Ravyn: Enjoy the snark! Enjoy the hitting on Warrington! Enjoy the Slytherin depravity! And most of all enjoy the after-party during which we will attempt to scour the butterbeer off Draco. XD

Thalia: Yes. There are flirtatious mirrors and many, many hot guys. There is much Warrington, which obviously (if you know us at ALL) means much smart-assed hilarity. It would be nice to leave us a review too, once in a while *glares*.

Disclaimer: Please. Do you see US making millions and breaking records selling a much-awaited 5th book? Thalia claims to own Warrington, but no one really believes her yet.

For all their strength, men were sometimes like little children.

~*~After-Hour Altercations~*~

Rounds, Penelope decided, were a good thing.

They were highly predictable. The same corridors, the same paintings and statuary passed. The same grouchy Filch prowling about and giving anyone who passed evil looks. The same students (who never seemed to learn, despite ever-increasing numbers of points deducted) snogging in the same trysting spots.

Rounds did not require a lot of thought, and therefore were optimal times to ponder other things.

Like that strange encounter with the Slytherin captain in the library. The Ravenclaw girl felt herself frowning slightly, recalling it.

What in the world did Flint want, anyway? It wasn't as if he'd ever spoken to her before, besides a curt word here and there, generally followed by derogatory comments towards Percy.

But that was only when Percy was THERE. Flint never spoke to her when Percy wasn't around. She and he really had nothing to do with each other.

"Don't frown, dearie, that expression might stay on your face," her mirror admonished in a matronly manner, startling her out of her thoughts. "Whoever it is, I'm sure he means well, lassie. Don't worry your pretty head about it."

Penelope was almost tempted to laugh. Marcus Flint, meaning well?

Never. It would be... impossible.

Her chin raised almost haughtily, she stepped out of her dormitory and then out of the Ravenclaw Common Room. It was eight o'clock. Curfew.

Meanwhile, in another part of Hogwarts castle, another Prefect was standing before another talking mirror while preparing for rounds. However, this prefect was hardly concerned with Marcus Flint, and this mirror was not very motherly.

"You look fabulous, darling," it purred down at him. "And so tall… You know what they say about tall men."

Warrington smirked to himself, running his fingers through his dark fringe once more. He'd really have to ask Malfoy where he got this mirror. It was no wonder the Slytherin Seeker had an ego that could fill the Quidditch pitch; he even had inanimate objects brazenly coming on to him.

"Leaving so soon?" the mirror mourned as he turned away. "I was hoping you'd stay a while. It's not every day I see such a dark, handsome Slytherin…"

Interesting as this conversation was for him, he still had rounds to drag him from the mirror and the lazy comfort of the Slytherin common room. He made his way through the labyrinth of leather couches, passing Draco in idle conversation with Blaise Zabini over the tops of their Potions essays, Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass exchanging a smug (and slightly suspicious) snicker, and Head Girl Susannah Caligo wildly berating a group of fourth years for their antics in scaring younger students with what they claimed were Professor McGonagall's knickers.

Though he could not have known this, the things Penelope Clearwater found soothing about prefects' rounds were the same things that made them so very dull for Cassius Warrington. It was almost tedious, and at times he caught himself wondering how exactly this was a privilege.

That is, until he remembered the elite treatment he received because of the silver and green badge on his chest: the prefects' bathroom, the private bedroom that Snape afforded all prefects in his house, the near-flawless excuse to be anywhere at any time…

All right, so perhaps it was worth it to wander the corridors for a few hours at night, just waiting for the telltale giggle of a snogging couple or the sharp intake of breath that meant someone had just realized they were going to be caught out after hours. Besides, the ability to hand out detentions to the Gryffindorks for "disrespecting school authority" if they so much as looked at him oddly was quite satisfying.

And tonight, he thought smugly at the sound of raised voices down a nearby corridor, might just be one of those worthwhile nights…

"… wouldn't care if you'd just caught the ruddy Minister of Magic eating marmalade in the halls after hours, if it gave you a chance to rub that stupid badge of yours in everyone else's face, you'd be stuffing detentions down his throat, too."

The voice was quite familiar; Cassius had heard it many times, barking orders to him across the Quidditch pitch. And the haughty tone that retorted was just as recognizable. Flint and Weasel are at it again, he smirked to himself. Well, I can't say it won't be interesting. And it was fascinating, in a morbid way, to watch the two fight – not unlike watching a train wreck. Or Hufflepuffs snogging.

"I can assure you, Flint" – the amount of distaste Weasley managed to put into that single word was surprising, even considering the disgustingly vile relationship he had with the Slytherin – "that if you are by some sick twist of fate made Minister of Magic, I'll be out of the county so quickly I'd break Geoffrey Schultz's record for fastest flight on a broomstick."

"Merlin, Weasley, can you manage a single conversation that's not riddled with inane facts and words so ridiculously long that every normal person has forgotten the definitions? We all know that you think you're better than everyone else."

"And in your case, everyone else thinks it, too."

"You smarmy, stuck up, stinking piece of – "

"Easy, Flint," Cassius said, rounding the corner just in time to see Flint glaring fiercely at Weasley, his grip on his wand so tight that his fingers were white. "I for one don't intend to spend the rest of my night cleaning up bits of Weasley in the hallway. If you're going to blow him up, at least have the decency to do it outside."

Cassius was obviously not the only prefect who'd heard their little row; his last comment was awarded with an admonishing look from Penelope Clearwater, who'd just reached the corridor. She brushed by the two Slytherins to stand faithfully by Percy's side. However, Warrington didn't miss the timid glance she cast over her shoulder at Flint as she passed.

"Are you all right, darling?" she asked Percy gently.

"I'll be better once we get out of here." Apparently Percy had noticed the look shared between Flint and Clearwater as well. He made sure to cast a fierce glare at Flint before turning to leave the scene, a possessive arm around Penelope's shoulders as he guided her down the corridor away from them.

There was a moment of silence as the two rounded a corner and disappeared during which Cassius was almost positive he heard Flint heave a small sigh beside him.

"Come on," Warrington said, not quite sure what he'd just seen – not to mention how to react to it. "It's nearly nine – I'm sure the blatant debauchery's just getting started in the common room. If we hurry, we should be able to grab a few butterbeers before Malfoy gets pissed, insults the whole house, and gets all the drinks poured over his head."

Flint grinned appreciatively and walked with his friend back towards the dungeons. It was quiet for another spell before Warrington spoke up again.

"So… what was that about, anyway?"

"Oh, you know," the Quidditch captain replied, "Weasley's always been a pretentious prat…"

"That's not what I meant."

"What, Clearwater? It's nothing."

"Ah," and Cassius smirked slightly. "Just don't get into too much trouble doing… nothing, all right?"

Flint shared in the smirk, but before he could say anything, Warrington had uttered the password to a blank dungeon wall, which moved back to reveal the degradation that had erupted since Warrington had last seen the common room.

"Oh, please, Pucey," Malfoy's unmistakable voice reached them over all the others. "You wouldn't recognize a joke if it danced naked in front of you playing a small mandolin and wearing a sign that says 'I'm a joke. You're supposed to laugh now, stupid.' I – HEY! Do you have any idea how hard it is to get butterbeer out of silk?!"

"Ah." Cassius heaved a great sigh, looking fondly around at the great mess that a prefect from any other house would have feared. "Home."