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"Ginny!" Margaux laughed. "You can't say that!"

"What?" the girl grinned. "I am allowed to say that I think Tom Fletcher is hot."

"No," Margaux replied, "you actually can't."

She flipped a glossy page of the muggle gossip magazine that her and Ginny were poring over. On the next section, another picture of the lead singer from McFly appeared.

"He's just a bunch of straight lines assembled into the vague shape of a face," Margaux said.

"Whatever," Ginny waved her hand. "He's better than that guy you liked a few pages ago. What was his name?"

"Justin Timberlake?" Margaux asked. "Oh no no no, do not bring him into this."

The girls continued to laugh and eat their Sunday brunch. Lenore had just finished eating with Angelina and Katie. She said goodbye and sat down swiftly at the other end of the table, next to her sister.

"Margaux, I need your revenge skills."

Margaux set her fork down and clasped her hands on the table. "Boy, do I have some good ideas. What for? Or should I say who for?"

"I-I can't tell you," Lenore said. "It doesn't involve me. It's for a roommate. She's got boy troubles. Big time boy troubles."

Margaux rubbed her hands together. "Fantastic. I love taking down the patriarchy."

"Thanks, I knew you would have some ideas for me."

"Hey," Margaux pointed, "what's wrong with your arm?"

Lenore peeked down at her right arm. Nothing. On the left arm, however, a large scratch stretched from her wrist to elbow.

"Oh, bloody hell. Okay, so last night this… event… happened to my roommate and Pansy tried to get up and go fight the boy. I had to hold her down so she wouldn't run after him. We were all screaming and in the chaos she must have cut me with her nails."

Lenore eyes shifted just to the left and she caught Neville staring at her. She quickly put her arm down and looked back at Margaux.

"Geez, is that what you do in your dorm?" Margaux mused. "Fight club?"

"No," Lenore laughed. "And even if we did, I'd be breaking the first rule by telling you about fight club."

Margaux smiled and flipped her short blonde hair. "I'll confer with Verona and get back to you. She's on an evil streak and I'd like to tap into that power."

"Thanks," Lenore said.

She got up and started walking out of the Great Hall, back to her dorm to brush her teeth. She had plans with Katie and Angelina to go down to the lake.

"Lenore!" Neville called down the hallway. "Wait!"

She halted and he caught up to her.

"S-sorry if this is nosey," he said nervously, "b-but what happened to your arm?"

"Oh, um…" she grabbed her forearm. Neville must have heard her conversation with her sister.

He seemed to back away. "You don't have to tell me," he said, "never mind."

"No!" Lenore said. "I'll tell you. But I'm warning you, it's a serious conversation and I thought we were trying to steer clear of those."

"No, tell me— if you want. I really, truly don't care if we talk serious or not."

"Okay," she wavered, "did you hear what I told Margaux?"

"Yeah," he said sheepishly, "sorry I was eavesdropping."

Lenore shook her head. "I talk too loudly. Forget what you heard me say, I didn't tell Margaux the whole truth."

He cocked his head. "No?"

"No. Come here," she pulled Neville into an empty classroom. She sat down on a desk. "This is a secret, okay?" she said.

"O-okay."

"Like, for real. You can't tell anyone." She took a breath. "Last night, Randall Quinten hit Circe."

Neville's mouth dropped open. Lenore explained the details of last night, from Circe' gruesome bruise, to holding down Pansy, to commanding Goyle to catch her at the bottom of the stairs. She told him that they calmed Pansy down and convinced her that they needed a plan, not just to beat him up.

"Wait," Neville said. "You stopped Pansy from punching him? He deserves to be hit. More than hit."

"Yes, but don't you see?" Lenore said. "If Pansy hits him, it doesn't teach him a damn thing. We have to figure out a way to punish him forever, not just for a little bit. That's why I asked Margaux for help. She loves plotting."

Neville was quiet for a moment. He almost could not believe what he was hearing. He never would have guessed he would hear a story like this today. He had never heard a story of a guy beating a girl during his time at Hogwarts. But then again, he did not exactly have his pulse on the hot gossip.

