Title: The Place Between
Author: Sonya
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.
Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse.
Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.
Summary: Life goes on, everybody's still got issues.
Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgement. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right?
***
"Should I turn the page?"
"Hrmm? Almost. My English is slow, I should have been practicing more."
"We could cast a translating charm on it, and I could practice my Bulgarian. Your English is much better than my Bulgarian."
"You got lots of practice this summer. My turn now, since we are in England."
Ron tried not to glare too hard at the couch; from his seat at the kitchen table he could just see the very top of Viktor's head and the unruly spill of Hermione's hair, trailing down over the couch's arm. They were curled up together - without a blanket, Weasley house rules for co-ed cuddling - reading Ginny's Christmas present to Hermione, "Well-Known Wizards in Muggle History."
Looks deadly dull, if you ask me.
I bet he's not even interested in it. He's probably thinking about Quidditch the whole time, that's why he can't keep up, his English sounds fine to me.
He's probably thinking about her bum the whole time, seeing as how they're all pressed together like sardines. Probably not thinking with the head on his shoulders at all, the great prat.
Well, you invited the great prat here, and at least she's getting up and showering and speaking to someone now. None of your business if it cheers her up to have her bum shoved in his lap.
It better be his lap.
Well, if their heads are even, and he's a whole lot taller than her, then -
- then it' s still none of your business, you stupid git. You invited him here.
"If you say so - where are you at?"
"Here - this word, I don't know - clan-" Viktor broke off, and Ron could practically hear the confused frown.
"Clandestine," Hermione pronounced. "It means secret."
Like, 'My bum is clandestinely shoved in your lap.'
And I know bloody well if that were me or Fred or George with some girl on the couch, Mum'd have a bloody heart attack, with or without a blanket. If it were Ginny with some bloke, she'd probably keel over and die.
'Course, with Mum and Dad out doing whatever it is they're doing that they were so secret about, I don't suppose they can object too much - but they were curled up just like that when they left this morning, Mum must have seen them.
"It sounds like it ought to mean something about family or nation, 'clan,' and then 'destine', that is like your word for - what is supposed to happen? It should mean something like, the fate of the nation, or the family." Viktor paused. "Though that would make no sense there."
"I never thought of that," Hermione said thoughtfully, and Ron saw her hair shift. "I guess it is an odd word." Oh, right, how impressive, thinking up knew things that words ought to mean - that's not at all like just being a stupid git who just doesn't know what they really do mean.
"You can turn the page now."
Ron could hear the faint crinkling of new parchment and Hermione's soft, nearly inaudible sigh as she settled back into reading. A hand with rather overlarge knuckles came into view over the arm of the couch, doing something with her hair.
Stupid prat.
But . . she does sound almost kinda happy . .
Ron stared glumly down at the parchment resting on the table in front of him. It was mostly blank, a few scant lines taking up barely an inch at the top. Blaise, it read - 'Dear Blaise' sounded too strange, and made his ears go red when he thought about writing it - I'm glad your Christmas was good. That reflecting pool thing sounds neat. Harry says it sounds like a Muggle thing called a 'television'. Weird, huh? Mine was good too. I got a new sweater and some shoes.
Blaise's letter had been three feet long. He'd skimmed it once, gone to write his reply, and was convinced that he'd answered all her major points in six rather short sentences. He read her letter again, twice, trying to figure out if he'd missed something, but no - he'd imparted roughly the same amount of information she had. Granted, he hadn't elaborated on the color of the sweater or the type of the shoes or written a bloody thesis on the virtues of the exact type of reflecting pool she'd gotten as opposed to the one her cousin got last year, but he thought he'd hit all the key points.
He couldn't tell her anything important, anyway. Dad said there'd be an announcement made at the start of the new term; students who'd lost close friends would likely find out sooner, of course, but Blaise hadn't been close to Pansy, and he didn't think she'd known any of the sixth or seventh years or recent graduates, either. Makes sense, I guess - even if it's just someone you know to say hi to, you don't want to find out they're dead from rumors. And Dad'd get in trouble if people figured out he was talking about this stuff at home, and then he'd probably stop talking about it.
