Note: I apologize wholeheartedly for missing a week; I went on holiday and forgot to update before I left. Thanks to all who have reviewed so far; I'm glad to see that this story has managed to find itself an audience. I'm also happy that most of you seem to like Lavender – really, if she weren't the narrator, this would just be a terrible angst-fest.

……………

Part Five

……………

"She's taking ages."

"Do human women enjoy making men wait?"

"You know, Firenze, I really think they do."

"How peculiar."

"They all think they have to put a new face on before they go anywhere."

I slammed my hairbrush down on my dresser. Really, the two of them – how rude and presumptuous! As though I need a new face! "I can hear you two!" I shouted from my bedroom.

"Oh, I know, Lavender," Dean's voice came drifting back. "I thought we might encourage you to get a move on. We're dying out here. Hey, I think it's night-time already!"

"It is not!"

Seriously, how in the world can anyone perform a proper eyelash-curling charm with a peanut gallery making snide comments every two seconds? Just because men are perfectly willing to go gallivanting round London looking like they've just rolled out of bed and forgotten to dress doesn't mean I am. I'd prefer if people didn't recoil in horror on passing me in the street, thank you very much.

I pinned back my hair and threw a flowered Muggle dress over my head as quickly as I could. I really love Muggle clothes. They're so smart-looking, plus Muggles aren't as stuffy as wizards about things like short skirts and heeled shoes. Not that I'm cheap and obvious enough to go overboard with those things, but it is nice to have a tarty option once in a while. Dean gave a great exaggerated sigh when I finally emerged from my room. "At last," he said. "I thought you might have keeled over."

I smiled sweetly. "Shut up, Dean. Did you remember your broomstick?"

"Broomstick?" he echoed. "Lavender, you really are daft. We can't fly to London. We're not going to Diagon Alley. We're supposed to be Muggles."

"So how are we getting there?" I asked.

"Driving."

"Driving?" This, you must understand, was sort of like him saying we were going to ride on purple dragons.

"Yes, driving." He was impatient.

"You've never brought a car to Godric's Hollow." I had a sudden, terrifying vision of Sara Barnes seeing a huge garish car parked in front of my house and proceeding to tell the entire town.

"No, but the fireplace at my mother's is connected to the Floo – it's technically a wizarding household and I decided not to let the Ministry in on the fact that I no longer live there – and the car is there."

"Oh."

"Did you at least remember to get Muggle money?"

"Yes!"

"Will you remember not to call it Muggle money when you're around other people?"

"Come on, Dean."

"Excuse me, you two," Firenze said quietly, "but I truly am aging."

"Okay, Dean's mocking me and Firenze is making jokes," I said, grabbing my purse. "I think it's time to go."

……………

Dean's car was very large and very rusty and very orange. While Dean loaded the wheelchair into the trunk and helped Firenze into the back seat, I stood and stared at it. "You can't possibly drive that thing. It's – it's like a big boat! It'll take up the entire street."

"Lavender, just get in."

I did, somewhat nervous. I had never ridden in a car before – even Seamus hadn't known how to drive with all his Muggle connections. My mum had always said that they were ridiculous and that people crashed in them all the time and that's how Muggles managed to thin themselves out. But, then again, there were such things as broomstick crashes as well. And Apparation collisions. I once accidentally Apparated to work and knocked right into Fran.

It really wasn't so bad.

Dean really exaggerates when he brings it back up to tease me.

The scratches on the window-upholstery from my fingernails aren't noticeable at all.

Anyway, we had to stop a little bit away and take the Underground, which was okay to me because Seamus and his parents had dragged me on there a long time ago, and I hadn't even thrown much of a fit then. I think I just don't like knowing exactly how I'm being moved along.

We walked around for a while, through a bit of greenery and out, me pushing Firenze in the wheelchair so his arms wouldn't get tired. A few people looked at him lingeringly but no one did so with suspicion, so I figured they were only reacting to how he looked. Like a Swede, I thought, or a Dane, with his nose and his mouth and his cool blue eyes.

"So many people," Firenze marvelled. "I never imagined."

"Wait until they all get out of their jobs; it's mad," Dean said.

"How do you ever organise yourselves?"

