There is a ...change in the air in this chapter. And latin. Because latin is the coolest of the zombie languages.

Hope you're all having a good week- thanks to TamariChan, ClumsyTonks and the optimistic cynic for their lovely comments. I'm having a lot of fun dabbling with the later chapters at the moment (mostly because some of my favourite characters pop up)... and I would say more but if I don't sleep now I may become one of those mad people with no boundaries.

So- Latin, Letters and Lies

Pansy,

I gather you are well. In regards to your letter, your brother is as you would expect.

I was at the Bulstrode's Secret Garden Party the other day (wonderful décor- almost managed to distract from the migraine-inducing sight of multiple Bulstrode chins), and Millicent informed me of your curious choice of placement. I, of course, knew where you were- but was surprised that you chose to inform others about the whereabouts of your little holiday. "Off cavorting with dragons" does have a rather butch ring to it, don't you agree? I hardly think anyone in that line of work is married (or at least I hope not- the idea of making more sweating, brutish workers is vile).

Fear not though, darling, I did the rounds and notified everyone that your time travelling round Europe was purely a cultural experience and to add to your adequate list of accomplishments. I made an especial note to inform Theodore Nott's mother (such a charming, handsome boy –obvious he is both short-sighted and in possession of remarkable patience to be engaged to that bullish girl. Darling, please do make note, an engagement is not a marriage. And, even you, sparkle next to such a monstrosity as that unfortunate Bulstrode).

Did you know that it looks like Theodore's father may avoid the Kiss after all? Apparently they've employed that swot Atticus, who argued it on 'moral' grounds. Therefore the Notts may once again be an acceptable family to dine with, despite the fact his father obvious killed those muggles (the word "mudblood" was heavily crossed out). Quite the relief- I was getting so tired of having the Flints round, and the Notts do have a dash more breeding, don't they? (Speaking of the Flints, that Marcus boy is still single. Probably because he had that squint… But being comfortably wealthy and well-bred do make up for so much).

In any case, Pansy dearest, please do your Mother a decency and avoid any facial scars or lost limbs. I already have an imprisoned son, I don't think being cursed with a crippled daughter would be especially fair. I think you've hurt me enough already.

Kisses,

Tabitha Parkinson (nee Tremain)

Marcus (dragon-wrangling Marcus, not sexist pig Slytherin Marcus) regarded Pansy from across the breakfast table. The painfully well-sculpted planes of his face were pulled into a puppyish look of confusion.

"Char, I had no idea the British were such private people. Do you all burn your correspondence?"

Above her forgotten toast, Pansy's slightly vacant look was turning to one of maniacal glee as the parchment caught alight splendidly. The fire danced in her black eyes as the letter turned into a plumage of flame. Whenever people met her Mother they were always struck at how petite, beautiful and un-Pansy she was. Tabitha Tremain, pureblood society beauty, was the centre of scandal and hilarity. She didn't have many close friends- you only had to scratch the surface to find venom- but she had many close acquaintances. All who adored her… from a distance.

"Letter from home?" Toothpick asked, bright pink eyeliner flashing as she blinked.

"Good guess. It was just my Mother recommending that I avoid facial scarring and that I should try to steal my best friend's fiancée."

"Ouch. I thought I had it bad; my Father sends me regular encouragements to become an accountant. He doesn't really understand wizarding jobs- can't believe there's any money in it." Tabitha paused, her feline face caught mid-thought. "I suppose, in my case, there's not…"

Marcus gave his magnanimous laugh at the end of the table. "Charlie still wins the Unfortunate Letters From Home Game."

Pansy's hackles rose slightly. A little part of her brain warned that this was a bad route to go down if she wanted to remain anonymous, but a larger considerably stupider part was telling her this was a game she could win. After reading Letter Number 584 In How To Cripple Your Daughter's Self-Esteem, Pansy felt like she needed a win.

"Oh, really? Challenge accepted," she said turning on an unsuspecting Charlie, who was shoveling egg innocently into his mouth. With his hair ruffled in fiery curls and navy jumper on back to front, he looked like an unmade bed.

"Please, no," he groaned. "It's not a title I'm proud of owning."