"And sometime during all that," he asked, "Pansy scratched you?"

"I guess so. I didn't notice. Not even in the shower. It doesn't hurt."

"How is Circe?"

Lenore shrugged. Her face looked worn, like she had not slept very well. "She's not at brunch, if you notice. Blair is going to bring her meals today, until we figure out how to fix her face."

Neville gapped. "Wait, so you haven't taken her to the infirmary? Or told a professor?"

"No, and Neville—" She clutched his arm. He peered down and gulped. "—you can't tell any of the adults either. Circe would absolutely kill me. Trust me, I suggested getting Snape and she flipped."

"Lenore," he argued, "you have to tell somebody."

"I'm telling you," she pleaded. "And Margaux. You have to help me."

"How can I help?"

Lenore removed her hand from his elbow. She clasped her hands in the begging position. "Just don't tell anybody about this. Please."

Neville reluctantly nodded. "A-as long as you think you can handle it."

"If our revenge plan needs more people, do you want in?" Lenore asked.

Neville hesitated. Randall Quinten was a scary bloke. But he did not want to let Lenore down. Or even Circe. She did not deserve this.

"Yes," he said. "And I'm sure Dean and Seamus would help."

"Thanks," Lenore said. "But don't tell them about this. Let Margaux."

"I won't say a word."

"Thank you," she said. "I've got to go. I'll see you at the D.A. meeting tonight."

They said goodbye and parted ways.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Lenore!" Margaux called across the Room of Requirement. The Sunday night D.A. meeting had been going smoothly until now. Lenore made her way over to Margaux. The blonde did not look happy. She was standing next to Neville and frowning.

"You didn't tell me the boy HIT Circe," she hissed.

Lenore opened her mouth and turned to Neville. "Did you tell her?"

"I-I'm sorry," he said. "I thought you told her that bit."

Lenore shook her head.

"I would have found out eventually, you twat!" Margaux sputtered. "This is going to drastically change my plans. I was going to go easy on him before I found out this info!"

"Hit him with everything you've got," Lenore said.

Margaux had finished her rant. Her mind turned to revenge. She smirked. "I talked to Ginny and she's in. She can get Fred and George to help too, if we're going to go big."

"Let's do it," Lenore said. "Neville, did you say Dean and Seamus would help?"

"You can ask them," he offered, "but I'm sure they will."

"Great," she said. "Can we all meet up after the meeting and discuss this?"

They rounded up the squad and stuck around the room a bit longer than the rest of the D.A. members. Lenore explained what happened to Circe and everyone was appalled.

"I think I have a plan," Margaux said.

Fred and George added to her ideas and the gang worked out a perfect plot to get back at Randall.

Tomorrow would be Randall's last day of complete sanity.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Randall Quinten woke up the next day with a large, red pimple on his nose. He stared at it in the mirror for quite some time and attempted to pop the blemish, but each time he touched it, the redness and size only increased.

"What is that on your face?" Draco sneered as Randall descended the stairs to the Slytherin Common Room.

"Shove off, ya prick," Randall said, tossing a nasty glare over his shoulder. He tried to mask the extremely noticeable pimple with his hand, but Draco was not fooled. He gathered his backpack on his shoulders and left for breakfast.

The walk across the castle to the Great Hall was met with many a stare from bypassers. Randall scanned the room and noticed his usual friends had already eaten and gone to class. He took a seat on the Slytherin table bench next to Mallory and Blair. Blair was clinging to Mallory's arm as he ate. She kissed his unshaven face, but stopped when Randall began clanging around the metal serving dishes in an attempt to get breakfast.

"Oi," Randall greeted them. "Where are the rest of your lads?"

"Haven't a clue," Mallory said.

Blair pointed with a piece of cantaloupe on her fork. "What's wrong with your face?"

"Goddamn it," Randall sighed. "If I hear one more word about this pimple, I'm going to murder someone."

"Or maybe punch them?" Blair asked innocently, batting her long lashes.