So can't just say, well, my mind's not really on reflecting pools just this moment, what with my best friend's parents being dead and also a bunch of other people I was never very nice to or cared for much, but I didn't want them *dead*. Can't say you really ought to be practicing your flying, 'cause I have this feeling Slytherin's gonna have a few openings on the team come the new term. Can't say Viktor bloody Krum is canoodling with my best friend on my couch at the moment, either, not unless I want the house mobbed with bloody reporters, if you were to tell anybody. Can't say *anything*. I got a sweater. Cousin Bethany's pregnant again. How's the bloody fucking weather?
Anyway, it's just a stupid letter. How do you put stuff like that in a letter? I'd end up sounding like some nancy-boy prat.
"Are you at the third paragraph yet?" Hermione asked in the murmuring, distracted voice that Ron recognized as meaning she was twisting something around in her brain. Only Hermione would spend the holiday break all wrapped up in a book, and a book of things that happened bloody hundreds of years ago, at that.
"Hrm," Viktor grunted, "almost." He sounded just as absorbed in what he was reading as Hermione.
Or else he's a really good faker, and he's just trying to pretend like it's not boring as bloody hell so she'll stay there with her bum in his lap.
Or, could be his English is so bad he has to concentrate real hard just to figure out what the hell he's reading. Could be both.
But she seems happy. That's the important thing. The stupid slouching git who can barely read and has one big eyebrow and enough nose for two people and honestly, you'd think someone with as much brains as she has would have the sense to realize there's not a wizard alive that could actually concentrate on a book with her bum shoved up against him - well, he makes her happy. That's what's important.
"Let me know when you get there, I've got to tell you how they explain that in Muggle history classes. It's odd because -"
The back door into the kitchen swung open, hitting the opposite wall with a bang, and a very muddy Ginny stomped in, grinning and with a quaffle tucked under one arm. "You have *got* to try this!" she announced, bouncing from foot to foot.
"Don't listen to her," Harry grumbled cheerfully, coming in behind her, followed by the twins. "She just wants someone new to beat on."
"Kicked his ass," George piped in.
"She's bloody vicious," Fred added. They all looked like they'd been dragged through the yard by their ankles; one side of Fred's head was completely plastered with mud, making his hair stand up at an odd angle.
"Who won?" Viktor called in from the living room. Hermione rolled over, propping her chin up on the arm of the couch. Her hair fell in her face, and she tossed it impatiently out of the way with one hand. It promptly flopped back over her eyes.
"Me," Ginny bounced over to a cabinet, grabbing herself a glass, then skipping to the sink to fill it with water. "First me and Harry against Fred and George, and we won, then me and George against Fred and Harry, and we won again, and then I beat the lot of them." "
"Who knew she could run that bloody fast?" George mused aloud. "She's not that fast on a broom."
"Or kick that hard," Fred commented, making rather tentative kicking motions with his left leg, then testing his weight on it.
"Too bad there's not a soccer team at Hogwarts," Harry said, plopping down in the chair next to Ron.
"Maybe you could start one," Hermione suggested, flipping her hair back out of her face again with a brief, irate frown. Viktor caught the mass of curls this time, doing something with it that Ron couldn't see behind Hermione's head. "What are you doing with my hair?" she asked, scrunching up her eyebrows and trying to look over the top of her own forehead.
"Tying it in a knot, so it will be out of your way," Viktor answered.
"You can't tie hair in knots!" Hermione protested.
"I do to Ana's all the time."
"And then she wakes up and chases you around the yard with a broomstick!"
"Is that why she does that?"
Hermione's response was something unintelligable that involved giggling, and resulted in both their heads disappearing back behind the arm of the couch. Ron scowled. Mum'd have a bloody seizure, if that were one of us.
