"Well?" Harry said hopefully. Scott tentatively raised the flask to his lips and took a sip. The face he made was enough answer for Harry; he sighed and took his flask back. "That bad, huh."

"I could make something better in Myrtle's bathroom with a cheap still and some corn mash," Scott told him.

They were supposed to be turning vinegar into wine during the day's Charms lesson, and while Harry had technically succeeded the flavour of his 'wine' left a lot to be desired. He stared down into the murky liquid and tried to figure out what he was doing wrong.

"Here, Scott, try mine." Hermione passed her flask to Scott for testing.

The blond teen took a delicate mouthful of her drink and swished it about his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing. "Supermarket quality," he said after a moment. "Probably the stuff that comes in a box. And it's wine, so it's not even good for getting drunk." He handed the flask back to her.

"Well at least mine is identifiable as wine," Hermione said, offended by his harsh critique. "You've still got a glass of vinegar."

"And yet, somehow a better vintage than yours."

"Then let's see you do better!"

"I don't want to make wine. I don't drink."

"What?" Harry frowned at him. "You said you were an expert on wine."

"I don't drink any more," Scott amended.

Harry looked over at Ron's flask, which was filled with a red substance that at least looked like some sort of wine. "How's yours?"

"I wouldn't pay for it," Ron said. He pushed his flask away and leaned back in his seat. "Hey, weren't you going to tell us what happened with Dumbledore last night?"

"Oh, right." Harry set his flask down, the task at hand momentarily forgotten as he ran through the events of the previous night in his mind. It wasn't easy to summarise such momentous things. He was still feeling a torrential combination of nervousness and excitement, and he stumbled over his words a few times as he tried to encapsulate everything for his listeners, but he did the best he could as he told his friends about the Horcruxes and Dumbledore's promise to take Harry with him on his next excursion.

Scott, who had the appearance of only half-listening to Harry's story, broke in at that point. "How do you destroy one of those Horcrux things?"

"Dunno. Maybe I'll have to use this supposed 'weapon' of mine." As convincing as Dumbledore could be, Harry still wasn't completely sold on the idea that his ability to love had any use.

"Weapon?" Scott perked up at that, sitting straight in his seat. "What weapon?"

"Well…" Harry struggled to think of some way to phrase the idea. Dumbledore had a way with words that Harry simply did not. "He's said that my power, the power that Voldemort doesn't have, is love… That Voldemort doesn't understand or desire love, and that my ability to love is my greatest advantage over him. It's what saved me when he killed my Mum and Dad. It's what protects me, I guess. Dumbledore thinks it's my best bet."

"That's the gayest shit I've ever heard."

Hermione looked at Scott in disbelief, her brow furrowing at his tactlessness. "This is not a joking matter, he's being serious!"

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. "I'm still not really sure what he means. I know it used to hurt Voldemort when he touched me, but I think Dumbledore is talking about more than that."

"Did it?" Scott appeared intrigued. "How much did it hurt him?"

"Bad enough that he couldn't do it for long."

Scott's eyes narrowed in thought. "Interesting. Why doesn't it hurt him any more?"

Hermione immediately laid a supporting hand on Harry's arm. "You don't have to talk about it, Harry," she said protectively.

"No, it's all right," Harry assured her, even though that wasn't entirely truthful. The memories of that night in the graveyard had lost some of their bite with the passage of time, but never entirely dimmed. "He took some of my blood when he was resurrected."

"Blood magic, a fairly standard bonding technique," Scott mused. "How unoriginal of him. Nobody ever stops to consider the role of DNA in magic. You might be interested to know that, theoretically, long term exposure to radiation might restore your ability to damage him through touch."

"Oh yeah?" Harry looked over at Hermione, who was shaking her head in exasperation. "I take it there must be some side effects."

"Sterility, cancer, death. Just little things like that."

"No reason not to try it, Harry," Ron said, grinning.

"Hey, I just speak — it's not my fault if you listen to me," Scott said amiably.

"It's a wonder we even tolerate you," Hermione told him.

Scott scoffed at her. "Fine, whatever. As long as Dean still likes me, I don't need you anyway. Isn't that right, Dean?" he said, raising his voice and turning towards Dean, who was sitting a few tables away. But instead of giving a rejoinder Dean merely shrugged half-heartedly and looked away.

Scott frowned. "What's his problem?"

"Didn't you hear? Dean and Ginny split up last night," Hermione informed him. Harry felt his heart jump a little at the news, and he fought to keep any of his elation from showing.

Scott made no such effort. He appeared to be inordinately pleased. "Well, well, well…" he mumbled through the grin that he sent Harry's way. "How about that. Looks like ol' Ginny is on the Break Up Express, next stop, Singlesville. Someone really should be waiting at the station, you know, to comfort her… I heard she likes green eyes…"

Fortunately Harry was saved from having to respond when Professor Flitwick came over to observe their progress. He seemed happy enough with the results of their spells (probably because he didn't have to taste the wine), though he chided Scott for having done nothing. In order to receive a grade Scott raised his wand and almost lazily cast the Charm on his flask of vinegar, proving that he had spent his idle time doing more than just talking. Harry wondered what Scott would do if a professor ever asked him to cast a spell for a second time.

All thoughts of Scott, however, were quickly shunted from Harry's mind soon after that. Ginny and Dean had split up. That left the question of exactly who had chucked who, but he supposed it really didn't matter. What mattered was how he felt about it. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to feel, but he knew what he did feel. Elation. And that put him a little off balance.

This was mostly because he didn't know what to do with that feeling. While the path to Ginny had been swept of one great obstacle, the hurdles in Harry's way remained substantial. Ron was still the overprotective big brother to Ginny that he'd always been, their fights notwithstanding. Harry didn't relish the idea of acclimating his best mate to the fact that he was snogging said best mate's younger sister. The other main obstruction was less likely to lead to violence but was no less daunting.

Harry still hadn't the slightest idea how Ginny felt about him.

It was a real problem, and one that he currently didn't feel up to the task of solving. Even though his experience with girls stretched no further than a short and eminently disastrous attachment to Cho Chang, he wasn't stupid enough to think that moving in on a girl immediately after she had left a relationship was an acceptable thing to do. Only pricks did that, people with no consideration for other's feelings.

Involuntarily, Harry looked over at Scott and considered the benefits of prickdom.

Scott noticed Harry's scrutiny and widened his eyes until he was staring back at Harry with a bug-eyed glare. "What?"