"Great," replied Pansy. "Because I'm going to take from you. By the look of this… pile of cinders that was once the letter, I gather she wrote it after her third gin and tonic of the day, but before the fifth glass of bourbon."

Charlie routed around on the pile of letters on the table until he found a piece of parchment with a tasteless gingham border. "You see this? It is the fifth letter my Mother has sent me. Five letters. Written in six days."

"On half a page of parchment my Mother tried to set me up with two different men. Her record is fitting eight suitors in one paragraph."

"My mother does the same. Last time she wrote to enquire if I'd like to have tea with a young Medimage… called Paul. That was the most awkward reply I have ever had to write," said Charlie, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "Especially as up until the point I found out she was describing a man, Paul was sounding like he was rather a catch."

"Gosh, I remember reading that letter!" exclaimed Toothpick. "Almost persuaded me to give men another try."

"Hmmm…" Pansy scratched her chin. She had a lot of ammo in the emotional damage inflicted by her Mother cartridge- but most had inconvenient context. "Oh, you can't beat this. For my fifteenth birthday my Mother threw a party. All my friends were there. There was an appropriately mountainous pile of presents, and a cake in the shape of a dark-haired woman. I, foolishly, thought it was a surprise party for me. However when it came to the toast (which my Mother gave herself), dearest Mama announced that it was a spontaneous party to celebrate her. Apparently she always felt somewhat melancholy around that time of year, so felt she needed a pick me up."

"FOUL!" yelled Marcus. "Free throw to Charlie. This is a competition of Worst Letters from Home. Not Traumatic Experiences Caused By Mothers."

"Though you would have definitely won," added Charlie looking aghast. "Probably."

"It wasn't all bad," admitted Pansy, bitterly. "Getting to eat a Red Velvet cake in the shape of her head was strangely satisfying. So, what is your final blow?"

"The Howler," sighed Charlie. A beaten look froze his face as he re-lived the memory. "I don't know if I can even repeat it."

"Too bad, because I can," chirped Toothpick with relish. "Charlie's Mum sent Wynne Warbeck a Howler accusing her of doing away with her beloved boy just because he's a bit slow at replying to her letters. You can imagine the fall out from that."

"Oh Merlin."

"Believe me, however bad you think Wynne reacted, the reality was ten times worse."

"A hundred times worse. Hilariously worse," said Marcus with a reminiscing look in his eye.

Charlie said nothing and continued to look traumatized. He didn't look much like Ron, who was tall, lanky and pale. The condensed muscle and broad, weather-beaten cheekbones were much more appealing than his unfortunate younger brother's destitute looks. For a second Pansy froze and halted her thoughts on whatever devious trail they were about to go on. "Appealing" and "Weasley" were not words that fit naturally in a sentence together. Instead she returned to shamelessly staring at the golden-haired god that was Marcus… who was casually ridding his ear of any wax. Charming.

"So…" began Pansy, working out how she would word this. "How bad would Wynne react if I asked her if I could start working with the dragons?"

There was a sound of cracking mugs and tinkling cutlery as three pairs of eyes turned wondrously toward Pansy.

It had been a decision Pansy had been pondering the moment she had discovered how few Lit Reviews achieved the higher grades and became published. The fact that they were tediously dull to write was also a contributing factor (even Charlie's re-enactments of someone dying of boredom were getting a little stale), as was the unexpected letter from Luna. Her note, bizarrely written on the back of a HELP FOR HIPPOGRIFFS poster and –Pansy was convinced- partly in code, rambled about how exciting her research into the hunt for Crumple-Horned Snorkacks was going. Pansy, having attempted a reply at least twice, had given up trying to make reading in the library and polishing gear sound adventurous. She wasn't Hermione Granger for Merlin's sake (and thank Salazar Slytherin and his lacy underwear for that). She was here to do research after all, and all that time sitting around was giving her far too much opportunity to mull over past problems. Especially blond, sneering, handsome, traumatized past problems.

She had received a short but humorous letter from Draco that had neither informed her of anything relevant to him nor calmed her worries. At least fearing for her own life would be a preferable distraction to the agony of worrying about his.