"We could, I suppose," Harry said with a shrug at Hermione's suggestion. "Though I'm not very good. You could see if any of the other Muggleborns know how to play, Ginny."
"It wouldn't work, we'd never get Slytherin to put together a team for a Muggle sport, and probably not Ravenclaw, either," Ginny said. "But we can still play ourselves, anyway, just for fun."
"Oh, right, fun," Fred drawled, rotating his ankle and wincing.
"Tell Blaise I say hi," Ginny said to Ron, innocently, sipping her water. Fred perked up, losing all interest in his apparently only semi-functional leg.
"Ooh, Ickle Ronniekins is writing his girlfriend?" George asked, as Fred hobbled over towards the table. Ron snatched up the parchment and shoved it down his sweater.
"How's Miss Slytherin, Ronniekins?" Fred teased.
"She's perfectly nice and you shouldn't - " Ginny began to protest, just as Ron snapped back, "How's Angelina?"
"She's good," Fred said jovially, plopping down in the chair to Ron's other side. "I'm visiting her tomorrow for New Year's." George, who had been getting a glass of water for himself, slammed the cabinet door shut a little harder than was strictly necessary. Ginny turned and glanced worriedly at her brother. The giggling from the living room had progressed into indignant sounding half-shrieks, and then silence, punctuated by sounds of rustling cloth.
"You never mentioned that," George said in a very flat voice.
"I'm mentioning it now," Fred shrugged.
"Fine then," George answered, shrugging back. "If you want to go up to bloody Yorkshire for New Year's, have at it."
"Planning on it," Fred's voice had dropped to a low and serious pitch that Ron wasn't sure he'd ever heard before.
"Best not say that in front of Mum," George suggested, jerking the faucet on without looking where it was pointing, and accidentally dousing the front of his shirt. Out in the living room, Hermione suddenly sat up, looking touseled and flustered. She fairly flung herself off the couch, pausing only to retrieve the forgotten book from where it had fallen to the floor. Viktor's head appeared a moment later, frowning.
"Hermione?" Ginny inquired, sounding faintly concerned. Hermione looked up, face flushed, eyes wide and ready to overflow with tears.
"Oh," Hermione said, glancing rapidly back and forth between the kitchen full of Weasleys and Viktor, who sat perched uneasily on the edge of the couch. Ron felt something clench in his chest. "Oh, I'm - I'm just going upstairs to - I think I should - I'm going to take a nap." She fled, book clutched to her chest.
Viktor moved to follow her; Ron was out of his chair and across the kitchen so fast he wasn't sure his feet actually touched the ground in between. "She doesn't need your help to take a nap," he snapped at Viktor, blocking his way.
"She is upset," Viktor glowered down at him.
"Noticed that," Ron retorted. "What the hell happened?"
"Ron, don't," Ginny appeared beside him, laying a restraining hand on his arm.
"Don't what?" Ron demanded. Why does no one ever take my side? "Don't ask for an explanation? They were on the couch doing *stuff*, and then she -"
"She laughed," Viktor interrupted. He shoved his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, and stared at the floor. "I didn't mean to upset her. Should have just kept reading the book, I guess. Shouldn't have tried to make her laugh."
Ron opened his mouth to ask what in the hell Viktor was babbling about, but unfortunately it began to make sense. She feels guilty that she was laughing. Probably feels guilty about whatever they were doing that was making her shriek like that, too, but I don't think it's all about that. She doesn't want to be happy.
Doesn't feel like she ought to be happy.
"Oh," Ron grunted, feeling like a heel. I got him here so she could have something to be happy about , but now that's just making her more upset. What the bloody hell are you supposed to do with someone who's sad about being happy?
I thought I'd done something right for her. I haven't got a bloody clue what to do now.
"You think we should check on her?" Harry asked, joining them at the base of the stairs. "Make sure she's, you know, not - that she's alright?"
