Warning: this chapter contains dirty language, weird metaphors, and such an erotic undertone in places that it's nearly funny. I don't suggest reading it to your grandmother, unless she's in a band.

Chapter Forty-Four: Hate, Lust and Electric Guitars

Quite abruptly, Blaise Zabini left the hall. Dennis Creevey had been keeping an eye on her all night, more because her dress was very surprising than anything else. (As was the figure in it.) He liked the way she had done her hair, too, and it was such a shock to see her dressed formally that he was thinking of taking her picture for the yearbook. Perhaps placing the elegantly embroidered dress picture next to one taken in her usual school robes with the sleeves rolled up would make for a nice contrasts page.

Alright, he had a little crush. It wasn't as if his elder brother hadn't developed a fascination with Professor Tonks that bordered on the absurd. Dennis was fond of her, especially since she showed interest in Muggle things, music especially, and as a Muggle-born he found she liked to ask him questions. She was also kind of pretty. A little too angular to be a robes model, perhaps, but she was very nice about posing for yearbook pictures.

Actually, Dennis had been rather abusing his yearbook privileges lately. He had taken picture after picture, roll after roll of film tonight, intending to use the best prints for the yearbook and the others for a kind of Yule Ball retrospective, perhaps enlarged on glossy Kodak instead of the wizard brand Chromaparche, and with tasteful comments and names of the subjects in calligraphy below each photo. Lavishly done spreads and pictorials were Dennis' forte, as opposed to the more weekly-magazine style of his brother's work. It was his dream to work for a respected, great publication, like Vanity Fair, Vogue or Wandwood's, while Colin had already gotten quite a few summer assignments for Witch Weekly and one exceedingly well-paid cover shot for the Quibbler. Getting the hippogriff to smirk that way with the nun had been a particularly witty touch.

He had just about decided on dark green as the color of the retrospective's cover when the Slytherin disappeared. How beastly, and right when he had decided which lens would do the best justice to her eyes, too. Dennis wasn't about to use his last roll of vintage 1953 Kodachrome on someone else, so he quietly left the hall to follow his professor.

An interesting sight met his eyes when he found Blaise. She was waiting in line for the powder room and had been immediately surrounded by inquisitive mother-types.

"Tell me, really, what good is it for you children to learn about Muggles?" a whiny, ferret-nosed lady was inquiring. She reminded Dennis quite strongly of Pansy Parkinson, likely indicating that she was her mother. "Aren't they just slower, stupider versions of wizards, without magic?"

"Not slower or stupider," Blaise replied calmly. "I would pay to see a wizard visit the moon or launch a camera to Mars."

"But they aren't going to be living with you children, now, are they?" another mother persisted. "It's like learning about apes."

"Oh, I doubt that." The icy disdain in the girl's voice was really quite impressive. If Dennis had seen the practice sessions with Professor Snape to perfect it, he would have laughed. "Muggles are becoming more aware of magic every day, and even if they weren't, they are valuable contributors to society."

"Oh, honestly, what have Muggles ever contributed?"

"The wheel, for one thing, dear lady, as well as parchment, the quill, fire, written language, mathematics, chronology, art, music-"

"Music?" Mrs. Parkinson grew shrill. "Muggle music is…it's tripe, that's what it is. Not even worth listening to!"

A fiendish look got into the Slytherin's eye, and a crooked smile wandered across her face.

"You, Mrs. Parkinson, are deprived," she announced. "Do you mean to tell me that you have never heard the primal beat of drums, thundering hard and fast to a tempo no human heart can achieve? The thrilling notes of electric keyboards, synthesizers, guitars and violins, more power flowing through them than could light a city?" Her voice began to hum with passion as she asked further: "Never heard the erotic scream of a note being wrung from an E string as taut as the aroused nerves of a randy teenager on a hot winter night? The thumping, pounding beat and melody produced by hard bass strings under the calloused fingertips of a master, seducing tone from wound steel and bronze? The force of an entire band coming through on a Marshall stack bigger than a small house, with the keyboard ostinato like the twinkle of stars, the bassline like the thrust of a lover's hips, the beat like a heart pumping all of the blood at once; the melody like a mischievous tongue of fire coursing over the most sensitive areas of the body, the mind and the very soul? Not to mention the lyrics speaking legend, lust and poetry in a voice like a nymphomaniacal veela in heat? Fiery licks of music flowing forth from speakers to shake the ground and the earth itself? So wildly hot that at the end of a song you can scarcely tell whether you've been dancing or fucking?" Blaise looked at the gasping, overcomeladies in abject pity. "You've never heard rock an' roll?"