Randall did not catch her comment. He was too busy attempting to eat the scrambled eggs on his plate. Each time he scooped the breakfast food onto his fork, it fell off with a splat back on to his dish. He scrapped at the plate a few times with no luck. "Oh for fucksake," he said, grabbing the eggs with his hands and shoving them into his mouth.

"You're going to be late for class," Blair offhandedly commented.

"Of course I'm not," Randall said. He lifted his wrist and showed her his watch. "It's only eight-thirty."

Blair held Mallory's arm out to showcase his watch. "It's eight-fifty-five."

Randall swore and stood up quickly. He climbed up the ladder to the Divination classroom fifteen minutes late, exhausted and breathless.

"Ah," Professor Trelawney said, holding her hand to her temple, "just as I projected. Mr. Quinten would be joining us at a later time."

Randall cursed under his breath and took a seat on a plush bean bag near the front of the classroom. He looked to his left and saw he was partnered with Neville Longbottom. "If this half-baked tosser tries to speak to me…"

Randall could not even finish his insult, when Professor Trelawney said "Everybody partner up!"

He bit his tongue and glared at Neville. "What are we supposed to be doing?"

Neville held out a pack of tarot cards. "Interpreting each other's future."

Randall rolled his eyes. "What a bunch of nonsense. Hand me the cards."

"You pick first," Neville said.

Randall violently selected three cards from the stack in Neville's hand and threw them back at the boy. Neville turned the first card over.

"Suit of swords."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"I don't know. Let's get the rest down."

Neville flipped another card over. "The raven."

"Hurry up with it," Randall said. "I knew you were slow, Longbottom, but even I thought you could read pictures."

Neville bit his lip. The last card was flipped. "Death."

Randall looked over the cards. One illustrated a man stabbed with probably twenty swords, another depicted a red-eyed raven scowling from a tree branch, and finally, a black cloaked figured with the words "DEATH" loomed in front of him.

"What is this all supposed to mean, then?" he rolled his eyes.

"Well…" Neville searched through his textbook. "The Suit of Swords means-"

"DID SOMEBODY SAY SUIT OF SWORDS?" Professor Trelawney screeched.

Neville raised his hand. "I-I did."

Trelawney dramatically weaved her way through the tables and held her arms above her head. "Which one of you got this card?"

Neville gestured towards Randall, who glared at Neville like a speck of dirt beneath his fingernail.

"The suit of swords is an omen worse than death," Trelawney started.

"He got Death, too," Neville offered.

Trelawney gasped. The beaded shawl she wore smacked Randall in the face as she examined his cards. Her eyes caught sight of the Raven and she gasped again.

"Bad things are coming your way, Mr. Quinten!"

"Is that right?" he mused with disdain.

"The combination of these three cards always spells trouble. The swords show your vulnerability. The Raven means someone is going to take advantage that when you are most susceptible. And Death… they will be successful."

"Uh huh," Randall said. "I'll be sure to keep my eyes out for a pigeon that's angry with me."

The rest of the class went by with Randall ridiculing Neville and making rude comments about the validity of Trelawney's predictions.

Despite Trelawney's ominous prediction of his doom, his next period, Charms, went on as usual. No weird incidents. Except, Randall's pimple burst at one point and he was forced to hold a tissue to his nose for more than ten minutes while it stopped oozing. Next up, Transfiguration. Randall sat down next to Pansy Parkinson, who was strangely silent today. She must be in one of her moods, Randall thought. He unpacked his textbook and notepad.

"Students," McGonagall said, "today you are going to transfigure an object with metal properties into an animated object. For example…"

With the flick of her wand, the coin on her desk became a large black bird. Randall stared a minute. The bird looked remarkably like the one on the tarot card earlier this morning. He shook the thought from his mind and promised himself that he would not recall such nonsense again.

"Does everybody have a metal object that I asked you to bring last Friday?" McGonagall asked.

Randall searched through his bag. Nothing. He could have sworn he put a pewter goblet in his backpack last week.

McGonagall walked down the rows examining everybody's objects. "And where is your metal object, Mr. Quinten?"

Randall panicked and pulled the ring his grandfather left him off his finger. He set it on the table and said "Right here."

