Chapter Text
Past het, nothing explicit; several pairings.
Characters are the property of J.K. Rowling; this story is written for fun and not for profit.
Into the woods--you have to grope,
But that's the way you learn to cope.
Into the woods to find there's hope
Of getting through the journey.
Into the woods, each time you go,
There's more to learn of what you know.
Into the woods, but not too slow--
Into the woods, it's nearing midnight--
Into the woods to mind the wolf,
To heed the witch, to honor the giant,
To mind, to heed, to find, to think, to teach, to join,
To go to the Festival!
Into the woods,
Into the woods,
Into the woods,
Then out of the woods--
And happy ever after!Stephen Sondheim- Into the Woods
“I won't do it!” Ron's jaw tightened stubbornly.
“Oh?” Hermione asked with a tinge of sarcasm. “You've changed your mind about becoming an Auror?”
Ron scowled. “Kingsley...”
“Don't go there, Ron,” warned Harry wearily. “We don't want to give anyone a chance to say that we didn't earn our places in the Auror Program!”
“Anyway, it wouldn't do any good,” added Hermione. “This was Kingsley's idea in the first place.”
“But why us?” asked Ron plaintively. “And why us with the Slytherins?”
“Honestly, Ron!” Hermione didn't even attempt to hide her exasperation. “You know why- it's because the Hufflepuffs and the Ravenclaws refused! Kingsley is looking to Gryffindor...all right, to us...to set a good example, and work with the Slytherins! Muggle Studies is now a mandatory requirement for anybody wishing to hold a Ministry job, and there's no use whinging about it.”
Harry intervened. “Look, mate, we need the class as much as the Slytherins do. The war is over, it's our final year at Hogwarts, let's not let a few Slytherins derail our careers!”
“Harry is right, Ron,” added Hermione. “Either we take the class, complete with Slytherins, or give up our future plans. Which I for one am not willing to do.”
“It's only one class,” Harry pointed out. “And it isn't all the Slytherins, only those intending to work for the Ministry. If we survived everything Voldemort could throw at us, then I reckon we could survive one class with a couple of Slytherins!”
“Of course we can!” Hermione nodded vigorously, her bushy hair bobbing. “After all, we've shared classes
with the Slytherins before.”
“I remember,” said Ron darkly.
“Anyway,” Hermione concluded, “what's the worst that could happen?”
Harry shrugged. “The Slytherins sabotage us so badly we get kicked out of class, and dropped from the Auror Program?”
Ron paled. “Bloody hell!”
Harry laughed. “I wasn't serious,” he assured his friend.
“Let's hope not, anyway.” Hermione sighed.
“How many Slytherins have signed up?” Harry asked.
“Six,” she replied. “Zabini, Parkinson, Bulstrode, Nott, Goyle. And Malfoy.”
Ron groaned out loud. “That tears it! The ferret! And Pugface Parkinson! Could it get much worse?”
“Oh, grow up, Ron!” Hermione scrambled to her feet. “I'm going back to the dorm.” She flounced off, not looking back.
Ron stared after her in dismay. “What's got into her lately? It's like I can't do or say anything right!”
“I thought things were going well?” Harry ventured. “After the Battle of Hogwarts, you two seemed...”
“We were!” Ron assured his friend. “I thought we'd be getting engaged, but lately she's always picking at me.”
Harry winced. He couldn't deny that his best friends were grating on each other's nerves. He'd hoped things would improve once they were back at school, but so far they had not.
“I'm starting to think we shouldn't have come back at all.” Ron flung a pebble into the lake with considerable force. “We aren't allowed to play Quidditch, and we have to take Muggle Studies with the Slytherins! We should have gone straight into Auror training instead. We've already been accepted.”
“Provisionally accepted,” Harry qualified. “We'd still need this class, and I'd rather take it here than at the Ministry.”
Ron sighed in resignation. “I reckon that's true. But if those Slytherins try anything, I'm prepared to hex them!”
“I doubt they will,” said Harry softly. He was remembering the look on Draco Malfoy's face, when Harry had marched into court to testify on behalf of the Malfoy family. The blond had appeared stunned, twisting to stare at his parents, catching the sudden gleam of hope in Lucius' eyes and the gratitude in Narcissa's.
The Malfoys had walked free that day, and Harry had taken the opportunity to press the hawthorn wand into Draco's hand as they went.
But, as if to make up for their leniency, the Wizengamot had come down hard on the remaining Death Eaters. With no idolized Saviour to defend them, many had been sentenced to long terms in Azkaban, and all had paid ruinous fines.
“I guess we'd better head back,” said Ron, standing up. “Must be time for the Sorting Feast.”
Harry grinned, knowing Ron was more interested in the Feast than in the Sorting.
“Hold on a bit.” Harry paused in front of Greenhouse Three. “I promised Neville I'd check if his puffapods are sprouting.”
“That lucky sod! He doesn't have to take Muggle Studies, now he's Professor Sprout's assistant!” Ron followed Harry inside.
Both boys froze in shock.
Someone had used a multitude of watering charms inside, turning the dirt floor into a sea of mud. Plants had been smashed, their soil used to create still more mud.
“Wha...” Ron began.
A low moan came from the far corner. Harry and Ron exchanged one glance, drew their wands simultaneously, then stepped slowly around the long benches.
There was a small figure sprawled on the ground, her naked body so caked with mud that it took them several minutes to recognize Pansy Parkinson.
With a muffled exclamation, Harry dropped to his knees beside the injured girl. “Pansy? Ron, run to the castle and fetch Pomfrey!”
“Nuuhh...no.” Pansy opened one blackened eye. “Don..tell...nobody.”
“But you need help.” Ron hesitated, uncertain whether to go or stay.
“No!” Pansy's voice grew stronger as she struggled to sit up. “Don't tell anybody. Please!”
“Mate?” Ron looked to Harry anxiously.
Harry knew the attack should be reported. Now he could see that, beneath the coating of filth, the girl's body was a mass of bruises, and her long dark hair had been hacked off near the roots so roughly that her scalp was oozing blood.
He stripped off his shirt, a new one in dark green silk that would never be the same. Pansy clutched at it like a drowning man would grasp a lifeline.
“We have to get back to the castle,” he told Ron. “With everyone at the Sorting Feast, we'll be able to smuggle her inside.”
Carefully, they took Pansy between them and moved slowly toward the door.
The Slytherin girl lifted her battered face. “What about my wand?”
Ron gulped, holding up the broken pieces of Pansy's wand.
It was too much; Pansy burst into tears.
Ron bit his lip, then swung the sobbing girl up into his arms. “'S'okay, I'm going to carry you.”
Harry had reasoned correctly; as they entered, they could hear Professor Flitwick reading the list of first years. Silently they tiptoed past and headed for the Prefect's bath.
That's where their luck ran out.