8: When It’s All Gone Pear-Shaped

Disclaimer: We SO do not have permission to use these characters and abuse their setting. We don't make any money from their use and abuse either, which means that we'll likely be cleaning the castle for quite some time to atone for it. After all, suing us would yield pocket lint, some butterbeer caps, and a handful of Mardi Gras beads. (Hic! Egads, that was fun.)

Chapter 8: When It's All Gone Pear-Shaped

---

Where's the bloody Hangover Relief Potion?

Poppy frantically searched through her substantial medicine cabinet, filled with bottles of various colours and sizes. She rarely used one of the potions on herself, but she had received many an "emergency Floo call" in the middle of the night asking for some restorative or other. As if she didn't have other concerns besides the medical maladies of students and teachers.

She was definitely having an emergency this morning, however, her head pounding and her mouth salivating, and not in the way it had last night when they had managed to get into her rooms.

Retching into the toilet...Wurly Worms could stay the hell out of her toilet, thank you very much...Poppy could hear soft footsteps approach her and felt warm hands rub her back soothingly.

"Morning sickness? So soon?"

Poppy never had known a man to make a pregnancy joke after sex. But Hooch wasn't like other men, of course.

She raised her head and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Not funny."

"I recall a pretty nurse by the name of Pomfrey who once lectured the staff to take their Hangover Potions before bed, at the meeting following our Christmas feast." Helping Poppy up, Hooch kissed her forehead with verdant lips.

She could smell ginger and mint in his breath. "You've had some already... but when?"

Hooch handed her the bottle she had been looking for. "Woke up in the middle of the night. Now, drink up."

Poppy was a little rankled by Hooch giving her the healing advice, but took her potion. It made her eyes water and stomach turn in too many directions, but she didn't feel as nauseous as before.

"Better?"

Poppy nodded slowly. "But your skin."

Some pink showed through the green on Hooch's cheeks. "It'll fade... but I'm surprised you're not troubled by my other condition."

"I want your eyes. Your arse. You."

Rolanda smiled. "At least we cleared that up now that you're sober."

As they trekked back to the bedroom, Rolanda uttered one last statement before all talking ceased.

"How did you get a toilet here? I haven't seen proper indoor plumbing in years!"

---

Neville slowly rolled over onto his back, sunlight shining into his eyes. Rubbing a hand over his face, he tried to shake off the lingering tiredness.

What happened at that party? he wondered, his mind strangely fuzzy.

At this, Neville's eyes snapped open and he took in his surroundings properly for the first time.

He was surrounded by the familiar vegetation of Greenhouse Three. He was as naked as the day he was born. And he wasn't alone. To his left lay Luna Lovegood, sound asleep.

A very naked Luna, his mind helpfully supplied, making him blush.

That must have been some party, he thought, completely dazed. He closed his eyes (after all, he was a gentleman) and tried to remember it.

Before his mind could supply any answers, Luna awoke. She turned over and looked at Neville sleepily. "Morning, Neville."

"Er... Hi Luna," Neville replied nervously.

She sat up and took in her surroundings, a quiet, "Oh," escaping her lips. Neville sat up too, careful to cover certain sections of his anatomy.

"Do you remember anything, Luna?" Neville ventured.

She turned to him, taking in his nudity with a smile and answered, "Sort of."

"Um... could you help me out, then? It's fuzzy for me at the moment. I remember the party and drinking the punch. I think there was something in it... I'm not sure."

"I remember coming here," Luna began, "and then you and I..." She trailed off, looking at him intently.

Neville looked about the room. Taking into account all he could see (not to mention the whole nudity business) he realised what she was getting at. A few flashes of what had happened flitted through his mind.

She smiled at his expression and looked about the greenhouse again. "Oh! Look at the mess we made!" She laughed.

Somehow, their clothes were all over one end of the greenhouse, in a wide circle around where they had been lying.

"Well, I didn't realise we were quite so, ah, energetic," Neville said, looking to Luna. As he caught her eye, both blushed a little and smiled in memory of what exactly they had been energetic in doing the previous night.

Neville stood, offering a hand to Luna to help her up. Turning around the room to hide his mild embarrassment that they were both naked, he realised he couldn't see some of his things. "Hmm, hope we find it all," he said, thinking about how embarrassing it would be for someone else to find... things.

"Yes, I'm missing a cucumber earring for one thing," Luna said, touching her ear.