"We don't," Dean laughed. "I suppose that might be one of our biggest problems. People are chaotic." Right then he noticed a horde of Muggle women clamouring in front of a shop front. "See," he pointed. "Look at them."

I stopped to look at the shop in question. "Oh, my, they're having a sale – they never have sales in that place, it's so posh and sophisticated and supposedly too good for that." My feet, as though acting of their own mind, started the trek towards the shop.

An hour later, when I was loaded down with parcels, I spotted a very large shoe store with very gaudy posters in the windows, and was almost in the door when Dean stopped me. "What?" I asked.

"Lavender," he said seriously. "There's only so much shopping a man can take. I know it's the world's greatest entertainment to you, but all the perfume and all the madwomen with their pocketbooks get to me after a while. Firenze and I are going to the pub."

"Don't you dare get drunk, I'm not driving that wretched car—"

"Of course not," he said. "I only need to sit."

"All right." I scanned the street and noticed a tucked-away pub. "I'll meet up with you in that one in another hour – is that acceptable?" I mean, I only get so many chances to come into Muggle London and waste my hard-earned money on silly fashions.

So they went off to the pub, presumably to reinforce their manliness or whatever it is that men do when they sit in a dingy little place together, and I went happily off to the next shop, which was actually a disappointment as the shoes weren't well-made at all.

I ended up all the way in Harrods, which is far too expensive for me, but even people on diets are allowed to look at dessert menus in restaurants. I loved looking at the Muggles shopping in there – such a mixture of them! Ordinary ones trying desperately to look as though they shopped so elegantly all the time, extraordinary ones in odd clothes that would have looked strange even at a wizarding masquerade.

It was in Harrods where I found the most exquisite dress, with shoes to match. Even Madam Malkin would have turned green with envy. This dress was black and sleek and elegant and precisely the sort of thing that would have Parvati steaming with jealousy. I pictured smoke coming out of her ears and had to suppress a smile. And the shoes – strappy and classy and meant to wind all around your feet in the most marvellous way.

Unfortunately, both were so expensive.

But, hey, a girl only lives once, and Muggle money never feels like real money, anyhow. All that paper and numbers; it's like having a playset of Galleons when you're a child. Deciding to buy them before I could talk some sense into myself, I took the shoes and the dress to the nearest saleslady.

"Would you like a complimentary colours session?" the saleslady asked as she wrapped up my new things and I counted the Muggle money in my purse, trying to look as though I did so every day. "Free with purchase today."

"Colours?" I echoed.

"Yes, they're lovely, our ladies know exactly what makes everyone look stunning."

Stunning sounded like a great adjective to me, so I let the saleslady direct me to the cosmetics section, where I was immediately set upon by a dozen or so Muggle women, all of whom seemed frantic and slightly mad. Colours turned out to mean that you get loaded up with make-up by cooing ladies. One of them wore a lipstick the colour of blueberries and had her eyes shadowed in orange; I had to wonder if this was such a good idea and was concerned I would end up looking like Celestina Warbeck when she quite unfortunately decided to give herself a gruesome rock makeover.

When they finally pulled away and showed me my reflection, my mouth fell open.

It was awesome. I looked like a Muggle film star who slept on silk sheets twelve hours a day and never had to worry her pretty little head about anything. "I could never be this good with charms," I gasped.

"What was that, dear?"

"Oh – I said I could never do this much with Mug—er, make-up."

The blue-lipped woman frowned, obviously thinking that I was a bit batty, which really is a rich thought coming from someone who looked positively like someone had hit her mouth with a bad Freezing Hex and then refused to counter it.

"It's brilliant, I mean," I said politely.

"Well, would you like to purchase some of the products we used; there's one that's really a very—"

"Er – no, sorry, I'm already late for a meet-up."

Ha. I love finding new and brilliant ways to avoid pushy salespeople.

I had strayed far from the pub, and, loaded down with things as I was, it took me a while to get there; it was nearly three o'clock when I entered through the front doors. It was a typical sort of pub – a mishmash of signs, wood panelling, grouchy men at small tables and a miserable old coot of a bartender scowling at everyone.

I spotted Dean and Firenze at a corner table; the wheelchair was folded up and leaning against the wall nearby. I could overhear their conversation as I walked towards them.

