Disclaimer: I don't own one hair on Harry Potter's head. Or any other character in the series. It all belongs to JK Rowling, She Who Is Mighty. Rick Bayan owns The Cynic's Dictionary, source of the definitions of cynic, rock music, evolution and power. Ambrose Bierce owns The Devil's Dictionary, source of the definition for emotion. The Scythians own the custom of gouging out a cynic's eyes to improve their vision, and I'm sure that there's someone out there who owns Edam cheese, but it's not me.

A/N: Many thanks to my fantabulous Sugar Quillbeta reader Igenlode Wordsmith, who knows when to make me rewrite. Three cheers for Igenlode!

Chapter Three - Edam

Have I ever mentioned how much I adore and would like to marry Professor Moody?

"That," I remarked to Nydia and Juno as we left the Defence Against The Dark Arts classroom, "was the best lesson I have had all week."

Juno gave me a strange look. "Sylvia, he put the Imperius Curse on you four times! And you couldn't break it once!"

"Certainly not my definition of a good lesson," Nydia muttered. "I ended up tap dancing on Kevin Quindle's desk when he put the Imperius Curse on me last week."

I ignored her. "It was the first lesson all week that didn't have anything to do with bloody Christmas!" I sighed contentedly. "Ah, Professor Moody… my soul mate… fellow Christmas-hater…"

"Er - Sylvia? Could I - could I have a moment?"

Instantly, Nydia and Juno started giggling. I saw why. It was Kenneth Towler. I suppose they hadn't got over the Kevin + mistletoe + Weasleys/Jordan/Towler-walking-past incident. Typical.

Shooting them Sylvia-dagger-eyes (which I fully intend to patent one day) I shrugged and said, 'All right,' before following him out of earshot. Nydia and Juno seemed to be having interior convulsions, producing distortion of their features, accompanied by inarticulate noises. Or they could have been laughing. I'm not really sure.

Kenneth turned around to look at me. "Um... I was wondering..." he said.

Will not make sarcastic comment. Will not make sarcastic comment.

Now, don't get me wrong. I have a lot of respect for Kenneth Towler. A lot more than I have for a lot of other people, which is to his credit. He is quite intelligent, occasionally humorous, and it is entirely not his fault that he is disgustingly sensitive, has silly fluffy hair and is known throughout the school as Bulbadox Boy.

However, I also have an acerbic tongue. Which I bit.

Sounds like Kenneth bit his tongue too, because whatever he wanted to say came out quite bizarrely.

"I like carrots. Do you?"

I stared. "Carrots? What are you talking about?"

He laughed nervously. "Just... checking. Um... Herbology survey. But what I meant is... what I wanted to ask is... would you...?" He took a deep breath. "Sylvia... um... would you like to come to the Yule Ball with me? I'd really like it if you would."

"Oh!" Liquorice-flavoured Merlin on a stick. How the hell was I going to get out of this one? The poor boy had turned a strange shade of pink. Combined with his hair, this made him look rather like a Puffskein.

Must be polite. Must be very, very inoffensive. If your acid tongue comes out now, Miss Fawcett, I will cut it off myself.

"Oh, Kenneth... look, I wish I could... but I promised I'd go with someone else..."

"Oh... um..."

What have I done? He sounded really hurt. Bad Sylvia! Why does the happiness of nice, easily upset people like him have to rely on nasty, snarky people like me?

"Well, um... I hope you have fun..."

"Thanks."

"Maybe I'll see you there... or something..."

"Look, Kenneth, I really am sorry," I said again. And I meant it. I genuinely felt bad. Nydia and Juno were still snickering. I could feel my face turning red.

"It's all right... um... yeah..."

Awkward silence. Which, for once, I did not feel like filling with sardonic commentary. "It's not that I don't like you, it's just -" I began.

"Don't worry about it," Kenneth said.

Hmm. Time to go, Sylvia.

"I think I'll just... go now," I said. I must have looked like a tomato with hair as I walked away.

