a/n: i've had this sitting around for almost a year, so...?

FUN FACT ABOUT EILEEN SCHNEIDER: Eliza has two siblings. The first is Julianne-called-Jules. Jules is Victoire's age, a Harpy, and turns Chasing into an art form in a way that plebes like Potter couldn't even dream of. She's also Eliza's half-sister.

The story behind that is that Uncle Oliver, post-war and an up-and-coming Quidditch player, fell into it with a French girl named Yvonne who worked as the physical therapist's assistant for Puddlemere. Apparently they got pretty cozy and had plenty of "late night training sessions" (Uncle Oliver's words, not mine) and, well, Julianne. Yvonne ended up getting super pissed when Uncle Oliver couldn't figure out how to not put Quidditch before everything and split. Enter Alicia Spinnet, founder and sole writer of Quaffle, Pitch & Snitch, a Quidditch magazine focusing on "the nuances and strategies of the sport as opposed to the off-pitch gossip". (I'm pretty sure that sentence alone would have won over Uncle Oliver, even if Alicia wasn't basically the best ever, and an old Quidditch buddy of his, to boot.) They get married, and boom! Liam, and then Eliza. They go on holiday to see Quidditch matches and can get box seats to any game ever at the drop of a hat, and Eliza goes home every Christmas to a big old tree and a mountain of presents and gets a letter from home every week.

So that's the Woods, I guess. Just one big, happy family. And honestly, I'm glad Eliza has a big happy family with Uncle Oliver and Aunt Alicia and Jules and Liam. Eliza is my friend, my cousin, and whatever Kyrie says, I'm not—we're not frienemies or whatever and I know, okay, I know that I'm not part of that family and that's okay, alright, it's not like I wanted to be or anything, I don't have any issues with family or any of that bullshit, Eliza is my friend and I'll die before I get jealous of Eliza. I'm really, really glad she gets all that stuff. Eliza's great, she deserves it, and—and. Yeah.

Don't read into that.

I stumbled back to the compartment with my crumpled sweatshirt clutched to my chest in a daze. You're not worth the trouble you're not worth the trouble

James Potter is going to kick you off the team James Potter is going to kick you off the team—

I think I passed Roxy and Roger on the train—I might have seen my other sister, Sunny, and maybe Olivia Davies (Ravenclaw Chaser and total bitch) tried to snark it up with me, but I didn't really care.

Because James Potter is going to kick me off the team.

"He's not going to," I told myself with a curt nod. Confidence is key. I slip back into the compartment, hearing the door click shut behind me. Dom didn't even look up from where she was rummaging through my bags.

"You don't have any snacks," she grumbled, shooting me an accusing glare.

"I'm not your bloody house elf," I grumbled half-heartedly.

"Thank Merlin," she snorted. "If you were my house elf, I'd give you clothes faster than you can say S.P.E.W." The memories S.P.E.W. brings up—namely, of Rose Weasley going through a phase of trying to strong-arm everyone into wearing her self-righteous badges on their robes, and of Dom going through a phase in which she spelled the badges to actually spew at people (bloody brilliant)—was almost enough to get me out of my funk or whatever.

Almost.

One of my favorite things about Dom is that she's not Piama and she's not Eliza, and therefore being in a bad mood (in Dom's mind) is just the natural order of things and doesn't need explanation or warrant any real concern. Dom didn't have a 'shrink act' and she didn't level big, earnest puppy-eyes at you that basically scream 'I know how you feel'.

It was nice, sitting there with Dom in the silence. Companionable, and as always, charged with an undercurrent of anger. Sometimes it felt like we both were bursting with anger and, unable to level it at the true source, just leveled it at each other, where it hung, neutralized, in the air. Seeing her then, rummaging through my bags, sitting next to her evil owl called Twinkle, and so painfully beautiful that even Dom's own endless anger couldn't dull it, it hit me almost like a bludger to the head that there was no replacement for Dom Weasley anywhere, ever.

You're not worth the trouble.

I could almost imagine the conversation, if I mentioned my conversation with Kyrie. If I said things like people like you and poor little nobody, your name doesn't matter you've got passable looks nonexistent intellect nobody nobody—

Dom would probably spring up from the seat and launch into the worst verbal lashing ever bestowed upon my sister, and then Kyrie might conveniently and mysteriously disappear forever.

