Title: Diagon Burning (7/20)

Author Name: 1eyedjack

Rating: R

Summary: Chapter 7: Four hookups, three small children, two winning goals, and one cow.

DISCLAIMER: JKR and her publishers own the characters. We just play with them. Canon information, as always, comes from the Lexicon. The Quidditch afterparty scene from Ron's POV is also adapted, in some parts verbatim, from a similar party scene in F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby. We make no claims on Gatsby and don't take credit for the scene.

Author notes: Huge thanks to reviewers and to emerald123 and Oli and co. for the betas. Naodrith and Alissa Raboin looked over earlier versions of the fic. Kelly, thanks for letting us abuse your potted plant.

Diagon Burning

Chapter 7:
In Flagrante Delicto

Dinner on the night before the Slytherin game was uncomfortable. Ron spent the whole time not eating. Ginny guessed it was nerves because of tomorrow's game against Slytherin. Hermione spent the entire time watching Ron not eating, while Harry ate enough for the three of them. Dean stared at Ginny the whole meal, even though she sat at the other end of the table. He spent more of his time staring at her than could ever be considered necessary, and it was really starting to get annoying. Ginny was infinitely grateful when Harry decided he needed to go back to the Common Room and finish his Care of Magical Creatures homework. She excused herself and went with him, Ron and Hermione following behind. Dean pretended he was talking to Seamus.

Ginny walked next to Harry. "Do you think Ron will survive the night?" she asked.

Harry glanced at Ron. "He's making the game into a much bigger deal than it is. The Slytherin Chasers can't catch worth a damn."

"Bullshit."

He smiled ruefully. "Yeah, I know, but that's what I've been telling Ron all night. I keep hoping that if I say they're no good often enough that he'll buy into it and play like he isn't so nervous."

Ginny looked at Ron. He and Hermione had stopped on the side of the hallway so he could throw up into a potted plant. "I don't think he's buying into it," she said.

Harry shrugged. "It was worth a try."

They were at the portrait of the Fat Lady. Ginny was nearest, so she gave the password ("Crackernuts") and started to walk through the door. But as soon as she got a good look at the Common Room, she jumped back out into the hallway and slammed the door shut in Harry's face.

"What was that for?" squawked the Fat Lady.

"What happened?" Harry said.

Ron and Hermione walked up the last few steps. Hermione used Ron's sleeve to wipe a few dribbles of vomit off his chin.

"I think I'm going insane," Ginny said.

"What do you mean?" Hermione said.

"There's this thing I keep seeing, and I just saw it again, but there's just no way it could be in the Common Room."

"You aren't making any sense," Ron told her. "What couldn't be in the Common Room?"

"I don't think it's actually—" Ginny began, but Harry had already reopened the portrait hole and walked in. She followed, hiding behind Ron and Hermione.

Before she even looked in the room, she could tell from Hermione's shocked face and Ron's open mouth that she hadn't gone crazy: Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson really were having sex on one of the Common Room couches.

"Hey there, Potter," Malfoy said, grinning and a little short of breath. Pansy was moaning. "We just—wanted to—wish you good luck in the—game tomorrow, I think—you'll need it."

"You're the only ones who'll need luck," Hermione snapped. "You'll be lucky if Dumbledore doesn't expel you."

Malfoy just smirked.

"Ron, come with me. We're going to find Professor McGonagall." Hermione grabbed Ron's arm and dragged him out of the Common Room.

"What's this, Potter, going to stay and watch?"

Harry bristled. "I'd rather see your father naked."

"Me too," panted Pansy.

Ginny had the uncontrollable urge to barf.

Draco looked up. Granger, the snippy bitch, had just stepped through the portrait hole, Professor McGonagall in tow. McGonagall turned a rather painful shade of red. Grabbing two tartan blankets off the nearest couch, she threw them over Draco and Pansy. "Cover yourselves up, for pity's sake."

Draco supposed McGonagall was too embarrassed to speak to Professor Dumbledore, because she walked them straight to the Potions classroom. Snape seemed only mildly surprised see them, even though they were clad only in decorative Gryffindor afghans. McGonagall couldn't bring herself to speak aloud. Face still red, she whispered in Snape's ear.