"Have fun with your date!" he called after me.

I turned. Wasn't expecting that one. "Thanks. I hope you have fun with... er, whoever you go with."

"Thanks." He gave me a crooked half-smile and then scampered away in the opposite direction.

I felt genuinely bad as I walked back to the Hufflepuff common room. When I thought about it, I probably would have said yes if I hadn't already been going with Edmund. Kenneth Towler was a sweet boy - even if he did have hair that looked like a Diricawl had died in it - and he didn't deserve to be treated badly.

Though, in the long run, it was probably for the best. Kenneth Towler WAS a sweet boy. That was the problem. I don't know if he could cope with someone like me, an idealist whose rose-coloured glasses had been removed, snapped in two and stomped into the ground. Which, incidentally, had improved my vision tenfold.

I sighed and turned around, heading for the library to drown my sorrows in Majorly Hard And Incredibly Complex Charms For Absolute Geniuses. With The Cynic's Dictionary inside.

To both my relief and my displeasure, the remaining days before Christmas went quite fast. I was relieved because it meant that the end of the Christmas season was fast approaching; but I was somewhat apprehensive about the Yule Ball. While I had no doubt that Edmund and I would have a lot of fun - probably making fun of everything in sight - balls and parties and places with loud music are not the favourite habitat of the cynic. Especially since loud music is nothing but a raucous musical rendering of adolescent glandular activity, peddled to receptive teens as a cheap and relatively bloodless means of overthrowing parental authority, along with most of the accumulated values of Western civilization. Or at least I think so, anyway.

But pass the days did, and this is why you now find Sylvia Fawcett in her dormitory on the morning of December 25, 1994, trying to hide from the rabid gremlins otherwise known as Juno and Nydia.

"WAKE UP, SYLVIA!" Juno howled.

"MERRY CHRISTMAS!" Nydia joined in the cacophony.

I buried my head under my pillow. "Bugger off!"

No such luck. They bodily dragged me out of bed. "Get dressed, Sylvester!" Nydia told me, "and then it's present time!"

"Don't call me Sylvester!" I snapped. "Or -"

Juno leaned in. "If you don't get dressed in one minute flat," she hissed insidiously, "I'll have YOUR guts for garters, Sylvester."

I shut up. No matter how jaded I may be, I still have a survival instinct. It's the only reason evolution (a biological relay race hurtling onward and occasionally upward from the ancient muck, as trilobites and pterodactyls pass the baton to aardvarks and Ministry of Magic officials) hasn't got me yet.

You know, although the prefect body of Hogwarts is completely, absolutely and utterly corrupt (because, as we all know, power is not only the ability to make our fellow humans squirm, sweat and stammer on command, but is also regarded as an aphrodisiac) there are distinct advantages in belonging to it.

Like the Prefects' Lounge.

That haven for all members of the student leadership body. That Utopia of rooms. That most blessed, sacred, secret place where Juno and Nydia cannot follow me.

And so it was that I hissed "Might and power!" at the statue of John Dee that guarded the entrance to the Lounge at about two o'clock in the afternoon, after finally having managed to elude Juno and Nydia's damn-near psychic pursuit. Was there no place in the entire castle that I could hide? If I didn't know better, I'd say they were actually learning something in Divination.

Anyway. Back to the Prefects' Lounge.

The big room was apparently empty - although I think I would have preferred having to share space with Cho Chang and her unbearable giggles than face any more fa-la-la-ing from Juno and Nydia. The tap at the sink in the corner was dripping. I went and turned it off before pulling The Cynic's Dictionary out of my bag and settling down in the corner of an over-stuffed sofa to read it for the seven hundredth time. I wondered how long I could stay in here before people would start worrying I'd died.

Ah. Peace.

"Hello, Sylvia."

Maybe not.

"Edmund?"

Edmund was sitting in a large armchair (black) in a well-concealed niche, fingers steepled. He was wearing jeans and a jumper (black) and he had a large tome (also black) open on his lap. His reading glasses (frames: black) were perched inelegantly on his nose. "You were expecting someone else?"