Feeling belligerent in the wake of Scott's comments about Ginny, Harry glared back at him. "I was just thinking that being a total prick has worked out pretty well for you so far. Would you recommend it?"

With anyone else such a verbal salvo would be considered fighting words, but Scott utilised insults the way most people used words like 'hello', and, 'how are you'. He shrugged and responded, "With a comment like that, I'd say you're just as qualified as me for giving out a recommendation."

"Don't sell yourself short," Ron said, grinning from the sidelines.

The following week did nothing to assuage any of Harry's worries about Ginny. After her break up with Dean she treated Harry pretty much the same way that she always did, and he didn't know whether that was a good or bad sign.

It was a tribute to how central Ginny had become to Harry's existence that she pushed what would have been even larger concerns to the corners of his mind. Scott had told Harry that the Felix had shed a little illumination upon Malfoy's allegiances, which was intriguing but not particularly useful. The Room of Requirement had been as obstinate as ever, and no progress had been made towards entering Malfoy's version of it. Scott still acceded to Harry's requests to follow the Slytherin and his co-conspirators on occasion, but Harry could tell that Scott was growing tired of it. There was little point in observing the blank wall, Scott had bluntly told him, and Harry was reluctantly forced to agree.

Also looming on the horizon was the ever-present possibility that Dumbledore would find another Horcrux, and require Harry's participation. It was such a vague and half-understood notion, however, that Harry really didn't worry over it. It wasn't like he could know what to expect. What could he possibly do that Dumbledore couldn't? Surely he would be useless.

It would have bothered him, except there wasn't much time to think about these things. Quidditch practices swallowed it up, leaving what little breathing space there was left to be filled by thoughts of Ginny.

Even those precious fantasies were cramped. The school had reached a fever pitch of anticipation over the crucial upcoming game, and Harry both relished the opportunity to prove his team's formidable mettle and dreaded the possible outcomes. He was confident in his team's abilities, but he was not at all confident in chance. At such times his mind sometimes turned to the Felix Felicis that was secreted away in his trunk, though he could never bring himself to cheat in such a manner and soil the honour of Quidditch. In matters of love, however, his reluctance was not so well entrenched. He often wondered what a sip of Felix would do for his relationship with Ginny.

Of course, luck could only take a man so far. If she felt nothing for him, it would be a wasted effort. The only benefit might be the luck preventing Ron from finding out.

Between Quidditch and his problem with Ginny, Harry began to feel stretched thin. With Ron just as obsessed, if not more, as the rest of the student body over the upcoming match there was no escape from talk of it in the company of his two closest friends. Ron wanted to do nothing but discuss tactics, and Hermione had made it her duty to nag Harry incessantly about keeping up with his homework despite the demands of Quidditch. Tranquillity was a distant concept. It seemed that every student in the school had at some point either offered Harry encouragement or threats of imminent defeat.

So it was that Harry found himself spending more of his time in the company of Scott. The Kharadjai was simply too convenient in this aspect to ignore. For one, Scott was often inexplicably to be found in random corners of the school for reasons unknown to anyone but himself, and the pretence of going to find him gave Harry the perfect excuse to absent himself from the common room without interference.

Secondly, Scott was completely and utterly unconcerned with the Quidditch fervour. While he seemed to enjoy the spectacle of the games well enough (especially the injuries), Harry figured the only reason he regularly attended was to keep an eye on his Primes. Scott's list of priorities was one that Harry had never understood that well, but at least Quidditch wasn't even on it.

It was nice, in that way, to spend time with someone who had something else on their mind. That wasn't to say that conversation with Scott was any easier than it had ever been; Scott either wanted to talk about Voldemort and the war or he would ramble on at great length on seemingly random topics. Whenever possible Harry would nudge Scott in the direction of talking about the Kharadjai, telling stories, discussing the few aspects of Muggle pop culture with which Harry was strongly familiar or even detailing the function and operation of various firearms, a subject that Harry found interesting.

It was on that subject matter that the ever-voluble Scott was expounding as the two of them made a detour through the familiar seventh floor hallway. There wasn't much point to passing by the Room of Requirement, but Harry had gotten into the habit of keeping an eye on Malfoy.

His eyes absently scanned the Marauder's map while Scott talked. "-so it's more of a close combat weapon, though they'll work further away than you'd think depending on the choke and ammunition. Part of what makes a shotgun so effective is the radius; you don't have to be real precise to make someone bleed. You ever seen a three-inch magnum buckshot shell? The shot in that thing is basically a bunch of musket balls. It won't put a hole in your head, it'll smash it. I know a guy who lost his left ear, cheek, and about half of his teeth when-"

"Hey," Harry interrupted. He stared down at the map, not sure of what he was seeing. "Look at this."

Scott froze in place, looking straight ahead instead of at Harry. "Uh, your pants are still on, right?"

Harry rolled his eyes and shoved the map towards Scott. "Look at this."

Taking the parchment, Scott complied. His eyes scanned it quickly and his expression remained unchanged. "It's Malfoy and some chick in a room. So what? At least if he's getting laid he's not fucking things up for us."

"Firstly, it's a girl's lavatory," Harry told him, pulling the map back, "and secondly, it would be quite a trick to shag a ghost."

Scott grinned. "If anyone's up for it, Malfoy is. Necrophilia: the last refuge of the unloved. I guess we know why they call her Moaning Myrtle. It is 'Myrtle' though, right? You know, I really thought he was gay."

"Maybe he's seeing her on the side." Harry frowned at the labelled dots and shook his head. "Seriously though, what the hell is he doing in Moaning Myrtle's loo?"

"I hate to say anything that might interfere with our dinner plans," Scott said, turning towards the staircase that would take them down towards the lavatory, "but there's only one way to find out."

Harry followed him, possible scenarios running through his mind. Why would Malfoy, why would anyone, for that matter, want to spend time in Moaning Myrtle's dank lair? Harry and his friends had used it in second year, true, but that had been for a very specific purpose — and only because they hadn't known about the Room of Requirement. Malfoy had a far better resource at his disposal for storage and secrecy.

"So you're totally positive that's Malfoy?" Scott asked as they hurried downstairs.

"You saw him on the map, didn't you?"

"Just making sure there's no way to fool it."

"No. It's always known who people really are," Harry said, remembering the events of his fourth year.

"I just can't think of any reason for Malfoy to be in a girl's bathroom. Well… a girl's bathroom that doesn't work, anyway. Maybe this is how he gets off. He could be burping the worm in there, you know."