Also, being referred to as "Damsel," no matter how much everyone reassured her it was an 'ironic' nickname, was getting on her nerves.

"Are you being serious, Pans?" said Charlie, his blue eyes bright with the hope he'd be back with his precious homicidal reptiles. "You shouldn't feel pressured to do this- and Wynne isn't one who takes being questioned well. She may say no. Loudly."

"With violent emphasis," added Toothpick helpfully.

"Yes," she replied, annoyed. "I wouldn't bring it up unless I was sure." I am so very much NOT sure. Please, please some one stop me.

Weasley practically leapt across the table to Pansy, snatching her easily from her chair to spin her round. Pansy's senses were assaulted with a blur of autumnal colours and the utter awareness of Charlie. He gathered her up so easily and his laugh was so bright and he was so there. He kissed both her cheeks laughing, and something about that and the way Toothpick and Marcus were shooting each other knowing looks, swung her back into reality.

"Weasley, this is awfully endearing, but I can't breath. I like breathing." Her reply was strangely tempered. Her tongue had been on the verge of saying "Drop me before I get poor people diseases," yet the hug wasn't all that unpleasant and such insults tended to make Weasley look like a kicked puppy. Pansy wasn't sure why this bothered her. She didn't even like puppies.

"Sorry, it's like Christmas and my Birthday all came at once," said Charlie, placing her feet back on the ground like a gentleman.

"And Valentine's day," muttered Toothpick innocently. Pansy shot her a dark look. She liked Toothpick despite the flagrant muggleness, snoring and her exasperating pixie-like prettiness, so decided to ignore the comment instead of reciprocating with violent, murderous revenge. To her dismay, Marcus laughed at the comment instead of growing dark and brooding with jealousy. Charlie didn't bother responding, as he was already bounding out the hut to head over to Wynne's office.

To their tremendous surprise, Wynne granted Pansy and Charlie permission with the merest nod and delicate raise of her eyebrow.

"Finally. It was about time you both began pulling your weight."

Pansy was just about to retort that she had been pulling her weight when Charlie dragged her out the room lest they became victims of a violent workplace crime.

"So… was that whole story true? About your Mother?" asked Charlie as they flew side by side across the mountainous terrain toward the Drakeling pens. He thought it be best they start with something simple. And toothless.

"Calling me a liar, Weasley?"

He turned to look at her. He felt practically slovenly in his Fire-proof leathers next to her elegant shape clad in jodhpurs and a turtleneck. Black against the blue sky, the windswept strands of her hair tried their best to escape her harsh ponytail and a sharp smile guarded her face. Like many uncomfortable with flying, she sat too straight; her muscles and tendons taunt. Yet she often held herself like that, her statuesque figure tense and tempestuous, as if challenging the very air around her to a fight. There was something unconquerable about her, Charlie thought not aware of the small smile tickling the edge of his lips.

"Never. It just sounded horrendous. And it reminded me that I don't actually know much about you."

"Worse things have happened to people," she replied lightly, her dark gaze fixed ahead. "And that's not really surprising, is it? We're strangers."

"Hardly! I've told you loads about me-"

"Hmmm, yes, have I mentioned you talk too much?"

Charlie usually laughed off her sour retorts, realizing it was just dry humour. Many people thought Pansy's bitter conversation was her being bitchy (which sometimes it was, though Pansy felt she erred more on the side hilarity than meanness. Often she ill-judged this and accidently formed arch-nemeses where she was trying to form friends. Hey, you win some, you lose some). However, this time, Charlie's grin fell and he got that kicked puppy look that Pansy found maddening.

"Do you do that on purpose?" she spat against the wind, tempted to hex that look permanently on his face as revenge.

"What?"

"Look like I've stolen your favourite stuffed dragon."

"Don't bring Georgette into this!"

Pansy scoffed. "I'm a private person. In this day and age, it's not unusual. And it's not wrong. People aren't accepting of things they don't know, so why would I give them a chance to despise me?"