"Good," said the gray haired professor.

"Now class," said McGonagall, "I am assuming that you all took heed my instructions to read over the unit on avian transfigurations. Can anyone tell me why it is so important to pronounce the spell exactly right? Yes, Ms. Henry?"

Lenore cleared her throat. "Because the spell 'mentis avis' is quite similar to the incantation 'perdam avis', which would cause the metal object to turn into a bird, but promptly explode, forever destroying the metal object."

"Well done, Ms. Henry, five points to Slytherin. Remember, this incantation is a wordless spell, so I want to hear no noises."

Randall stared down at his grandfather's ring and began to sweat. He dreaded on the prospect of losing his precious heirloom, but he could not recall which spell would turn the ring into a regular bird… or an exploding bird. The teen leaned over to his seat partner.

"Pansy? Which spell is this right one?"

"Quiet Mr. Quinten!" McGonagall warned.

He waited until the professor turned her back and hissed again at Pansy. The girl shot him an angry look and shrugged. She went about her class work, flawlessly transfiguring her sickle into an obsidian raven. The coin-turned-raven sat perched upon Pansy and Randall's shared desk, glaring at the young boy as began to grow weary under its judgemental gaze.

"Professor," Randall nervously called.

McGonagall's eyes snapped over to him and she held her finger to her lips.

"Fuck it, then," Randall thought. "It was the perdam avis spell, I'm certain. I'm never wrong."

He raised his wand, the spell shot out and hit the precious antique of Slytherin nobility.

With a rasping caw, a black raven sprung from the ring. Randall's proud face was plastered with a smirk. He glanced around the room feeling quite triumphant. As the bird walked around his desk, it cocked its head and looked Randall deep in the eyes and exploded with a thunderous boom. Feathers shot across the room and people ducked under their tables. Randall got a face full of black feathers.

"One week's detention, Mr. Quinten!" McGonagall shouted as she picked slimey feathers off her robes.

As McGonagall dismissed the class, Randall stood still in shock, utterly disgusted with himself for losing his grandfather's last gift to him. Eventually, he regained his senses and stalked out of the classroom, the distant sounds of cawing ravens drifting into his ear.

"You have something dripping down your face," Pansy called after him.

Randall wiped his nose and sure enough that nasty pimple had burst again. He wiped it with his sleeve and made his way to the Herbology greenhouse. The baby mandrakes had been brought out again and they rested on the table in front of the class.

"What is this, second-year?" Randall mocked.

Professor Sprout heard his comment and said "If I recall correctly, Mr. Quinten, you failed this lesson as a second year, so it would do you good to have a review before your O.W.L.s."

The class snickered at him. Randall crossed his arms and glared at the professor.

"Everyone put your earmuffs on," Sprout said as she strapped on her own hairy earmuffs. "Mr. Quinten, stop being such a baby and sit down already. Five points from Slytherin"

Begrudgingly, Randall took the last remaining seat next to the Gryffindor that always lit things on fire. "Is it Sean?" Randall thought. "Oh wait, I really don't give a shit."

Throughout the instruction, Randall made himself busy by formulating ways to make Sprout rue the day she had ever insulted him, instead of actually paying attention to the silent lesson. As Sprout finished her short demonstration, the stools slid back and students stood to pull their Mandrakes out of their pots. Randall stood back and let his parter, the Irish Inferno (possibly named Sean), take care of the dirty work while he continued his hollow plots for revenge.

Seamus, along with the rest of the class got ready to pull their infantile plants as Sprout counted down from three. On one, Randall's earmuffs slipped off his large ears and did several flips before they landed on the ground with a soft "ppppffffftt". Not that anyone besides Randall could hear. He let out an alarmed gasp as he heard the first cries of the baby mandrakes flood his dumbo ears. The last thing he remembered before passing out was blackness creeping around his eyes and his head receiving a hard blow before his world slipped into darkness.

After was felt like seconds, but in reality, Randall was knocked out for the rest of the class period, Randall was awoke by an icy bucket of water dumped onto him by Professor Sprout. Sure, the correct procedure would have been to take Randall to the infirmary, but Randall had always been a thorn in Sprout's garden of lovely students.

