A Halloween drabble. No infringement intended.

All night, Millicent twirls the tip of her handlebar moustache, absently rolling one spur in the grooves of the floor. Zabini's lips bulge as, again and again, his tongue traces the tips of his fangs. His own plumed helmet, Malfoy can't seem to keep his greasy paws off it, while his new bird, all evening, rakes her long, pale fingers through the blunt, black fringe of her Cleopatra wig.

And I can't recall their real names, but Sexy Kitten and Slutty Bunny have really made my night- straightening the seams of their fishnet stockings, pulling at the scant satin and velvet attempting to cover their bits.

Amongst all this- the tugging, the yanking, and the twitching- Parkinson's stood poised, ready, fag in fingers. Those great, white wings springing out behind her, her advance has been necessarily slow. But seeing Cleopatra head for the loo, she strikes.

I watch from behind the bar as Malfoy leans close into her and whispers, then pulls back, smirking. She's still staring, blank-faced, when he turns away.

I hate to leave this little drama mid-scene, but I need some bottles from the stock-room, so I pull Mel from the floor to back the bar. When I return, Parkinson's sitting, smoking, in the last booth in the rear, her wings piled in a corner, her halo skewed and flickering. Seeing her, her raiment un-holy short, sitting on a bench that's been empty for hours, all I can think is her bum must be freezing.

I give last call, tend to the queue, and then shut down. Up front, the rest of the room's in full swing. I don't have anywhere else to be, and Parkinson would linger. I slide onto the bench across from hers.

"All night, fussing with his little, white dress," I say, nodding to Malfoy over my shoulder.

Her big, grey exhale swirls straight into my face. "It's a tunic."

"You never struck me as the type to fancy a man in a frock," I say, lighting one of my own.

She huffs, "Isn't there a rule here about staff fraternizing with the guests?" I shrug and watch the tip of her cigarette move through the smoke and shadows. She leans forward into the lamp-light stretched across the table. "Besides, shouldn't you be shunning me, like any other decent person?"

The way she asks, it's just a question, as if we are just two old acquaintances having a chat, instead of sworn childhood enemies.

"I mean," she says, straightening her halo, "aren't you supposed to hate me on principle, or something?"

I blow smoke rings over her head into the dark. I lean forward until our noses almost touch and say, "Who're you calling 'decent'?"

Our faces still close, her eyes roll up to look at the rings breaking above.

"Teach me," she says.

And because, maybe, we're not just our sins and we're not just our prejudices, I whisper, "Only if you ask nicely."

Her head tilts. Her tongue passes over her lips.

"Please, Finnigan."

"Well...all right."