I blinked. "You are aware that you look like you're plotting to take over the world, aren't you?"

"What?"

"Well, there's the elegant all-black look - diabolical and slimming at the same time, good work on that one; the way you're sitting reminds me of that statue of Catiline outside the History of Magic classroom and your glasses make you look like an overworked politician's secretary. What are you reading, a grimoire?"

He laughed. "If only it was something that interesting." He lifted the book to show me the cover.

"Gemstones Through The Age: A History Of Minerals In Seven Very Long Volumes," I read, raising my eyebrows. "What wonderful taste in books you have, Edmund."

"It was a Christmas present from my uncle Wenceslas. He's a bit odd - last year he sent Archie a build-it-yourself organ that was missing half the pieces."

"And you had nothing better to do than spend the afternoon reading this oh-so-interesting book?"

Edmund grimaced. "I had to escape. I couldn't stand it."

"I didn't know your dormitory mates were as rabid as mine."

"Oh, it's not them - they're all listening to the Christmas day Quidditch match, I think. It was Cho Chang." He put on a high falsetto voice. "'Oh, Neddie, you're a guy, I need your opinion. Do you think Cedric will like the Ghastly Green or the Putrid Puce robes better?'"

I snorted. "So which did you choose?"

"That was the thing," Edmund said. "The two sets of robes were exactly the same colour."

"Bet that didn't go over too well with Chang."

"Too right." He put on the falsetto voice again. "Oh, Neddie, don't be so silly! Everyone knows that paprika and cayenne are two completely different colours!"

"So what did you tell her?"

"The truth."

"The truth?"

"That Diggory would like it best if she wore nothing at all. And to stop calling me Neddie."

I laughed. "What did she do?"

"Pouted, said, 'You are so insensitive!' and then flounced over to Eddie Carmichael. Then it was all, 'Oh, Eddie, you're a guy, I need your opinion!' I had to get out of there before I burst out in fits of maniacal laughter."

"Alas, poor Cedric. I can see it now - 'Oh, Ceddie, you're a guy...'"

Edmund chuckled and got up. "Poor bloke was in here a while ago. He had that golden egg he got from under the dragon in the Triwizard tournament. Cup of tea?"

"Please," I answered, setting my dictionary aside. "Has he had any luck with it? The egg, I mean."

"It was rather bizarre, actually. He put in the sink and opened it and then stuck his head in there with it." He tapped the kettle with his wand and it began to whistle.

"What was he trying to do - get it to eat his head? That would make an interesting headline - Triwizard Champion Eaten By Killer Egg."

"I asked him about it - he said that the egg sang when it was underwater."

I stared at him incredulously. "A singing egg. Right."

"No, really. He said he discovered it when he was in the bath. Above water, it screeches. Underwater, it sings."

"It sings. Right. Does it prefer light operas or modern love ballads?"

"Can you stop being sarcastic for one minute?"

"Sorry, Professor Stebbins."

"Thank you." Edmund handed me a cup of tea and sat down next to me, his knee brushing mine. "Yes, the egg sings underwater. That's why he was in here sticking his head in the sink - he wanted to write the song down so he didn't forget it."

I chuckled. "I wonder where he got the idea to take the egg into the bath."

"Probably courtesy of one of our Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons. The other day, Moody was talking about geese that lay golden eggs, and he said something about baby geese only being born from them if the eggs were put underwater. Diggory probably thought it was worth a shot."

I raised an eyebrow. "So we could have maniacal geese running around the school?"

"Well, compared to the dragons from the First Task, geese would be positively tame for the second one," Edmund said.

"What did the egg sing about?" I asked.

"It was some sort of song about how underwater people would steal something precious, and he'd have to get it back."

"Like what?"

Edmund shrugged. "I don't know. I think the wording it used was 'something you'll sorely miss'."