His eyes went wide. "Exactly how naked?"

"Severus!"

"Mr. Malfoy, Miss Parkinson, come with me."

He beckoned them into his office and shut the door. "Professor McGonagall just informed me that you two were found in flagrante delicto in the Gryffindor lair. As you are both members of my House, and Professor McGonagall is too mortified to do anything except wash her hands of the whole affair, it has fallen to me to deal with your escapade."

"We understand if you have to punish us, sir," Draco said.

Snape pursed his lips. "Did you cause Potter severe and permanent emotional trauma?"

Pansy smirked.

"Of course, sir," Draco said.

"Stick out your hands." Snape slapped them each on the wrist and then said, "Two hundred points to Slytherin for courageous and unprecedented infiltration of enemy territory." He looked at them for a moment. "Plaid really doesn't suit you, Mr. Malfoy. You should consider putting your clothes back on and returning those blankets to the Gryffindor Common Room."

"Well, sir," Draco said, "much as I would like to rid myself of this plaid, our clothes seem to be missing in action."

"How so?"

Pansy coughed.

"Well, you see sir, we originally started on—"

"Harry, why is there a green garter belt on your bedpost?"

The day of the match against Slytherin dawned bright and clear on Hogwarts. Harry awoke with Dean standing excitedly over his bed holding out a banner he had drawn showing a red and gold lion with a big "G" coming out of its mouth. He had the same design painted on his face. "See, Harry? G for Gryffindor," Dean said, grinning. "And have I mentioned how amazed I am that you slept on your bed after Slytherin desecrated it?"

"For the seventeenth bloody time, Dean, the house elves changed the sheets!" Harry said through clenched teeth.

Dean grinned.

"G for Gryffindor? Or Ginny," Seamus smirked, drawing his bedcovers aside. "Hey Dean, tell Harry about what you guys did two Thursdays ago when Ginny skipped Herbology."

"Quiet," Dean replied. "I don't know if Ron's still asleep or not." He had a panicked look in his eye.

But Ron was awake. He had gone out to shower early. When Harry caught up with him on their way to breakfast, he looked so pale and nauseous Harry feared a rehash of Ron's less-than-stellar first few games as Keeper last year.

"All right, Ron?" Harry asked, jogging to keep up with his friend's harried stride.

"Yeah," Ron replied through clenched teeth. He looked as if someone had just had a go at his insides with an eggbeater.

"You shouldn't be nervous about the game. Not that I'm saying you are," Harry tacked on weakly as Ron blanched. "But you don't need to worry after that beating you gave Ravenclaw last year. You barely let the Quaffle through all game."

As they entered the Great Hall, a group of second year Slytherins blew them a collective raspberry. Ron turned pink.

"I was lucky," Ron said. "And this is against bloody Malfoy and the Slytherins. You know how they play."

"We've beaten them before."

"They smashed Hufflepuff at the scrimmage last Saturday."

Harry glanced over his shoulder to make sure that no one wearing yellow and black was too close by. "Yeah, but that was Hufflepuff. That's not saying a whole lot for the Slytherins."

Hermione waved them over from a spot far down the table and gestured to two heaping bowls of porridge. "Here," she said proudly, "breakfast."

Ron looked across the hall to the Slytherin table, where the second years were taking their seats, still snickering. "I'm not hungry," he muttered, pushing his porridge aside and slumping onto the table headfirst.

Hermione gave Harry a questioning look. He mouthed, "Nerves," at her.

She rolled her eyes and patted Ron on the back. "Come on, Ron," she said consolingly, "if you're going to fly, you have to eat."

Gazing after the Slytherin second years, Harry found himself staring at Malfoy, who was whispering something dirty to Pansy Parkinson, judging by her delighted expression. Disgusting. Malfoy looked up to meet Harry's gaze, bared his teeth, and slowly drew a finger across his neck.

Harry rolled his eyes, sat down, and ate his porridge.