"I was not meaning to make her upset," Viktor said again, rather miserably. Ron noticed that the more worried he got, the heavier his accent became, and the more his shoulders slumped. If he'd been here when she first found out, I think he might have curled himself all the way around into a circle, with his shoulders at his toes. It made him uneasy, seeing how much Hermione's distress was disturbing Viktor. It reminded him of his mum and dad, and the way they'd seem to catch moods off of each other the way other people catch colds.
He's a decent enough bloke, I suppose, but . . I didn't think they'd be like this together . . didn't think they'd act so . . so *permanent*.
"It's not your fault," Harry grumbled, in a tone that suggested he thought it might well be his own fault. "It's Voldemort who's responsible." Ginny jumped and hissed at the name spoken out loud, and Ron flinched. Viktor, oddly enough, reacted least of all - his frown deepened a little, but that was all.
"Don't *say* that!" Ron snapped at Harry. "Look, you scared Ginny." Ginny whipped around to glare at him, and Ron blinked at the look on her face. He might have expected indignation - she didn't much like being treated like a girl, or having it suggested that she was scared, ever - but the look he saw on her face wasn't indignant, and he didn't understand it at all. It was a very hard look, and almost frightening.
"He didn't scare me," Ginny said tonelessly. "It's just a name, and it's a stupid name at that - something a little boy would make up to play pretend. 'Oh, I'm Lord Voldemort, so I guess I don't have to be scared of the dark now.'"
"Huh?" Ron said, wincing when she repeated the name. "He's not *pretend*, Ginny, for Merlin's sake -"
"That's not what she meant," Harry interrupted, watching Ginny quite intently. "She's got a good point, it's just a made-up name, to make him sound impressive."
"What else would he be called?" Viktor asked, frowning thoughtfully.
"Riddle, I guess, Tom Riddle," Harry shrugged. "Maybe we should all call him that - after all, he doesn't want to be known by that name, and anything he doesn't want is good, right?"
"I'm going to check on Hermione," Ginny said in that same emotionless voice, and hurried away up the stairs.
***
"I don't need anything in there," Draco said flatly, crossing his arms and stopping dead as Severus reached for the door to Quality Quidditch Supplies.
After a few moments of aggravated shuffling and hasty re-balancing of oversized bags full of school robes, books, and various other necessities, and when he was sufficiently certain that he was not going to topple headlong through the door and crush his student in the process, Severus snapped out, "You will need a new broom. Perhaps you were planning on acquiring one at the bookstore? Or the apothecary, perhaps?" His tone could have peeled paint; he thought it was eminently reasonable, given the circumstances.
There are several levels of hell that could provide a more pleasant day's entertainment than Diagon Alley in the week after Christmas - and that's not even taking into account the company of the so charming Mr. Malfoy.
"I don't need a new broom," Draco retorted, not budging.
"You cannot represent Slytherin as Seeker on a school broom," Snape ground out. "Your old broom is currently a large quantity of ash. Therefore, you need a new one." Passers-by were beginning to take notice the argument, most likely because they were still blocking the doorway. A witch dragging two young daughters and an armful of bags that rivaled Snape's own burdens gave him a very nasty look as she tried to squeeze past them into the shop.
Perhaps there's something to be said for a solitary lifestyle. For instance, I never had the misfortune to reproduce, and thus the experience of being publicly humiliated by a recalcitrant child is rather new.
Though perhaps if I'd had a son of my own, I'd have some idea what in the bloody hell I'm supposed to do now.
"I wasn't planning on representing Slytherin as Seeker on a school broom," Draco answered, mimicking Severus' tone in clear and unabashed mockery.
If any son of my own ever acted this way, he could just bloody well go home without a broom, and see if being dumped on the pitch in the middle of a game by one of those ancient artifacts the school keeps didn't teach him something.
"And were you planning on transfiguring one of your textbooks, or stealing a broom from one of your housemates?" Snape pressed. His voice had taken on a definute edge, one usually reserved for Hufflepuff first years and Neville Longbottom.