"Get up Mr. Quinten, you're fine," the plump teacher said as she placed the bucket onto her table. "That'll teach you to ignore my instructions about wearing earmuffs. If these were full grown Mandrakes, you'd be dead by now."

"And that wouldn't exactly be a tragedy," thought Professor Sprout.

Randall sat up and argued. "But Professor, I was wearing earmuffs! They just slipped off"

"Yes Mr. Quinten, I'm sure your earmuffs just decided to take a nosedive off your head."

Randall, still surrounded in a puddle of water, gave Sprout an enraged look and quickly stood up, slipped a little on all the water, and stormed out of the room.

"Also, Mr. Quinten, you might want to get your forehead checked out, you've got a nasty gash," she called after him.

Professor Sprout watched, trying to suppress her laughter as her least favorite student dashed out of her room covered in water. Randall stopped at the bathroom before heading for lunch. He stood over the sink and washed the blood from his forehead. Behind him, a toilet flushed and Dean Thomas stepped up to the sink next to him.

"Oh fuck," Randall murmured under his breath. Wiping away the blood had revealed a lightening-bolt shaped gash on his forehead.

"I didn't know Harry was starting a fashion trend," Dean commented as he lathered soap onto his hands.

"Piss off," Randall said.

"I'm just saying, if you want to look more like him, you'll also have to wipe that contemptuous look off your face."

Randall did not skip a beat. "Why don't you mind your own business, you mudblood."

It took everything Dean had not to retort or even worse, attack Quinten. He simply shook his hands dry and began combing his short black curls.

Randall swore one more time at his scar and turned to enter a bathroom stall. He sat down, did his business, but when he tried to stand up, he failed to do more than a small bounce. He tried in vain to peel his bumcheeks from the toilet seat, but he could not budge. He bounced a few more times, before shouting, "Fuck!"

He was stuck. His butt was glued directly to the porcelain seat.

"HEY!" Randall shouted. But he stopped. He had forgotten the name of the boy who was standing at the sink with him. He could tell by the vacant eyes and ignorant expression that he was a Gryffindor, but they all looked the same to him.

"GRYFFINDOR!" he cried, as he heard a door slam.

There was no answer. He was gone. Randall began calculating his escape.

"Who in the bloody hell puts glue on a toilet seat? Was this supposed to be a joke? It's not very funny. I bet it was those ruddy Gryffindor twins. Couple o' wankers. How the hell am I going to get up?"

Randall examined the situation. He turned around and noticed a couple of screws that attached the toilet seat to the bowl. Taking out his wand, he blasted the seat with a charm that unhinged the seat from the bowl. He stood up, his pants around his ankles, and a toilet seat hanging on his arse.

He flushed, because he's a Slytherin, not a heathen, and waddled out of the stall. He headed for the sink, hoping that water would dissolve the glue. As he exited the stall, the door to the loo opened and he was caught, dick out, rubbing his bum in the sink.

Just like a deer in headlights, he froze and made eye contact with a pair of horrified red-headed twins.

Fred spoke first. "Is this a kink of yours?"

"Now, Freddy," George tsk-ed, "you've got no room to judge."

"You're right, George o' boy," he said. "Now, what seems to be the problem here?"

Randall glared at them. "It seems to have escaped your notice that I currently have a toilet seat for bum cheeks."

"Oh, believe me mate, we noticed."

"You two did this," Randall said, his voice rising. "It was one of you. I can't tell you apart, but that won't stop me from jinxing the both of you."

"Now, Randall," George said, "we are hurt that you would accuse us of such a juvenile and simpleminded prank. You've seen our work. You've even been the butt (excuse the pun) of our jokes, at times. You know Fred and I have graduated to a certain… higher level of excellency by this point in our lives. However, we cannot be held responsible for the third-party use of our pranking products."

"So, it was you," Randall shouted. "Indirectly, but still you. Tell me how to fix this, you've got to have an antidote."

"Sorry, mate," George said. "No antidote."

