It is for certain that the dwarfed girl figdted with her banjo solely on Wednesday afternoons, and generally to the surprisingly light-hearted tune of Top 40 radio. Haggered, poetic, and purely revolting. The exact right kind of pretentious smoky air to quench the young adult yearning that had been infesting the Sixth-Years, as of late. Just by glancing at the lady's vast layer of flannels, one could easily discern that she, for sure, and without a doubt, listened to Elliott Smith.

"Isn't it simply romantic, Lavender? Like, come on, dude. You gotta see my narrative, here."

"I hate it."

"Wait! You're right! Of course you are, you always are."

"Obviously, uggo."

"Kinda jealous about that, not gonna lie. But! Anyways, it's purely simple, you know? Why be lame and awful and just stand and chat about this chick? We gotta be straightforward about our interest. I'll just walk up to her!"

"Fine. So while you go play manic pixie, or whatever, I'm gonna go away. Literally, anywhere else."

"But where, Lav? Remember our contract? Your red-headed warrior can only go so many places. "

"That's why I make him where my perfume."

"Masculinity diminished. I like it."

"Ugh. Get with the modern age, dimbo. He could very easily have the same amount of fem inside as well as the masculine. Have you seen his shoulders?"

"He's like a buffalo!"

"Thank you. I know I chose well."

"Ok. Then I'll think about this sociology lesson we've ventured to while you're out. See you later!"

She salutes. "Maybe. Laters, Pav. Love ya."

"Love you too!"

She pushed her chair in, but before she pranced off in her platforms, Lave peered over her shoulder, hand beside her mouth. Secrets! But it was gonna be absolutely nothing new. Pav knew exactly what Lavender Sized tip and trick she was about to give. She squeezed her hands under the tabletop.

"Remember, you're literally amazing. Don't be a total dumb-dumb and forget, cool?". Her eyes, furrowed, contradicted that faint, and quaint, yet all consuming trademark dimple on her cheek she gained whenever she grinned. It vanished as soon as the sentence finished, anyways. Now her eyes lidded, again. Going deadpan. All over.

Pav bobbed her head in return. Matching that wolfish beam. Or, at the very most, childishly attempting. Parvati's gummy smile revealed more of a Disney's Lefou than, say, a Kate Moss.

"You're cool, Pav. Right?"

Their eyes met.

"By 'Cool', you mean, I have the tits of the Goddess Aphrodite, than yes! I'm practically Antarctica, dude. I'm gonna smash this, don't worry."

They both paused.

"You know, I have never once believed you. Ever."

...

"Then why ask?"

She was already out the door.

The Three Broomsticks on any normal mid-week early afternoon would have a few measly looking stranglers who wander up to the bartender rather meekly and ask for a 'Dry Ice Grapevine', knowing it'll take Miser Brown at least 7 ½ minutes to make. Pavarti Patil's toes shriveled in her loafers (metaphorically, of course!) everytime any of the masterclass morsels even dared to trudge their hunchbacks and splay themselves on the barstool, especially since this ordinary mid-week early afternoon wasn't so ordinary after all. Actually, ever since one certain wizard boy duked it out with the Ultimate Evil himself last year, Pavarti, anyone really, couldn't help but notice the average populace of Three Broomsticks had increased two-fold. The quaint, painfully average pub for all ages and for 100 patrons max now seeped 230 restless students and locals till they pressed against the walls and could all hear the wooden walls creek. Lavender, the humble pragmatist she is, had shivered at the idea of a 'bunch of socially inept psycho virgins all sweating over my Iced Beer while they shuffle their sleeves over their hands so the flies and bees couldn't suck on the precipitation. It's dreadful'. Turns out it was speculated that the bees were going extinct before the new millennium was to come. And it also turns out that, sometimes, in existential and provoking times, people like talking to each other. Parvati and Lavender discovered this only weeks after school had commenced, to much fortune and delight. They wished to use and abuse the much needed escapism of their fellow equals to fuel, the, to quote, 'Dynamic Duo Pav & Lav. Which was conceived to solve Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Mystery's many facets and romantic upbringings'. 'If three Gryffindor geek guys can become the modern age Mystery Machine, we can become the 90's platonic version of Thelma & Louise! But, instead of, like, a 1966 Ford Thunderbird, we'll just ride those Quidditch broomsticks we stole from tryouts.' Pavarti proclaimed this to her fellow comrades in the Girls' Dormitory. Smirk and all.

"I like you and despise you all at the same time, you know that?" Lavender and Parvati high-fived and bumped fists in quick succession

"You say that a lot!"

"Maybe there's a common denominator here."

"WHAT." A Ms. Hermione Granger had zipped the covers off her bed, sitting straight up. Yet she kept her sleeping mask on, that bore two words in cursive script, 'Cool Girl'. Her mouth ended up looking robotic "The team looked after those cheap sticks for weeks."

Case 4: Vicki the Banjo Bandit was coined this morning, Pav had felined over to Lavender's bedside, having noticed her first awoken stirs of the day. "Meet me at The Usual. 3:15 sharp."

Her partner flipped over, teeth poking out of her smile and ragged stray hairs, whispering, eyes still shut, "Goof ass."

Parvati noted that Lav had generally seemed rather chipper in the morning, at least.