Wide-eyed, the mothers all stared at her. One lit a cigarette and gently touched Blaise's arm with an admiring smile.

"I want you to disc jockey my next party."

Dennis snapped the picture without a flash. It was too priceless.

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Cass and Lucius were actually managing to get along without major insults, surprisingly. After a brief, all-too-polite go about the floor, a cruel twist of fate and place cards had put them next to each other for the feast, with John at Cass' right and Narcissa at Lucius' left. The unfortunate onlookers who knew which end was up had the distinct impresssion that at any second Narcissa and John would be pulling the adversaries apart, and really, they weren't too far off. The only strange thing was that the tactics had changed. The two Slytherins had, in true House fashion, began trying very calmly to outdo each other in extremes of character while maintaining the charade of good relations.

"Where did you attend school, Professor Tyler?"

"I went to Morrison Academy and then to Corey Institute for my pre-Aurory training."

"Ah. Corey is in Massachusetts, is it not?"

"Yes, near Boston. The accents there are unbelievable –sounds like everyone has lock-jaw." Cass delicately sipped her wine. "Have you been to America?"

"Yes, twice," Lucius deftly cut his asparagus and ate a small piece of the brushy-looking end. "Once to Philadelphia and once to Washington."

"Washington state or the capital?" John inquired.

"Pardon?"

"Washington D.C. is a city…national capital. We also have a state called that," Cass explained.

"Ah. I trust it was the city, then. I attended for the 1976 Quidditch World Cup."

"The Americans hosted, for their bicentennial," Narcissa recalled. "Most of our class went over to see it. England versus Spain, if I recall rightly."

"Oh, yes!" Cass snapped her fingers. "A bloodbath. If you ask me, Denworth should have been MVP'd that year instead of old Bagman, except that he fouled like a little old lady."

"Completely," Lucius agreed. "I was ashamed to be British when he apologized to Munoz for breaking his nose with the bat that time."

"And Munoz just looked at him like he had completely flipped his nut," Cass continued.

"Giving that wanker Bagman just enough time to catch the Snitch," Lucius added triumphantly. "You know, even if Denworth was a flying puf'ta, he had strategy."

"Was he gay?" Cass asked, astonished.

"Oh, flaming," Narcissa smiled. "He and Wolfgang Andersson from Sweden have been living together since the early eighties."

"How splendidly romantic!" The young werewolf sighed. "It's so beastly that more gay couples can't come out and be congratulated instead of shunned. Miserable intolerant gits some people are."

There was a brief silence, during which Narcissa struggled not to laugh. She knew that of all Lucius' insecure biases, homophobia was the second biggest. Finally John made the effort to turn the conversational rudder toward more friendly waters.

"I've seen your son Draco play Quidditch," he announced. "Good form."

"Yes," Cass agreed. "He did a Wronski Feint last game against Ravenclaw, almost brought Madam Hooch to tears."

"Draco does seem to show promise at the game," Lucius admitted haltingly. "I do wish he devoted more effort to his studies, however."

"Well, he does try," Narcissa reminded. "And his quarter grades were all up from last year."

"I can give it to you straight, your Draco is working." Cass accio'd a can of Diet Coke from somewhere and began slugging that instead of the wine. "He turned in a portfolio project for my class that was a positive jewel of composition."

"Oh? What was the project on?" Lucius inquired.

"The students were each to choose a work of literature, write a report on it, and then gather research about the Internet-related fan culture." Cass smiled reminisciently. "Dear Draco wrote the entire paper in Elvish just to tick me off, and delivered the report to the class dressed as Legolas, ears and everything."

"Oh, I do adore Tolkien!" Narcissa remarked extravagantly. "Did he have a bow?"

"Naturally, and a charming little sword. I think he borrowed it from one of the suits of armor." Cass's smile didn't wane, even as she told of some moderately horrible things. "I found arrows in two paintings after that, but I don't really think it was he who tried to off Sir Cadogan. Sometimes that mad old fool drives me mad as well."