"It's tied at the moment." Dean was trying to explain the football match on television to Firenze. Muggle television disturbs me; I can never get used to how they all crowd around it as though it's their version of a crackling fireplace. "See, the red-and-white, that's Arsenal, they just got called offside, and – oh, look, they're really pissed about it!"

Firenze only looked confused.

I followed Dean's eyes to the screen, where apparently the great entertainment was two men screaming red-faced at one another. I have never understood the male obsession with silly sports. I walked closer to their table and slid into the chair beside them. "Don't worry if you don't understand, Firenze – it's probably better that you don't become one of those ridiculous louts who has to check the scores in the paper every day."

I am very proud that I didn't mention Seamus, who was of course one of those ridiculous louts, with his overwhelming need to see how Pride of Portree fared in every morning's Daily Prophet.

Dean shot me a dirty look, which changed into a surprised one. "Don't you look different," he said. "Were you attacked by the Harrods ladies?"

"Right in one, and I think they did a fine job."

"Yes, but it looks so common."

"Common? Dean—"

"Centaurs have a philosophy," Firenze interrupted. "The females who bother with silly adornments – flowers in their hair or berries to redden their cheeks – are best married to the males with no imagination or depth."

"Right, Firenze," Dean said heartily. "You managed to say that without it sounding like an insult. I was going to say that you looked boring and ordinary, like any sort of girl on the street."

I rolled my eyes. "I have to admit, I'm baffled as to whether I should be offended or flattered just now, but I think I'll fix that by getting something to drink."

"Do not follow Mr Thomas' suggestions," Firenze said earnestly, lifting up a nearly-full pint I assumed Dean had brought him, judging from the two empty glasses in front of Dean himself. "It reminds me of rotting roots."

"It's an acquired taste," Dean protested.

"Perhaps after one loses his sense of taste."

I had to hide a smile on my way up to the bar. I'd like to think that I'm not a woman easily complimented, but the fact that they seemed to like scruffy-disorganised-astronomer Lavender was heartening. Perhaps all men weren't prats and I was lucky enough to know two of the possible dozen or so exceptions.

I stood there for a moment, thinking of what I wanted to drink, when abruptly I got that creepy, tingling feeling you get when you know someone is looking at you. I turned my head—

Oh, God, somebody up there hated me so—

—and there was none other standing there but Seamus himself, sans Parvati.

Of all the Muggle bars in all of Muggle London! To think that there are actual people out there who think things happen by chance. Uh-uh. Anything this twisted really has to be governed by some ornery heavenly body.

It. Was. So. Awkward. We stared at one another for about a minute before I opened my mouth. It was the first time I'd seen him without her, apart from the disastrous begging session. I had begun to think that he and Parvati had been magicked together at the hip. All right, Lavender, remember: you are aloof and cool. "So, Seamus," I said, "what the hell are you doing here?"

"Hello, Lavender," he said. "I came to relax – Parvati was on about some shoe bargain." Damn her. I swear, ten years or so of being best friends gives you this wretched unconscious mental connection. "You look – very well."

Ha, I thought triumphantly. That proved he was one of the men with no imagination or depth that Firenze had – oh, no. Firenze.

Seamus must have seen that Jarvey-in-wandlight look on my face because his own expression flickered rapidly from surprise to minor anger. "Why are you here, Lavender?"

"Oh – I just thought I'd come get pissed in the middle of the day, that's all." I shuffled over a little, hoping to block Dean and Firenze from Seamus' view. For once in my life, I wished I were fatter.

"You look remarkably sober."

"Well, I'm a heavy drinker now, you see. It takes a while." Oh, geez, I say the most wretchedly stupid things! I really need to work on becoming a convincing liar.

Perhaps I should have asked Seamus for lessons. Heh.

"Why are you lying?"

"No, really, I've been trying to get a support group started for wizard alcoholics and everything, sort of like the Muggles have. Hello, my name is Lavender Brown, and I'm married to the drink, that type of thing." I get desperately idiotic when I'm panicking. All I could think was please, please, do not let him see Dean and Firenze.

But apparently my excuses weren't too rock-solid because he brushed right past me and his eyes fell on them sitting at the table. I prayed for the ability to sink into the floor and live the rest of my life as a subterranean cave dweller. At first, Seamus didn't notice Firenze because his gaze landed on Dean.