"Myrtle would like that." Harry glanced down at the map again, glad for once that each figure was illustrated only by a dot. "We made Polyjuice Potion in there during our second year — I'm sure he can think of something," he concluded darkly.

Upon reaching the right hallway they approached the door cautiously, checking the hall for any signs of adult presence. It was funny, considering the depth and scope of the illicit activities over the years in which Harry had not only participated but often instigated, that entering a girl's lavatory still sent slight tendrils of nervous shame through him.

Scott moved ahead of Harry with quick but silent steps and slid up against the wall next to the doorway, listening intently. After a moment, his expression morphed into an odd mixture of readiness and cruel amusement.

"The little bitch is crying," he whispered gleefully to Harry.

Harry didn't think it was funny, but he did feel a small pang of satisfaction that he tried to ignore. "Let me hear."

"He's talking to someone," Scott said, moving aside so Harry could take his place. "That would have to be Myrtle."

Unfortunately the crack in the door wasn't wide enough for Harry to discern anything clearly; he could make out little but the dull echoes of Malfoy's stifled, watery mumblings as they echoed around the damp tile room. Myrtle's once-fanciful story about a boy who came to her to cry suddenly made a great deal of sense.

"What are you thinking?" Scott said lowly. "Grab him?"

Harry shook his head. "We can't with Myrtle there," he hissed. He had his doubts about the wisdom of attacking Malfoy regardless.

"Well, maybe we can kill her again."

The problem with such supposedly humorous statements was that Harry wasn't at all certain that Scott was joking. He decided to ignore the comment and try to get a better look inside. The longer he observed the greater his risk of detection became, but Malfoy's blubbering offered a tantalising possible glimpse into his actions. Harry found himself utterly unable to pass up the opportunity for his near-obsessive curiosity to pay off.

Malfoy was still sobbing; from his thickly distorted speech tumbled information about something he had to do, and he was afraid it wouldn't work… but if he didn't do it soon, someone would kill him. Harry's excitement ratcheted up by several notches. This was it. This was what Malfoy had been hiding — the task for Voldemort! It had to be. Only a few seconds more, and he'd have confirmation…

Harry eased up to the door frame and peered into the space beyond. Malfoy was hunched, pale and shaking, over one of the sinks. He gripped the side of the basin with white-knuckled hands. Moaning Myrtle hovered close by, crooning words of comfort that she still somehow managed to make annoying.

Silently, Harry willed Malfoy to continue speaking. He was so close. A few more words, a single sentence of capitulation to Myrtle's urgings, and Harry would finally understand the threat he could recognise but not identify.

At that moment, Malfoy brought his head up with a deep breath. He froze as his eyes locked with Harry's in the dirty, fractured mirror.

What happened next occurred so quickly that Harry wasn't sure he actually done any of it until a good few minutes afterwards.

The spells they traded were almost involuntary. In the space of a handful of seconds the two of them ran through their usual school repertoire of offensive and defensive magic, designed to incapacitate or annoy. None of it would have resulted in anything worse than a detention.

Until Harry slipped, and Malfoy began forming the words to a curse that Harry knew all too well. He had suffered its unsubtle tortures at the end of Voldemort's wand.

Harry panicked.

"SECTUM SEMPRA!"

He shouted the spell wildly and did much the same with his wand, half-blind from the light and the noise and the water that was running in his eyes from a spell that had thrown up a geyser close by. Regardless, his spell hit Malfoy squarely in the chest. Its results were as much a surprise to Harry as they were to his victim.

Malfoy's chest ripped open, criss-crossed with deep lacerations as if he had been cut by the swinging blades of an unseen thresher. Dark blood spattered across the tile walls and the nearby sinks. He collapsed with a crimson splash and lay there, gasping for breath as rivulets of blood coursed up his shoulders and pooled in the hollow at his neck. The water covering the floor began to turn a hazy red tint, a dark cloud that rapidly spread and diffused around the edges.

Harry lay silent, locked in the still life pose of blank shock.

Out of the corner of his eye he dimly registered the sight of Scott ducking into the room. Malfoy lay shuddering and bleeding in the shallow water, and all Harry could think was that things had gone about as wrong as possible.

Scott splashed his way over to Harry and looked down at the wounded Slytherin. "Nice shot!" he exclaimed.

Harry suddenly felt sick.

Scott knelt down over the fallen boy, but instead of giving assistance he gripped Malfoy by his bloodstained throat and pushed his head further into the blood-tinted water. "Did Harry ever tell you that I like stories?" he said in an incongruously conversational tone. Malfoy made no answer except to take another pain-wracked breath, and Scott continued, "Yeah, well, I like stories. And I'd like to hear one now," he growled, his voice turning dark. "You can talk, or you can bleed out. And that's a bad, slow way to go."

"Scott," Harry said, his voice sounding strained to his own ears, "I think he's really hurt."

"He'll be hurt a lot worse if he doesn't let me in on the dark in the next minute or so."

Harry grabbed Scott's arm to prevent him from injuring Malfoy further. "We need to get a professor!"

"No need," Scott said. His suddenly alarmed gaze was unfocused and distant, which let Harry know the Kharadjai was seeing something beyond the physical walls. "There's one coming now."

"Who?"

"The worst possible one."

That could only mean one person. Harry felt his heart topple to rest somewhere around his knees. Panic was not a useful emotion, but he knew how much trouble even a first-year would get into for attacking another student in such a dangerous fashion — and Harry was a repeat offender.

"It's my fault," Harry said shakily. He gritted his teeth and tried not to think about the consequences that awaited him. "I'll take the blame."

A string of emotions flashed across Scott's face too quickly for Harry to follow. "Revision is not only for homework," he muttered without explanation.

Then he jumped towards Malfoy and viciously kicked the incapacitated boy in the temple.

Harry gaped at him. "What are you do-" he started to gasp, but before he could say more Scott grasped him by the front of his robes, picked up him as if he weighed no more than a feather, and hurled him through the air up and over the first toilet stalls to land with crushing impact against the far wall of the last stall.

Half-stunned by the blow, Harry lay on his back in the shallow water and dazedly wondered what the hell had just happened.

"Stay down!" he heard Scott hiss forcefully. "And shut up!"

The door to the lavatory opened. Harry stiffened at the sound and for a long moment ceased to breathe. From his prone position he could see a familiar pair of black-booted feet swish through the dirty water towards Scott.

It was nearly the worst circumstances that Harry could imagine. There was Scott, standing with an unconscious and bleeding Malfoy at his feet. It would have been terrible if any professor had walked in, if it had involved any student.