(or she might raise one perfect eyebrow in her terrible way that makes you feel like a bug under a shoe and say, "so you've finally figured it out? Took you long enough," and then leave forever, not even a backwards glance—)

But I am Eileen Schneider, Gryffindor, and I will not let my sister make a coward out of me.

"Say, Dom?" I winced as my voice the relative silence of the compartment.

Dom paused, momentarily abandoning her quest for food. "Yeah?"

"I—uh—" tell me I'm not replaceable, tell me my sister is wrong, tell me I'm your family like you're mine.

"What, Eeks? What is it?"

"If I asked you to kill someone for me…would you?"

There was a pause. "Why?"

"…well, nothing, really, just a question…" My eyes slid away from her to the countryside flashing by outside the window. Kyrie's words echoed in my ears like some terrible song stuck in my head. you think they'll stick around? worthless useless nothing nothing nothing

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dom carefully set her jacket aside and rise to her feet. "Who," she snarled.

"Who, what?" I asked, glancing back at her. She was standing up, almost looming, looking like a storm cloud with flashing eyes for lightning.

"Who. Eileen, tell me who."

"Never mind, Merlin, Dom."

"No, Eileen, I won't—so you tell me now, who was it," Dom snarled, stepping forward with the same grace as a cobra poising to strike.

"Dom, I said drop it! Just forget it, it was stupid."

"Who, Eileen. Someone said something to you, did something, gave you a problem, and you are going to tell me who and then I am going to make it go away."

"Do I look like I need a bloody savior? I can take care of myself, thanks."

Dom opened her mouth, still bursting with this terrifying inner-anger (like being out at sea and feeling the ripple of an earthquake miles beneath the surface), but whatever she wanted to say was lost in an Eliza-avalanche of luggage and inane chatter.

"Hullo, ladies," said Eliza brightly, depositing her fat white cat, Moonpie, on the seat. "So bloody crowded today, innit? Saw your Aunt Audrey, Dom, forgot what a piece of work that one is, blimey. Say, Eileen? What'd your favorite Slytherin want today?"

Dom's eyes flashed from me to Eliza. The very temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. "Kyrie?" she gritted out.

Eliza either didn't notice the palpable tension in the compartment, or valiantly ignored it. "Yeah—you were talking for a bit, Eileen, I kept trying to get over there but there were too many people, by the time I was there you'd both gone. Took me forever to find—"

"Eliza," said Dom, interrupting. Her glare was focused on something neither Eliza nor I could see.

Eliza's chatter came to an abrupt standstill. "Yeah?"

"I'll be back soon," continued Dom, each word carefully spoken. There was an eerie air of finality to her tone that left no room for argument.

"The hell are you going?" I snapped, because there's always a little room for argument.

Dom didn't look at me, still glaring angrily away. "To find Piama," she answered finally. And then she was gone, slamming the sliding door of the compartment behind her in true Dom Weasley fashion.

Eliza and I stared after her for a second.

"Merlin. I forget how weird she is sometimes. Look!" she exclaimed, brightening. "Somebody missed you this summer…" and then she proceeded to drop her enormously fat cat onto my lap.

"Eliza, what the—" I scowled, attempting to dislodge the cat. It gave me an annoyed look and sunk its claws into my lap painfully.

"Let's stop wasting time and just get down to the real business, yeah?" Eliza interrupted with a huge grin before brandishing a bunch of glossy magazines in my face. "Teen Witch quizzes!"

"Eliza, this isn't—" I started (I was evidently going to need a forklift to ditch the cat, what the hell), but Eliza was plopping down next to me and shoving a magazine in my face.

"So, Eileen, as my dear friend, if I were a coffee, would you describe me as a) a flirty frappuchino, b) a cutie-pie capucchino, or c) a laid-back latte?"

"That doesn't even—that doesn't even make sense, Eliza—"

"You're absolutely right! B, definitely, cutie-pie cappuchino." Eliza's chatter, once you have mastered the art of tuning it out, is actually relaxing enough to put a person to sleep.

My friends, terrible people that they were, barely woke me up in time to get dressed in my robes. Dom had returned in renewed spirits to commandeer a horseless carriage with Piama in tow, complete with a few complaints about the amount of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes merchandise she'd confiscated already.

