Chapter Seven-

"So I couldn't even use your fire?"

"They are monitoring all the fires," confirmed Minnie, "Hogwarts as a whole is seen as aligned with Albus, and any hint of suspicious behavior would be heavily investigated."

"Damnit," scowled Tempest. "They can't do this! Fudge might have given her High Inquisitorial status or whatever, but snatching birds out of the sky to read mail, and specifically targeting us can't be allowed! She's in government!"

Minnie sighed.

They were sitting in Minnie's staff quarters, lunch laid out between them on a little table, the sandwiches and biscuits untouched. Minnie's cup of tea sat before her, while Tempest was holding her empty cup tightly in hand, brandishing it occasionally. Outside it had been a miserable day, with Tempest waking to a miserable drizzle that dripped down the windows of the girl's dorm in a truly despondent manner, and even now Tempest could hear the rain outside in a determined hail.

"That is precisely the point," said Minnie. "At the moment, she has the absolute discretion to interfere at Hogwarts, with the full support of the Minister. Your conversation with Sirius was ill advised-"

"I know, I know," sighed Tempest, setting her cap down with a clatter, "Merlin, I know. All of it was entirely my fault, I shouldn't have written him in the first place, none of the letters… I thought we were being so clever though."

Minnie said nothing for a while, then; "take a sandwich Tempest."

Tempest took a cucumber sandwich and took a reluctant bite. Minnie stared off into space while Tempest chewed in silence.

"I've seen how…. how close you two have become," said Minnie eventually, "and that it must be difficult that you can't communicate as freely as anyone else might with someone they miss-"

Tempest sighed again.

"-but these are risks that could spell disaster," Minnie pressed on, "I am happy to carry messages between you when I can, but beyond that-"

"It's funny actually," said Tempest suddenly, "the reason he sent that letter for the firecall was because I thought I was being careful. He wanted to come to Hogsmeade when we had that weekend, and I said no. We had a disagreement… and he wanted to check in, to talk anyway, and I was so glad…"

"Sirius Black is an adult," said Minnie. "It is about time he gained some sense of responsibility- no Tempest-" she said as Tempest opened her mouth to protest, "planning jaunts to Hogsmeade, using an unsecured floo channel, and risking both of your freedoms by openly writing to you… I wonder if it has occurred to the man that should it be proven that you are in contact with him, you would be sentenced for hiding a wanted criminal- these are not the acts of a responsible person."

Images of sunny days lounging in the parks flashed across Tempest's mind. The treks down the road to the phone booth. The day they had spent wandering around the city. They had been so blatant. And Tempest, more often than not, had been the one to suggest the outings. "It's my fault just as much as his for any of this."

Minnie ran a tired hand across her face and nudged at her plate absentmindedly. "And as much as you may protest the point, you are a child."

Tempest scowled. "It's hardly an excuse."

"It's a fact," said Minnie with a sort of finality. "You remain at Hogwarts, Tempest. Occupy yourself with something other than Sirius Black… your friends, preparing for your OWLS- any number of things. Distract yourself."

"Fine," said Tempest, casting her mind about. "How were your inspection results?"

Minnie made a disgusted sound and set down the pot of tea harder than was necessary. "My performance is adequate," she said in what might have been a mild tone, only her brogue thickened as it only did when she was particularly vexed.

"It's just the shit, isn't it?" said Tempest, to Minnie's disapproving 'Tempest.' "The whole process is a pointless humiliation. Umbridge has her fingers everywhere. Everyone's doing their damn job, but she's sticking her nose in, and the damn Ministry is going after the wrong person! Sirius spent twelve years in Azkaban, he's innocent, and now he's on house arrest and can't even stick his head in a fire to escape- it's not right."

Minnie made a noise in her throat, but chose to raise her cup to her lips instead of speaking.

Tempest stared at the plate of biscuits on the table, and finally selected a sugar dusted one. She knew that Minnie disapproved of Sirius- of the drinking, the language, the recklessness…

Minnie changed the subject.