But it was Scott and Snape.

Harry seriously thought that Dumbledore would actually expel Scott this time.

For a long, tense moment that seemed to last for eternity, the two of them faced each other in silence. Harry rapidly alternated between wishing he could see their faces and being glad that he couldn't.

Then Snape brushed past Scott and knelt over Malfoy. Harry held his breath again — if Snape looked to the left, he would see Harry on the floor. The professor muttered spells as he drew his wand over the deep cuts on Malfoy's chest. With a flick of the wand, he levitated the boy's limp form up and towards the door. There, he briefly paused before exiting.

"Stay here," he ordered in a soft and terrible voice, and then he was gone, the door banging ominously shut behind him.

At least a couple minutes passed after that in absolute silence, and Harry's bafflement with Scott's actions did nothing but grow to unbearable levels. He had to know what was going on. He was about to say something when Scott beat him to it.

"Keep low, Harry," Scott said quietly. "No time to run. And don't say anything, you understand me? Just keep your mouth shut."

"What are you doing?" Harry whispered, ignoring Scott's demand.

"Saving your sweet Chosen ass. Now I said shut up."

Snape's feet reappeared through the doorway and swished their way over to where Scott's sodden trainers marked his position. The two of them must have engaged in a staring contest at the point, because for a lengthy moment nothing was said. Harry imagined it ended in a draw, since he couldn't imagine either of them backing down.

"I would ask why you did it," Snape said contemptuously, breaking the stalemate, "but I don't care to suffer your excuses."

"Not a problem — that's Dumbledore's job," Scott said in a tone of voice that was at least as insolent as Snape's was disdainful. "So why don't you be an efficient little minion, and take me to your master?"

It's been nice knowing you, Scott, Harry thought. Slowly, he shifted over onto his left side and put his head down far enough to be able to see up to their waists.

But Snape didn't explode, though his hand clenched his wand tight enough to make a creak that Harry could hear. "I think that won't be necessary," he said smoothly. "The Headmaster has more pressing concerns than your misconduct. It is my concern to find out how a student who can't summon the skill to boil a pot of water managed to cast such a Dark spell."

It looked more like a reflex than a real motion; one second, Scott was standing with his hands at his sides. The next, there was a quiet click and he held a wicked looking switchblade balanced between his fingers. "This spell?" Scott said mildly. "It's quite simple. Lift your chin up a bit, and I'll show you how it works."

Harry stifled a sharp intake of breath. Scott was going too far.

Snape's wand rose a fraction of an inch. "Are you threatening me?"

"I'm instructing you," Scott sneered, "sort of like I did Malfoy. It's the most important lesson he'll ever learn."

"Then am I to understand," Snape said slowly, his wand elevating further to point at Scott's head, "that you assaulted another student with a knife?"

"What would you do if someone was about to cast the Cruciatus on you? Oh, that's right, I forgot…" Scott waggled the knife at Snape, indicating one of his wrists. "You'd take it like the efficient minion we both know you are."

Snape flinched and grabbed his wrist. "You don't know what you're talking about!" he snarled.

"Then that would make two of us," Scott spat. He stepped closer to Snape. "You still think we shouldn't take this to Dumbledore?"

"I don't care if the Headmaster trusts you," Snape hissed, leaning in closer to Scott. "Even he can be mistaken-"

"Like about you?" Scott cut in. He matched both Snape's lean and hiss. "I don't care if Dumbledore trusts you either… Maybe you have a good reason to be Malfoy's shadow, holding secret little conversations in empty classrooms while everyone else is at a party-"

At that Snape recoiled, though it was an action of rage rather than fear. "If you've been spying on me Kharan I'll-"

"You'll what?" Scott stepped in even closer to Snape, filling the gap left by the professor's retreat. "You think you've got more credit with Dumbledore than me? Perhaps you're overestimating how important it is for him to have one of Voldemort's ex-boy toys under his thumb. It is ex, isn't it, Snape? Or did you order Malfoy to crucio me?"

There was a period of silence as Snape seemed to gather himself, obviously reeling from the supposedly secret information that Scott was throwing against him. When he spoke again his voice was deadly. "I don't know who you are, what you are, or why the Headmaster has seen fit to give you run of the school-" he grated.

"You don't know much, do you?" Scott interrupted again. "That's the price you pay for believing you're the only person Albus talks to." With one final step, he brought himself face to face with Snape, no more than a few inches away. "Stay out of my way, Snape," he said forcefully. "And if Malfoy attacks me again, I'll kill him."

The tension in the room hit unbearable levels as the two of them faced each other in close proximity, weapons drawn. Harry figured if it came to violence then Snape was a dead man — his spells would be useless and Scott would kill him with about as much emotion as he would show swatting a fly. After that, there would be no recovery. Dumbledore would get rid of Scott for good, and Harry would have been party to murder. Huddled in the murky water, Harry clenched his fists and fervently prayed that the two of them would keep their tempers in check.

Then, without a word, Snape spun on his heel and stalked out of the lavatory.

The sigh of relief Harry let loose came out in a great rush of stale air that rippled the water near his face and echoed off the walls of the dim stall.

"Close call, Harry," Scott said quietly. "Go ahead and stand up, but don't come out yet. Give it a minute."

Harry complied, rising shakily to his feet. For the first time he noticed the ache in his back, still damaged from the impact when Scott had hurled him into the stall. He was soaked through to the skin, and very cold. The flooded lavatory, deep within the stone of the castle, was chilly even in warmer weather.

"All right," Scott said after another couple of still minutes. He raised his voice and Harry heard another snap as he put away the switchblade. "It's safe now."

Harry emerged from the stall in a dripping wet state and slogged his way over to where Scott stood ankle deep in the freezing water. One of the taps, broken during Harry's duel with Malfoy, continued to spout even more liquid to add to the ever-present pools. Myrtle's flooded home was living up to its reputation.

"Hey," he said frantically, "where'd Myrtle go? I didn't see her leave. We have to get out of here before she brings more people!"

"She didn't see anything. I got rid of her."

Harry's mouth dropped open in horror. "You killed her?!"

"What? She's already dead. But no, I didn't kill her." Scott rolled his eyes. "Soon as Malfoy saw you I knocked her away. She's outside the castle somewhere, probably doesn't have a clue what happened."

Harry nodded, not bothering to ask for details. It stood to reason that ghosts were some kind of energy within Scott's ability to affect. He stared at Scott, who met the gaze with an unreadable expression. "I don't get it. Why did you do that to Snape?"