Charlie tucked he scarf into his jumper, shivering against the cooling wind. "I'm not saying it's a bad thing to be private. Gods, it's not like I am. I hardly tell anyone about… It's just- you don't have to go to such lengths to hide yourself. It's a really tolerant group here. And we live in a different time to what we did ten or fifteen years ago. Everyone is equal and welcome. People don't care anymore if you're female, Hufflepuff, Muggle-born…"

Pansy froze in the air. Charlie floated on, spewing his utopian bollocks, utterly unaware as he neared the ground that she was still twenty yards up in the air and pointing a wand at him.

The fireball aimed at his foot came as quite a shock, and it if wasn't for the heavily Fire-Proofed Leather he might have lost half his toes.

Charlie was instantly shot back to that night at the Battle of Hogwarts. Instead of the Romanian mountains he saw darkness, flashes of red and green, and bodies. Fred's body. Blood and breath shuddered through him, and he spun round ready to curse –no, ready to kill- a Death Eater. Instead he saw Pansy storming down on him, whirling her broom like a scimitar and cracking him on the skull with it.

"You pompous, chauvinistic, over-privileged male! ARE YOU AN IDIOT!? A BLIND, SOCIALLY UNAWARE GRYFFINJOCK? Oh, of course now the Dark Lord had been defeated, the world is sunshine and rainbows and equality," Pansy gave him another whack on the head for good measure, and then aimed for softer areas like her brother had taught her. Unfortunately there weren't many areas on Charlie that were soft, Pansy noted amid her anger as her arms began to ache.

Charlie raised his arms to protect himself, and wasn't quite sure whether to run away or rethink his rule about hitting women. Not that he wanted to hurt Pansy, he just wanted this ferocious tirade to stop before he lost an eye and more of his dignity.

"Pansy, what are you-"

"And YOU. You poverty-stricken, ridiculous-haired, CHARIZARD! YOU accuse me of being MUGGLEBORN? And a HUFFLEPUFF?! And a WOMAN? ….Um," the slight lapse in logic made Pansy pause. Pain flooded into her arms as her anger dimmed slightly. Geez, it's times like these I should really remember that I'm a witch with a wand, she thought angrily.

Pansy dropped the broom with derision. Her breath came out in angry gasps. She knew she was about to do something stupid, she was about to cry in front of a bloody Weasley just because he made a senseless, offhand comment. Even worse, she knew she was going to say something even more stupid.

"We live in different times, do we? Not so long ago I was laughed off the Quidditch pitch because boys in my house decided that widening the try-outs to include girls was a ridiculous notion. And no more racism is there? The Death Eaters may be reduced, but they're not gone. Most of them aren't even in jail. And they're not the only racist group out there. If you read the news, you'd be aware that some are claiming that the Dark Lord's half-Muggle parentage explains his homicidal and psychotic tendencies. They even write scientific papers to back their claims up! Apparently the Muggle genes are overcome by the chaos particles of magic. Oh, and let's not forget the casual racism that pervades common folk. Even my own Mother (who believe me when I say she has fucked a Muggle or two in her time) would disinherit me if I had the misfortune to marry one.

"Don't even make me laugh with that 'it doesn't matter what house you're in crap.' Families have been divided just because their child was sent to the wrong house. Think of what happened to the Black family! Even your own family! I was standing in front of that trollop you call a brother just before Sorting and even he complained about the possibility of not getting into his precious Gryffindor. How can there not be bias and division when we're divided into a set of arbitrary characteristics at age eleven? Why put ilk with ilk? Because we want to accentuate the characteristics until ambition becomes greed and bravery becomes recklessness? Why do we have to generalize our complexities?

"How can you stand there, and tell me none of these factors would influence the way you thought about me, when they're the most important factors of all?"

"Because they wouldn't." Charlie replied simply, regarding the hot tears spilling freely from Pansy's face with painful tenderness.

"Either you're a liar or so secure in your pureblood and Gryffindor background that you don't see the truth."

"Pans, I'm well aware Parkinson isn't a Pureblood name, if that's what's the matter-"

"I'm not Muggle-born, if that's what you think. My Mother's Pureblood stock, through and through." Multum valet coniunctio sanguinis is the Tremain family motto. A bond of blood is powerful. "And the closest Muggle relation to Edgar Parkinson was two generations ago." The Parkinson motto was Simul astu et dentibus utor. I use my cunning and my teeth simultaneously. A threat to distract from their painful stench of new money and new blood.