"How are your classes going?"

Tempest shoved the entire biscuit into her mouth, and behind her crunching, she muttered, "just fine."

Though Tempest had little against the rain, it did not improve her sprits, though a sense of vicious satisfaction did come over her as she sighted Umbridge at the staff table, one of her stumpy hands bruised and bandaged.

Umbridge's toady eyes roved the hall and settled on Tempest, who ducked back over her toast quickly. Even with her head turned, she could feel the heat of Umbridge's stare fixed upon her.

The feeling of being watched had persisted throughout her classes that day. Even in Charms, surrounded by the loud cawing and croaking of the animals they were meant to silence, Tempest felt like she was sinking.

Still, the wood of the chair did not give way beneath her, and Tempest swallowed back the ill feeling in her throat. The claustrophobic feeling that the walls of the castle were closing in around her persisted, and the weather seemed to mirror her emotions.

Rain hammered against the windows of the castle, and Tempest's scar had taken to prickling in unison with particularly loud claps of thunder as the evening wore on.

When the time for Quidditch training came around, Tempest and Ron stared resignedly through the doors of the castle at the sleeting rain. Eventually, they gritted their teeth and hurried out and down to the Quidditch pitch in the downpour. The pair of them were soaked through within minutes. Tempest's boots slipped and skidded on the sodden grass, and the sky was a dark grey.

Ron cursed as he almost fell down a muddy rivulet of water, and shook out his shoes in annoyance. He wiped the water from his eyes, scowling upwards. "Imagine trying to fly in this."

Tempest grunted in reply, and they continued on to where the changing rooms spilled light into the grey world beyond, promising warmth and dryness.

They finally tripped through the door, and Tempest crossed immediately over to her locker, dripping water everywhere and scraping damp hair away from her face. Over by their own lockers, Fred and George were debating whether to use one of their Snackboxes to get out of flying.

"-but I bet she'd know what we'd done," Fred said out of the corner of his mouth. "If only I hadn't offered to sell her some Puking Pastilles yesterday-"

"We could try the Fever Fudge," George muttered, "no one's seen that yet- hey, Tempest, you want in on this?"

Tempest finished pulling her Quidditch robes over her head and exchanged her usual gloves for her flying ones. She still had the handkerchief wrapped around her hand to prevent chafing, and she eased the molded leather over the silk. Her hand was mostly healed by now, but Tempest had kept the silk because, well… it was nice.

Except recently, looking at it, Tempest could only feel guilty.

"Tempest?" prompted George.

"Sorry," said Tempest, "what?"

"We were wondering if you wanted in on getting out of practice," he said, "if you don't mind boils… unpleasant places."

Tempest stared at him for a moment longer before shaking her head and grabbing her Firebolt. Her hand flexed around the handle, and for the first time that day, she felt free of Umbridge. "I need to get my mind off some things," she said, "what's a bit of wet and suffering?"

She cracked a smile at George's "well the boils would do that," shouldered her broom, and followed Angelina out into the deepening mud and sheeting rain.

It was difficult to see; curtains of rain were sweeping the grounds, and light was fading fast. On Angelina's whistle, Tempest kicked off from the ground, spraying mud every which way, and shot upwards.

Wind howled around her, and it took every bit of strength that Tempest had to hold her broom in the same position. About her, dim figures were being battered about in the air, and Tempest flew above the pitch, face numb and broom handle slick beneath her fingertips. She had no idea what any of the others were doing, could not tell one airborne figure from another. The wind was picking up, and even at a distance, Tempest could hear the swishing, pounding sounds of the rain pummeling the surface of the lake.

Angelina kept them at it for nearly an hour before conceding defeat. She led her sodden and disgruntled team back into the changing rooms, insisting that the practice had not been a waste of time, though without any real conviction in her voice.

Tempest toweled her hair dry roughly, changing into dry clothes and stuffing her gear into her locker. She was shivering a fair amount and looked forward to a blazingly hot shower, but she was reluctant to return to the tower. Dreadful as the weather was, it had felt good to have an entire storm between her and the eyes in the castle.