Randall pounded his fist onto the sink, still running with water.

"However," Fred said, "there is a way to unglue yourself."

"That's what a fucking antidote means," Randall said. "Or is that word too big for you? An antidote means something that cancels out another object's affects."

Fred and George looked at each other. "I wouldn't be insulting us," George said, "considering we can help you."

"Alright, fine. Please help me," Randall begged. He made a mental note to exact revenge one of these days.

"Oh!" George said, holding his hands to his heart. "Quite the gentleman!"

"Thank you for your kindness," Fred said. "It goes a long way. Now, if you want to unstick the glue and make the toilet seat vanish into thin air, all you have to do is get one hundred people to see it."

"WHAT?" Randall shouted. "THAT'S A FUCKIN' TERRIBLE ANTIDOTE."

"On the contrary," George said. "We are in the business of pranking, not building self-esteems. It works quite well."

"There's not other cure?" Randall hesitated. "None at all?"

"None," Fred said.

"Zip," George said.

"Zilch," Fred finished.

"Fuck," Randall said.

He pulled up his pants to cover his crotch and mustered up all the courage he had in his usually cowardly Slytherin body. Fred held open the door. "Right this way, sir."

Randall exited the loo and came upon an empty hallway. Not a single soul was roaming about. "Fuck," he thought, "I'm going to have to go somewhere with more people."

"Try the Great Hall, mate," George called. "It's still early. Not many people should be there yet."

When Randall turned around, the twins were gone. He swore and waddled his way into the Great Hall. He let the world see the toilet seat glued to his backside. People pointed and giggled, unsure if this was a joke or not. All four House tables stared at him by now. He could feel the seat vanish into thin air. He was free. As he reached around to feel if it was gone, his pants slipped out of his hands and dropped to the ground. Lenore let out a gasp and covered her eyes. Margaux yelled to her mates across the table, "OH GOD". The room fell to complete silence as Randall stood naked from the waist down in front of the entire Hogwarts student body.

A thick Irish voice called out from the Gryffindor table "THAT'S A SMALL WIENER."

The room roared with laughter. Randall picked up his pants and ran towards the exit. Despite the attempt for a quick getaway, he tripped on his trousers and landed face first, bum out for the world to see, on the cold stone floor. The stunned boy hiked up his pants and dashed out of the Great Hall as laughter echoed through the halls. He did not stop running until he made it to his bedroom in the Slytherin dungeons.

He flopped out on his bed and began to cry. After weeping for nearly twenty minutes, his roommate Mallory entered the dorm. Randall felt a light punch on his shoulder.

"Cheer up," came the voice of his now least favorite roommate, "it isn't so bad."

Randall response was a dirty scowl. He whipped out his wand and pointed it at Mallory. "Get out of here, before I jinx your balls off."

"At least nobody saw my balls today," Mallory quipped.

Randall threw a pillow at him, socking him right in the face.

"I just came up to tell you," he said, lightly placing the pillow back on Randall's bed, "you're probably going to skip Care of Magical Creatures, but you better go to Potions. Or else Snape is going to be livid."

"I don't give a rat's ass what Snape thinks," Randall moaned. He thrust the pillow into his face, as if wishing to smother himself. "I can't go out there. Ever again."

"You can," Mallory said, "and you have to. There's a final lab grade today in Potions. And besides, you've got nothing to be ashamed of anymore— the cat is out of the bag about your small cock."

Mallory bolted out of the room as Randall shot a curse at the doorway. A small hole could be seen through the doorframe.

"Fuckin' wanker," Randall thought to himself.

He laid on his bed for a good hour, before deciding that there was some validity to Mallory's suggestion not to skip Potions. He could not afford to fail this final, or he risked having to take remedial Potions next year. Forcing himself to sit up, he gathered his school supplies and trudged down to Snape's classroom. On the way, he was met with many an astonished stare. He entered the laboratory and was greeted with a hush that permeated across the room.

"What are you lot looking at?" he sneered.

He surveyed the room and realized his mates had not saved him a seat at their usual lab table. He was forced to sit next to the same ruddy Gryffindor who sat by him in Herbology.

