Surprise! Quick update and longish chapter. Should warn you- the likelihood of this occurring twice in a row is slim...

Hope you like the update- as always any comments you have on the how you think the plot is ticking along/characterisation is developing/the excessive quantity of dragons (or lack of!) are more than welcome. (And the optimistic cynic- when it comes to Charlie and dragons, that is an understatement!)

Anywho, onto LotR references, Bonding and Euphenisms!

"Get out."

"Huh?" Charlie awoke from his daydream and peeled his eyes away from the bright sunshine outside the window. Sitting opposite him, Pansy looked almost possessed.

He looked down at his watch. They had been sitting in the library for fifteen minutes. In that time, she had somehow gone from being well coiffed, if slightly drowsy… to wild haired, mad-eyed and surrounded by an imposing number of Dragon Anthologies.

"I said out," the dark haired girl hissed. "You keep fidgeting. And sighing. And looking as if you are on the verge of death. Go. Outside."

It was true. Charlie did not do well indoors- especially if he lacked an occupation. There was little point re-reading anything in the Sanctuary's finite and out of date book collection, and he had already completed his paperwork and re-imagined the entire 1995 Chudley Cannons win against the Harpies. There was simply nothing to do but be on hand encase Pansy needed anything, as well as daydream about doing his actual job.

In the distance he could see the large frame of Caesar and the diminutive figure of Toothpick coming back from a morning hiking up mount Drocea to monitor how the Ironbelly and Hebridean were fairing in the quarantine caves. He wished he could go up and check on them. The Ironbelly may have been suffering from acidic build up after the stress, and the Hebridean may need attention as they occasionally got a little excited with their food and would choke on the bones. Right now Charlie would give anything to put his hand down a Hebridean's gullet to pull out a stuck rib, just to be out of the stupefyingly dull library.

"Out. Please. It's hard enough trying to translate Ye Olde Dragon Lore into modern English without fearing you're going to expire from sheer boredom," the she-demon moaned. "Bloody hell, this book even refers to dragons as Fell Beasts and Nazgul-birds. How medieval."

"No. It's fine," replied Charlie bravely. "I'm meant to be here encase you've got any questions, or…"

"Get lost in this labyrinthine library?" replied Pansy stiffly indicating the four bookshelves and wonky three-legged table that made up the 'extensive' archive. "Somehow run into a dragon between section A to F? Become overwhelmed by the Dewey Decimal system?"

"The Dewey what?"

"It doesn't matter, oh He of the Unsubtle Sigh."

Pansy rested her forehead on her hand, snatching her long fingers into her dark hair, almost as if she had the weight of the world on her mind. Charlie took a moment to study those hands; the square palms and almost skeletal fingers. Not hands much accustomed to work, he thought. Her face was half-occluded by her arm, as if she were trying to block out his existence.

"There is an alternative, if you need a break…" began Charlie, as Pansy instantly snapped the book shut and stood up.

"Then what are you waiting for?"

"… This is what you call a break?" asked Pansy indignantly, dragging her shovel and Cleansweep Five behind her. "This is embarrassing."

Charlie and Mona exchanged a look. Mona had bet eleven sickles and three rounds of feeding duty that the new recruit would turn out to be a snob. Having noticed her sneer and snub-nose, not to mention her strange aversion to dragons, no one had bet against her…

"Something wrong with mucking out dung, Damsel?" replied Mona, somewhat imperiously. "Too good for it? Think Muggle hikers coming across big piles of this stuff won't get a little suspicious? Everybody poops. Even yourself."

"What?" replied Pansy, shoveling waste into the hexed recycling bag. Once packaged into the charmed container, it would be shipped off for a hefty fee to wizarding farms all across Europe. Pansy made a mental note to include this resource in her investment portfolio. It sold like gold dust. "I wasn't talking about the shit. I used to do Pony Club at my Uncle Blackthorn's stables. Believe me when I say this is nothing. What's embarrassing is riding around the mountains on this rackety Cleansweep."

Charlie suppressed a laugh at Mona's little 'Humph.'

Two weeks into the placement, Charlie and Pansy had sorted out a reasonable work schedule. She would study in the library for the morning, while he avoided fidgeting, tapping, scratching, coughing, humming, and breathing too loudly. He was, however, allowed to doodle dragons, help Pansy with the occasional Dracozoological question, and theatrically mime undergoing death-throes of boredom every forty-five minutes as long as his re-enactments remained entertaining.