"I'm not eager to head back either," said George, approaching over Tempest's shoulder and following her gaze through the dripping windowpane.

"No?"

"Well it's not been the best place to be recently, has it?" said George seriously.

Tempest looked over at him. The changes at Hogwarts had affected everyone, some more than others, and only added to the already existing mountain of troubles she had. George had always seemed above it all. Getting on with the joke shop, inventing, investing, experimenting… it was hard to find him without a smile on his face, and even now the shadow of one lingered at the corners of his mouth.

His acknowledgement came as a surprise even when it shouldn't have been, and the knowledge made her uncomfortable.

"We can't stay here all night," said Tempest. "May as well get on with it."

She shouldered her broom and waited as George went to grab his gear. Rain lashed against the window of the changing room, and Tempest gasped in pain.

It was like someone had taken a hot knife and laid it against her face. Tempest grasped frantically at her jaw, and found the skin unbroken but tender. Her scar had burnt hotter, more painfully than it had in months.

"You all right?"

George, bag and broom collected, looked at her concernedly.

"Yeah, fine," muttered Tempest, "Ready? Let's go." They made their way outside.

Even on the ground, the storm pushed against them, and Tempest pulled the hood of her cloak low over her face, hunching forwards as they made her way up the hill. As they walked, the wind turned the rain into sheets that battered against them on the hillside, and there was water soaked into her ears, muffling everything.

"So how've you been?" George called through the rain.

"You're asking now?"

"It's as good a time as any," replied George, "I hardly see you around these days."

That was hardly true- they saw each other plenty… although Tempest did acknowledge that they hadn't talked, not the way they used to, in ages.

"I've been…" awful. paranoid. frustrated. angry. in pain. tired. "fine."

"Fine?" repeated George.

"Fine." confirmed Tempest.

The week wore on, and as per Minnie's instruction, Tempest attempted to distract herself. As far as distractions went, Hermione's DADA idea wasn't a terrible one. Much as Tempest dreaded the thought of teaching, it was a far worthier cause than preparing for OWLS.

She now perched on a low table with one of Sirius's defense books open in her lap in the room of Requirement, waiting for the others to arrive. Ron and Hermione were with her, poking around the hall; Hermione was poring over the walls of bookcases that had appeared for her, while Ron was testing the bounce to the array of cushions that were laid out on the floor.

It was a decent set up, and Tempest was beginning to see strings of how she might go about starting these meetings. There was a great floor space for tossing people about, and mirrors arranged around the room for viewing ease. Near the back of the room there was a table with various dark detectors on it for what Tempest assumed might be demonstrations.

Slowly people began to arrive, trickling in through the doors in twos or threes, until eight o'clock, and all the cushions were occupied with quietly talking students looking about curiously. When everyone seemed somewhat settled, and Tempest was sure they weren't missing anyone, she slid off the table, walked to the door and locked it with a satisfying clunk.

Everyone looked at her.

"Right, hey," she said, shoving her hands deep into her pockets. Over where Hermione was, she had set her book aside as well, and all were looking at her expectantly. "So… great, you've all made it… This is the Room of Requirement, by the way… for those who aren't familiar-"

A few people murmured their appreciation, still looking around, while Fred nudged George, who nodded empathetically.

"It's bizarre- we once hid from Flinch in here, remember, George? But it was just a broom cupboard then…"

"Yeah, it's a good place to know about-," said Tempest, feeling like it was a gross understatement.

"Hey- Tempest, what's this stuff?" asked Dean from the rear of the room, motioning at the table full of dark detectors.

"Dark detectors," affirmed Tempest, "they're meant to show you when enemies are around, but don't rely on them too much, they're not exactly always accurate-"

She stared for a moment into the Foe-Glass. Wavering outlines moved too and fro within it, though none were recognizable. She turned her back on it.

"So… we're all here for a bit of DADA practice- and, er-" Tempest noticed a raised hand. "Hermione?"

