“McGonagall?” Oliver Wood, that barmy Scottish wanker who was the bane of my existence all those years ago, cut in, his voice flattening. “What the ruddy hell are you doing here?”

All the thoughts of dismay, astonishment and an impending sense of doom vanished, replaced by an overpowering sensation to put Oliver Wood back in his place. I narrowed my eyes, and spat, “I’m here to play Quidditch.”

I grimaced. “S’not my fault he’s a bleeding prat.”
“And the rest,” Andy joked.
“It’s true!” I protested. “He … he drives me batty!”
“Oh ho, hostile feelings from a wee little lass,” Andy laughed, an almost perfect looking eyebrow raised.
“I’m not ‘wee,’” I declared indignantly.