In the afternoon, the pair would tag along to other people's chores and enjoy banter with Marcus and Toothpick, lecherous discussions with Balderic, and attempt to make Kerov experience a facial expression whenever possible. They had yet to succeed in the latter.

Pansy was anxiously awaiting the moment Wynne would trust her enough to let her go without the red-headed shadow. The boy seemed more like a Labrador than a researcher, sulking when stuck inside and bounding about when given freedom of the outdoors. With that in mind, Pansy attempted to train him.

Any time Hogwarts or innocent questions about her background would come up, she would find a subtle way to cause him pain. It was cruel, but she had seen such conditioning work wonders on her Aunt Cecelia's wombat, which used to have an unfortunate habit of soiling the floor and mutilating the neighbours. Charlie must have thought she was the world's largest klutz as whenever they drifted dangerously near one of these topics she would step on his foot, spill hot tea on him or some how manage to stab him with a pen (if not a combination of all three). Pansy detested doing such things as she was of the opinion that clumsiness was not a valid personality trait. She would have much preferred people to think of her floating through life with cool and elegant distain, rather than tripping about as a blundering health hazard. Neither could she vouch for the effectiveness of her conditioning tool, though it did work quite well in changing the subject.

None of the others were Hogwarts graduates- Marcus went to Durmstrang, Toothpick was from the States, and Balderic was most likely raised by wolves. This made Charlie the only potential weak link in her Hogwarts-free haven. The obvious problem arose whenever the pair began to run out of conversation- an inevitability when they were forced to spend almost twenty-four/seven in each other's company. Pansy could deftly steer the conversation away from rocky topics for awhile, but she knew one day he would ask any number of awful questions and she would be stuck adrift on the sea of social awkwardness and isolation. Conversely, all the effort she put into avoiding discussions of Hogwarts meant that she was actually chatting to the Weasley far more than she had ever intended to. Careful- poverty may be infectious, echoed a familiar sneering voice in her head. The voice was not her own, and for once she was angry at it's intrusion in her peaceful school-less world. Draco and his views can be stuffed.

The advantage of this continual scrabble for conversation topics meant that she ended up learning far more about Magizoology than the textbooks could tell her, and also far more about Charlie Weasley. For example, he was a Seeker in school, had atrocious hand-writing, and used to own a stuffed dragon called Georgette. (Pansy, desperate to avoid other topics, was forced to admit that at one point she owned a stuffed unicorn named Sunstar. What she left out was the fact she still owned Sunstar, as well as a fleet of other stuffed unicorns whose names ranged from Nightmare to Buttercup Sparklestar).

"You're sure there are no dragons in this area?" muttered Pansy.

"For the fifteenth time, Damsel," replied Caesar, as he, Charlie, Marcus and Pansy polished metal bridles in the light of the falling sun. "The Romanian Longhorns have gone south to hunt."

"And if they don't find food, you promise they won't come back?"

"Yes."

"And they don't typically hunt humans?"

"Yes."

Pansy paused for a second, twisting her increasingly aching wrist. "… How do you know they won't come back?"

Caesar took a deep breath, his colossal shoulders rising and falling. It looked like he was having immense trouble controlling himself.

"Charlie. If you don't take her inside –quickly- one of us is going to lose it and go on a not-so-accidental killing spree."

"But who will finish off all the polishing?" asked Marcus innocently.

"I will. Just. Cease. The. Questions."

Out of earshot the three escapees burst into laughter.

"That was impressive," said Charlie. "Cruel, but impressive."

"Fifty-seven minutes and twenty-two seconds. That is a new record," congratulated Marcus, rewarding Pansy with his attention.

"Well, when you said Caesar was the most patient man alive… I knew it would be my life's work to break him."

Marcus gave her a wolfish grin. "And break him you did. I had no idea someone could ask the same question sixty-nine times in a row and make it sound sincere. But I shan't have my title as The Most Annoying on the Mountain won so easily. I bet I can get him to break in under fifty."

Is he flirting with me? thought Pansy, giving him a half-smile. I think he's flirting with me. "Double or nothing?"