A rustle of vegetation had them both turning round and they saw that the Mimbulus mimbletonia was trying its hardest to direct them to something.

Luna walked over, keeping a distance from the plant just in case. She was naked and it sprayed Stinksap sometimes when provoked; she didn't care to discover first hand if it considered human nudity provocative. Much to her surprise, it merely flicked something shiny in her direction, which she recognized as her errant earring. Picking it up, she put it in and turned to the plant. "Thanks."

"Well," Neville said, "we ought to get dressed and back up to the castle, I suppose."

"Hmm, yes," Luna replied, wandering to pick her skirt from the plant it lay on.

They dressed quickly with some of the more sentient plants lending a helping... leaf... and pointing to clothes they couldn't spot. Soon they stood at the door, looking back on the room, Luna with the jar containing Bob the Nargle in one hand.

"Um," Neville began. He wasn't sure what to say really, his courage seemed to have run off again. He wanted to tell her he liked her, loved her even, but didn't know how.

Luna smiled and grasped his hand with her free one. "Come on, let's go get cleaned up and eat. We've got today, and all the days after that, ahead of us to sit and wonder. After all, everything's different now."

Neville looked at her; she really surprised him sometimes. "Yes, it is," he replied and kissed her lightly.

She smiled and pulled him out of the greenhouse and towards the castle.

---

Blaise was a bookie, not a gambler. He hadn't been about to take his life in his hands by actually playing Quidditch on Thestral-back, choosing instead to serve as referee from the steady platform provided by Tenebrus. Not only could he watch the action up close without being in it, he could also nudge the close calls in favour of whomever he chose. Though it was a forgone conclusion that once everyone sobered up, they would refuse to honour any bets based on his officiating.

This all would have been very well had the game not been a total disaster. The details were a little hazy, even from his excellent vantage point; but some of the stallions had evidently deemed the throwing of the Quaffle to be an act of aggression, and hovering seemed to bring out the worst in a previously amiable filly being ridden by one of the Keepers. The upshot of it was that Thestrals were not what you'd call good sports.

"Maybe they prefer Quodpot," Vaisey groaned from where he had fallen, alerting Blaise to the fact that he'd made this last observation aloud.

This was a miscalculation on Blaise's part. He blamed the punch. Unfortunately, it appeared that some very large Quidditch players blamed him. Now looked like a good time to make a strategic withdrawal.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Sloper had clearly mastered the 'voice that reaches into your gut and somehow stops your legs.' It was a talent that seemed endemic to the inhabitants of Gryffindor tower, and even Longbottom had managed a reasonable facsimile of it during the battle. Blaise knew there were reasons Slytherins didn't normally get along with Gryffindors, and he suspected The Voice had a lot to do with it.

There were no friendly faces in the crowd that was advancing on him. Even Frobisher was favouring him with an evil glare from where she sat tending a nasty wound on Smith's leg. Blaise opened his mouth to say something smooth and placating... and the next thing he knew, he was looking up at the inky silhouettes of the irate Thestrals as they flew away.

The ground never seems this hard when you're walking on it.

He had always thought that reports of seeing stars after being hit in the head was poetic exaggeration. But there definitely weren't that many stars visible in the faint glow of dawn. Despite one eye rapidly swelling shut, he managed to flinch at the angry expression on his attacker's bloodied face.

Yes, Cadwallader was a Beater. But who the hell would have guessed a Hufflepuff would hit a person that hard?

"Get up, Mr. 'I know all about Thestrals.' You're going to help us move the most wounded to the infirmary. And it's going to be your job to wake up Madam Pomfrey," Bradley said menacingly.

This seemed very reasonable to Blaise. At the very least, it was a lot more appealing than having his black eye accessorized with a broken nose. He meekly acquiesced to arranging makeshift stretchers for Vaisey and Smith, and led the sad little party to the infirmary.

Almost as soon as they entered the castle, strains of an animated conversation floated down the corridor.

"Neville saved me from the Nargle!"

"Well, it wasn't that hard to catch."

"And he named it Bob. Isn't that a nice name?"

Oh, God. Just what I needed to go with my throbbing head...Looney Lovegood, in concert with Longbottom, Blaise thought tiredly. And judging by the volume, they're getting closer. We're getting closer to them. Whatever.

"That's all very well, Luna, but could you help me with these gauntlets?"