"I wasn't planning on representing Slytherin as Seeker," Draco clarified. Snape blinked, and was grateful to be facing the back of the boy's head, as he suspected Draco would gain a great deal of satisfaction from his flabbergasted expression.
"You were not -" Severus began hesitantly.
"I don't want anything my father bought me," Draco interrupted, bitterly. "I burnt everything else, but burning the entire stadium seemed a little extreme, so I figure I'll just resign."
"I see," Snape responded, and keeping his voice unemotional required some effort. The sentiment was entirely too familiar for comfort, too like himself at that age, though the circumstances were wholly different.
If I had a son of my own, I think I'd move heaven and earth to make certain he never, ever entertained such a thought.
"Not going to argue that I earned my place?" Draco turned around to sneer at him. "No eloquent protestations that my House needs me?"
"Do not insult my intelligence, Mr. Malfoy," Snape drawled, outwardly cool and disdainful. For a long moment they stared at one another, Draco's gaze blatantly challenging, full of all sorts of bitter and hateful things that Snape knew on a first-name basis. He merely quirked an eyebrow in response.
"Don't call me that," Draco snapped, and shoved past him. Overburdened with bags as he was, it was a few tense seconds before Severus was entirely sure that he was not going to topple backwards and crack his skull on the cobblestones.
"Do not call you *what*?" he hollered after Draco's swiftly retreating form, stalking after him as best he could while encumbered with the shoddy, post-holiday-sale replacements for most of the boy's earthly possessions. Damn it, if he doesn't slow down, I'm going to lose him in the crowd. Wouldn't that be a fine crowning moment to this wretched year, misplacing a student.
"Don't call me *Malfoy*!" Draco turned and yelled back.
***
Daylight was just beginning to fade when Ginny emerged from her bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her. Hermione was asleep, though as Ginny left she was still frowning, and in the dim light her normally vibrant complexion was pale, her lips nearly the same color as the rest of her face, bearing just the faintest hint of lavender to distinguish them. Ginny paused at the upstairs window, leaning her elbows on the sill, looking out over the lawn. She and her brothers had charmed it free of snow earlier so Harry could teach them how to play soccer; in the red light of sunset it now looked like a gaping wound in the otherwise pristine white landscape.
She leaned her head on one hand, and her hair crackled as it was pressed between cheek and palm. Lifting her head again, she held a single mud-encrusted strand out for her inspection, and grimaced. She shove off from the windowsill and trudged her way to the bathroom, an assortment of previously unnoticed aches and bruises making themselves felt along the way.
Ginny had to peel her muddy clothing away from her body, a process that proved mildly painful when the dried mud stuck to the tiny hairs on her arms. The pipes rattled and clanked when she turned the hot water on - the house was otherwise quiet.
I probably should have found Viktor and told him Hermione's . . .
Hermione's what, exactly? Okay? By what warped definition does passing out from emotional exhaustion qualify as 'okay'?
Or more to the point, when did you start defining 'okay' as 'not dead'?
The hot water sluicing over her bare skin felt wonderful; for a few moments she just stood there with the water beating down on her back, breaking up the clumps of mud in her hair, easing the slight ache of unfamiliar exertion down the backs of her legs, enjoying the sensations. Then she thought of Hermione, passed out on her bed and frowning in her sleep, and was nearly overwhelmed with guilt.
Oh Merlin, oh God, how can I relax when everything's so terrible . . I'm spoiling myself with a long hot shower when she can't even stand to be happy by accident.
But isn't that just what you were telling her was silly? Not letting herself be happy, not letting herself enjoy anything? Weren't you just saying her parents wouldn't want that?
But her parents are dead, and thus free to be magnanimous about the whole experience. She's alive, and I'm sure there's something I could be doing to help her while I'm wasting time and wasting hot water and -
- there was never enough hot water in the showers, at the orphanage. In the winter the boys would try to hide, or fake illness, to avoid the showers. The water would be frigid, and the rooms they'd come back to dripping and with their socks soaked through from the wet floor would be scarcely warmer. At least one boy died every winter. Hiding was difficult though - cleanliness is next to Godliness, according to Headmaster . And Jupiter was the next best thing to the devil.