"Oh Merlin," said Charlie. "No more bets. With Marcus they get completely out of hand-"

"Charlie is correct," he murmured, eyes dancing. "This bet was entirely too tame. Who bets with money… when we should be betting with forfeits?"

"No," Charlie said, trying to be forceful but being impeded by his impenetrable good-nature. "Pansy is new, and you're already in enough trouble with Wynne-"

"I think that is the Prefect in you talking. Pansy here doesn't have any of those silly Prefect notions in her head, do you?"

Pansy was about to reply proudly that she had actually been a Prefect, thankyouverymuch… but there was something about the way the sunset hit the planes of Marcus' face that made her squeak, "Nope. None at all."

"Großartig," came the devilish reply. "I best get to my disciplinary meeting with my favourite Dragon Lady. You and I shall finalise our forfeits in time for the camping trip, I think? Aufwiedersehen, Charlie. Till next time, Damsel."

Watching him stroll down that hill (goddamit- he even strolled in an attractive manner), Pansy clenched her stomach. She was well aware she may have acted… on the simpering side. Mentally she prepared herself for an onslaught of teasing.

"So back to the library?" asked Charlie, his masses of red hair glinting in the setting sun.

Huh? No cruel jests? No despairing looks? Nothing?

"Don't worry," replied Pansy, grateful and confused. "I wouldn't do that to you. Also I do not need a babysitter to read books. Really."

Charlie scoffed. "If you're making bets with Marcus, you may need someone looking out for you. Last time I lost a bet to him, I ended up running starkers through the drakeling pen with nothing but an expensive piece of venison to protect my…er, pride."

"Sometimes I do wonder how on earth this place remains licensed," said Pansy wonderingly, with a touch of relief in her voice. It looked like Charlie had no idea how obvious Pansy had been in her attention to Marcus. Unsurprising, really, since he seemed to have the social awareness of a particularly bright rock. Mona's obvious and continuous fawning over him seemed to go completely over his excessively crimson head. Mona annoyed Pansy no end merely because there were elements in her attentiveness that hit an uncomfortable chord with the way Pansy sometimes used to act around Draco.

"They need somebody to do this job- and I think we already employ all the eccentrics willing to do it."

"Good point, Weasley. Good point. On a separate note- referring to your privates as 'your pride' may come across to some people as being somewhat overconfident."

If this comment had been to a Slytherin, the natural response would have been something along the lines of "Not overconfident, Pans. Merely accurate." (Which in fact, Blaise had –charmingly- said to her at one point). Instead Charlie, chronic Gryffindor that he was, choked on the air and turned the same colour as his hair.

For a second Pansy was afraid he wasn't going to recover. Dammit, how am I going to explain it if he chokes to death? Sorry, officer, I offended his frail Gryffindor sensibility and he died on his own euphemism. How idiotic- Gryffindors mated for life and were as prudish and goody two shoes as… Gryffindors. Mentioning private parts was like shouting "Boo" at a Hufflepuff.

"Okay, there?" Pansy asked, gruffly patting his back- which was her equivalent of intense medical attention.

"Yep, just give me a second."

"It's lucky I said overconfident and not cocky. You may have had an aneurism."

"Not helping."

"Pansy, why are there scorch marks on the table and..." upon seeing her seething looks, "and why are you angry at the sausages?"

"I was trying to cook them," Pansy said shortly, lack of caffeine and food making her rather dangerous before noon.

"…and you tried a Vulcan Hex rather than a Domestic Charm?"

"Yes," Pansy growled.

Charlie gently extracted the sausage links from her hands. "Come on, watch me."

Pansy followed him, and stood sulking as he readied the saucepan and taught her the correct cooking spell. Soon the sausages were hissing temptingly. Charlie had deftly realized that this was going to be the start of her problems, and clearly pronounced the spells for the washing up and coffee without drawing attention to the instruction.

"Who taught you to cook?" Pansy inquired, the smell of the sausages reviving her.

"My mother. Not that this really counts as cooking. Though I can make a mean Sunday roast, and a six-tiered wedding cake. (Don't ask, my manhood may not survive the explanation). So, you a House Elf brat?" Charlie asked before he even realized the words had left his mouth. His eyes went so wide that Pansy was momentarily stunned at how blue they were. Sky blue, with dark flecks like waves in the ocean.