Ron's condition had only worsened by the time they made it to the pitch.

"I hate this," he muttered as the team lined up to wait for the Slytherins to come out of the locker room. Students were already pouring into the stands and Ron was getting paler by the second. "I wish I had never tried out for this bloody team."

"Buck up, Ron," Ginny hissed out of the side of her mouth. When she was exasperated, she looked a great deal like her mother. "You did fine last year." The Slytherin team filed out of the locker room and made their way across the pitch.

"This is this year," Ron moaned.

Ginny looked at Harry for help.

"Ron," Harry began, "even if you couldn't Keep, which you can, by the way, Malfoy still doesn't know how to catch the Snitch."

"Wishful thinking , Potter," Malfoy sneered, stopping opposite Harry. Crabbe, Goyle, Parkinson and the rest of his team fanned out behind him.

"Really?" Harry said. "When's the last time you beat me, Malfoy?"

Malfoy smirked. "Hey Potter, when's the last time you got some from anyone except Weasley's mom?"

Sensing a fight, Avery grabbed Harry and Malfoy by the shoulders. "Captains, shake hands," he said.

Malfoy gave Harry a disdainful look and stuck out his hand as if he was doing him a great favor. Harry grabbed it and clenched it as tight as he could.

"Are you trying to break my hand, Potter?"

"Don't be a girl about it."

Avery blew his whistle. "Teams, mount your brooms."

"I still broke your nose."

"Didn't you hear?" Parkinson leaned towards Ginny with a smirk. "Draco's been named captain."

"Oh, good." Ginny smiled. "Then you're guaranteed to lose."

Parkinson ignored her. "I have a tip for you, Weasley," she said. "When you see the Quaffle, you're supposed to catch it."

Ginny bristled. "I know."

"Draco's been watching your practice for two weeks, and actually, you don't." Parkinson smiled. "Have a good game."

Avery blew his whistle. "Teams, mount your brooms."

Ginny saw Harry make a stabbing gesture at Malfoy as he threw his leg over his broomstick.

"Remember, Weasley," Parkinson said, "it's called catching."

"Three, two, one," and Avery threw the Quaffle in the air.

It was in Ginny's hands before she could even think. She dodged both Bludgers, Crabbe, Goyle, and Harry—she didn't even try to pass to Kirke or Sloper, they were worthless—but she kept her eye on Parkinson, already circling the goalposts like she owned them, the arrogant bitch. Ginny raised her arm and pegged the Quaffle straight at Parkinson's head. Luckily for the Slytherin team, her aim was about half a hair off, and it nicked the goalpost instead of Parkinson's ugly face.

"And Weasley scores, in record time. I don't think I've ever seen a goal that fast," Seamus's commentary rang out over the pitch. "Of course Gryffindor would be the team to do it. Rack up ten points for them. Ginny Weasley, you're my hero! What are you doing Friday night?"

Ginny grinned, but her happiness was short-lived. In the next five minutes, Slytherinset another scoring record, this time for being the first team in the history of the school to lead by 140 points within less than ten minutes of play. Malfoy had whipped his team into a well-greased beast. Of course, she couldn't give him all the credit. After the first Slytherin goal, Ron was a nervous wreck. The Creeveys were practically falling off their brooms, and Sloper and Kirke were nowhere to be seen. She prayed to God that Harry would catch the Snitch before she had to deny ever having been a member of the Gryffindor squad.

When Harry finally saw the Snitch, the hope that had been battered down by fifteen straight Slytherin goals resurfaced. It was just a flash of gold in the bottom corner of his eye. When he wheeled around, Malfoy was almost right on top of it—another few meters and he would have the game.

Doubling his grip on his Firebolt, Harry gunned his broom, forcing himself into a near vertical drop as he tried to cut Malfoy off. His hair whipped up past his ears, his glasses skittered down his nose, and he felt his cheeks pull back and flatten as if they couldn't keep up with the speed of his flight. The white of Malfoy's hair grew from a dot to a blotch to a head as the little golden circle of the Snitch became more and more visible. Fighting the wind, Harry forced one hand off his broom. Malfoy was reaching forward at the same time. One more burst of speed and he was close enough to bat the Malfoy's fingers out of the way and grab the Snitch. The crowd started screaming.

