Author: This time, it's a genuine co-production, because rareb is responsible for everything concerning Orion, while I take care of Lavinia. So every credit and criticsm you give us should go to both of us, please.

Summary: A Hufflepuff and a Slytherin. Once an unusual friendship... but it didn't survive ten years of separation. Is there a second chance? Post-Hogwarts, OCs, worth the read (whoever said only the Golden Trio attented Hogwarts?). Co-authored with rareb.

Category: Romance

Rating: K+

Disclaimer: Come to think of it, always a funny thing to write for me. Anyway, Orion belongs solely to rareb, while Lavinia originally belongs to our fellow German LOTR message board user Eruanne. She was so friendly as to lend me Lavinia for this story. However, the wizarding world and everything else associated with it (ie. Quidditch, familiar names etc.) belong to J.K. Rowling. We only borrowed it for our personal fun and won't make money with it. We solemnly swear.

A/N: For me, this is my first HP-fanfiction. This one here is based on an RPG on above mentioned LOTR message board. Because it was started after HBP we caution you that there can be slight to heavy spoilers for this book. Please keep this in mind while reading. We realized that it needs quite some time until it gets going, so if you are a new reader, bring a little patience. You'll be rewarded.

I would like to point out that after quite a time of hiatus, rareb and I decided to give the story a major revamp, mostly in Orion's parts. We also decided not to close down the story but to continue it. We're working on it ;)

And now on with the story and don't forget:

Feedback will earn you a cookie, flames will roast our marsh-mellows.

Haven't thought of you lately

"A long time ago
We used to be friends
But I haven't thought of you lately at all."

The Dandy Warhols, "We used to be friends"

~*~

Lavinia

Actually, I still don't really know how it happened. I mean… okay, yes, actually it was pretty easy. I was there, and suddenly he was there and… No, from the beginning.

I'd always been one for Quidditch. Ever since my grandpa put me on a broom when I was four or five years old and taught me how to fly my first round over the lawn before the mansion, I was hooked. And of course I was elected to play as a Chaser for my House team – Hufflepuff – at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry as a second year. For a while, everyone thought I'd only been chosen because of my grandfather – Horace O'Leary, one of the greatest Quidditch players of his time – but in time I earned the position and the respect of my team mates.

Then, in my seventh year, everything went to hell when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named came back and Dumbledore died. But life goes on, and even when the world crumbled, I was taken into the reserve team of the Montrose Magpies and stayed there ever since, even making my way into the national team a few years later. Granted, there were always games cancelled or disturbed by shockingly horrific atrocities, but overall there was one motto ruling the whole League: "The show must go on" So I was playing and training and playing and training some more. All the while others were fighting; while my husband was fighting.

But that's not what I wanted to tell you about, right? What I wanted to tell you about… happened a lot later. 10 years, to be precise. Only some hours ago, to be even more precise. I'd just finished changing after our glorious triumph against Brazil's national team when Alfred Hanniman – my manager – came towards me and ushered me into the room where the press conference after the game was supposed to take place. I tried to fend him off, because I absolutely hate press conferences and all that PR hocus-pocus – so to speak, but sometimes even I can't get around it. So I finally indulged him and took a seat beside my coach and tried not to recoil before the sheer mass of journalists and would-be-journalists in front of me.

For a while, everything went the usual way, with people standing up, asking semi-intelligent questions, irritating me with taking pictures and all that other stuff journalists do. But then, suddenly, someone cleared his throat and a very familiar voice said: "I'd like to ask… Mrs… uh… McNeil a question. Today is the 5th anniversary of your husband's death. How do you feel about this on such a great day?"

For a moment I was at a loss for words. How dared he of all people ask something like that? Orion Yaxley, Slytherin, strangely enough one of my best friends – even if it was a very weird friendship – who never took the time to stay in contact with me after we finished our school at the brink of war. And who never even took the risk of openly standing up for our friendship, even after we left Hogwarts. I never was a very impulsive person, but right then and there I was fuming. I was lucky my coach was fast enough to register that, put a hand on my arm as unobtrusively as possible and said: "Could you please reserve this question for later, Mr…"

"Yaxley.", I hissed.

"Yes, Mr Yaxley. You will have time enough for that in the interview she will be giving you in ten minutes."