"I had a good reason."

Harry knew better than to wait for Scott to elaborate. "Come on, tell me."

"Snape needed to know who he was dealing with," Scott explained. "That was probably inevitable." He grimaced. "No doubt I'll be having another argument with Dumbledore pretty soon. Anyway, Snape showed up before we could get anything out of Malfoy so I figured we might get something out of him instead."

"We already knew he used to be a Death Eater," Harry said impatiently.

"Yes, but what we did learn is that Dumbledore does know about whatever Snape is doing with Malfoy. In fact, it was probably Dumbledore's idea."

"How do you figure that?"

"Snape's reactions. He was only surprised that I knew about the connection; he didn't appear to care at all if we took it to Dumbledore. He just didn't want to go to the Headmaster with me. He doesn't like it that I'm in Dumbledore's confidences. He was especially upset by the idea that Dumbledore might have shared some things only with me."

"Has he?"

"I doubt it. Snape doesn't need to know that, though." Scott smiled darkly. "He's under the mistaken impression that I work for Dumbledore, when in fact I only work with Dumbledore. I unsettled him. He's used to being Dumbledore's only secret weapon."

Harry considered that. If Dumbledore was in on Snape's dealings with Malfoy then that was reassuring, since that meant at least the Headmaster was covering for Snape instead of being in total denial. "So, really, you just lied to him. In more than one way, I mean."

"Repeatedly." Scott glanced up at the ceiling, in the direction that Dumbledore's office lay. "He'll keep quiet about this, and so will Malfoy. The humiliation will see to that. What he'll do instead is run to Dumbledore. He'll focus on the jeopardy Dumbledore is putting their plans in by telling me about them. Dumbledore will deny telling me anything, Snape may or may not believe him; it doesn't matter. Then Dumbledore will call me up and demand to know exactly what the hell I think I'm doing. I'll twist this whole thing around against Snape."

"He won't buy it," Harry said immediately, "he trusts Snape totally. He won't hear a thing against him. I've tried, more than once. He just won't listen."

"I'll still try it anyway. An offence is my best bet; I need to play up the self-defence aspect of things to get off the hook. It only has to work enough to deflect Dumbledore's anger."

Harry nearly swallowed his next words, but felt compelled to say them anyway. "What will you do if it doesn't?"

"Take the punishment."

"I mean if he's mad enough to kick you out."

Scott lowered his head and stared at the floor, eyes narrowed. "I'd try a variety of things," he said finally.

That didn't really answer Harry's question but he nodded anyway, as if he understood. It was probably best not to discuss it for the time being. He changed the subject. "It's all temporary, isn't it," he said glumly. "Soon as Malfoy wakes up he'll tell Snape it was me." Another, even more horrifying thought occurred to him. "Shite, the team is gonna kill me if I can't play!"

"He can't prove it was you, Snape only saw me."

"Snape will suspect," Harry warned.

"Snape can suspect all he fucking wants. I don't think he'd even care it was you." Scott grinned. "I'm the new guy he loves to hate."

"I'm pretty sure he can hate more than one person at a time," Harry said dryly. He brandished his wand and cast a few cleaning spells on himself and Scott, both to improve their appearances and to remove traces of his last few spells from the wand.

"This magic bullshit can be useful," Scott commented, looking down at himself. "All right, let's get out of here."

"Scott, wait." Harry crossed his arms in an unconscious gesture of defence as Scott turned around with one eyebrow raised in silent question. "You know what happened to Malfoy was an accident, right?"

"You looked at him like you'd never seen blood before, so that was pretty obvious."

"Okay. I didn't want you to think that I did it on purpose, or anything…" Harry straightened up and shrugged uncomfortably. "I wouldn't do that."

"Not yet," Scott said, turning away.

Neville placed the flat of his arm against the glass of the greenhouse door and wiped away the accumulated fog. It wasn't cold outside, despite the descent of evening, but it was still significantly warmer in the greenhouse and that meant he couldn't see out when he wanted to. He was checking the sunset to gauge the time, as there weren't any clocks amongst the plants.

It was only a little past curfew and he had permission to be where he was but he still wanted to get back to the common room so he could finish up some of his homework. He also rather hoped to spend some time with his friends, like he did most nights after classes. Even if they couldn't find anything to do but sit around and talk by the fire, Scott could always tell them an interesting story, or get a card game started.

He felt sorry for Luna sometimes since she couldn't always join them in the evening, trapped as she was in the Ravenclaw tower. He knew the other Ravenclaws didn't treat her very well; he felt a familiar surge of anger at the thought. All she ever got from her own house was derision and abuse. He knew what it felt like to be left out.

He decided to check the greenhouse one more time before calling it a night. He'd always enjoyed using some of his free time to do what he did best. His friends had never scoffed at his affinity for Herbology like some others had, and he very much appreciated that.

There was something about plants that he found fascinating. Most people saw life as a parade of creatures moving against a green background, but they just didn't understand how alive that background was in its own right. Each plant had a story, a cycle of birth and death. Many had complicated adaptations and defences. They were useful, too. Students of Potions needed to learn to appreciate how much work went into cultivating some of those ingredients. There were any number of plants that were quite intractably dangerous. He grinned with the memory of Scott fighting the Venomous Tentacula. He seemed to go out of his way to antagonise the carnivorous plant during Herbology, a habit which had earned him at least one reprimand.

Neville seemed stuck on the subject of his friends tonight, but they had been very much on his mind ever since Scott had divulged certain revelations. It brought back a feeling that had been introduced to him in the DA, the sensation of participating in a thing of great importance, of truly being a part of something that mattered. Sometimes he still couldn't believe that they had chosen him as a friend. What could Harry Potter possibly see in Neville Longbottom?

When he'd first come to Hogwarts, he didn't really think he'd have any friends. After all, he hadn't before. Why should that change? Short boys with no self-esteem and little magical ability were not highly prized as companions. He had resigned himself to simply surviving in his new environment, if he could even manage that.

Instead, he had not only made friends but they had encouraged him to better himself. If someone had told his younger self that one day he'd be fighting side by side with Harry Potter after breaking into the Department of Mysteries, he'd have thought they were playing a cruel joke on him. But he'd been there. And he had fought.

Some days when he looked in the mirror he wasn't entirely certain who he saw any more. But he was sure of one thing — that person was a damn sight better than the old Neville who had used to stand there.