The feast itself went as the feast always goes—Piama went to sit at the end of the table so as to "provide a guiding hand and comforting presence" to the firsties, with Kieran Finnigan-called-Finny (boy prefect) trailing after her. The Hat did his spiel about the glory of the Houses and whatnot, Potter and Freddy did some stupid prank that made McGonagall's eye twitch, and everything was fine until a Hufflepuff approached the table.

I didn't pay her any attention; there are some people in my House who believe in stupid things like "inter-house cooperation" or whatever, so it's not unusual to see a Ravenclaw or a Puff or—ugh—a Slytherin approach the Gryffindor table in search of a friend.

They do not, however, approach me.

A Puff—maybe in our year, their faces sort of blend, it's hard to tell—hovered awkwardly behind Eliza, wringing her hands. Eliza either didn't notice her or was doing a bang-up job of pretending she didn't. Dom just flat-out ignored her.

The Puff seemed to be veering closer to a nervous breakdown with every passing second, dancing from foot to foot, but she didn't leave. I leveled a glare at her.

(the poor thing looked like she about pissed herself.)

"Um," said the Puff. "Uh, hi, uh—" This went on for a good five minutes before Dom acknowledged her presence and decided it annoyed her.

"Are you lost?" demanded Dom, looking up from her barely-touched roast beef. Her fingers curled tightly around her fork.

"Um, well, I—uh, you see—" stammered the Puff. Her eyes darted to me. She was in our year, blonde and a little on the pudgy side.

Dom arched her eyebrows. "Well?"

"Uh, Professor F-flitwick t-told me to t-tell you—" said the Puff, unable to keep eye contact with me for more than a second. "That the uh, the Frog Choir—" My glare faltered at the reminder (you're not worth the trouble). My eyes dropped to my plate. "—meets on Tuesdays. Before dinner."

I stared hard enough at my plate that I might have performed legilimency on it, but no one said anything until Dom broke the silence. "How many first years d'you reckon Piama's harassed so far?" Dom asked, turning her body to face me. It was as if the Puff had ceased to exist.

My smile might have been a bit too eager as I immediately jumped onto the new topic. "She needs six to beat last year's record," I said, tossing back my hair and grinning. Feeling confident, I swiped a forkful of her untouched mashed potatoes. Dom's eyes narrowed dangerously at me, only to slide over to the Puff, who was still awkwardly lingering.

"You're still here," accused Dom. Her voice was like ice. The Puff actually whimpered and darted away. Dom's face twisted the minute the Puff was gone. "That Puffer was bang outta line," she snarled, anger sliding onto her face.

Eliza jerked up from her rice pudding. "Dom, calm down," she whispered warningly. Her eyes darted towards where Piama was sitting at the far end of the table and far out of helping range. "She was just doing was Flitwick told her to do."

"Who the hell does she think she is, coming and insulting us—"

Eliza threw up her hands. "She didn't insult us at all!"

"She ruined our feast with her—unpleasantness!" Dom snarled, slamming her hands on the table and surging to her feet. "That's an insult," she said, leveling a finger at Eliza. "And I will not stand for it!" She climbed elegantly over the bench and stormed off, shaking her long, shimmery hair behind her. Eliza and I watched her go in confused silence, and because Dom is Dominique Weasley, almost every eye in the place followed her until she disappeared from sight.

Apparently Piama was included in that group, because she swooped over from the far end of the table with a pinched look on her face. "What in Merlin's name is going on?" she demanded, crossing her arms and glaring between Eliza and I.

"She's just…" Eliza shook her head, letting out a resigned sigh. She made a sweeping hand gesture as if that encompassed the moment.

"Some Puffer came up to us," I said, ignoring Piama's Nose Twitch of Disapproval at the use of the word 'puffer'. "Pissed her off. Nothing crazy."

Piama raised an eyebrow skeptically. She glanced back over at Eliza. What followed was an intense round of facial expressions that I didn't really bother to translate, but ended with Piama rolling her eyes and sitting down in Dom's vacated seat with a long sigh.

"You lot are work sometimes," she said, scrubbing her hand over her face.

"You love us," I pointed out. (not worth the trouble).

"Merlin help me," Piama closed her eyes, sounding pained. "But I do. Like I don't have enough on my plate already—if I want to make Head Girl next year, I—"

"Who the hell else would they give it to?" I interrupted.