Jupiter was an enormous, grotesquely fat Bull Mastiff. Indulging little boys spoiled them, and put their souls in danger, but not so spoiling dogs, who had no souls. Tom readily believed that - that Jupiter had no soul. What he lacked in muscle or dignity he more than made up in sheer malice. If boys went missing when it was time for showers, or prayers or chores, Jupiter would be loosed in the dorms. Still, sometimes it seemed worth the risk, if it was cold enough. At least one boy per winter added up to a lot of boys. To Tom's knowledge, Jupiter had only killed a boy once.
No!
I was never there. My name is Ginny. I've always had hot showers. I've never hidden in the chimney and felt him sniffing at my feet and he would have bitten them off if it hadn't been too narrow for him to fit his shoulders, and he couldn't quite reach, but the Headmaster heard the fuss and -
- NO! Ginny. I am Ginny. I am not Tom.
Why shouldn't you enjoy a hot shower while the mudblood's passed out from crying? They owe us, you know. How many nights did I go to sleep crying? Do you suppose they skipped on hot showers for that? Because the little whoreson bastard freak was upset? The little devil-spawn was upset because he got whipped again? Well, he wouldn't get whipped if he weren't unnatural, if he didn't have the devil in him that made things happen when he got upset, now would he? That's what they think of us. They'd like to see us all dead, for no better reason than that we're better than them.
No, no, NO! My name is GINNY! And Hermione is my friend, and I never - I never thought that, I would never think that, I never -
Oh, you'd never, hrmm? How do you know what you'd never? How amusing, the girl who's always had hot showers talking about what she'd *never*.
Go away. Please. Please go away.
I did go away, remember? Your precious Harry killed me. Twice, even. I'm all gone. I'm not real at all.
Please -
See what comes of caring about Muggles? You'd be enjoying your nice hot shower if it weren't for her, wouldn't you?
Ginny crouched in the corner of the shower, knees drawn up to her chest, and sobbed. The hot water rained down on her, dripped from her shaking legs and slid away down the drain.
***
Ron was still staring at Blaise's letter. In the last two hours he'd thought of exactly two more sentences; she would now know that his new sweater was maroon (again), and his new shoes were snow boots. Why she should care, on either count, he didn't know, but it took up more space. He was sitting on the couch in the living room; the twins and Harry were back outside again, fine-tuning their soccer skills. Vitkor was mostly pacing in front of the stairs, though every now and then he'd sit down and try to read one of the journals Percy'd left lying on the coffee table. They didn't hold his interest very long, though - not that Ron could blame him, they were all about the finer points of cauldron-forging - and then he'd be up and pacing again.
I think I'll be happy when the new term starts, Ron wrote.
A few moments later the couch shifted with someone else's weight. Ron glanced sideways at Viktor, who happened to also be glancing sideways at him. They both looked quickly away.
"The wizards who did this - your father tells me not all of them are caught?" Viktor said into the awkward silence. Ron looked up hesitantly; Viktor was studying his own boots with great intensity. 'Who did this.' He can't say it either. The great Viktor Krum can't say "murdered" out loud either.
"Not all of them, but the Ministry's still looking," Ron answered cautiously. Viktor nodded.
"When they are caught, they will be punished, yes? It will go hard for them?"
"Yeah, I'd think so," Ron said. "The ones they did catch, they're talking about them getting the Kiss."
"Good," Viktor said flatly, and Ron found himself grudgingly agreeing. A few more awkward moments ticked by, in which Viktor picked at his shoelaces, and Ron pondered how to close a letter to a girl he wasn't sure why he was dating.
"If it does not - if they do not catch them, or the punishment is not so much, you will tell me?" Viktor asked.