The sound of the doors opening behind him brought him out of his reverie. There was a large fern blocking his view, but he knew it was probably Professor Sprout coming in to check on him. "I've almost finished," he called out. "Just tidying up."

"Oh," a dreamy voice answered, "and I just got here."

Neville stepped to the left and pushed the fern aside to see Luna gazing around the greenhouse as if she'd never seen it before. She always had that manner about her, as if every time she showed up somewhere it was by complete accident. "Luna!" he said, surprised. "What are you doing here?"

"Exploring," she replied absently. "But only partly. The smallest part."

Luna wasn't really as hard to understand as some people thought, or at least he didn't think so. He just had to take everything she said as its own standalone piece of conversation, without any preconceived notions about what she should have said. "Well, what were you doing for, uh, the largest part?"

She turned those wide eyes on him and as always he felt a little nervous under her innocent scrutiny. "I came to find you," she said matter-of-factly, "because I knew everyone else was in the common room, and I was lonely." There was no trace of self-pity in her voice, only her own personal brand of unselfconscious truth.

Sometimes Luna could break his heart with a sentence. "You- you know we don't want to leave you out," he tried to explain, feeling that his stumbling words were inadequate. "It's just you're not allowed out after curfew… Though you seem to be out right now, anyway…" he stopped, confused.

"I left our common room before curfew," she informed him, answering his unspoken question. "No one will notice that I'm gone."

Again he felt that stab in his chest. Why did people act that way towards her? Couldn't they see that she was a friend worth having? "I always notice that you're gone," he told her, and then wasn't sure where the words had come from.

She stared at him silently for a moment, and he found it hard to meet her eyes. "Thank you," she said simply. "I've never heard that before, and it's very nice to know."

There was a casual honesty about her that was disarming. Some found it disturbing and strange, but Neville thought it was one of the more admirable personality traits he had encountered. Anyone could lie about themselves. It was honesty that required a special kind of courage. Not for the first time, he wondered why she had been sorted into Ravenclaw. The only people he knew as brave as Luna Lovegood were his other friends, and they were all in Gryffindor.

"Luna," he said slowly, "I've, uh, I've got permission to be out here for a little longer, then I'm going back to the tower… Do you want to come with me? As long as you're with me I don't think anyone will stop us, I have this paper from Professor Sprout…" he trailed off.

She smiled at him. "I'd like that," she said, sounding less vague than usual.

"Good, right," Neville stammered. "I've just got to finish up here then, then we'll go…" He scurried around the tables, completing a few small tasks while Luna silently observed.

Dusting himself off, he looked around to make sure there was nothing else. "I'm done. I'll just lock up, and then we can go."

They exited the greenhouse and Neville closed the double doors behind them, fishing out a small key ring from his pocket and locking them both. He straightened up and turned around.

He jumped a little bit when he found Luna standing extremely close to him. She met his eyes and smiled again. "I'm glad I found you, Neville," she said softly.

Neville's hands shook slightly as he matched her gaze. "So am I," he whispered, and didn't know why he was whispering.

He pulled himself together when she began walking up the path towards the school, and hurried a little to catch up. The sun was almost down behind the horizon but it was still light enough to see. They walked together beneath the faded orange and purple horizon in a comfortable peace, the evening air ripe with the hint of summer's promise.

Neville thought it would be a good night.

The roar of the crowd was deafening, though that was unsurprising considering the stakes that rode on the game. Harry and his team were, as best Scott could judge, at their finest. Harry whirled about the pitch at top speed, dodging Bludgers and swerving around the other players with consummate skill. His ability was reassuring but Scott would still have preferred there to be less danger to the Seeker. He didn't have a problem with sports that involved bodily injury (and in fact preferred them that way), but Harry needed to stay in one piece for a very important reason.

Still, he was used enough to Harry's manoeuvres by this point. Weighing on his mind far more heavily was the crumpled parchment that he continued to crinkle in one clenched fist. It was an importunate note, one that contained a message and a demand. The fact that he was ignoring it for the time being meant he was sending a message of his own. He glanced down at the paper again and frowned, feeling the same anger he always did when he considered its contents.

The Headmaster might have earned the right to summon him, but he would go in his own time. Showing up when he felt like it would make it clear that the two of them were equals. He was not a subordinate.

"Scott?"

He raised his head when he heard his name called. To his left Hermione was watching him with a concerned look. "Yeah?" he said.

"Are you all right?" she asked him.

Scott shrugged and refocused on the game. "Yeah, I guess. Why?"

"You've been playing with that paper the whole time." Hermione looked down at it but he closed his fist tighter so she couldn't see it clearly. "You haven't even shouted anything rude yet."

He grinned. "That was unusual enough for you to notice, huh."

"Unfortunately, yes," she sniffed. "So?"

"So what?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "So what's wrong?"

Scott watched as Ron made a perfect save with one hand, tucking the Quaffle into his chest and rolling with the momentum. "It's a note from Dumbledore asking me to come up and talk to him."

"He wants to see you after the game?"

"Actually, he wanted to see me before the game."

Hermione started visibly. She whirled on him, whipping poor Neville across the face with her hair. "Then what on earth on you doing here? Go!"

"I'll go when I'm damn good and ready," Scott testily informed her.

"Scott, while you are a student at this school-" she began hotly, but was drowned out when Katie Bell swooped through the opposing team's defences and scored.

Scott and Hermione sat and glowered at each other as everyone around them stood and cheered, the shadows of waving arms making the scene look like a staring match held under a forest canopy.

Eventually the surge died down and she resumed berating him. "While you are a student at this school, you have to listen to Dumbledore! He's the Headmaster!"

She said it as if 'Headmaster' was the end all be all of authority, and perhaps for her it was. "I am listening to him," he told her. "I'm just doing it on my own timetable."

Hermione sighed and deflated somewhat. He supposed it might have been because she had seen the wisdom of his actions, but it was more likely that she had seen the futility of arguing with him. He wished she saw that more often.

"Scott, I was under the impression that you need to remain here at Hogwarts," she pointed out. "Should you be doing anything to jeopardise that?"

Okay, so she hadn't seen the futility at all. She had just chosen a different tactic. "He needs to understand that I'm not at his goddamn beck and call," Scott said stubbornly. "It's worth a little risk to make a point. I don't tell him what to do."

"Of course you don't tell him what to do, he's the Headmaster of this school!"

She was clearly unable to grasp the concept of Dumbledore being Scott's equal instead of his superior. Despite her incomprehension, her words were troubling. Scott was already reconsidering the possible ramifications of his temerarious impulse.