"—have to make sure I'm a better candidate than Sanderson—" Piama's chief in-year rival, the Ravenclaw Prefect. "—and I have Potter and that little shit Weasley to keep in line, not to mention you with your trigger-happy wand hand and Dom being—ugh, Dom—and Eliza living up in the clouds and my idiot brother wandering around like an idiot and Rose Weasley sticking her extra-long nose where it doesn't belong…"

"Deep breaths, Piama, jeez."

Piama shot me a Look. "Eileen," she took a deep breath, and I braced myself for a lecture. "Promise me something."

Growing up with a Slytherin for a twin has taught me to never promise anything if you don't know what you're promising. "What?" I asked cautiously.

"Promise me you'll wait at least a week before causing a—I don't know, a fight or something."

"I don't get in fights—"

"Oh, please. Look, I just don't have the time right now to clean up that kind of a mess for you—so just, do me a favor and avoid…certain people," Piama waved her hand and gave me a stern look. "I've got to get back there before Weasley gives them all contraband," and she waltzed away.

I glared after her. "What the bloody hell does that mean?"

"I think she's talking about Fred. I mean, generally speaking, he is the Weasley that causes the most trouble, but it's not his fault. He feels like he has to—"

"What? Eliza, what the bloody hell are you talking about? Who gives a shit about Freddy?" Eliza gave me an annoyed look and said, in one put-upon breath: "I think she wants you to avoid your usual stressors. Slytherins, of course, but I think we can put your sister at the top of the list. So that's Kyrie, and then of course Amarinda Nott—"

I sneered. Amarinda Nott is my sister's godawful daughter-of-Death-Eaters friend.

"—and their entire Quidditch team—Pasquale, Kaligaris, Malfoy, Little Potter…and then the Ravenclaws, too, you always did hate Olivia Davies—you heard she made captain this year, right?"

Eliza's words didn't register with me for a moment. "WHAT?"

"Yeah—look, she's wearing the badge and everything," said Eliza, pointing to the Ravenclaw table. Eliza was right—there sat Olivia Davies, in all her blonde glory, with a sapphire-and-bronze C pinned to her robes. To her left sat her pretty dark-skinned friend, Zoe Sanderson, who happened to be Piama's chief rival for Head Girl next year.

"What the hell is the world coming to," I seethed as the golden plates shifted to dessert. The only answer was Eliza devouring a treacle tart.

It wasn't until I was walking up the marble staircase with Eliza after the feast that I was approached by a vastly different Puffer.

My sister, Sunny.

You might think that the name is a nickname—that my sister had such a sunny disposition that we had to give her a cutesie nickname to match, but that would be a big, resounding no. Because my younger sister's birth name is actually, honest-to-Merlin Sunshine Schneider, and secondly, because I'm inclined to believe that my sister Sunny lacks any sort of disposition at all.

You couldn't tell that we're sisters, Sunny and I. Sunny's the odd one out, truly, being small and dark-haired with an inclination to act like some nervous woodland creature.

Sunny got my attention by getting Eliza's attention—possibly because Sunny's vocal chords are under-developed and aren't equipped to achieve volumes above a certain level and therefore inhibit shouting.

She couldn't look me in the eye as she stood in front of me. The top of her head reached maybe my chin. "Eileen…"

"Sunny, spit it out."

"Have you seen Kyrie? She wasn't—she borrowed my—my good quill—"

"Do I look like I care?" Eliza kicked my shin and shot me a warning look. I rolled my eyes, but added, "No. I haven't."

"Oh," said Sunny, deflating. Never had anyone been named so incompetently before. "She wasn't at the feast, and I—I really don't want to ask N-Nott."

A vision of Amarinda Nott's head posed on the body of a spider while Sunny struggled, helplessly caught in a web, flashed through my mind. "Look, Sun, use this," I said, pulling a slightly-rumpled old quill from the pocket of my robes (a long-forgotten lend from Dom), and extended it to Sunny. "Leave the Slytherins to me, yeah?"

Sunny took the quill with a shaky smile. "Alright," she agreed. "You think she's okay, though? Kyrie, I mean. She—I haven't seen—where do you reckon she is?"

"Who cares, really?" I said, shrugging. Sunny frowned, giving Eliza an awkward wave and retreating back downstairs.

"C'mon, Liza," I said, patting her shoulder as I continued up the stairs.

Eliza shook her head like she was clearing it of water before hurrying to follow. She had an uncertain look on her face.

"What?" I asked.

Eliza shook her head again. "Nothing," she answered. "Your family's just so weird."