Before Harry had completely closed his fist, Malfoy's entire hand—behind Harry's own—slammed into his wrist. Malfoy dug his thumb under Harry's wrist guard, pressing his fingernails into Harry's skin. They began to spiral downward.

"Let go," Harry hissed.

Malfoy tightened his hold on Harry's wrist. "Let go of my Snitch."

"No," Harry spat, trying to worm away, "I caught it."

Malfoy forced a finger into Harry's fist. "Not yet."

Harry tightened his fingers—so hard Malfoy sucked in sharply. "Make me let go." As if from far away, the stands burst into screams. Harry imagined they were cheering him on against Malfoy.

Harry saw Malfoy glance over his shoulder. With a small inclination of his head, he let go. Moments later, their feet touched the ground. "Congratulations," Malfoy hissed with a small smile.

"Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy—I have not witnessed such ridiculous histrionic carrying-on since— " Professor McGonagall paused, red-faced as the wave of students and teachers pouring out of the stands broke around them, "well, since your last Quidditch match. Twenty points from Slytherin—and Gryffindor, too, Potter, don't give me that face. It's painful enough as it is."

"Slytherin wins," Avery said as he landed, both teams touching down around him.

Harry felt as if someone had just smacked him upside the head. "What?" He opened his hand to reveal the Snitch. "The score was 150-10. With the extra 150 points, Gryffindor wins."

"I let them through twice more, mate," Ron said glumly as he landed next to Harry. "Once as you were diving for the Snitch and then again when Malfoy was grabbing your hand."

"But that second goal shouldn't count. I caught the Snitch," Harry said. "The game was over."

"The game's not technically over until the Seeker catches the Snitch uncontested," Malfoy said, smirking, "or didn't you read Quidditch Through the Ages, Potter? And the Snitch wasn't unconditionally caught in that time. My fingers were in Potter's." He pointed at Harry's outstretched palm. "He has the marks to prove it."

Harry clinched his hand into a fist. "You dirty, cheating—"

"Only if cheating is having a team that knows how to catch a Quaffle," Malfoy said smugly as Parkinson landed beside him and Crabbe and Goyle pulled up behind. They swung their Beaters' bats in Harry's direction.

"Hey Weasley!" Parkinson said. Ron and Ginny both turned. "Speaking of the Quaffle, the only reason you got that goal was because I had to sneeze." She flashed her teeth.

Looking back at the white, dejected faces of his own team, Harry knew he had to do something. He couldn't let Malfoy stand there with that smug expression. "Hey Malfoy," he said, tossing him the Snitch, "here. Consider it a gift until you learn how to catch one for yourself." He spun around and waved his team toward the locker rooms without even stopping to look at Malfoy's expression. "Come on," he said, "I need a shower."

Harry took about four steps toward the lockers before something smacked him in the back of his head. He spun around to see a flash of gold speed off toward the goalposts. Malfoy had pegged him with the Snitch. Harry looked at him for a moment. Malfoy's eyes narrowed.

A light hand touched his shoulder. "Come on, Harry." Ginny nodded toward the locker rooms. "He's just a sore winner."

"Where did you say Lucius Malfoy was?"

Tonks frowned. "When I was here last week you could see him from here. But that wasn't on a Saturday. I suppose Diagon Alley's much more crowded on weekends, wouldn't you think?" She walked into his side, casually, as she had been doing every ten seconds since they'd Flooed into the Leaky Cauldron. It was getting on Lupin's nerves.

"Yes, that would make sense," he said.

Tonks nodded. "Speaking of weekends, what are you doing tonight?"

"What?"

"Even you can't have failed to notice that it's a Saturday night." She waggled her eyebrows at him.

"I'm busy," he said.

"Doing what?"

Avoiding you. "So," he said loudly, pretending he hadn't heard her, "what exactly is it that Malfoy's doing in Diagon Alley?"