I sniggered. "They'll probably nick the picture of Chang Cedric keeps by his bed."

"I wish they'd nick the real one. I might actually be able to study in Ravenclaw Turret then and not have to go to the library, where you inevitably distract me with your dictionary."

"You know you love my dictionary."

"Of course I love your dictionary. In fact, if it was me doing this Triwizard thing instead of Diggory, that's probably what they'd take."

"I hope you realise that I would have to kill you."

"What, before I'd rescued it? That's hardly sensible, darling."

I laughed easily. "You are possibly the only person in the world who could ever get away with calling me darling on a regular basis, Edmund."

"You really mean that, Sylvia?"

I looked across at him.

Chocolate-coated Merlin on a bloody trapeze.

He was serious.

I hesitated. This was Edmund. Edmund Stebbins, who I'd known since I was five years old and who I used to have mud fights with in his mothers' ornamental goldfish pond. Edmund Stebbins, who wouldn't know good grooming if it fell over him in the street. Edmund Stebbins, who'd been my best friend for years, who'd put up with me through thick and thin, who loved my cynical dictionary, who understood the twin thing, who knew who Ambrose Bierce was, who was snarky and clever and…

…oh Merlin, Edmund, whose hands were shaking as he set aside his tea cup, those beautiful long-fingered artisan's hands that I had teased him about for years. Edmund, who was looking at me as though I was Helen of Troy.

"Sylvia… I want you to know… I've never felt -"

He didn't get the chance to finish that sentence. My tea cup went flying and I kissed him.

After that first moment of shock, his arms came round me and his hands were buried in my hair, and it felt like… I don't know what it felt like. Like that feeling you get when you're reading a mystery novel and you figure out whodunnit before the characters do. Like that feeling you get when you work through a complicated Arithmancy proof - and then you look up the answer in the back of the textbook and it's the right one. A bit of gratification, a bit of satisfaction: but most of all it's the feeling that, for once in your lousy cynical little life, you've done something right.

Ah, emotion. A prostrating disease caused by an argument between the heart and the head. Sometimes accompanied by a copious discharge of hydrated chloride of sodium from the eyes.

But seriously, cynical remarks aside, that moment in the Prefects' Lounge was a bit of an epiphany for me. I did like Edmund. I liked him a lot. I just hadn't really realised it before.

Bloody hell, that's a cliché. But it's also true.

Edmund's breath was shaky as he drew back. "That was… nice."

I pretended to glare. "Only nice? What ever happened to earth-shattering? Spectacular? Only nice?"

He grinned, his fingers still tangled in my hair. "We're a match made in heaven, Sylvia. Admit it."

Mockingly, I sized him up with my eyes. "Hmmm… you'll do."

We both laughed. I kissed him again. And this time it felt like… well, this time it felt like that feeling you get when you touch an electric fence, because his woollen jumper gave me an electric shock.

I yelped and we broke apart. "That hurt! "

"Well, you know what that means, don't you? " Edmund said, a solemn look in his eyes.

"What, your clothes suddenly deciding to electrocute me? No, I don't know what that means – pray tell! "

"It means that our relationship is doomed before it's even begun. "

I blinked. "What? "

"Well, think about it! When was the last time Verius Hottus's clothes decided to electrocute Maribelle Susannah on that hideous WWN soapie I can never remember the name of? They are the standard of love against which we must measure ourselves, Sylvia, and I'm afraid we've come up short. "

I stared at him. He stared at me. He managed to keep the sombre expression on his face for about two seconds before we both burst out laughing.

"At least we're making it easier for the Scythians when they come to rip our eyes out for being cynics, " I said when we had both calmed down. "They'll get two birds with one stone."

He chuckled. "What shall we name our guide dog?"

Cynic is as cynic does. We really do think alike.

Edmund looked at me, a strange expression in his eyes. "You do realise you've spilt tea all over yourself, don't you?"

I looked at Edmund. Edmund looked at me.

Ten minutes later, when the clock struck three, we were still laughing.