The Quidditch casualties encountered a remarkable sight upon rounding the bend: Luna Lovegood rhapsodizing over a curious bug in a jar, while Mandy Brocklehurst, Neville Longbottom, and a partially dressed Parvati Patil attempted to extricate Ernie MacMillan from several pieces of armour. The players in that odd little tableau froze in place, staring at the wounded and being stared at in turn.

"Game of Blind Man's Bluff. Looking for Mandy. Found a suit of armour wearing a dress," MacMillan said tersely, with the air of a man who'd told this story more times than he cared to (and with a hangover, no less).

"Quidditch on Thestral-back," Frobisher responded, equally succinctly.

They continued on their way, stepping over a few unconscious bodies. Cadwallader stopped to check for pulses before they left the passed-out where they lay. Now he remembers he's a Hufflepuff, Blaise thought sourly. The way to the infirmary seemed to have gotten longer during the night.

Tiredly, Blaise pulled on the bell rope next to the door of the nurse's quarters, though he felt certain the moans coming from the ward behind him would be enough to wake anyone. He waited quite a while before pulling it again, and finally decided to try knocking. As usually happens in such cases, the door chose that exact moment to open, and he almost fell face-first against a very irate witch.

"I'll be with you in a minute, young man. Cool your broom-twigs!" She slammed the door shut again.

Blaise wandered back into the treatment area and sat on an empty bed, blinking stupidly. He could have sworn he'd just seen Madam Pomfrey in nothing but a dressing gown. Not only that, but over the nurse's shoulder, he'd glimpsed a very green, very shirtless, and apparently male M...um, Hooch.

Obviously, Cadwallader had hit him even harder than he'd thought.

---

Hermione woke to a crash and flurry of muffled curses ending in a pained whimper. It took her a few moments of confused reflection to ascertain that she was not, in fact, the source of either outburst, and that the person swearing sounded awfully familiar. This was rapidly followed by the realization that she was unable to move her hands and arms, capped off by the abrupt appearance of a very naked Severus Snape.

Snape turned her way, blinked at her naked figure, looked down and took note of his own lack of clothing, and promptly dropped to the ground with a muffled squeak.

Hermione was too mortified, annoyed, and just plain cold to bother with niceities. "Quit hiding and get your handcuffs off me!"

"I'm not hiding! I'm... looking for my wand. And stop yelling." The last sounded suspiciously like a whine. She noticed that he was (very impractically) only looking for it where he could be fully covered by the footboard.

"I see it," she said in the most helpful tone she could muster. "It's over there, near the bookcase, on the floor. Now, please unlock me!"

He tried to look at her without looking at her, then scanned the floor for his wand before looking/not looking at her again. It would have been funny if she weren't naked, suffering from an exceedingly sore upper body, and in need of the loo. Finally he spotted it and tried to crawl blearily forward.

"Oh, good grief! Do a wandless 'Accio' and spare your precious modesty! Though I don't see why I should care, since you haven't done a thing to spare mine, or why you should care, since..." she thought for a moment, then proceeded with slightly muzzy confidence "...I saw it all last night!"

"I think that should be a huge point loss for trying to kill a professor with your voice," he mumbled as the wand wobbled uncertainly through the air to his hand.

Standing awkwardly with his back to her, in an attempt to keep his private bits... private... she watched as Snape put his right arm over his left shoulder and pointed the wand in her direction.

He's not going to.... yes, he really is...

Hermione gawped internally (she would never do so literally if she could help it) at the sheer inanity of the act. Before she managed to object, he sent an 'Alohomora' in her direction. It may have worked on the handcuffs, had he not got her left thigh instead.

"Merlin, help me. Professor, just toss me a sheet already," she said wearily.

She had the distinct impression he would have read her the riot act if his head weren't threatening to explode. However, he did manage to toss the sheet clumsily over her, with a minimum of turning (and, to his credit, a minimum of looking). With a glare that dared her to comment, he draped the blanket around his waist and over one arm, evoking comical comparisons to a hung over Roman emperor.

'Alohomora!'

Nothing.

"Try 'Aperio.'"

"Yes, thank you, I'm quite aware of that one," he snapped. It proved just as ineffective as Alohomora.

"Don't you know how to open your own handcuffs?"

He blinked. "These are mine?"

"I know I don't own any green velvet covered handcuffs!"

He studied the cuffs, trying to find some clue to their operation. "Oh, God... these are so... so cliché!" he moaned.

"Well, I didn't ask for them."