"And I'm saying no one cares!" Charlie said, inching toward Pansy as one would approach a dangerous and injured beast. She stumbled back, almost hissing like a cat.

"No one cares here. That is completely different to saying no one cares."

"Okay. Okay. You're right. There are some topics that… people find difficult. There are still old prejudices that people are aware of, and, it's hard to get past them. And it's hard for me to understand- but I want to understand, Pans. I do." Charlie continued to approach her slowly. "I suppose I can't speak for everyone. But… Nothing you could tell me could make me change what I thought about you. I mean- hitting me over the head with the broom has made me rethink ever calling you 'Damsel' or questioning you upper body strength again. But that's it. Honest."

And out of nowhere, Charlie embraced her. It was an awkward hug, but Pansy was so exhausted and embarrassed and incensed that she just leaned into the shallow dip of his shoulder, and wished she could melt away.

"I am sorry, Pansy," his hot breath escaped down the back of her collar.

He wasn't entirely sure if his apology was big or specific enough, and he still could not get his mind around quite why this topic affected her so. He felt her volatile form enveloped in his arms, and for a moment experienced a flicker of wonder very similar to the sensation he got when around the dragons.

Sometimes there is a moment when you come into close quarters with a beast, when spells and charms won't work, and you're forced to use guile to sneak quietly and calmly past their defenses. Often this occurs with wrangler-raised dragons, unused to the dangers of the mountains, who've managed to get themselves caught in the wild or who fall ill and are in need of attention. These beasts, despite your careful approach, oft turn their muzzles toward you and ponder whether to suck the marrow from your bones or crisp the pigment from your skin. Three dragons Charlie had raised from eggs had been caught thus when they had stopped being the tolerant little snappers and had grown into large, merciless hunters caught by fate in unfortunate circumstance. Each had turned to him like this, and every single one had bowed their murderous jaws away from him, and chose to let him past unharmed.

"I'm sorry for hitting you with the broom," Pansy mumbled, her head faced away from him. Involuntarily, he inhaled the spiced orange scent from her hair.

Pansy felt a laugh rumble through him. "No worries. And I mean it, the whole it doesn't matter to me what house, what background… or what sex you are –well, quite honestly, it would be a bit of a surprise if you revealed that you were a man. But I would do my best to not let it affect the way I thought about you."

Pansy snorted, and disentangled herself from him. "Sorry, I did go on a bit of a tirade… To be honest, you're not the only one who mistakenly thinks everything is picture perfect now The Big Bad Guy is dust. Anyway, please lead onto the pens! I feel a dangerous encounter with teacup dragons is quite what we need to get over this awkwardness!"

The pair began hiking up the hill, cautious of each other's company and making careful jokes and conversation.

"And as if you could ever be a Hufflepuff," Charlie began jovially, as Pansy's eyes went wide with worry. "Not that that would be a problem- But I think it unlikely a Hufflepuff would call some one a poverty-stricken, ridiculous-haired, Chari-something."

"You do have ridiculous hair."

"You just lectured me on equality! And fairness!"

"I lectured you on your vastly mistaken view that we live in an unbiased time. I said nothing of Rights for Orange Haired weirdoes," Pansy gave him that half-smile that meant she was (half) joking. Spinelessly, she ignored her 'poverty-stricken' comment. The faster it was forgotten the better.

"Cruel, cruel woman. Anyway, as I was saying, you're definitely a Ravenclaw. No doubt about it. Nerdiness just comes off you in waves-"

"Slytherin, Charlie."

"Yes, you're right, of course. How could I say no one cares about houses and blood purity when twenty five percent of us are bloody vipers? Common knowledge that there wasn't a witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin." His pleasant face crumpled with distaste. "My Dad always joked that upon sorting they should be rounded up and sent to some kind of correcting facility. In fact, in hindsight, maybe that wasn't a joke…"

"No," said Pansy, catching his wrist and looking him dead in the eye. The wind tore at her face as if it wanting to sweep her words far away. "I'm in Slytherin."