The thing about school is that I'm fucking awful at it, apparently, unless it's Divination. Which was immediately apparent as first-cousin-once-removed-in-law-and-I-probably-shouldn't-call-him-my-uncle Neville passed out our timetables during breakfast.

My one O had landed me in NEWT Divination, because beggars can't be choosers when it comes to abysmal OWL scores.

A favor pulled in from a source I don't like to contemplate got me NEWT Charms, on the condition that I join the frog choir.

NEWT Defense, because I definitely earned that E (Professor Corner has made it perfectly clear that he's an asshole and I have no potential in anything whatsoever, so I sure-as-fucking-hell exceeded expectations).

NEWT Herbology. Ah, there's that nepotism I was looking for, Uncle Neville.

"Eileen, how many classes did you drop?!" Piama almost shrieked, snatching away my time table.

"Astronomy, History of Magic, Transfiguration, and Potions," I mumbled. Piama looked like she was about to burst.

"No, Eileen, absolutely not! You can't do anything with just Divination and Charms!"

"She's in Defense, Piama," Dom pointed out absently. She had her wand out and was casually levitating a bowl of cornflakes up and down.

"And Herbology," I added.

Piama looked almost faint. "How are you still enrolled at this school?" Her eyes narrowed, and she stood up. "Wait here, I'm fixing this," she said, storming out of the Great Hall and taking my time-table with her.

"Oh-ho!" said Dom with a gleeful glint in her eye. "Looks like the prefect's going to be late for the first day of lessons, tut tut."

"Our first period is Defense, Dom," said Eliza, "And Piama'd've to blow up the school to get in trouble with Professor Corner."

"Too bloody true," Dom muttered bitterly, upending the cornflakes onto some fourth year's head with a particularly vicious flick of her wand.

"Jules used to reckon that Corner fancied their aunt, what's-her-face, the twin?" said Eliza.

"Padma," I finished.

"That's the one."

"Whatever," muttered Dom, jumping to her feet. "I'm done, let's go."

"I'm not finished!" I said, waving a forkful of egg at her.

"Yeah, me neither," mumbled Eliza with her mouth full of apple danish.

"I'm bored," Dom snarled, looking cagey.

"Yeah, sorry, Princess, just because you're a freak about breakfast—" I lectured, with my fork as emphasis, but pausing mid-sentence when Dom froze, eyes narrowed and fixed behind me. "Dom?"

"Hello, ladies," said an irritatingly familiar voice just as Eliza squeaked and Dom sat back down with a defeated huff. I whirled around, and there stood James Potter, captain's badge gleaming on his chest. "Morning, Schneider," he said casually, and I swear I have never wanted to stab anyone in the eye with a fork so badly in my entire life.

"There are a lot of Schneiders," I snarled with as much venom as could be mustered in the morning. Which is to say, a lot. "You might want to be a bit specific."

"Oh, cheeky, Schneider!" said Potter with a laugh that probably bamboozled the snooty higher-ups into thinking that they'd established camaraderie with him but was so obviously forced it almost made my skin crawl.

"You can shove your fake little grin up your arse, Potter," I said viciously. Being in Potter's presence, with his manufactured smile and purposeful rumpledness—it's just a freaking crime, so early. "I'm eating breakfast and I'd rather like to not vomit it all up."

Potter's grin went brittle. "Look, Schneider," he said with a bit more effort into his easy tone. "While I'm not making any guarantees, I still want to check time-tables so I can figure out tryout schedules."

"Why would I want your nasty little hands—"

"Here, James, take mine," said Eliza, waving her schedule so enthusiastically she knocked over two bowls of cornflakes. Dom brushed them off her omelette with a scowl, but otherwise said nothing.

James?! I mouthed with a scowl at her as he perused her schedule. Eliza just shrugged helplessly.

"Thanks, Wood," said Potter once he'd looked it over. "You think Wednesday and Sunday will work for you?"

"You'll have to actually off Davies if you want the pitch on Sunday," I pointed out. God, he's such an idiot.

"Thanks, Schneider, you know I really love your input," Potter said blandly, but with an almost unintelligible hint of inflection on the word love. You know I really love your input. Almost unintelligible, but an inflection, nonetheless, meaning that James Potter was a sarcastic little shit and Eliza absolutely had no business giving me see? I told you he wasn't so bad! looks. "But right now I'd really love to see your time-table."