One of the core problems with being age sixteen was the tendencies it brought with it. He was fully aware of all the developmental, hormonally-based issues that being a teenager implied. Unfortunately, that didn't make him any less subject to them. He was more excitable, more prone to spur of the moment whims and much quicker to anger. In the heat of the moment it was easy to forget. He found himself wondering more and more which decisions had been the result of calculated reasoning and what was born out of impulsive, temperamental behaviour.

"That he is," Scott muttered.

Hermione leaned in closer, unable to hear him over the crowd. "What?"

"I'm going to go see Dumbledore," he shouted, standing up decisively.

"Good! Hurry!"

It took some fancy footwork to slip through the packed stands and exit the pitch. Scott jogged down the path towards the school, the cacophony inside the pitch becoming a distant bass rumble periodically increasing in intensity. It was marvellous weather for Quidditch, and though Scott had no particular investment in the game he still resented being forced to retreat indoors.

As he ran he considered his options. Dumbledore would by now know the truth of what had happened in Myrtle's bathroom, or at least he would suspect it. Scott figured that would most likely be in his favour. It would be worse for Dumbledore to believe that Scott had attacked another student with a knife than to know it was an accidental spell by Harry which had done the damage. No doubt Malfoy had portrayed the incident as anything but accidental, but Scott could correct that.

It would be harder to gloss over the confrontation with Snape. While Scott might not have gone so far as to slice up Malfoy (however tempting that recourse had been), he had threatened Snape. But, in a way, that was more acceptable. Snape was a sort of equal, a contemporary, and threatening him wasn't so dire an act as injuring a comparatively helpless student. Plus, Dumbledore was well aware that both of them had antagonised the other, so it wasn't like Snape could get away with protestations of total innocence. It was conceivable that, given the personalities of those involved, Dumbledore might have even been expecting such a confrontation.

Scott decided to cut to the chase immediately — he'd walk into Dumbledore's office and toss out a denial and an explanation all at once before the Headmaster could work up any serious anger.

The gargoyle guarding the entrance to Dumbledore's office moved aside when Scott spoke the password he had been given and he rode the odd stone escalator up another floor. Taking a deep breath through his nose, he squared his shoulders and strode forward with a purposeful march. The appearance of righteous anger would be of most use, he thought. He could meet any hostility of Dumbledore's head on and avoid the appearance of reporting for a scolding.

With a shove, he flung open the double doors of the office and headed straight for the large desk that Dumbledore sat behind. The Headmaster seemed to be calm, though there was a definite frown on his face.

Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak, but Scott beat him to it. "I don't know what they told you, but it's not true," he said loudly. "Harry had no idea what that spell would do. I covered for him and I had good reasons for doing it, and if you actually think about it for a second you'll discover a few of them yourself."

With that, he collapsed gracelessly into the waiting chair across from the desk and sat in silence, giving Dumbledore an unrepentant look.

Dumbledore gazed back at him, his frown even more pronounced. "That does not change the fact that Harry severely injured another student."

"And it's a good thing he did. Malfoy was about to crucio Harry when he got hit — I was there, I heard him." Scott leaned back in his seat and gave Dumbledore a pointed look. "Bet Snape didn't say anything about that, did he, even though I told him." He held his silence for a few seconds, letting that sink in. Then he scooted forward to meet Dumbledore's eye more directly. "Now you can go ahead and punish Harry if you want, but that's a pretty backward way to do things. I don't think you can hold someone accountable for panicking when an Unforgivable is headed their way."

"That is true. And I won't be punishing Harry for the incident," Dumbledore grudgingly allowed. "But the question that must be answered is what the two of you were hoping to accomplish by seeking Draco out in the first place."

"What are you hoping to accomplish by sending Snape to offer his help?" Dumbledore's eyes widened slightly. "Oh, yes," Scott said with a touch of spitefulness that he couldn't quite repress, "I can put the pieces together. Just because you're trying to find out what Malfoy's up to doesn't mean I can't take a look myself."

"And then what? What happens when you discover his plans, plans we both know must certainly run against our interests? You'll stop him? Kill him? I won't allow it." Dumbledore's eyes were bereft of their usual twinkle, and instead they sparked. "You make the mistake of assuming too much. I am not as unaware as you seem to believe."

"Uh huh. And your idea of being aware is to put Snape on the job."

"Professor Snape has my absolute confidence," Dumbledore said in a quiet but steely voice. "I'm afraid your friendship with Harry has biased you in a way I should have expected. Surely you're aware of how they view each other."

"Snape's actions have biased me against him. He's an asshole and a sociopath and you need to shorten his leash." Scott regretted the jab as soon as it left his mouth (because it would only anger Dumbledore further, not because it insulted Snape), but was too stubborn to take it back.

Dumbledore's eyes flashed. "I have found your behaviour to be questionable lately. I don't doubt Harry's innocence in this matter but the fact remains that you threatened Severus, without regard for his status as your teacher-"

"You're not mad because I threatened Snape," Scott scoffed. "You're mad because I confirmed his suspicions. Now he knows you didn't tell him the truth about me, which damages your hold on him. And once a traitor-"

"Enough." Dumbledore rose slightly in his chair, looming over Scott's smaller form. The sense of his power was palpable. For a moment they held their positions, glaring at each other with hard stares. Then, with a deep breath, Dumbledore sank back into his seat. He picked up and held out a small bowl of candy. "Have a lemon drop."

Biting back his immediate response, Scott nodded wordlessly and popped one of the confections into his mouth, letting the sour taste take the place of any more harsh words.

"Now, I understand your concerns," Dumbledore said, his voice even. "But remember that I did not tell Severus of your powers or your purpose here in the same way I have not told you of his own designs. Not all secrets are mine alone to keep."

"All right," Scott mumbled around the candy.

Dumbledore closed his eyes and sighed, though whether he was letting go of his vestiges of anger or remembering something, Scott wasn't sure. "Scott… The reason I accepted your unnatural place in Harry's life is because I believe the more help the boy has, the better. His is a long and arduous road, a terrible task. I knew, with the friends he has, that he would never face it alone. But if your presence can tip the scales in some unforeseen way…" He paused. "Well. It is difficult to say how you will change things, though undoubtedly you already have. I have bent all my efforts towards seeing Harry succeed... Yet I fear they are not enough. And that is why, ultimately, I do not oppose you, despite your methods.

"And so that is why I ask you — keep him safe. Guide him to his destiny. Protect him from whomever and whatever wishes him harm. Place Severus and Draco and all other such worries at my feet, for if Harry does not confront Lord Voldemort as he eventually must, then these efforts will have been for naught."