As he lowered himself onto the chair, Seamus took Randall's hand and whispered in his ear "Hey mate, don't worry. I know a guy who has the same problem. It's not about size, it's about abilities."

Randall shoved Seamus's hand off him so forcefully, he hit the boy in the face with his own palm. Seamus rubbed his cheek where he had inadvertently hit himself.

"Quiet down," Snape said out of habit, as he entered the already silent room. The noiseless class gave him a bit of a shock, but he remembered the events of this afternoon's lunch.

"Today, we are going to have a little—"

He accidentally made eye contact with Randall. The boy turned completely red as the entire class took note of this inadvertent slip.

"— competition," Snape continued. "The person sitting next to you is your partner."

Randall let out a groan.

"The potion recipe starts on page two-hundred-and-eighty-four. You have one hour. Begin."

"Oh, what ruddy luck!" Seamus complained. "Look at this potion, mate, toughest one this year— primo igne mortem. I've never heard of that one."

"Oh give me that book, you bloody idiot," Randall shouted as he tore the textbook from Seamus's hands. "If you'd read the bloody summary, it says: 'The primo igne mortem potion was invented during the Salem Witch trials. Witches designed the serum to ignite their accusers with fire, allowing the witches to escape. This potion has the nasty penchant of creating an agonizingly slow death, tearing the recipient apart molecule by molecule.'"

"Very good Mr. Quinten," Snape cooed. "Of course, the halfwits that I educate are generally incapable and, quite honestly, not mentally stable enough, to brew a potion of this original strength. You will be creating a much tamer version of this potion. You need only substitute the clove leaves for essence of murlap and the product will do little more than create a light tingling sensation. Be careful not to let it come in contact with hair, as it will incinerate any strand it comes in contact with."

Randall ordered Seamus to begin gathering supplies. They successfully brewed a working potion, which smelled like delicious candied apples. Randall brought a ladle full of the potion up to his nose so he could take in more of the delightful scent.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Seamus said.

"Oh piss off," Randall said. "This is the only good thing in my life right now."

As he lowered the scoop back into the cauldron, he accidentally hit the ladle on the edge of the pot and spilled the contents onto the table.

"Well, fuck," uttered Randall. He searched the room for cloths or towels to wipe up the mess. No luck. Pulling out his wand, he even tried a vanishing spell with no results.

"Just shove it off the table with your hand," suggested safety expert Seamus Finnigan.

At this point, Randall mentally gave up and swept the liquid off with his hands. He gave no thought to safety precautions and continued stirring the potion in a clockwise fashion. By this time, the temperature in the dungeon was sweltering due to all the fires lit under cauldrons. Beads of sweat began to form above Randall's brow. He wiped the sweat off, realizing all too late that his hand was still damp from the apple-scented brew. Seamus turned to him, eyes wide in fear.

"Mate! Your eyebrows!"

Randall could see the short brown hairs cascade from his forehead. He screamed. Snape sauntered over to his troubled student, taking his sweet time.

"I see you did not heed my warning, Mr. Quinten."

Randall huffed "My mistake, professor."

"Regardless of your new fashion statement," Snape said, "you have proved your potion is successful. Full marks."

As he left, Seamus turned to Randall and held his hand up for a high-five. "Full marks, mate! This is the first O I've ever made in Potions!"

Randall jilted the gesture and made his escape towards the Slytherin common room. He was so done with this day. It was the worst of his entire life. He decided to just sleep through dinner. As he climbed through the Slytherin door, he encountered Odette Trujillo exiting.

"What happened to your eyebrows?" she exclaimed.

Randall ignored her.

"If you need some eyebrow filler, I've got just the thing!"

"You seem to have no problem growing out your eyebrows," Randall insulted, "along with your mustache."

Not a single roommate inhabited the dorm. Randall flopped down on his bed and immediately fell asleep. His eyes laid in blackness for what seemed like ten minutes, but was in reality nearly eight hours. He awoke to the sound of paper fluttering. He opened his eyes and saw that he was not in his bed. He looked wildly around and finally down. Hanging from the chandelier high in the middle of the Slytherin common room was Randall Quinten.