"By Merlin, Pans- I'm so sorry. It's what my brothers call- I'm so sorry."

Charlie was so aghast at the possibility he may have insulted Pansy that she actually burst out laughing (a thing that rarely happened before midday).

"Oh, Char, if you want to insult me you'll have to try a lot harder than that. And yes, I do have a house elf. Her name is Pokey, and in many way I am her brat…" Pansy looked wistful for a second as she poured them both coffee, and drank hers in one. "She practically raised me. In fact, my mother only really started taking an interest in me around the age of five because I had begun wearing a pillowcase and asking if I could do the laundry. So what other domestic skills can you teach me before I destroy the kitchen?"

"I can teach you some more cooking charms. Also, I'm a mean darner. My mother felt the bizarre need to teach us all how to knit- probably so we can infect the rest of the populace with Weasley jumpers," he gestured to his navy jumper, smiling broadly.

"I'll give that a miss," said Pansy grinning into her cup.

"Wise choice. I'm well-versed in laundry and ironing spells- though I should warn you that I can never get the socks to match up quite right."

Pansy fanned herself. "My, my- stop, you're overpowering me with the extent of your domestic godliness!"

"Laugh all you want- once you've done Dung Duty at the caves, you'll be begging me for those charms."

"Point taken," replied Pansy, wincing.

"You really aren't offended?"

"What?"

"The house elf thing. Caesar was the same when he first arrived. He once tried to dust the living room and ended up conjuring a small tornado. I don't think that about you- that you're a brat- it was really just a thoughtless comment-"

"Charlie, please. If my ego had been so terribly bruised, you would know. My revenge would be disproportionally grand, swift and unsubtle." Pansy gave him an imperious yet reassuring look. Geez, amongst the Slytherins 'House elf brat' would have been a compliment. "If anything, it was heartening to know you're not sickeningly affable all the way through. Really- it was worrying me how someone could be so perfectly perfect all the time. It must be exhausting."

"Hardly," Charlie muttered, looking darkly at his coffee.

"You are nice to everyone. All the time. You never have an off moment. Never snap, insult or berate. You even look apologetic when you accidently stray too close to sarcasm. I've seen you come back from a six hour stint, covered in dragon shit, smiling, joking with Marcus, complimenting Mona, offering to do more shifts for Wynne, and somehow managing not to punch Baldric. You're insanely nice. It's frightening."

Charlie gave her an unimpressed and disbelieving look.

"What? You think you're some kind of rude barbarian? Tough shit, Weasley. I, Pansy Parkinson soon to be M.A.G.E, am here to tell you you're a lovely bloke who everyone likes. And it's frightening. Is there some sort of drug that keeps you going? Are you snorting fairy dust?"

"Everyone doesn't like me-" Charlie replied, chuckling awkwardly. There was a strange forcefulness to Pansy's compliments that almost made them sound like insults. Fortunately Charlie had spent enough time with her over the last fortnight to realize her intensity merely exposed her eagerness to get her point across. Everything about Pansy was to extremes. She laughed like she was hearing the funniest joke, and she sulked like the world was going to end. For someone as naturally conciliatory as Charlie, who looked for exhilaration in his work and not people, it was… a new experience to find that excitement in an individual.

"They do. Even Kerov likes you. And he hates everything. He even hates that he likes you. It's immensely entertaining."

"It's not so weird. I mean- everyone likes you too-"

Pansy let out a cackle, almost upending her coffee.

"Weasley, I had no idea how naïve and entertaining you were. Mona barely tolerates me. Marcus doesn't know what to make of me. Toothpick and I get along okay- but we would never choose to hang out together in any other situation. Wynne despairs of my presence. Baldric just wants to- I'm not even going to finish that sentence lest I vomit- Baldric is gross. Caesar only gets about fifty percent of my humour. Georgie is nice to me, but would really rather I wasn't around. Kerov and I have a beautiful mutual love-hate relationship fueled by Russian insults and vodka... Leaving the only person who likes me, being you, and that hardly even counts because you like everyone. And such lack of discerning taste is really rather insulting. I have fantastic taste, therefore like hardly anyone."

Charlie served the sausages, and watched with mild amusement as Pansy ravaged them as fiercely as the drakelings at feeding time.

"I don't like everyone," Charlie said in an undertone, poking at his sausage half-heartedly.