"The crazy knight with the Don Quixote fixation?" Narcissa asked.

"The very same."

"Oh, why hasn't someone taken turpentine to that old fogy already?"

"Er…which of the Hogwarts portraits is your favorite, Professor?" Lucius asked.

"Good old Baron Andreas the Randy. We have the most splendid conversations in the left dungeon, and about the most fascinating things."

"I remember him," Lucius observed. "Very aptly named. Is your classroom in the dungeons?"

"My new one is," Cass explained. "I'm in the hallway to the right at the end of the one Sevvy's class is on. Near the kitchens."

"Oh, yes!" Narcissa brightened. "Draco wrote about the Muggle cuisine lessons. You must tell me, how are corn dogs made?"

As the two witches delved into a discussion of the edible, Lucius began to look even sicker than before. The way Narcissa and Cass got along, almost like old friends or females in an Oscar Wilde play seemed to give him indigestion, if not the profound urge to puke. John, being more tactful than most, addressed him behind the two females' heads.

"Have you tried the new Series II Bludgers?" he inquired.

"Not personally, but my son has a set for practice." Lucius smiled wanly. "They are a touch faster than the first Series."

"I was wondering if they were worth the investment," John observed. "I have a pretty good set of the old Granite Eighty-Fours; second-hand, of course, but very good trajectory from the bat. What position d'you play?"

"I? Oh, I was a Seeker for two seasons, then I turned Chaser." Astonishingly, talking of sports, Lucius seemed almost normal. "I had Ludo Bagman under me one year. Couldn't follow strategy worth a damn."

"That did seem like his worst failing, yes," John agreed. "Though one wonders, is that because he isn't exactly bright?"

"That's putting it kindly. Now, Severus Snape, he was a great player, even if he did dodge the limelight something ridiculous. Did you know he played every position in practice?"

"Really?" John managed to look fairly ticked at that. "And he won't even sign on for a teachers' game. Cassie's been trying to arrange for one since she saw Minerva McGonagall on a broom."

"Wants her on her side?"

"Peace, no. Thinks she can beat her, Cassie does." John cast an adoring glance at his wife, who was discussing recipes with Narcissa animatedly. "Mind you, she likely could. She was Seeker-Chaser too before she learned Beater at Corey."

"I didn't realize Quidditch was getting more popular in America."

"Well, it's nothing to Quodpot there, but Cassie and I were both into it, she especially. She Beat for the Stones the year they went to the Salem Cup."

"The Stones?"

"Oh, the team at Corey Institute. It's named after Giles Corey, you know, sort of in bad taste, but then, it's a Quidditch team…" John grinned. "She and your son fly sometimes, mostly when Severus thinks Draco needs more Bludgers thrown at his head than the usual."

"Well, someone's got to teach that boy how to take a hit," Lucius agreed. "Almost a disgrace to the family, that match against Hufflepuff last year."

"Oh, you should have heard Cassie swearing at poor Madam Hooch," John recalled with a mischievous smile. "She thought it was a hideous foul and threatened poor what's-his-name, the Beater, with more homework than Severus could give in a year. Ron and Hermione practically had to pull her back by the robes to stop her from taking a swipe at the kid herself."

"But it was a perfectly ridiculous performance from Draco, falling off the broom that way."

"I couldn't have hung on as long as he did. Fellow's got grit, bagging the Snitch with a busted hand, even if he did have to fall to manage it."

"At least they won the game."

"At least? Lucius, Draco's got Slytherin's name practically on the Cup already, and they're only three games in." The aristocrat flinched slightly from the werewolf using his given name, and suddenly it occurred to him what he had been saying.

"So…Draco and…your wife…spend time together?"

"Mostly with a lot of very impolite words bouncing between the two, but yes," John absently scratched his ear. "After all, they're both Slytherins."

Something very dodgy happened at that moment. Just as he said the word 'Slytherins,' John fixed Lucius in the eye with a stare that quite clearly meant 'relatives.' In his head, Lucius seemed to hear the werewolf's voice, speaking sternly despite the smile on his face:

"Leave her alone or I will kill you."