He screamed. All around him, paper flew in a blustering tornado. It surrounded him, obscuring his vision. He tried to move, but found that only one of his arms functioned. Someone had placed him in a full body bind curse. Randall lunged for a piece of the parchment and read it to himself. It said, in large red letters,

"DON'T HIT GIRLS."

"FUCK!" Randall screamed out loud. "WHO DID THIS? IS THIS WHAT THIS IS ALL ABOUT? CIRCE! CIRCE! I TOLD YOU NOT TO FUCKING TELL! I TOLD YOU TO FIX YOUR FACE. I HATE YOU, YOU DUMB BITCH. SOMEONE HELP ME. HELP! HELP! FOR MERLIN'S SAKE, HELP!"

His sharp screams pierce the night air. Every door in the Slytherin dungeon flung open. Rampages of students flooded down the staircases, all catching a glimpse of Randall swinging high above them.

"How'd you get up all the way up there?" Gregory Goyle asked dumbly.

"I'D LIKE TO FUCKING KNOW TOO, YOU DIMWIT."

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Lenore.

"YOU!" he bellowed. His eyes panned over to all the fifth year Slytherin girls. "ALL OF YOU! YOU DID THIS!"

Circe clutched Blair arm and hid behind her friend.

"What makes you think that?" Lenore yelled up to him.

"I BLOODY WELL KNOW IT WAS YOU LOT. CIRCE SPILLED THE BEANS. I FUCKING TOLD YOU I DIDN'T MEAN TO HIT HER!"

The entire Slytherin population gasped.

"You hit Circe?" Mallory Lux exclaimed.

A second year girl picked up on of the many sheets of parchment on the ground and announced "That's what it says on this piece of paper!"

"And on his forehead," pointed Elvira Lagloria.

Everybody squinted up and read the temporary tattoo on his face. Sure enough, it also announced that he hit girl.

"You punched a girl?" shouted Theodore Knott.

"Randall, how could you?" asked Millicent Bullstrode.

"Bloody hell," Blaise breathed.

They chattered amongst themselves as Randall attempted to defend himself. "I didn't mean to! She just made me so mad and—"

"That's no excuse mate," Mallory said. "You can't hit a girl. Poor Circe is going to remember this for the rest of her life."

"She'll be fine," Randall whined. "Look, she's already doing good."

Circe stepped out from behind Blair. "Except, I'm not."

She took a deep breath. He voice grew stronger. "I should have told on you, you arsehole. I should have hit you back or gotten a teacher or even gotten angry at you. But I didn't. All I could do was cry. You hurt me, Randall. You've changed me. And I am not going to let this control me any longer."

She took out her wand and blasted him with a stinging hex. He screamed out in pain. His face swelled up to the size of a watermelon. It appeared like he had an allergic reaction.

Circe lowered her wand. "I just wanted your face to look like mine after you hit me."

The entire room burst out in a loud "OHHHHH!" People cheered and chanted as Circe returned to her place by her roommates.

"Get me down from here!" Randall called. "Someone! Get me down."

The fifth year roommates would have allowed someone to help him down, but nobody stepped forward. They smiled.

"It doesn't seem like you have many people on your side," Pansy grinned.

"SOMEBODY! HELP! I'LL GIVE YOU GALLEONS!"

Still, nobody moved.

"I'm going to bed," Draco Malfoy waved his hand. "Come on, Crabbe and Goyle."

A few other Slytherins shrugged and went back to bed as well.

"Are we in agreement to leave him here until morning?" Pansy asked.

Every person nodded.

"And we're in agreement not to tell any teacher about this?" Pansy threatened. "Or to let Randall tell a teacher?"

The students nodded even more vigorously than before.

"DON'T FUCKING LEAVE ME HERE!" Randall shouted.

"Somebody put a bloody silencing charm on him!" called a third-year girl.

Blaise hit him with the spell to make him quiet. The common room emptied, as each Slytherin returned to bed.