"Oh. Well, that, like many of the best things in life, will require that you wait and see." She winked and added, "But, if you'd prefer, you don't really have to wait…" The thump of her hip against his leg made it abundantly clear that she wasn't talking about Malfoy.

"That's okay, I'll see what Malfoy's doing for myself," Lupin said, taking pains to leave no room for purposeful misinterpretation.

"Oh." Tonks looked briefly disappointed and fell silent. Thank Merlin.

Maybe fifteen seconds passed before she slammed into his side again. Lupin's patience broke.

"Could you please stop that?" he snapped.

"Stop what?"

"Walking into me. You do it all the time."

"Sorry," she said cheerfully. "I'm just so clumsy, you know."

"Could you be clumsy over there? Out of my personal bubble?"

"Come on," she said, punching him in the arm, "we're all in the Order, we're like one big family!" She took the same arm and began to stroke it. "We have no personal bubble!"

"If we're all one big family, wouldn't what you're doing to my arm be count as incest?"

Tonks gave him arm one long, disturbing stroke and considered. She grinned. "I'm game if you are."

He just stared and wrenched his arm away from her. Fortunately, the appearance of an unmistakable white-blond head at a desk outside Gringotts prevented him from having to continue the conversation.

Lupin stopped and watched the line inch forward. The crowd appeared to stretch all the way back to the Leaky Cauldron, and some people, who'd apparently planned on spending a long time in line, had even brought tents. An old geezer was sitting in a lawn chair in front of one of them, roasting kielbasa over a purple flame.

Lucius Malfoy was seated alone at the desk, still in a wheelchair, listening to a sobbing dark-haired woman flanked by two small children. She tried to pass one of the toddlers to Malfoy over the table. Malfoy gently pushed the child back towards the woman, scribbled something on a piece of paper, and handed it to her, She burst into even more enthusiastic sobs and, incredibly, leaned across the table and kissed Malfoy on the cheek. More incredibly, Malfoy let her. He smiled and waved as she waddled off, toddlers in tow.

Tonks pressed herself against Lupin's side and murmured against his ear, "Let's get closer."

"What?" Lupin sprang back.

"Closer to Malfoy, I mean," she said innocently. "Don't you want to hear what he's saying?" She walked towards Gringotts, glancing back to see if he was following her. Unfortunately, he was. The Order needed to know everything it could about Malfoy and SPEW, Tonks be damned.

She stepped into an unused storefront two to the left of Gringotts. "We should be able to hear him from here," she whispered.

"Why are we whispering?"

"So Malfoy doesn't hear us."

"There's no way that Malfoy could possibly hear us from—" He stopped. The next person in line had just stepped up to the desk. "Look, why don't we just listen to—hey, isn't that Norrick Travers?"

Tonks squinted. "Yup. Sure looks just like him. Why?"

"Why? Because this proves that Malfoy still has Death Eater connections. He's conversing with a known Death Eater!"

"The fact that he's talking to a Death Eater," Tonks said, placing what she probably thought was a soothing hand on his chest, "doesn't mean he has Death Eater connections."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Look, my Great Aunt Meliflua comes here. Once a week, actually, and she always talks about how good and kind Lucius Malfoy is—she says he never turns anyone away."

"Isn't that the same Great Aunt Meliflua Sirius had?" Lupin said suspiciously. "The one whose two children and five grandchildren were all Death Eaters?"

"Huh," Tonks said. "Suppose so."

"Huh," Lupin said. "Funny coincidence, that. Now we've got two Death Eater connections. We don't need any more proof than that. Let's go tell Dumbledore."

"Wait." She threw her body in front of him, ostensibly to prevent him from leaving. "I think we might want to hold off until you get a better idea of what Malfoy's actually doing."

"We already know! He's conversing with known Death Eaters."

"Just watch for a few minutes." She spun him around.

Lupin sighed and conceded.

A family of three was next, the boy, perhaps seven years old, tugging a belligerent cow behind him. "Please, sir," the father was saying, "an evil curse has made our cow's milk turn sour. Little Stewart will starve without good milk."