Hermione put down her hand, sitting up straighter. "I think we ought to elect a leader," she said.

"Tempest's leader," said George lazily, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Yes, but I think we ought to vote on it properly," said Hermione fussily. "It makes it formal and it gives her authority. So- everyone who thinks Tempest should be our leader?"

Everybody put up their hand.

"Right," coughed Tempest, "Cheers. Well- yes, Hermione?"

"I also think we ought to have a name," she said brightly, her hand still in the air. "It would promote a feeling of team spirit and unity, don't you think?"

"Really?" asked Tempest, "I thought we were going around just calling it The Group."

"Can we be the Anti-Umbridge League?" said Angelina hopefully.

"Or the Ministry of Magic Are Morons Group?" suggested Fred, grinning at her.

"A bit long-" said Tempest as Hermione frowned.

"I was thinking," she said pointedly, "more of a name that didn't tell everyone what we were up to, so we can refer to it safely outside meetings."

"The Defense Association?" said Ginny. "DA for short, so nobody knows what we're talking about?" There was a hum of agreement from around the room, and no one raised any complaints. "Actually, let's make it stand for Dumbledore's Army," Ginny corrected herself, "that's the Ministry's worst fear, isn't it?" There was a good deal of appreciative murmuring and laughter at this.

"All in favor of the DA?" said Hermione bossily, kneeling up on her cushion to count. "That's a majority- motion passed!"

She pinned the piece of paper with all of their names on it on the wall and wrote DUMBLEDORE'S ARMY across the top in large letters.

"Great," said Tempest, when she had sat down again. "In the spirit of sticking it to Umbridge, let's get to practicing… I made a list of things we should do-" here she dug into her pockets searching, and finally withdrew a crumpled bit of parchment. She squinted at it.

At Hermione's urging, she had done some prep work for their practice today, and Tempest had tried to think back over her process when she was first practicing offensive and defensive spells. What had worked, what might be useful… and somewhere along her process, she had found herself replicating a lot of what she had spent time with Malfoy practicing before the third task.

It had been fun.

"Right," said Tempest. "I was going to start us off with shield charms, but actually in my experience, they put you on the back foot immediately, so I'm going to say we'll begin with the disarming charm- Expelliarmus- it's basic, but then we can work our way up-"

"Oh please," said Zacharias Smith, rolling his eyes and folding his arms. "I don't think Expelliarmus is exactly going to help us against You-Know-Who, do you?"

Tempest drew her wand. The next moment, she was holding two.

"So tell me," she said, shoving her own wand back into its holster, "what exactly areyou planning to do now?"

Smith opened his mouth, then closed it again.

A few people laughed, and trying to not look a prat, Tempest decided not to join in. "Seriously- what areyou going to do? Have a bit of a brawl?" Smith's face became mulish. "If you're thinking about a Death Eater, most of them are pureblood supremacists, so they wouldn't think of sinking so low. You're free after to cast any number of more- well, according to you- effective spells. Stunners and the like." Tempest flipped the wand and threw it back to Smith. "So… are we done with this?"

It seemed so.

"Then divide into pairs and practice."

It was strange to be issuing instructions, but rather gratifying to see them being followed instantly. George arched an eyebrow at Tempest and she gave a quick nod.

"Everyone have a partner? Right, on the count of three… One, two, three-"

George's spell flew towards her, and Tempest easily deflected it, the flaw in her plan becoming obvious immediately. After two more thwarted attempts, George sighed patiently, "Tempest, you know you're meantto let me hit you, right?"

Tempest hid her grimace behind a laugh. "Sorry, force of habit- go again."

It took every ounce of her self-control to remain still as George pointed his wand at her. Her mind rebelled at the notion of allowingherself to be hit by the spell- and the feeling persisted as her hand was wrenched open, and her wand sailed through the air to George.