"Thomas!" he said, half-running to Dean. "What are you playing at?"

Dean, who had still been fixed on the Arsenal match, looked at Seamus and immediately assessed the problem. He leapt out of his chair and leaned in front of Firenze, so as to block him.

I followed, breathless. "He's married to the drink, too; we're lapsing into our bad habits—" I began.

"We only decided to have a quiet day in London," Dean interrupted. "Not in that way, mind, but we haven't been friends as much as we used to ever since – well, you know."

"Oh," Seamus said. And – the stars help me – I couldn't help but feel a little twist in my heart at the expression, as though he wanted nothing more than to sit down and have a pint with us and laugh like old times in Hogsmeade. He just looked desperately lonely, longing – or else I was making it all up inside my head.

Tragically, though, Seamus did sit down, and looked straight at Firenze.

I have horrible, terrible, unbelievabable luck.

"Professor?" Seamus gasped, his eyes wide.

"Mr Finnegan," Firenze said, obviously uneasy. He looked at me, but I guess I was no help because I was probably white-faced and chewing holes into my bottom lip (which tasted like the waxy lipstick from the Harrods ladies).

"What in the world—"

"It's a long story," all three of us said at the same time.

"Suffice it to say," I added, "that it's not one I want certain Patil ears hearing. You can't go off telling people about this – you know about centaurs."

"But the Ministry—"

"Hang the Ministry," I said impatiently. "He's Firenze, Seamus, he's not one of the centaurs who fought in the war."

"I know, but what a situation—you could be arrested—"

"I won't be."

"I would appreciate," Firenze said icily, "if you both stop talking about me as though I were not sitting right next to you."

"Right. Sorry, Firenze." I leaned across the table and pointed accusingly at Seamus. "Bottom line. Seamus Horatio Finnegan, I swear—"

I was interrupted by a sudden spout of laughter from Dean. "Horatio? No wonder you never told me that one, mate."

"Shut up, Dean!" Seamus growled.

Irked at the interruption, I poked my finger even closer to Seamus; it practically squashed his nose. "I swear," I said, pressing onward and speaking through menacing clenched teeth, "if you say one word of this to anyone – and I mean anyone – I will personally march to your front door and use a Blasting Charm in such a manner that'll ensure that you never, ever have another child!"

Seamus, Dean, and Firenze all wore equally appalled expressions.

"Understand?" I said.

"Yeah," Seamus squeaked.

"I mean, do you promise?"

"I promise."

People were beginning to turn round and look at us, so I folded my hands neatly on the table and smiled regally. "Good."

"I – er – I have to go," Seamus said uncomfortably, shifting his gaze from me to Firenze to Dean, and then back again. "Parvati – meeting me – soon. Dean – I'll – er – I'll write to you later, mate."

Bastard. He was worrying about that Blasting Charm and I knew it.

He scrambled out of the pub; we all watched him leave silently. Then Dean hit his fist on the table and began to laugh. "Horatio," he repeated. "That was beautiful. I'll have something to rib him about for all eternity. Oh, Lavender, bless you."

Firenze and I weren't laughing. We exchanged an uneasy glance – neither of us trusted Seamus' word as much as Dean did.

……………

In the evening I was still worried. Dean had gone home, Firenze was reading again, and I was trying to make supper – vegetable soup – but I kept running terrible scenarios over and over in my head. Parvati is a very clever woman. And it didn't seem impossible to me that she would sense Seamus' being out of sorts and proceed to browbeat him until he told her what was bothering him. She once needled an entire date synopsis out of me – I swear the woman has hidden powers of hypnosis or something. Truly, I hadn't meant to tell her about sneaking into the rosebushes, and then the whole ruddy schooll—

And, of course, I cut my finger just then, while distractedly chopping a carrot into slices. "Ouch!" I shouted, and threw my hand under the sink faucet to rinse it. "Bloody useless clumsy stupid buggering horrible – argh!"

Firenze set down his book and wheeled over. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm just preoccupied and also a ridiculous spazzy idiot." I started digging in my pocket for my wand, but before I could get it out to perform the proper healing spell, Firenze calmly drew my injured hand down and wrapped one palm around the cut finger.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

He didn't answer; he had that screwed-up look of concentration on his face again, as though he were trying to focus on one thing only. It took perhaps fifteen seconds, and then he uncurled his hand to reveal my finger, seamless and unmarred, as though it had never been cut.