"An evil curse?" Malfoy said, eyeing the cow.

"Evil," the mother agreed.

"Hmm," Malfoy said, considering for about two seconds. "All right. Let me write out the form. To the…?"

"Maloneys," the father supplied eagerly. "The Maloney family."

"To the Maloney family," Malfoy said as he wrote, "one cow. Signed, Lucius Malfoy, Founder, SPEW." He put down the quill and handed over the paper. "Just go over to the processing table, they'll take care of everything."

"Oh, thank you, sir, thank you!" the mother gushed. The cow, however, had had enough and run off, dragging little Stewart behind it. The mother screamed, "Stewart!" and chased after them.

Lupin turned to Tonks. "Malfoy's giving out handouts?"

"Well, no, not exactly," Tonks said.

Lupin watched for a few more minutes. Malfoy signed away a set of dress robes, a new wand, three cauldrons, a house—"evil destroyed our finances"—and a rag doll.

"What part of this makes you think Malfoy isn't giving out handouts?" Lupin asked finally.

"Well, he isn't," Tonks said. "He's mending people's lives that were destroyed by evil."

"Like the guy who said, 'Evil made my wand snap in half when a charm backfired?' That's not evil, that's incompetence!"

"Maybe." She shrugged and gestured at the line snaking back through Diagon Alley. "But the people love Lucius Malfoy."

Yes, Lupin thought, that's exactly the problem. He'd seen enough.

Tonks tried to grab his ass as he left.

Harry had forgotten how much he hated the smell of vomit. Not that he commonly thought about it or anything, but when Ginny was bent double over the toilet, puking herself silly, it was rather hard to forget. He resisted the urge to run away and handed her the bath towel. "Shouldn't have drunk so much Butterbeer at the afterparty," she said, rubbing her face in the towel. "Didn't know Butterbeer could do that to you."

Harry took the towel from her and promptly dropped it on the floor. "Erm," he said. "You weren't drinking Butterbeer."

She sat up too quickly and groaned. "What do you mean, it wasn't Butterbeer?" She clutched at the empty bottle beside her. "It says Butterbeer here."

It did, but Harry sniffed at it. "Seamus, Ron, and Dean refilled the empty bottles with Firewhiskey. I saw them."

Ginny rolled her eyes in exasperation. "I can't believe that boy."

There was no need to ask what boy she meant. Harry didn't know what to say. He didn't really want to talk about Ginny and Dean's relationship. She'd been saying nasty things about him, and Harry hadn't seen them together for at least a week. "Well," he said.

"We didn't even win the Quidditch game and Dean breaks out the Firewhiskey," Ginny snapped. She slumped back against the toilet.

Feeling a little awkward, Harry put a hand on her shoulder. She looked at him sideways and started to laugh. "What?" he said. He hadn't done anything funny, not that he knew of, there was nothing amusing about the situation in general. Getting drunk and throwing up all over herself in the Gryffindor boys' toilets wasn't funny at all.

"Nothing," she said, wiping her face on the sleeve of her robes. "It's nothing."

"You're still drunk," Harry realized.

"Yep," Ginny agreed with a final giggle.

"I need to get you to bed," Harry said. "Come on." He stood up and held out a hand for her. She took it, teetered up, and overbalanced, falling into Harry. He caught her, but she slumped against him, grappling her hands against his back until she managed to find his shoulders and pushed back. When they got to the foot of the girls' stairs, with much stumbling and weaving, she crooked a finger and motioned him closer.

"I have a secret," she whispered.

"What?" He leaned close.

She kissed him. Fat, wet, sloppy, and definitely more on the chin than the mouth. "I want to do that all the time," she said huskily, "but I'll deny it in the morning." Then she threw up all over his shirt. Harry blinked. Ginny clapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh, bugger."