He stopped, evidently lost in thought. It appeared to be painful. He blinked again, a look of recall coming across his face. "Actually... come to think of it... you did."

She opened her mouth to object, but just as quickly shut it again. Eyes wide, she thought, Oh, God... I did.

There was a moment of silence. Then Hermione made one more suggestion. "Bombarda?"

She rethought the suggestion as she took in his unsteady aim. "Wait!"

CRASH!

Too late.

Splinters of wood exploded around her. Hermione shrieked; Snape moaned. On some distracted level, she realized this was a repeat of last night's soundtrack, only with very different causation.

"I'm levitating the canopy, get your wand and deal with the other cuff," he ordered crankily. She decided against arguing. After a few frustrating moments, she gave up on trying to break the cuff itself and lasered a neat slot in the remaining bedpost. Leaving Snape to deal with the sagging remains of his bed, she marched to the loo, with as much dignity as possible under the circumstances, clutching the sheet around her.

---

In an office quite close to where the handcuff drama was playing out, Padma was waking up with a bit of a pain in her head, a heavy arm around her waist, and no more clothing on her body than her Ravenclaw tie. She gulped, wincing at the taste in her mouth. A masculine snore sounded almost in her ear, scaring her fully alert.

What have I done? Parvati's the wild one. It's not like me to wake up with strange men!

Padma tried to reign in her rising hysteria with a little logic. After all, it technically couldn't be a stranger, since she knew everyone in the castle. She could reason out who it was while she waited for her memory to reassert itself. She opened her eyes, wincing a little. The spiked punch had taken its toll, though she didn't quite have a full-on hangover. First observation: a flat wooden surface, about three inches from her nose. A desk, then. And walls full of shelves... shelves full of nasty things in jars...

Oh, no. Oh, Krishna, Vishnu, and Shiva, please, please, PLEASE, tell me I didn't sleep with Professor Snape!

For several minutes, Padma fought the urge to cry. Finally, she drew upon some echo of courage within herself and looked down at the arm around her waist.

It was young. Long fingered. And, oh, glorious morning, freckled. She almost cried, this time with relief.

"Ron!" she cried out happily, rolling in his grasp and kissing his slightly open, slightly drooling mouth.

He woke with a start. When she pulled away, she realised that his eyes had probably been open and bulging almost comically throughout the kiss.

"P-p-padma?" he stuttered. So far, so good. He not only knew which twin she was (maybe the tie had helped, but she decided to be optimistic about it), but he seemed pleasantly shocked rather than upset. "Oh, right... the dare."

Right. The dare. It was coming back to her, including why the dare had come about. Parvati had most unorthodox ideas about matchmaking when she was drunk.

"Um..." He seemed to pick just that moment to become aware of their mutual nudity. The blush was sort of cute, she decided, especially since they were both wearing it. "I had a really nice time," he said, handing her bra over as if it were a bouquet and they had spent a night out doing something more respectable than shagging on the desk in Snape's office.

"So did I," she admitted, shrugging her way into the garment. He streaked his way to the door and quickly returned with her skirt and his boxers. He was even gentleman enough to automatically hand her the one remaining robe they found on the stairs out of the dungeon. For some reason, the rest of their clothes had disappeared.

"I'll, ah, just walk you back to your tower," he said, still blushing a bit. Padma was now officially pleased with Parvati's matchmaking abilities. He could have just as well left her to her own devices and made a run for his own dormitory, in hopes of minimizing the number of people who saw him in his underwear. Suddenly, he stopped short.

"Oh, bollocks!"

"What's wrong?"

"We left Harry's cloak in the dungeon!"

Padma couldn't help herself. She didn't know if it was the tousled red hair, the bemused expression, or the awkward courtesy, but she had to kiss him. Right there in the corridor outside the Great Hall. With her just wearing a school robe over her bra and skirt, and him in his ridiculously adorable phone-booth-red boxers.

---

While Miss Granger did whatever it was she needed to do, Snape got dressed. He would have preferred to wash first, were it not for the fact that there was a young woman of the student persuasion in his bathroom and he had some hazy yet damning memories of what happened the last time he was in said room with her. His head was still pounding, but it would probably be more convenient to wait until AFTER Minerva castrated him for sleeping with a student. That way, he could deal with all the pain at once.

Why did Miss Granger have to save me? Just so I could enjoy the poetic justice of being killed by my employer and soon-to-be-former friend?

He surveyed the damage to his bed as he attempted to dress in some semblance of proper clothing.