"Well, I'm sure you'd love to, but sometimes you don't get what you want, Potter, so get used to disappointment."

Potter's eyes briefly closed in a way that seemed to say if you're on my team, I suppose I'll have to be.

I felt my ears go scarlet in outrage. The nerve—

"Piama took off with it, James," Dom interjected with an annoyed look. "Go bugger off and bother Roxy or something."

Potter's easy grin fell back into place like shutters closing over windows. "Yeah, alright, just come find me once she's back. I want to get the pitch schedule sorted out as soon as possible."

He stood up and walked away, and if I'd had my wand out I doubt I could have resisted the urge to trip him.

"That fucker killed my appetite," I snarled, flinging my fork down onto my plate with more force than strictly necessary and launching to my feet. Dom nodded sharply, already set to go. Eliza cast a baleful glance at her half-eaten danish before jumping to follow us.

Defense Against the Dark Arts was taught by Professor Corner on the third floor, and against all reason, Piama had actually beaten us there, emerging from Corner's office just as we were about to take our seats.

"The hell—?" Dom asked as Piama slid into a seat next to Eliza.

"I talked with Professor Slughorn," said Piama, ignoring Dom. "He'll let you on, I just have to join the Slug Club."

My stomach dropped through the floor. "What?" I hissed, ignoring Dom's chortles of laughter.

"Don't thank me yet, you're coming too. I won't suffer through that alone."

"Piama, I don't need you to—what the hell—who do you think you are, you don't get to—" I could feel my face heat with both anger and shame.

"Oh, why don't you shove your stupid pride up your arse, Eileen," snapped Piama. Dom's laughter abruptly caught off as she appeared to choke on her own tongue. "I'm also getting Professor Corner to talk to Clearwater for you. He reckons she'll let you take Transfig if you get a tutor, which I could do."

"Maybe he does fancy your aunt!" remarked Eliza in awe just as Professor Corner emerged from his office and called the classroom into order.

"Welcome to NEWT Defense Against the Dark Arts," he began. "Where you will be learning how to protect yourself from the more gruesome aspects of magic you might face, and the consequences should you fail."

"Look, Miss Schneider," said Corner. "You're a very talented witch. Your potential is remarkable—lack of ability is far from the problem here."

"What does that mean, exactly?"

"It's more of a—lack of finesse, so to speak. Raw magic will only get you so far, however much of it you have. It can't really be useful without direction, focus."

"Professor, I really have no idea what you're talking about."

"To put it simply, Miss Schneider, you performed exceedingly well with the practical component—and yet, in the written component, your performance was—to put it kindly—abysmal." I stiffened, narrowing my eyes. Abysmal? "Which points, not to a lack of intelligence or a lack of ability, but of a lack of application and of proper studying. Which is why I've decided to let you take my class—on the following condition."

"Which is?"

"I assign you a partner—a student who is exceptional with the theory of magic, but lacks ability in the practical application of that theory."

"What's the point of having a tutor if they're rubbish as well?" I said, grinding my teeth.

"Not a tutor," corrected Corner like he couldn't wait to get me out of his office. "A partner. I'm hoping you'll learn from each other."

In all honesty, this sounded like an okay deal. I actually don't mind defense, especially when we get to blow stuff up or jinx people, so I was willing to compromise on my anti-tutoring principles on this one occasion.

"Fine," I grumbled. Tutors stung my pride like hell, but it couldn't be that bad.

Piama, apparently, had decided that break was for students whose "entire academic futures aren't at stake" simply because of "pure laziness and ineptitude", and dragged me down to the dungeons as soon as the bell rang.

Slughorn was for the most part unchanged since I'd seen him last June, still as wide as he was tall and with a large mustache.

"Hello, Professor!" Piama said with a schmoozing smile that didn't rile me up nearly as much as James Potter's did.

"Well, if it isn't my newest Slug Club member," he boomed jovially.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite professor!" Piama chimed back.

"Oh, my dear girl, you shouldn't charm an old man so, lest he keel right over from the shock!" Slughorn caught sight of me, and I could visibly see him straining for recognition. Nevermind the old lug taught me for five years.

"If it isn't—er, Irene! Yes, how do you do, Irene?"

"Professor, you know my dear friend Eileen, don't you?" Piama asked, gracefully stepping over Slughorn's faux pas. "The one I was telling you about?"