George swore when Tempest's wand hit his hand, and he tossed it back immediately, rubbing his reddened fingers and palm. "I forgot your wand did that," he complained, "how'd you get it to be so loyal? When Fred steals my wand, it doesn't make a peep."

Tempest shrugged, hiding the fact that she felt rather releived, "dunno, it's always been like that… At any rate, that was very good-" she looked around the room to see how the others were doing, and winced. "Far above the rest- er, Merlin, this is a mess isn't it?"

Stray spells were flying about the room: Ginny was paired up with Michael Corner, and even though it was clear she was more than a match for him, he was either grossly incompetent, or unwilling to jinx her. The Creevey brothers were enthusiastic, but erratic, and the reason why most of the others had to duck at random moments, just to avoid being hit by countless flying books. Luna was patchy, occasionally sending Justin Finch-Fletchley's wand spinning out of his hand, other times merely making his hair stand on end.

"I'll go walk around, er, do some of this teachering-" said Tempest, "why don't you go assist Fred? He seems to be having a blast."

Not far away, Fred was casually jinxing Smith every time he tried to disarm his own partner. Smith was quickly losing his cool as his wand treated his hand as a disease, leaping away at every chance it got. George looked delighted to get in on the fun, and bounded over to his twin.

Tempest kept her wand out to deflect flying objects as she navigated her way around the room. Ernie Macmillan was flourishing his wand unnecessarily, giving his partner time to get in under his guard, and Tempest headed over to him. He paused, mid wave, and Tempest eyed his form critically.

"You may be a wizard, but you're not a magician, you're going to put someone's eye out- smaller motions work just as well. Apart from that, you're doing good."

She moved off.

"Corner- Ginny's not made of glass, doing your worst isn't helping anyone. Ginny, good work."

Cho seemed to be doing well against her friend- Marietta- Tempest recalled, though her friend was rather inconsistent and her spell casting lackluster. "I know we're practicing, but in real life, no one's going to hang around waiting for you to curse them- put a bit more speed into your motions."

Tempest moved off around the room again, stopping at every pair. Neville seemed to be having a bit of trouble getting even the smallest reaction from his partner's wand.

"Hey, Neville, stop-" said Tempest. "Here, adjust your grip on your wand-" she demonstrated, checking to ensure he had copied her motions. "Now go on. I know you've got potential, I've seen you cast spells before. What you need is confidence. It's not all about technique." She moved aside, nodding at Neville. "You have to believe you can do it- go on, try again."

Katie Bell's wand didn't fly out of her hand, but it did jerk forwards violently, yanking her with it.

"Well done," said Tempest, "now keep practicing."

Slowly, the general performance about the room improved, and Tempest moved on to shield charms. They didn't get too far with them- most were easily shattered with an Expelliarmus, and their reflexes left much to be desired. Even when looking directly at their opponent, able to see the motion of their wand and the spell as it shot toward them, reaction times were painfully slow. Tempest found herself itching with the need to seize everyone's wands and force proficiency into each of them.

Still, it was heartening progress, and the others seemed to have found the time worthwhile as well, as when she called the time and suggested they wrap up, there were groans of disappointment.

"Glad you liked it folks, but unless we fancy detention, we should all head off," said Tempest, above the noise. She looked to Hermione. "Er, our next meeting should be…"

"As soon as possible!" said Dean eagerly, and many people nodded in agreement.

"There's Quidditch," said Tempest before Angelina could.

"Next week at the same time should work," piped up Hermione, who was consulting a piece of parchment that likely had all their schedules on.

"Good-o." said Tempest, "Let's leave it at that, and we'll decide on additional meetings later. Now c'mon, do you really want to get caught by Filch?"

She let the room out in threes and fours with an eye on the Marauders Map, ensuring Filch and any other undesirables remained far from the routes that they took back to their dormitories.

"That was really, really good, Tempest," said Hermione, when it was just her, Tempest and Ron left.

"Yeah, it was!" said Ron enthusiastically, as they slipped out of the door and watched it melt back into stone behind them. "Did you see me disarm Hermione, Tempest?"