It was a convincing speech, well worthy of the sapient mind that Scott knew lurked behind those half-moon glasses. He only wished it were so simple.

Harry was his primary concern but not his only one. He had other Primes to worry about, people whose actions would decide the shape of fate in ways equally important to Harry himself. If Harry survived while the others failed in some unknown but necessary way then the universe would be forced to crash and reconfigure, over and over again, searching for a new spatiality that would bring Harry and Voldemort together under the required circumstances. The last thing Scott wanted on his hands was a Catastrophe Level Reordering. At least with things as they were he had some sort of grasp on the requisites. A CLR sat with the rest of the worst case scenarios; most of the time the shape rebounded well enough from small deviations and simply compensated in new and unforeseen ways. That didn't change that fact that such disasters were a real possibility.

He didn't share any of these thoughts with Dumbledore. He was being handed a way out, so it was best to nod and agree. "I'm doing everything I can," he told Dumbledore. He saw another opportunity to diffuse the situation that had brought him to the Headmaster's office, and said, "That's kind of why I was threatening Snape, you know. I wasn't aware that you were banking on him so much. I thought it might be best to make him stay away from Harry."

"It may be for the best, but not for those reasons," Dumbledore said with a sigh.

"Maybe I shouldn't be talking since it's better to keep me away from Snape - whoa!" Scott sat bolt upright and gripped the sides of his chair as several serious changes in the shape made themselves apparent.

Dumbledore's eyes widened, and he drew his wand with an involuntary motion. "What is it?"

"I don't know. Something just happened." Noticing Dumbledore's alarm, Scott abandoned his concentration on the shape for a moment to reassure him. "Something good. Something that was supposed to happen."

"But you can't discern what it might be?"

"It has to do with Harry." Scott jumped out of his chair and hurried towards the door. "Sorry to cut things short, but I need to check this out. I think we came to an understanding, right?"

"Of a sort," Dumbledore said wryly.

"Just remember we're both trying to help the same kid," Scott told him, and then took off for the Gryffindor common room.

The stone escalator was far too slow for Scott's impatience, so he leapt off of it and shot out the exit ahead of the contraption. His time spent exploring Hogwarts paid off yet again as he deftly manoeuvred through the halls at top speed.

The only major event in motion was the Quidditch game, Scott thought as he ran. So it was possible that a Gryffindor victory had been required. Then again, it was also conceivable that defeat had been in the making. Either way it had been important and he needed to be near his Primes to watch for any immediate repercussions or determine if it was something that would be felt further down the road.

The common room was in tumult when Scott came bursting through the portrait entrance and skidded to a halt in the midst of what appeared to be a particularly loud post game party. The raucous celebration made it clear that a victory had been achieved. Scott didn't especially care about the success other than to wonder whether it had been the event which had brought him running. He doubted it.

He sighted Ron amidst a group of awed third years, retelling the game with more than a touch of hyperbole. A glowing Hermione hovered nearby, letting him have his moment. Scott pushed his way over to them.

"Scott!" Ron called out. "Did you see that one save I made-"

"Yeah, it was great," Scott interrupted. He turned his attention towards Hermione. "What happened?"

She looked blankly back at him. "We won."

"No, you think?" Scott scanned the room again, but no answers made themselves apparent. "Come here, I need to talk to you."

Hermione, ever curious, willingly followed him over to a secluded corner. Scott was surprised to see Ron abandon his fan club to go with them, but supposed that he shouldn't have underestimated the strength of his bond to Hermione.

Hermione didn't waste any time. "What is it?" she asked eagerly as soon as they were isolated from the crowds, no doubt anticipating being let in on Kharadjai business.

"I was hoping you'd know. Has anything happened, and I mean anything, between now and the end of the game — I'd say in the last fifteen minutes, actually — that struck you as important?" Scott hastened to clarify when he saw their confusion. "It could be something you noticed and aren't sure why, anything that caught your eye, possibly involving Harry."

"Nothing comes to mind," Hermione said, brow creased in thought. "Ron?"

"We won the game, came back to the party." Ron shrugged. "That's it."

"Nobody said anything to you?" Scott pressed him.

"Everybody said something to me." Ron grinned. "Nothing strange, though."

"Huh." Scott didn't think it likely that he was mistaken. He did find it unusual that Primes as vital as Ron and Hermione hadn't experienced at least part of what had felt like a major event.

Felt like, yes… Perhaps that was the key. The vast majority of events, both major and minor, had been obscured from him. It was possible that this unknown event had been one of small impact and it had only seemed severe compared to the usual drought of information.

"Okay," Scott said. "Just keep this in mind."

"Wait!" Hermione caught his sleeve as he started to move away. "What are you going to do?"

"Talk to Harry." Scott frowned, noticing that Harry didn't appear to be in the room. "Hey, how come he isn't basking in his glory?"

"He was a minute ago. Where's that wanker run off to?" Ron wondered.

"An excellent question." Scott set his sights on the stairway to the boys dormitory, the most likely place for Harry to be. "I'm gonna find him. If you see him tell him that I'm looking for him."

Scott's gut feeling, tied to the shape as it was, told him that he was headed in the right direction, so he quickened his pace. The sooner he found Harry, the sooner he could get to the bottom of things. He reached the top of the stairs and headed straight for the sixth year dorms. The door to the room was shut, but he figured that since it was his dormitory too he had just as much right to barge in as anyone else, so he did.

What happened next wasn't intended. In Scott's defence, it wasn't like he had been forewarned of what form the event he was pursuing had taken. He had been following nothing more than a hunch. So when he opened the door to what was, after all, his own room and found Harry and Ginny locked in a furious kiss, he could hardly be held responsible.

The pair broke apart on his entry, still breathing hard. Harry had the beginnings of a blush suffusing his face. Ginny just looked furious.

"Whoa," Scott said, holding up one hand, "don't stop on my account."

Harry's blush was complete. Ginny marched towards Scott with the air of someone about to slam a door shut in someone else's face.

"It was beautiful, really," Scott said rapidly, "but I think you can do better. I want to hear some violins — and I want time to slow down, with wind ruffling through your hair." He raised his hands and used his fingers to make a box, as if he was framing them in a camera shot. "I want to see frickin' white doves shooting out of my ass, because the kiss is so hot that it will accept nothing less. Could you do that for me?"

He stepped back just in time to avoid utilising his face as a doorstop.