Ron would never admit it to any of the boys in the year, but he had only been drunk twice in his life, and one of those times was that night. So everything that happened had a dim, hazy cast over it, although until after eight o'clock the Common Room was full of cheerful sun. Sitting on Harry's lap, Ginny was belting out "Weasley is Our King." Then there was no more Butterbeer and Ron went out with Seamus and Dean to get some from the kitchens. When he came back, Harry and Ginny were gone, and he put the Firewhiskey down and read a chapter of Hogwarts, A History, just because he never would sober. Either it was terrible stuff or the whiskey distorted things because it didn't make any sense.

Lavender waltzed in and fell onto the couch on top of Dean. "Draw me," she slurred into his ear. "Draw me naked."

"I'll go get my sketchpad," Dean said. He left.

"Put your breasts away, Lavender," Hermione said.

"They have to be out for him to draw me naked, Hermione."

"Dean is such a talented artist," Seamus said, taking a swig of Firewhiskey.

Ron nodded towards Lavender. "If we could get you in that pose, Hermione, I think Dean could make something of it."

"I'd want to change the light," she said. "As in, turn it off."

"I wouldn't think of changing the light." Lavender smiled.

Dean bounded down with a sketchpad. He still hadn't washed off the Gryffindor lion he had painted on his face.

Harry walked down from the dorms, ogled Lavender's breasts, and finished off the bottle of Firewhiskey.

"Hey, Dean," Lavender said, "draw Harry naked, and then you can sell it, and buy me presents."

"I'm going to bed," Harry said.

It was nine o'clock—almost immediately afterwards Ron looked at his watch and saw that it was ten. Dean was asleep in his chair with his fists clenched in his lap. Ron stumbled over and used his shirt to wipe off the painted lion. People disappeared, reappeared, made plans to go somewhere and then lost each other, searched for each other, found each other a few feet away. Sometime toward midnight Ron and Hermione stood face-to-face discussing in impassioned voices whether or not Hermione had any right to mention the word "sex." "Sex, sex, sex!" shouted Hermione. "I'll say it whenever I want to! Sex, sex—"

Ron tried to shut her up and Hermione kissed him back. Dean awoke in a doze and started in a daze towards the dorm. Taking his hat from the chandelier Ron followed.

"We should have lunch one day," Dean suggested as they walked up the stairs together.

"We already do," Ron said.

"Keep your hands off my broomstick," they heard Colin Creevey shout from the Common Room.

"I beg your pardon," Dean said. "I didn't know I was touching it."

"All right," Ron said. "I'll be glad to."

…And he was standing beside Dean's bed and Dean was sitting up between the sheets, clad in his underwear, with a huge portfolio in his hands.

"Ginny in the Moonlight…Ginny by the Lake…Ginny Doing Her Potions Homework…Ginny Staring at the Wall…"

"I don't like you drawing my sister."

Then Ron was lying half asleep and the door creaked and Harry staggered in and the clock struck three am.

After fifteen minutes of heated argument, Hermione had finally roped Harry into going to the library to work on their Defense Against the Dark Arts project. Harry had wanted to stay in the Common Room, but she knew that if they stayed there they would be distracted, and Harry would want to play Exploding Snap with Ron and would become snippy when she didn't let him, and they wouldn't accomplish a thing. Plus, this was a research project. Contrary to what Harry might think, all those books didn't just materialize in Hermione's satchel every morning. Research involved going to the library. Harry's argument boiled down to lethargy and procrastination, as it always did.

They sat not far from the Restricted Section, at a table covered with books, quills, and papers laid out in the complex organizational system that Harry had never understood, although he'd seen Hermione use it since first year. A while back Hermione had tried to explain it to him, but she'd quickly realized he was hopeless. Now, whenever she worked with Harry, she left a patch of clear table for him and handed him what she wanted him to use so that he wouldn't destroy her research.

Currently he was staring, puzzled, at a fifteenth-century text about Smiggledons in the northern British moors, apparently unable to decipher the Middle English script, seeing as he hadn't turned the page in the past half hour. She had only twenty pages left in The Moderne Guide to Darke Kreatures, the 1176 edition, and she didn't want to break her concentration, but she couldn't leave Harry sitting there like a troll.