"Only once," said Hermione, stung. "I got you loads more than you got me-"

"I did not only get you once, I got you at least three times-"

"Well, if you're counting the one where you tripped over your own feet and knocked the wand out of my hand-"

"It counts," grinned Tempest, shrugging over at Hermione, "you were disarmed, weren't you?"

Hermione harrumphed. "You had a good time too, didn't you?"

"Ordering folks about," added Ron, nudging Tempest.

Tempest sighed. "All right, it wasn't half bad," she conceded, "I suppose we'll see how things go… there's a lot of work to be done."

There was a lot of work to be done. But the DA seemed willing to put in the effort, and Tempest wasn't hauling dead weight. Her fears of the DA merely being treated as a fancy and a place to mock her sincerity had not come true. Week after week, meeting after meeting, no matter how muddled the scheduling became, whenever she sent out notice for a meeting, all the DA came.

Each time they improved, and Tempest could see the effort they put in. It was easier to face Umbridge and restrain herself, when she knew that she and the DA were doing the very thing the Ministry most feared, under her very nose.

She thought about how Neville had successfully disarmed Hermione, how Colin Creevey, who was apt to be blown backwards by the force of his own wand, now held his ground, how Ron had gotten so good at Reductor curses, half the room had to stand back when it was his turn at the dummies.

It wasn't possible to fix a regular night of the week for DA meetings, as they had to accommodate three separate Quidditch teams' practices, which were often rearranged depending on the weather conditions, and any number of other club meetings. Tempest wasn't too fussed about it- keeping their meeting times unpredictable meant anyone suspicious wouldn't be able to find a pattern.

Hermione soon devised a clever method of communicating the time and date of the next meeting to all the members in case they needed to change it at short notice, because it would look so suspicious if people from different Houses were seen crossing the Great Hall to talk to each other too often. She gave each of the members of the DA a fake Galleon (Ron became very excited when he saw the basket at first, convinced that she was actually giving out gold).

"You see the numerals around the edge of the coins?" Hermione said, holding one up for examination at the end of their fourth meeting. The coin gleamed fat and yellow in the light from the torches. "On real Galleons that's just a serial number referring to the goblin that cast the coin. On these fake coins, though, the numbers will change to reflect the time and date of the next meeting. The coins will grow hot when the date changes, so if you're carrying them in a pocket you'll be able to feel them. We take one each, and when Tempest sets the date of the next meeting she'll change the numbers on hercoin, and because I've put a Protean Charm on them, they'll all change to mimic hers."

A blank silence greeted Hermione's words. She looked around at all the faces upturned to her, rather disconcerted.

"Well- I thought it was a good idea," she said uncertainly, "I mean, even if Umbridge asked us to turn out our pockets, there's nothing fishy about carrying a Galleon, is there? But... well, if you don't want to use them..."

"You can do a Protean Charm?" said Terry Boot.

"Yes," said Hermione.

"But that's... that's NEWT standard, that is," he said weakly.

"Oh," said Hermione, trying to look modest. "Oh... well... yes, I suppose it is..."

Tempest hid a grin by ducking her head to more closely inspect her coin.

"How come you're not in Ravenclaw?" Boot demanded, staring at Hermione with something close to wonder. "With brains like yours?"

"Well, the Sorting Hat did seriously consider putting me in Ravenclaw during my Sorting," said Hermione brightly, "but it decided on Gryffindor in the end. So does that mean we're using the Galleons?"

There was a murmur of assent and everybody moved forward to collect one from the basket.

Tempest clapped Hermione on the back. "You out do us, mate. I suppose the only danger is remembering not to spend them."

"Fat chance," said Ron, who was examining his own fake Galleon with a slightly mournful air. "I haven't got any real Galleons to confuse it with."

"Safer than us all," declared Tempest, "now come on, we should get going. It's late, and we've Quidditch practice tomorrow."

As the first Quidditch match of the season, Gryffindor versus Slytherin,drew nearer, the DA meetings were put on hold because Angelina insisted on almost daily practices.

