A/N: I own nothing. NOW COMPLETE!

xiii. too much information

"Er, h-hi." Daphne says shakily.

Michael walks and stands mere inches away from her. "I got your message." He smiles a little, but it's rather awkward. "You don't have long, do you?"

She shakes her head. "They'll be here at half past eight. How are you doing?"

He shrugs. "It's . . . it's unbelievable. I mean, one minute Dumbledore's here, and the next, he's . . . he's just gone, you know?" He regards her carefully. "They told us Snape ran."

Daphne pulls in her lips. "Slughorn's our new Head of House, but he's not saying anything about what happened with Snape or Malfoy or where in the world they could be, or—"

She doesn't want to say it, because, despite everything, Snape was her favorite teacher, whether it was Potions or Defense Against Dark Arts, and ever since Slughorn told them about what had happened at the Astronomy Tower last night, a horrible, unspeakable thought kept trying to push through from the back of her head—

"You have to admit," he interrupts her thinking, "that you don't have to be a Ravenclaw to reckon Snape was involved. And I've also heard rumors that Malfoy had something to do with it as well."

She stares at him and there's a tug-of-war going on inside her head. She wants to tell him: "Absolutely! They were involved! They had to have been involved! You should've seen Pansy and Crabbe and Goyle last night. . . . they're covering for both those bastards!"

But the other part can't help but think that Michael jumps to that conclusion because Snape and Malfoy are Slytherins, and, well . . . so is she. And what the hell has their entire thing been about if it wasn't about realizing that some Ravenclaws aren't all about books and Slytherins aren't all about bloody evil?!

Despite her better judgment, and because her nerves are frayed and she's tired and upset, Daphne allows the latter to override her instincts—

"Quick to point your wand at the 'guilty parties', aren't you? So long as they're in Slytherin, right?"

"Oh, come off it, Daphne! It's not a Slytherin thing. It's a common-sense thing. You have to see that there's something wrong, something suspicious about all of this. Dumbledore falls off the Astronomy Tower to his death . . . a fight that nearly destroys said tower . . . and now, Snape and Malfoy are nowhere to be seen the morning after."

She glares, trying to stay angry, but she knows he's right, and she's loathing that bloody Sorting Hat for putting her in her House, even though most generations of Greengrasses have been predominately Slytherin themselves.

Her body, which had been tense and tight before, falls and she's leaning against the stone wall of the bottom floor of the West Tower. "I know, I know. It's just making me wish I hadn't been sorted into my own House." Daphne turns a pair of desperate, confused eyes towards Michael. "I wasn't close to the Headmaster, but I feel like the only Slytherin who's hoping that none of us had anything to do with his death. Which," she gestures weakly, "is looking increasingly likely."

Michael watches her for one more minute and he approaches her with his arms outstretched, pulling her to him.

She softens and allows the embrace.

"It's going to get worse from here, you know?"

He nods, his chin gently tapping her head. "I know." He pulls away from her after a bit. "Can I kiss you goodbye?"

Daphne stops her chin from quivering and, with as much dignity as she can muster, she nods. "You may," she responds with a soft voice.

And he does.

It is the night before Dumbledore's funeral. Daphne has been gone for almost two full days. Michael sits on his bed, his trunk packed and resting at his feet. 


He feels his bed dip and he looks behind him . . .

A bottle of MacGillicuddy's Special Reserve Firewhiskey greets him centimetres from his face.

"Drink."

Michael takes the bottle from Terry Boot's generous hand and he looks at his friends. Terry's reclining lengthwise on the bed, and Anthony Goldstein's sitting against the bedpost close to the footrest. Terry takes his drinks directly from the bottle, but Anthony offers Michael his glass.

Michael shakes his head, and instead, swigs quite a mouthful.

"C-cor-cack!" Michael hacks a bit as the liquid burns down his throat. "Blimey!" he exclaims and his friends laugh at his lack of composure. "Shit! That cuts right through you."

Terry looks at him. "This isn't the cheap stuff, mate. If you don't like it, you've got the palate of a dead squid."

The three wizards sit in silence for a few moments. It's Anthony who breaks the quiet first.

"Can't believe that he's gone, you know? It . . . it hasn't sunk in yet."

"Know what you mean." Terry takes another swig. "Y'know what they always said about him?" He passes the bottle back to Michael, who takes it with a little hesitation. "He was the only wizard that You-Know-Who was scared of."

"Not just You-Know-Who." Anthony tips his glass back. "He beat Grindelwald! Who knows what'll happen now."

Michael gives him a sideways glance as he sips from the bottle. "What are you saying, Tony?"

"I'm saying that . . ." his eyes shift between them, "it may be open season."

Michael doesn't want to hear or think about this, but Dumbledore's death has left a gaping chasm in Hogwarts.

Their whole world.

"What do you think'll happen?" Michael drinks, and he realizes that the firewhiskey's going down easier with each mouthful.

Anthony shrugs. "I think McGonagall 'll be a shoo-in for Headmistress. Although I'd love to see Flitwick get it." He raises his glass to his friends.

"Cheers!" Michael raises the bottle and Terry raises his hand. After he takes one more drink, he gives Terry the firewhiskey. He pours Anthony a little more before taking a swig himself.

"T'you . . . Flitwick too." Terry lifts the firewhiskey in a belated toast. "So, Mike, you gonna write her over the holiday?"

Michael sighs. "Yeah, but I'm not sure . . . she might not even get them. Her family's really—" He waves his hand next to his head.

"Crazy?" "Bat-shit insane?"

Anthony and Terry look at each other as they speak simultaneously. Michael snorts.

"Well, that and they're as prejudiced against non-pure-bloods as any of the worst here at Hogwarts."

Anthony nods. "My parents didn't want to associate with them, because there's been some questions about the elder Greengrass' finances—"

Michael furrows his brow. "What do you mean?"

"Even though the Greengrasses weren't actually involved in the First War against You-Know-Who, well," Anthony leans towards him, "there were rumors they were funneling money to support them."

Terry looks at him, aghast. "Who? Death Eaters?"

"No, Terry, ponies! Of course I mean Death Eaters!"

Michael looks down. "But she doesn't believe that. I-I mean, sh-she's never said anything bad about Muggle-borns to me." His voice sounds rather weak.

"Did you tell her about your mum?" Anthony asks. Terry sits silently, waiting for an answer.

"Er . . ." Michael realizes that he can't remember whether he ever told her he was born of a wizard and a Muggle-born. He thinks he may have, but it's getting lost in a sea of banter about classes, flirting in hushed voices, and snogging in private moments. Perhaps the exact words, "My mother's a Muggle-born," never passed through his lips, but he does hope that he dropped a hint here or there — if only because it meant that she was with him despite that fact.

"I dunno—" It's all he can manage.

Anthony looks at him and sighs. "Well, you know the both of you have a place with my family. No matter what."

Terry smirks. "Only because you'd cry yourself to sleep at night without us protectin' y'arse!"

Anthony kicks at him playfully. "Prat! Remember, which one of us has the Stunner that landed both of you on your arses?" He grins at them smugly.

Michael simply smiles and holds out his fist. "Thanks, mate."

Anthony taps Michael's fist. "You know the both of you can count on me."

"And me." Terry joins in.

And the three wizards spend the rest of the evening getting as pissed as possible off of Terry's last bottle of firewhiskey.

Fin.