And that's why I'm now sitting in a room much too tiny for the amount of anger building up in my chest, opposite to an obviously very oblivious Orion Yaxley. Or maybe he's just pretending not to know me. Knowing him, I'd tend to the latter. And I want out of here.

Orion

This just isn't how I had imagined it. But nobody wanted to join Roland on the Quidditch-Game. So I went. It was never part of the arrangement for me to do the interview. What the heck does he have to get hit by a Bludger for? And now I've just…

I have been writing for the Daily Prophet for 10 years now. Even though my ambition had always been to join the ministry, the offer of the Prophet had something promising at that time. At Hogwarts, I had been one of the editors-in-chief of the School's newspaper and believe it or not, it had been read by some very influential people and they had liked my style. So there I was – in the middle of a war, always hunting for stories, commenting, but never taking action. I made it, sort of. I'm one of the most respected political journalists in the country – even associate editor-in-chief of the biggest wizarding newspaper in Britain. It was hard work getting there. But I'm not a sports reporter for heaven's sake.

My family was once one of the most influential pure-blood families in Britain. The Yaxleys were proud of their ancestry and I was to bring this important heritage to new blossom. It was what I had worked for all my years at school; to equal, even outdo my father – to add my share to the considerable family wealth. I would have done it – if it hadn't been for the war. Suddenly, surviving was all that mattered. My parents didn't. Friends of mine turned up on both sides. As a Slytherin you had to cope with that. One of my best friends became a Death Eater – the other best friend stayed loyal and we got married. What people do. It seemed to be the right thing at that time.

Anyway, I had volunteered to accompany our sports reporter to the Quidditch game because nobody else wanted to do it. The deal was that I would be there watching the game, occasionally taking notes should he not be able to do it on his own. It was a job normally done by interns – but we didn't have any at the moment. To be honest I'd partly done it to get the votes of the sports department in the next election round for the editor-in-chief. It had seemed like a reasonable bargain – but then, the idiot got hit by a bludger.

The British Beater had aimed for an adversarial Chaser, missed and hit none other than the journalist for the Daily Prophet, Roland Hardy. True reporter as he is, he had passed me his notes and gave instructions to me under his breath while they brought him away.

Now there I was at this press conference – trying to figure out what the hell it was all about while ruffling through the notes of my precious colleague. This was when I found the question, halfway through the conference. Apparently, one of the players had lost her husband exactly 5 years ago – a war victim, a hero of some kind, it seemed. As a reporter, you have an instinct – it was an interesting, provoking question. So I rose to my feet, cleared my throat and asked without further reflection:

"I'd like to ask… Mrs… uh… McNeil a question. Today is the 5th anniversary of your husband's death. How do you feel about this on such a great day?"

Her reaction was rather odd. You could expect someone not to answer such a personal question – but it seemed like she had actually been disturbed by it. Was it out-of-bounds? Was it something I said? I'm just a reporter; it's nothing personal, honey.

However, it's true that I was quite disturbed when her coach announced that I would get to ask her that in a personal interview. Who was talking about an interview? I just wanted to leave here – it wasn't even technically my job. Now, isn't that ironic? Every journalist in this room would probably have paid much to get this interview; everyone except me. Let me do an article on the latest ministerial decisions and you have it on your desk in two hours time. But what should I ask some stupid Quidditch-girl?

Instead of paying attention to the rest of the conference I started figuring out questions I could ask a Quidditch-player I didn't know at all. And that's what I'm still doing, while I wait outside the room. It's going to be embarrassing and I just hope she doesn't take it personal.

The door opens and a smiling manager lets me in. "She's all yours for questions now, Mr. Yaxley", he tells me. Whatever, I think and take a seat opposite hers. She looks vaguely familiar. The thought lingers for a moment, but I push it away. As a reporter, you meet a lot of people – it could even be that I covered the story of her husband years ago. You can't remember all of them, can you?

I take out my notes and want to start the questioning. This is going to be embarrassing enough without the awkward silence. But when I open my mouth to formulate the first question I notice her glare. This can't possibly be just about the question. It seems like this woman is mad at me for some reason I have yet to discover. Let's see, then. I offer her my hand: "Orion Yaxley, I'm here representing the Daily Prophet. Do you mind me starting with the questions?" Rather than taking my hand and answering the question, she now stares at me like she's going to explode the next second. What's wrong?