The fact that the Quidditch Cup had not been held for so long added considerably to the interest and excitement surrounding the forthcoming game. The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were taking a lively interest in the outcome, for they, of course, would be playing both teams over the coming year; and the Heads of House of the competing teams, though they attempted to disguise it under a decent pretense of sportsmanship, were determined to see their side's victory.

Tempest, who had lived with Minnie for four years, was less surprised when she abstained from giving them homework in the week leading up to the match. There was putting on a sporting face, then there was being realistic.

"I think you've got enough to be getting on with at the moment," said Minnie loftily. She looked at Tempest grimly. "I've become accustomed to seeing the Quidditch Cup in my study, and I really don't want to have to hand it over to Professor Snape, so use the extra time to practise, won't you?"

Tempest saluted her.

Snape was no less obviously partisan: He had booked the Quidditch pitch for Slytherin practice so often that the Gryffindors had difficulty getting on it to play. He was also turning a deaf ear to the many reports of Slytherin attempts to hex Gryffindor players in the corridors. When Alicia Spinnet turned up in the hospital wing with her eyebrows growing so thick and fast that they obscured her vision and obstructed her mouth, Snape insisted that she must have attempted a Hair-Thickening Charm on herself and refused to listen to the fourteen eyewitnesses who insisted that they had seen the Slytherin Keeper, Miles Bletchley, hit her from behind with a jinx while she worked in the library.

Tempest felt optimistic about Gryffindor's chances; they had, after all, never lost to Slytherin. Though Ron was not Wood, he arrived early at practices with a steely determination. He was working extremely hard to improve, and as hard as Tempest was trying to drag him out of it, his greatest weakness was a tendency to lose confidence after he'd made a blunder; if he let in one goal he became flustered and was therefore likely to miss more.

He was also allowing the Slytherin team to get to him. After four years, Tempest was accustomed to the scare tactics and taunting that came in the hallways and during classes, so whispers of , "Hey, Potty, I heard Warrington's sworn to knock you off your broom on Saturday," far from chilling her blood, made her laugh. Loudly. "Warrington?" she chuckled, "Warrington, who's never hit anything smaller than the side of a building?" It made Ron and Hermione laugh, and wiped the smirk of Parkinson's face.

But Ron had never known constant abuse like this before. When Slytherins, some of them seventh years and considerably larger than he was, muttered as they passed in the corridors, "Got your bed booked in the hospital wing, Weasley?" he did not laugh, but turned a delicate shade of green.

October extinguished itself in a rush of howling winds and driving rain and November arrived, cold as frozen iron, with hard frosts every morning and icy drafts that bit at exposed hands and faces. The skies and the ceiling of the Great Hall turned a pale, pearly gray, the mountains around Hogwarts became snowcapped, and the temperature in the castle dropped so far that many students wore their thick protective dragon skin gloves in the corridors between lessons.

Two days before the day of the match, the second full moon of the semester rolled around. Tempest, though she had desperately wanted to speak to Sirius properly, found herself too haggard to manage anything meaningful, especially after the hours they spent rushing about the woods. As she was leaving, Sirius had laid a chilly hand atop where one of hers was numbly gripping the handle of the motorbike. He had probably said something heartening, only Tempest had been so tired she hardly heard him.

The moment haunted her in the following days. She found herself replaying their interaction over and over again, watching the movement of his mouth, recalling how the night air had turned his cheeks pale and nose pink, feeling the hum of the motorcycle through her legs, and unable to hear the words from his mouth.

She melted her stirring rod in Potions, and sat dumbly as Snape relished in the opportunity to berate her. She caused her desk to sing Italian vowels instead of reciting the English alphabet in Charms, and in Transfiguration, no matter how hard she tried, her sparrow refused to transform into a dove, and insisted upon strutting about as a pigeon. All the while, Tempest wondered what Sirius had said.

The constant late night Quidditch practices, schoolwork, worry for Ron and stress for Sirius was so consuming, that it was difficult not to think that a break from it all would be deserved.