"I guess, if you want," Ron frowned. "Why?"
"There are people -" Viktor began uneasily, frowning at the floor. "I do not usually get involved with such people, but there are people, with an interest in Quidditch, very rich people. Such people, they can - arrange things."
"Oh," Ron said, dumbstruck. "Um, okay." Viktor looked up at him, expression earnest and for once looking young enough to remind Ron he was only a year older than Fred and George.
"I don't - I do not usually deal with those sorts of people," Viktor explained. "I don't want you to think, or tell Hermione -"
"I won't tell Hermione," Ron assured him. I really can't picture telling anybody about this conversation. Viktor nodded, and seemed relieved.
"Good, I'm glad you understand," Viktor said. "I wouldn't want -" he glanced towards the stairs, "- I wouldn't want for nothing to be done." I wonder if I'm supposed to be offended on behalf of the English Ministry now, Ron thought inanely, considering he seems to think we're incompetent.
"You care about her," Viktor pronounced suddenly, turning back to peer quite intently into Ron's face. Ron shifted uncomfortably, and glanced down at the letter to Blaise.
"Yeah, I do," he answered. "She's my best friend. Yeah, I care about her a whole lot," he affirmed, screwing up his courage. "But she likes you, so - so I guess I've just gotta care enough about her to - well, just don't hurt her, or I'll find some people who can arrange things too," Ron finished, returning Viktor's stare. And now I'm going to get thrashed within an inch of my life. Merlin, I am *bloody* stupid. I couldn't have just said "yeah, we're friends", could I?
"Good," Viktor said again, nodding firmly, and pushing himself up off the couch. "That is good. I am going to go ask Harry to teach me about soccer now," he announced, and slouched off and out the back door. Ron watched him go, feeling vaguely as if he'd just been hit in the head with a bludger. Repeatedly.
***
"Suprise!"
Severus nearly dropped his many shopping bags onto the cobblestones outside the Leaky Cauldron.
"Hopefully this is a good surprise," Willow said, biting her lip. She stood in a pool of dim golden light from the lamp just outside the door, bundled up in a rust-colored cloak with a huge hood that flopped down over her left eye. He wanted to bite her lip, too. He wanted to fall at her feet and kiss her boots just for being there. "Is it a good surprise? Dumbledore told me where you'd gone and said you might want some company, so, here I am. He thought it was a good idea. Which probably should have been my first clue that it might not be a good idea, huh? Don't be mad. Hi, Draco."
"Hello," Draco grunted. Willow frowned at him.
"Why is Professor Snape carrying all the bags?" she asked.
"He's the one that wanted me to get all this crap," Draco answered with a shrug. Willow's frown deepened; she stomped forward and grabbed a set of bags from Snape's unresisting hands. She turned and swatted at Draco with one of them. He's lucky it's the one with robes, and not one with books.
I'm sure I actually would have survived the next five minutes without her appearance. I am capable of procuring dinner for myself and one student. It's even possible I would have survived trudging back out after dinner and braving the process of wand selection.
But I don't think I've ever been quite so grateful to see someone in my life.
"Hey!" Draco protested, dancing out of the way of the shopping-bags-turned-weapons. Willow stopped, and held the bags out to him with a pointedly raised eyebrow. He scowled, but took them.
"You're not mad?" Willow pressed, walking up to Severus and taking two more bags off his hands.
Not mad?
Would it be completely inappropriate to toss all this useless rubbish aside and ravish her in the middle of the street?
He settled for saying, "No," with a faint quirk of his lips that couldn't really be called a smile. He rather thought she'd understand, and hoped Draco wouldn't.
It had long been his experience that hope was a lying bitch. Draco looked from Snape, to Willow, and back to his Head of House again.
"You two - you're - oh, gag me," Draco exclaimed, before stomping past them into the pub, dragging the shopping bags along the cobblestones behind him.
"Oops," Willow said sheepishly. "Um, are you still not mad?"
***
TBC . .