"Charlie Weasley- if you're about to tell me you don't like me then…" Pansy took a moment to ponder her threat as she chewed the succulent morsel in her mouth. "By Merlin, I really don't care as long as you keep cooking me these sausages. Really. You can hate me with a vile and murderous rage, and I will not care as long as you feed me these at regular intervals."

"I don't like Baldric. As you say- he's gross, and vulgar. I don't hate him. I don't hate anyone- No, that's a lie," Charlie fell silent.

"Oh, a list of people Charlie hates! This should be fun and short-" Pansy said brightly before faltering, she hadn't noticed the ever present grin of Charlie's face fall. The expression it now held was terrible and dark. His eyes looked grim, and old. That light way he carried himself was gone, and with it the illusion he was an unthreatening man. Charlie wasn't tall, just a mere inch above Pansy, but his bulk and contained muscle gave him a gravity others lacked. He was built for strength and speed and the outdoors, and it had left an edge. An edge that had been sharpened.

"We don't have to talk about-" Pansy began quietly, an ominous premonition coming over her. We don't have to talk about the war. Please don't talk about the war.

"Fenrir Greyback, he mauled Bill's face. Lucius Malfoy, he embroiled my sister in some dark magic when she was about eleven." He didn't notice Pansy flinch. "Tom Riddle, and his cronies, who are reasons George lost an ear and… and Fred is no longer with us."

Pansy shuddered at the name. That name. He used it so casually. Tom Riddle. It sounds more like the name of an adventurous school boy, instead of the leader of a band of murderers.

The silence drew on, leaving Pansy awkward, afraid, unsure of what to do. She reached a hand out and touched the top of his wrist, gently. She couldn't bear to meet his eyes. She couldn't bear the thoughts in her head. Part of her wanted to sympathize, to empathize, to apologize. So many stupid –izes. She wanted to say sorry for what had happened to him. But it was an empty, damp thing to say- and wasn't she always angry that Slytherins had to apologise for murders and sins they did not commit? She would never forgive herself for offering him such a weak, childish word- and neither would he.

The only thing would be to exchange scar for scar, wound for wound. I'll take your bruise if you take mine. But even then it turns into a tragic tale of one-upmanship. I lost a brother, you lost a brother. One of yours is scarred for life? Try life-imprisonment. Feel like swapping?

And she was on the wrong side.

You can't offer sympathy if those you're tied to did the taking.

She didn't want anyone to know her alliances, as innocent but damning as they were. She loved this anonymity. People could hate her for just being Pansy now! Not some Slytherin cow, befriender and sibling of Death Eaters.

But Charlie saved her from saying anything by doing something truly bizarre. She had only rested her fingertips on his wrist in a small token of acknowledgement and sympathy, yet he twisted his wrist under her touch allowing her to feel the harsh contrast between the soft skin under his palm and the rough callous of a burn. He then moved his hand down, her fingers tracing another sickle-shaped scar underscoring his thumb, and then captured her hand in his grip. Holding it.

It was warm, and for the moment his touch distracted her hazardous thoughts, comforting.

"Sometimes," Charlie, began to admit with a hint of humour re-entering his voice. "Sometimes I even hate Harry Potter."

Bet he'd love to know I wanted to send HP to Voldemort with a bow, Pansy thought sardonically, a poor-humoured snort leaving her mouth. To her surprise, Charlie too let out a strange bark of laughter that masked the ominous brightness in his eyes.

"Weasley, you are a strange one," Pansy said, giving his hand a squeeze before extracting it. It was nice holding it, and it was probably rude to abandon it so quickly, but she wanted to reverse out of… this, before it got awkward.

"Whatever. You think I'm perfectly perfect."

"Quiet you. I said it in a haze of hunger and sausage madness. I also said you were on drugs."

"You said everyone likes me. So you must like me too," Charlie's face had gained a wicked smile.

"I said it because I thought you were about to self-flagellate from insulting me. I am neutral to you. Your hair is too bright and I find it offensively blinding at this hour of the day- don't you have a dimmer switch?"

"Hey, you also said you loved my sau-"

Pansy whipped out her wand. "Finish that sentence and you won't have a sausage left."

And with that she grabbed his untouched plate of food, and reversed from the kitchen at a demonic, newly caffeinated speed.