, or a lover, a friend, a child.

A second of weakness.

A confession.

I'm not okay.

A wish.

I want to be touched.

She snatches her hand away from her mouth and starts to the door to find a bathroom, before she indulges in more mortifying impulses and wishes for things she won't be having anytime soon. At least in Britain.

Come back home, her mum's words from her last letter echoes in her ears in her voice. Come to us Pansy. Your father cooks your favourite meals for every dinner hoping it's the day you'll come back. It's so silent without you. I miss your laugh. Besides, I've had Madam Grigorova sew you two new dresses. One of them is white and the other is black. You'll look gorgeous in them but they're starting to gather dust. I might get another one sewed, this one in red-

Most of the doors have some kinds of spells on them. She can't touch the door of Potter's office because it gives her severe nausea. She can't even get closer than two meters to Potter's bedroom or his bathroom. She doesn't dare get into Andy's room before she tries all other rooms.

The fourth room she tries has a bathroom and is embarrassing for Potter. She squeals in delight, covering her mouth with her hand to stifle her snickering. She takes in the Gryffindor posters and nude, vintage Muggle models covering the walls, twirling around herself.

Pansy 1- 0 Potter.

She opens the wardrobe, humming a song Margaret has been obsessed with and frowns. There's only a few items in there, all unrelated and beaten up.

She twists to take another look around the room and shakes his head at Potter's thoughtlessness. Leave it to him to turn the guest room into a storage room.

The only thing she can wear is Potter's Quidditch uniform.

No way she's wearing that.

She takes the wand out and turns it towards herself before she chickens out and takes her top off before she performs any magic. After a deep breath, she mumbles Scourgify, but instead of cleaning the fabric, the wand shoots a splash of water on them, making it even more impossible to keep wearing them.

Meekly she turns back to the wardrobe and holds the shirt in the air with the tip of her fingertips, giving it a suspicious sniff to make sure it's clean.

She checks the bathroom to make sure there are towels and shampoo, then undresses. Her trousers have few stains on them but they're almost invisible, and will dry before she showers.

She closes the door behind her but it opens wide again. She slams the bathroom door, thinking the lock must be acting up but it swings open just as forcibly, almost dislocating her shoulder.

Pervert.

She steps into the cubicle, her shoulders relaxing a bit when the curtains close all the way. She rotates the shower handle and turns it to the highest heat, letting it pour over her. She doesn't move even when it scorches.

Her vision is blurry and she's lightheaded when she steps out the shower. She stares at the foggy mirror, the unwelcome chattering of it not reaching her ears. Her hand reaches up to the mirror before she notices what she's doing and she yanks her arms back hastily.

She wants to see herself in this house, to see if she fits. But she'd been scared to do it when she had her best clothes on and with immaculate makeup. She doesn't dare look at herself when she has nothing to hide her.

She's terrified Potter will somehow know she looked at herself. So she grabs her underwear and the towels, wraps her hair and body, leaving the room without another glance.

Pansy throws herself on the bed, trying to decide between staying in her underwear beneath her coat or wearing Potter's Quidditch shirt.

That's why a girl always should wear her best underwear, she thinks as she wrings the shirt in her hands. Even when you think no one will see you in them, you never know what life will throw at you.

She will not be caught in a bra that was once white but now is a shade of gray, by Potter of all people.

She manages to put the shirt on with Potter's name at the back like a stamp and it only takes her three minutes and seven attempts to leave the room-

"What are you wearing, girl?"

She turns around and gives a slight bow to the old portrait. She tries to read the name but it merely says Mrs. Black.

"I lost a bet Mrs Black," she grimaces, "I'm paying my debts."

The woman sniffs derisively, and examines her from head to toe. "Young Purebloods these days," she starts, stopping to sigh dramatically, "you're allowing those filthy Muggles and mudbloods to infiltrate our culture with their ridiculous ways."

Pansy considers reminding her it was a bet that caused Slytherin to be left in the dungeons but she refrains only because she needs to deal with Potter's kid. "You're right, Madam," she bows her head down, "I will behave appropriately from now on."

The woman makes a dismissive motion with her and Pansy takes that as her chance to get away from there and jogs down to find Edward Tonks.

The kitchen is empty and clean when she enters and she makes a mental note to give the kid a new coke as a present for cleaning after himself. She gives the freezer room's door a nudge but it doesn't move. She frowns, thoroughly confused as she was able to get into there many times since she's been there.

She calls for Kreacher but she loses hope that he will show up after a few minutes. He's probably gone to Andy's house to assist with the infestation.

"Edward!" she screams after she's half confident the two of them are alone in the house, barging into the living room, leaving the door wide open behind her when she finds the room empty, running to the next door. She opens every door, and searches every crevice, opens every cover, crawls on the floor to look under the sofas that are too narrow even for a cat.

"I'm going to put your dog's collar on you and lock you in Potter's room when I find you," she mutters to herself when she hits the back of her head on a silver lamppost while she'd been trying to unstuck herself from the floor. She pushes herself up, rubbing the tender spot with one hand and swatting at her clothes to get rid of the dust and food crumbs with the other.

Her stiff knees give out when she turns around to go search the rooms once more. She barely keeps from crumbling to the floor by leaning back to the lamppost, her fingers circling the cold metal like a lifeline.

Potter on the other hand, is completely relaxed as he leans back on the doorframe, his arms crossed across his chest as he takes in her appearance from head to toe slower and more intent than she feels comfortable with.

"What are you wearing Parkinson?"