Oh, well. At least I finally got to use the handcuffs.

As if on queue, the inappropriately-consorted-with-student in question stepped out of his ensuite, wrapped in a towel and an air of mildly injured dignity.

"I'll be going now," she said. He thanked anything remotely holy that she did not raise her voice.

I can hear the charges now. Drunk while on duty...

She continued in the same low, stiffly reasonable tone, "Perhaps it would be best if we'd forget this happened..."

Restraining a student to the bed and shagging the life out of her...no one will ever believe the handcuffs were HER idea...

"...and resume a strictly professional teacher/student relationship."

Handling a student's underwear... bugger, still doing that, actually...

She finally located her blouse and shook it out, apparently calculating how to slip it on without removing the towel. He removed the red bra from his pocket (resolutely refusing to acknowledge that he'd been unthinkingly fondling it) and 'Scourgified' it. It seemed a more gentlemanly thing to do than to hand it back covered in chocolate. He cleared his throat to get her attention.

"You will probably want this first, Miss Granger."

Blinking, she looked at the bra, then back to him. "Do you make a habit of collecting people's under-things, professor?''

It was his turn to blink. "It's not... yours?'' He looked from the garment in question to her towel-clad chest. "Ah... my mistake. It's a bit large."

Her rapidly reddening face (quickly outshining the undergarment in his hand) was his first clue that he had just said A Very Stupid Thing. So stupid, it deserved capital letters and a place in a hall of shame of some sort. Even being painfully hungover was no excuse for that level of idiocy. He had spent so many years among the dunderheads that they were finally rubbing off on him.

"Yes, you'll just have to return it to the large-chested hussy you were shagging BEFORE you kidnapped me from the bath." Her voice was remarkably even. It also sounded remarkably like Minerva's before she hexed the living crap out of someone, though it lacked the heavy brogue.

She buttoned her blouse and settled the towel around her waist, Transfiguring it into a reasonable facsimile of a school skirt.

"I did NOT shag anyone else last night," he said. It was a shame the post-drunken tremor in his voice undermined the certainty of that statement.

"Oh, really? What are you doing with it, then? If you're contemplating cross-dressing, you should stay with something a little more realistic for your build." Hermione strode out of his bedroom, and the slam of the door to his chambers reached his ears, competing with the spinning thoughts and pressure-pain within his skull.

Snape swiftly found the potion that would ease his headache, swallowed it down, and left to find her. To hell with bearing pain gracefully.

She didn't run from him, but neither did she look at him as he fell into step beside her. "I was NOT with anyone else last night! The bra was wrapped around the Sorting Hat..."

"Right. Did a suit of armour provide you with the matching knickers? "

He ignored the fact that this was something very much like what he would have said under similar circumstance, and ploughed on. "More to the point, I know I didn't sleep with anyone else because, even stinking drunk, I am NOT going to sleep with a dunderhead...and despite your choice in friends, you have never fit in that category. In fact, your intellect... foremost among other things... is thoroughly appealing. I regret if that offends you, but I prefer that you be offended by the truth than by the absurd idea that you were just the object of some drunken frolic." Besides, I would have remembered becoming closely acquainted with a pair of knockers capable of filling that bra, hangover or no.

Just then, Snape did remember seeing a female figure which could have filled out the brassier in question, and the circumstances under which he saw her. He promptly resolved to Evanesco said garment as soon as he returned to his quarters. Along with the rug it had landed upon. He might get rid of the coat in which he'd pocketed it as well. And then, he'd prostrate himself before Filius and beg to have the associated images removed from his memory.

"I'm not offended."

"Sorry?"

She slowed down, though didn't quite go so far as to stop and look him in the face. "Last night the Weasley twins got out of the infirmary and spiked the punch at the party."

Snape forgot for a moment that he was a professor, in the presence of a student, desperately trying to rebuild his trashed professionalism, and said a very bad word.

"I don't care for the language, sir, but I can't argue with the sentiment. It's actually not as bad as it sounds. They used a potion that relaxes people. Slightly loosens inhibitions. Mixed with alcohol, it may have had a stronger effect than originally intended, but I was hardly pissed beyond belief. And you did not...kidnap...me from the bath."

He let the implication sink in for a moment. "In that case..." Snape trailed off, considering whether to make the offer. "We continue as before, not speaking of last night. And, if you are willing, we could... after you graduate... meet somewhere. For dinner," he hastened to clarify.