In the words of Blaise Zabini, it was not a threat. It was a promise.

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After the feast, Narcissa and Cass continued chatting about various subjects, much to Lucius' chagrin. He finally came over and interrupted by asking his wife to dance, just as Severus came by to ask the same of Cass.

"Well?" the potions master inquired, once they were safely out of earshot.

"I could kill him. I think I could quite cheerfully slit his throat with a straight razor and make his body into meat pies for Guy Fawkes Day."

"Easy, Mrs. Lovett," Severus counseled. "That would be rather untoward."

"What, for the students?" Cass smiled maniacally. "Just the Slytherins. A little spice and they'd never know until the diarrhea hit."

"It's hard, isn't it?"

"Hard? Severus, it's impossible!" Cass struggled not to gesture to the aristocrats, dancing across the room as if nothing whatsoever were wrong. "How can she survive in a house with that…that-"

"Students, Cassandra. Don't use your fancy words." Snape deftly gave his collague a spin before pulling her back toward him. "If it makes you feel any better, Albus wants to have a word with you."

"Really? When?"

"Oh, about now." The song ended and Cass gave her 'adopted brother' a sickeningly sarcastic smile.

"Nice of you to let me know, Sevvy dear."

By the time she reached the Headmaster, however, Cass realized Lucius and he were already deep in debate.

"Electricity in Hogwarts? It's…it's illegal, is what it is!"

"Not in the building, Lucius," Dumbledore assuaged.

"But on the very grounds!"

"Professor Tyler, if you would explain-?"

"Gladly!" The steel was back in Cass's voice. "The Shrieking Shack has been purchased by outside interests for a sizeable donation, and electricity has been generated there. It is my opinion that the basic knowledge of Muggle appliances and devices will enrich the lives of all my students, which is why I insist on it."

"Even if the mixture of electricity and magic is declared felonious?" Lucius barked.

"Oh, dear Mr. Malfoy," Cass spat, sarcasm flavoring her speech like drops of well-placed poison. "You can pay the Ministry whatever you want, and no law on such mixture can touch me. You fail to recall I'm a diplomat."

"And when your immunity expires?"

"It doesn't in my country."

By now, every soul in the Great Hall was staring.

"How can you let this –this werewolf corrupt Britain's youth?" Lucius demanded of Dumbledore.

"Funny, I wasn't aware my kind were banned as staff. Shall we relinquish our suffrage and wear decorative chains?"

"It would be an improvement to letting libertine, Muggle-loving freaks warp the ideology of wizardkind!"

"Beats the fuck out of letting Death Eaters rule Britain!"

A tense silence fell like a robe over the student body and the gathered families. With a cold stare, Lucius whispered diabolically:

"How dare you, wolf?"

"How dare I?" With the boldness and rock-star bravado she had used to beat down Umbridge, Cass tore the sleeve from Lucius' left arm with one hand and smacked him hard across the face with her right. The Dark Mark was burning black as she lifted his fist high into the air. "Your master's calling you, dog. Hadn't you better fly?"

Dennis Creevey snapped a picture.

"Both of you!" Dumbledore intervened in a thundering voice. He raised his hands to pull Cass' death grip on Lucius' wrist apart, just as a hissing ray of orange light struck the American in the arm, about an inch from the elderly wizard's face. The hex echoed through the silent Hall:

"…optis Perfercias!"

Ron Weasley swung out with a deadly right hook to the jaw of the caster, and Bellatrix Lestrange staggered backward before making a break for it out the door. Ron and Harry both pursued her, wands drawn and with murder in their eyes; as Cass stared blankly at the charred skin of her elbow.

"Dear gods, what was that?" she inquired shakily. Lucius had gone ashen, looking at the wound. What should have been a fatal hex by now…wasn't even affecting her speech. "Hurts like a son of a-"

"WWE ARRE HERRE!"

At the door of the Great Hall stood, not three female personages named after querying nouns beginning with the twenty-third letter of the alphabet, but three well-dressed gentlemen with the same nose and Melanie Watling, the ex-witch turned hooker. Mel, it should be remarked, was the only one in fishnet stockings.

"Guys!" Cass exclaimed, seeing them. "About time you goaa…"

And without further ado, she collapsed into her husband's arms.

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