I examined it for a moment. "Thanks – your healing magic?"

"All centaurs have it."

"That's fascinating." I flexed the finger, it was perfect. "Without a wand or anything. Incredible."

"Well, we'd have trouble finding a place to stash wands, you see."

I grinned. "Can you just will things to heal like that?"

"Some things," he said cryptically. "Other wounds are beyond our capabilities." He looked past me, at the interrupted carrot. "Would you like some help?"

"I don't want you chopping your fingers off," I said.

He looked mildly affronted. "I know how to use a knife, Lavender. Humans aren't the only species who have managed to invent tools."

So I placed a cutting-board in his lap with the rest of the carrots and he got to methodically chopping away. "What do centaurs use knives for?" I asked casually, trying not to picture any sort of violent ritual.

"Cutting through underbrush, hacking through roots." He stacked a cut carrot into a perfectly neat little pile. "Ordinary things. We do not have occasional stabbings, if that's what you are thinking."

"I wasn't," I said quickly. I took the carrots from him and added them to the boiling pot. "Should only take about ten minutes." I leaned on the counter with my head bowed down.

"Are you concerned about Mr Finnegan?" Firenze asked suddenly.

"Aren't you?"

"Certainly," he said. "I am not fool enough to think that all wizards will accept me as kindly as you and Mr Thomas have, and if he concerns you, as you knw him so well, that gives me all the more reason to worry."

"I see," I said slowly. "Well, whatever happens, I won't let anyone come after you with torches blazing and pitchforks readied." The joke fell flat; Firenze only frowned. "I'm not serious, Firenze – besides, Seamus might be a philandering prat, but I think he can keep a secret. He's not that weak-minded."

"You know him better than I."

But the thing was – damn my stupid overthinking – did I really know Seamus all that well? I certainly had never pegged him as a cheater until I quite literally opened the door on the evidence. Perhaps I had a bit of a blind spot when it came to the Great and Exalted Prat. "Yes, that's right," I said reassuringly, giving him a smile.

"What would happen to you?"

"What, if the Ministry found you here or something?" I recalled what Seamus had said – that I could get arrested. Perhaps Firenze was bothered by that.

"Yes."

"I don't know. Don't worry. I'm not even sure if centaurs are still classified as Dark enemies or anything, but I'd rather not take that chance. I highly doubt they've ever had to deal with centaur-sympathisers before, as I am probably a pioneer in that respect." It was something I didn't particularly want to dwell on. The pot began to whistle and steam up; I stirred it absently. "Firenze, where were you, exactly, during the war? After you left your teaching post?"

"I didn't fight."

"I didn't say you had. I think better of you."

He sighed, resigned. "I was in self-imposed exile, to go along with my true exile. There was no need for me to be at Hogwarts anymore, and no way I could return to the Forbidden Forest, so I suppose I stayed out of the way – one more example of my cowardice." He closed his eyes briefly. "I came upon the centaurs in Ateratra by accident, some time after the defeat of Voldemort, and I lied to them about where I had come from, and that is how they accepted me – not quite part of that herd, but still someone to be included."

"They didn't know about the banishment?"

"They read about me in the stars – or, more accurately, read what they could. They saw strife and conflict in my past, but they attributed that to the wizarding war, assuming I had played a part, and I made no attempt to correct them. Once Padear thought that he saw a betrayal foretold, dealing with me. I convinced him that he had read it wrong, but he turned out to be rather accurate."

I smiled crookedly. "I still don't like him."

Firenze only shook his head.

"At any rate," I said with a wink, "you needn't worry about Seamus. I'm prepared to make good on that Blasting Charm threat, if need be."

"How brutal."

"Damn straight." But the kidding was forced, and the prospect of Seamus telling someone hung thick between us. Firenze was probably able to see right through me; I'm very transparent when I don't want to be and he wasn't stupid and probably knew that my jokes and soothing comments were only meant to placate him – and me, too.

I took the pot off the stove and served out two bowls. We ate our soup in silence, both of us too absorbed in serious thought to think of idle conversation, both of us too anxious and edgy to make polite small talk about books and astronomy.

And then the first knock on the door came.