"Harry," she said, "why don't you go get the Tithering account of the 1781 Smiggledon sightings? It should be near the back of the third aisle over from the Restricted Section, on the left."

He stood up immediately and stretched—she could hear the bones in his arms pop—then wandered towards the stacks. Hermione returned to her research. At least now Harry would be doing something useful. He might even stay awake for it.

Before she'd fully regained her concentration she heard the wood-on-wood clunk of a chair pushed into a table. She glanced up to see Draco Malfoy stride across the library, heading straight for the aisle into which Harry had disappeared.

Just what Harry didn't need.

Harry could deal with Malfoy, though, even if Malfoy had been worse this year. Harry wasn't stupid. There was no point in her getting involved unless she needed to.

She opened her book to page 1728 and stuck her nose inside it, but she couldn't ignore the murmur of low voices coming from the stacks by the Restricted Section. Harry and Malfoy. She forced herself on. In the goode Year Eleven Hundred and Three, the Smiggeldonne Population…

The whispers stopped. But then she heard a heavy thud, and another, then many at once. She couldn't tell what the noise was at first; then she noticed the third stack over from the Restricted Section tilt back and lean forward again. The sounds were falling books.

Hermione jumped up, set down her book—it was too old to drop without damaging it—and sped over to Harry's aisle. The stack tilted back, and Hermione had to quash the urge to grab it and save those books from potential damage. Then she saw the reason for the books' danger: Malfoy was pushing Harry's shoulders against the stack. They were both breathing hard, and both sported the angry pink skin that would later be bruises.

"Malfoy, let him alone," Hermione said.

"Why should a pureblood have to do what a Mudblood says?" he said coldly, his eyes gray and murderous.

"Because I could best you in any duel we ever had, just like I've beaten you in every class that grades fairly."

"Any Potions Master in the world would tell you that I'm better at Potions than you, you bushy-haired poodle. And as for you being better than me in a duel? I doubt it." But he released Harry and stalked out of the library.

Hermione rushed over to Harry. "Harry, are you okay?" She laid a concerned hand on his arm. He flinched.

"I'm fine." He picked up a leather-bound volume and returned to the table, leaving a dozen or so books scattered on the floor. Hermione left them there; they weren't going to walk away while she checked on Harry. Most of them weren't, anyway.

She slid into the chair across from him. The books were stacked so high that she could barely see his face. But, "Harry, your lip is bleeding. Did Malfoy punch you?"

He blinked a couple of times. He looked shell-shocked. "Yeah. I—yeah." Then he said rapidly, "I have to go." He shoved away from the table and grabbed his bag, leaving two quills and his Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook on the table. He even left the book he'd gone after, the Tithering account, in his haste to leave.

Harry was lucky she was here to clean up after him. Hermione rolled her eyes and returned to her research.

Cal Avery had twenty-eight pages of new Quidditch rules to learn, forty-seven third year papers to grade, and three Hufflepuffs to tutor. It was going to be a long night. The only way he stood a chance of finishing it all was to take it to the library. In seven years as a Hogwarts student, he had spent less time in the library, total, than he was planning on spending there tonight, but with all the first years beating down his office door for extra help and the crowd of third year girls lollygagging around in the hallway just outside his door and giggling every time they caught sight of him, his office had ceased to be an efficient work environment.

He rounded the corner onto the library hallway and saw Draco Malfoy leaning against the wall opposite the library door. Avery was about to remind Malfoy that students were not supposed to loiter in the hallways when Harry Potter exited the library and hissed at Malfoy, "What the hell was that for?"

Malfoy smiled. "Because I can." He grabbed Potter's necktie.

"Fuck you," Potter said, but he didn't back down.

"Language, Potter," Avery said.

Potter turned to face him. He didn't seem to have realized that Avery was there. "I'm sorry, Professor."

Avery nodded, then looked between the two of them, Potter angry-faced and Malfoy calm. He glanced at the library door, thought about Quidditch rules, third year papers, and Hufflepuffs, and decided he didn't really want to know what was going on here. As he walked into the library he saw Potter grab Malfoy by the shirt in the reflection in the glass door.

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