"Oh, ah, yes, yes, of course!"

"Are you planning on attending any of the Quidditch matches this year, Professor?" Piama inquired sweetly. I felt something heavy drop into my bag as she brushed my side. Glancing down, I could make out the edge of a box of crystallized pineapple.

"I'm afraid I've been neglecting Quidditch recently, dear girl," said Slughorn. "It's been, what? A year? A long while since I've attended the glorious game, myself."

"Well, you'll have to watch for Eileen, then," Piama remarked. "She's the best beater Gryffindor's seen in ages. Since Gwenog Jones herself, I reckon." My neck began to heat.

"Really?" said Slughorn, casting me a surprised look like he'd never seen me before.

"Oh, yes," said Piama. "Alicia Wood reckons she's got a good chance of going pro."

"Really! Alicia Wood? Of—"

"Quaffle, Pitch, & Snitch? Married to Oliver Wood? Yes."

"Well! I say, this is interesting."

"Of course, that's if she doesn't decide to follow her sister's footsteps." My fist clenched tightly around the strap of my bag, but I kept my mouth shut.

"Sister…?"

"Into the Department of International Magical Cooperation. She's the one that smoothed over that old issue with the French Ministry a couple months back. The Prophet's saying she's poised to make Head of the whole department—maybe even Minister."

Slughorn was practically salivating at that sort of connection. "I don't suppose I know this sister?"

"Oh, I've no doubt you do," Piama assured him. "She's been all over the papers lately." Reason #974975 why I don't read the paper.

"Oh?"

"Jennifer Schneider."

"Jennifer Schneider? Oh, yes, of course, bright young thing—driven, so very driven. Ravenclaw, I believe, a few years back," Slughorn said fondly before returning his gaze to me. "I owe you an apology, my dear girl, I never made the connection! I'm afraid I'm getting old, these days. Why, Jennifer Schneider's little sister, of course, I see the resemblance."

"Well, Eileen should probably get going, before the class comes."

Slughorn looked bemused. "Whatever do you mean, Miss Thomas? I am absolutely certain I have your class next."

"Oh, no, you're right, Professor, Eileen's just not taking Potions this year."

"Not taking Potions this year?" Slughorn looked aghast.

"I'm afraid not, Professor," Piama said solemnly.

"It's my OWL score," I add, reluctantly playing along.

"Oh, sod that bloody test! It's just an exam, and it's as I've always said—an exam is not a measure of a student's worth, not in the slightest, and this just proves my point. Jennifer Schneider's sister, not in Potions, because of some silly old test! Well, I won't stand for it—my dear girl, you must join my class."

"Oh, I couldn't possibly," I asked. Piama gave me a discreet thumbs up in approval.

"Nonsense! Some people are just inclined to be athletes, not scholars, and a person of your talent shouldn't be punished for such a natural inclination."

"…if it isn't too much trouble…"

"Oh, no trouble, no trouble at all, my dear—" he waved away my 'protests', taking my schedule and tapping it with his wand. "There! All set. I don't suppose you have a book?"

"Oh, uh, no, professor."

"Well, just help yourself to one of the spares in the back until you can find the time to buy one yourself." It couldn't be that easy.

"Uh, thanks, Professor," I said automatically, feeling a little lost. Piama gave a subtle jerk of the head towards my bag.

"Say, Professor?"

"Yes, Eileen?"

"Do you like crystallized pineapple?" I asked, tugging the box from my bag. "My uh, sister gave me some and I'm afraid I don't have much of a—"

"You are too kind, dear Eileen, too kind!" exclaimed Slughorn, his mustache quivering with delight. "Say, I don't suppose you'd be free next Sunday? I'm throwing a little soirée—of course, Miss Thomas is invited, Miss Wood, too."

Yeah. It definitely couldn't be that easy.

"Yes, well, I'll have to—uh, talk to Potter about, uh, Quidditch—"

"James Potter, that old rascal! I taught his parents, you know, and his grandparents, and let me tell you—there's potioneer blood in those veins! The first James Potter wasn't remarkable in my classroom, of course, but he more than made up for it on all other fronts! But Lily, oh, Lily Evans was one of my greatest students! And a muggleborn, too. Not to mention Harry Potter, himself, why, such a natural! Young James is just a chip off the old block. You know, he'd be a perfect person to ask for any help you might need. Politest young man I ever saw."

I fucking hate Potions.