She was silent just long enough to make him believe he was in profound trouble.

"I accept. A date only...no promise of anything else."

"Of course."

The gravity of the moment was shattered by an unearthly yowl. Snape drew his wand to defend his witch...no, his student, still a student for another two months...from...

"Crookshanks!" Hermione screamed. An orange missile streaked down the corridor in the direction of the Great Hall, followed by an irate Mrs. Norris. Filch's erstwhile companion was apparently spouting the feline equivalent of hair-raising profanity, judging by the state of both animals' fur.

Hermione took off after them. Snape followed, reasoning that they were heading in the direction the Great Hall and that it was as good a place as any to start assessing the damage. He almost ran into her when she stopped for a moment and waved her wand at chest level before continuing at a fast clip.

That is the most innovative use of a Levitation Charm I've ever seen.

---

Continuing his journey towards the gates, Kingsley tried to restrain the wild sense of hope that it was indeed true.

Yet again, a little up the path, Kingsley heard the snapping of branches. Strange, he thought, looking around, there aren't any bushes just here. Where's that coming from?

A loud crash followed...the snapping of a large branch off the tree Kingsley stood near. Following the branch on its rapid descent to the ground was Tonks.

"Blimmin heck," she said. "Landed right on me arse."

She stood up, rubbing her rump and looking mighty annoyed. It wasn't until she turned around that she saw Kingsley, who was gawping at her, dumbstruck. Not surprising really, she was only wearing knickers and a t-shirt that definitely wasn't hers.

"Wotcher, Kingelsy... I mean Kingersy... no, that's not right either, is it?" She was still a little drunk and wobbled a bit as she spoke.

"Not quite, no. Erm, what were you doing on the tree?" he couldn't help but ask.

"Sleepin'," she replied. "Bit chilly, isn't it?"

Kingsley didn't quite know what to say to that.

"Oh yeah, did y'hear? Old-Thingy-Bob's dead, Harry did it yesterday. Great, right? None of them Death Munchers on the loose either, we reckon."

"That's great, Tonks," Kingsley said cautiously. He wasn't sure whether that could count as an official report, seeing as she was drunk, but it'd have to do for now. "Now give me a minute and I'll transfigure you something to wear..."

Right, he thought, trying to recall the wand movement for the only clothing spell he could remember. It's a bloody good job Transfiguration isn't of much importance in the Auror exams. I'd never have gotten in otherwise.

"Oh hey, Kengsliy, guess what!" Tonks babbled excitedly. "I got me a tattoo last night, let me just find it for yer..."

Kingsley thought harder, trying and remember the wand movement as Tonks half turned and pulled her knickers away to reveal her bum cheek.

"Nope, not there..."

"Tonks, you can, ah, show me another time OK," he protested.

She then continued to do the same on the other side, so Kingsley, being a gentleman, closed his eyes, still trying to remember that wand movement.

"...Nope, not that, either. Oh, I got a bruise from the tree... ouch... Oh! Oh!" Tonks yelled. "Kignesly, I found it. Look!"

He'd remembered the wand movement, so he looked, casting as he opened his eyes. As he did, he read what exactly the tattoo in question said... and as a result, missed the third 'swish' in the movement. Moody?!? Kingsley thought. Oh dear, Nimue...

'POOF!'

Instead of a jumper-covered Tonks, in her place now stood a small sheep.

"Ooops," Kingsley said. "Er... hang on, I'll try to undo it,"

A few unsuccessful incantations later and Tonks was still a sheep. "You just wait here. I'll be back with someone to sort you out. OK?"

By way of reply, he received a 'Baa' and the sight of a wooly tail bobbing as Tonks the sheep bounded off toward the castle.

Oh well, he thought, somewhat helplessly, at least she's on Hogwarts grounds. With an embarrassed glance at his colleague's retreating cute woolly tail, Kingsley braced himself to break the news to the world.

---

Blaise's fall from grace, and Ron and Padma coming to an understanding courtesy of dracontia.

Rolanda (Roland?) and Poppy's morning-after sickness courtesy of SS Lupin.

Kingsley's continuing confusion and Neville and Luna's muddled wakeup courtesy of lux_astraea.

SS/HG reconstructing the evidence courtesy of SS Lupin, dracontia, and lux_astraea in chat, with highly appreciative acknowledgements to the original, far more elaborate encounter by shalimar 1981 (some version of which possibly coming soon to an archive near you...)