Vicki, on the opposite end, seemed to be jacking about her instrument's strings, cross-legged on a barrel in the farthest corner away from Pav in the pub. She could catch each emotion resonating from the woman between packs of gossiping students. A slide show of anger management self-care only ever before seen on the Oprah Winfrey Show. Dreadful, indeed.

"Your two Iced Beers, Ma'am" The waitress set down a pair of long, thin cups with sky blue hues leaking fog out the rims, wisps accumulating around the tall table Parvati's stationed at.

"Woah! These look pretty bomb!" She leaned over, her head bobbing between the drinks. The glass skewed the colors, the colors seemed translucent, the rest of the tavern looking like a 12 year old first discovering photoshop.

A pair of big doe brown eyes zoomed to the center, Pav noticed the this chick's eyebrows were kinda pretty big. "Please, ma'am. Praise our bartender, instead. I deserve none of it."

"I always liked Miser Brown, Ramilda."

"You're not the only one. Is there anything else?"

"Definitely not. Thank you, though!"

Pav rubbed her fingertips against her palms, now her body was surprisingly moisturizing itself, and she hated it! She streaked her hands through her hair, stealing a puff of air before she pushed herself onto the battleground, both Ice Beers in tow. She's just a lady with biceps! Intimidating, amazing, spectacular Grace Jones smizing shoulders that could crunch me into a new decade. Her toes are tipped, slinking past much taller patrons in much bigger groups. Her elbows bump into many asses. Keep your cool, Pav! More slideshows. Vicki's personal powerpoint presentation is more calm, now. Her eyebrows are raised. Is my neck wet? Another ass. Having a weakness for Redheads is utterly and extraordinarily ordinary. Only five, maybe six tables away. She still hasn't noticed her. I saw it in a movie, once. It had Mel Gisbon in it. Her nails scrape against the drinks. SHit! That's grody. Didn't he punch a jewish guy? Tension trickled up her spine. Three tables and Three friend groups. What if she's Jewish? Katie Bell waves hi. I don't wanna punch a jew. Hannah Abbott does too. That would be horrible. Vicki's banjo strings come alive. Almost somber? Fuck! Why did I just think, 'a Jew'? That's so wrong and dumb. I'm officially dumb! One table. also why am I assuming she's jewish?! ½ table, her hairline feels like the Gobi Desert, Kinda like the color of Vicki' skin. jewish lineages have delicate women too and also that might have also been in that stupid Mel Gibson movie.

Their eyes meet.

I'm literally amazing.
She has these big, pouty lips.

"You're literally amazing!"

WHO.

"I was just thinking about our convo from Divination class."

ARE.

"You know Miser Brown burns my damn intestines with those Iced Beers, everytime."

YOU.

"My personal barrel here can for sure sit more than one 5'2' dwarf like me! Like, seriously, look how tiny am? How big is this barrel? Cool, right?"

it's so big. And so cool. So very very god. damn. cool.

Pav's adams apple gulps. Let the smirk reign.

"Well, you should consider yourself demonstrably lucky, Vicki. My parents gave me the genetic purity of size 8 pants and a niche for Iced Beer. Did you notice?" Pav clanked them (cooly + gently) together, "did you, though?"

The redhead's gasp is sharp, her cheeks flushed, "No. Way. That's super awesome of you! I'll take it." Her banjo's placed against the wall behind her.

"And I'll just, like, take that seat there, then" like lke lik liek

She takes a guzzle and her eyes bulge beyond her eyelashes. "Shit! Stuff's good." Pav directed herself to the second half of the barrel. Swishing her butt side to side till she became steady, crossing her legs. But, their thighs, no matter what, would be touching. And they are. Right now. It's spectacular. "Also!" She shifted herself over, and any more and their legs would be interlocked. She takes another sip, and leans in, and whether it's the light in the afternoon tavern, or it's just Vicki, her eyes have a dazzle, a twinkle in them, "Don't think I didn't notice the part about the pants." Pav could feel her blood thickening. "And I love those jeans! Only because my moms the one who started the line." Her mind Popped! She was suddenly aware of her breathing and the way her hands moved and also that Pansy Parkinson was yelling about Slughorn a few feet away. She almost nervous coughed. Her throat felt scratchy.

"Dude! You gotta be joking, these are my go-to's! And how lame would you think I am if I told you I own 20 exact pairs."

She swayed her head back in forth in mock thought, "I'd say that's just the side effect of being human, Pavarti."

Pav flung her index finger in the air, chin up, "Oh, it's definitely an issue. I can't move on! I'm basically scared of commitment. You might as well write this one down as a red flag, man."

"You're a dork. Ok, my mom, the jean lady, remember? Anyways, she always did tell me that I'll only know when a boy falls in love with me is when he commits."

Pav almost says it. But her palms are sweaty again and she can't stand mumbling. Especially when she, herself, does.

"You can say it. It's okay."

"No," maybe she'd chide herself later for being so quiet, maybe she wouldn't, "It's amazing." The twinkle didn't go out. "I swear."

And she's quiet too, "You think, so?"

"Because we're girls…"

"We're women."

"Naturally." A moment too long, a moment too long to notice that Vicki has these crinkles between her dark eyebrows. "Hey."

She smiles, "Yeah?"

"I feel the utter need to ask you this one, certain, question."

"Color me stoked, then!"

"You better be scared, dude"

"Right. Then I'll be your damsel in distress. Wait, was that funny? Shit, don't answer that. Anyways! Was is it?"

It's been destroying me, honestly.

"Do you listen to Elliot Smith?"