It was why when Malfoy imitated Ron dropping the Quaffle in one of his intimidation attempts, and Ron's ears glowed red, dropping the stack of Runes books he was carrying for Hermione, Tempest couldn't think of a cutting remark to tell him shove off. When she blinked, Malfoy was already on his way, and Tempest quickly stooped to help Ron with his books.

"Don't let him get to you," said Tempest, for what seemed like the umpteenth time in the past weeks.

Ron hugged the recovered books tighter to his chest. "Mate, they already have."

He set off before her, and Tempest was left to stare after him, feeling quite deflated.

Tempest sat in bed that night, a pile of folded letters stacked neatly before her. Some were tucked into envelopes, others only bits of loose paper and parchment. Some of the letters were double sided, a reply written on the reverse of the original message. Some of the messages weren't even on paper, but in the empty spaces of a newspaper page, or in one case, the back of a takeaway menu. The one constant was the handwriting on each of them.

It was through this pile that Tempest was sifting, the elastic band around her wrist, and dating the letters in her mind as she went through. She had reached one she was having difficulty placing, when a prickle at the back of her head warned her of someone approaching. She snapped the elastic off her wrist and seized her pillow as a cover. As soon as everything was out of sight, Tempest dropped the wards surrounding her bed.

The drapes around her bed were pulled back, and Hermione's head peered through.

"Can I join you?"

Tempest tucked her feet back from the end of the bed and motioned with her hand. "Sure. Nyx isn't in tonight, so feel free."

Hermione clambered on, drawing the drapes back and sat opposite Tempest. Her hair was mussed from her pillow, but her eyes were still clear and alert.

"You alright?" asked Tempest.

"I'm fine," said Hermione. "I was worrying about you."

"What? What have I done?" said Tempest, somewhat stupidly.

Hermione frowned. "It's what you haven't done rather. We haven't had a real conversation for ages. I saw the light from your bed and I thought I'd try to have one."

"We've had conversations," protested Tempest, "We're together almost all the time. We're in mostly the same classes, and we see each other a lot out of them-"

"When was the last time we had one then? And I don't mean a joke in a corridor or talking about classwork, I mean a proper conversation."

Tempest opened her mouth to provide her evidence, sat for a while, then frowned. "So we've both been busy with school stuff-"

"You're distracted in class, I've noticed you're not eating much either."

"I'm protesting the lack of rights house elves have." Hermione gave Tempest a stern look. Tempest folded. "Alright, so I'm not as hungry as usual- look, I'm tired, that's all."

"You're tired," repeated Hermione doubtfully. "That's why you're up at-" she checked the time on Tempest's dresser quickly, and returned, "eleven forty, the night before your match? The match that everyone's so excited about?"

"I'm allowed to be contradictory."

"And I'm allowed to be worried. Tempest, I know you've got a lot on your plate, but you cantalk to me about it."

I wouldn't know what to say.

Hermione reached over toward the pillow between them, and made it lift it. Tempest made an aborted convulsive movement, and Hermione shifted the pillow away. There was a silence as she looked down at the letters, her eyes scanning through the addresses, and Tempest had to fight the childish urge to seize them all and hide them away again.

Finally, Hermione looked back up at her. "Oh Tempest."

Tempest wondered what it looked like to a normal, well-adjusted person like Hermione. Staying up late, hours of the day and night spent mooning after her godfather. Pathetic, certainly. Obsessive, without a doubt.

"He's all I've got, Hermione," said Tempest.

"You've got me."

Hermione said the words so easily, like breathing. Like she didn't know how much Tempest loved her. Like it wasn't something in which Tempest had always unerringly been let down. Because Hermione had her parents, and Ron had his parents, five brothers and a sister, and batty great aunts and grandparents, and Tempest knew, not resentfully, but resignedly, that she would always be second at best.

"And I can't tell you how much that means to me," said Tempest. "But you've got your own family. It wouldn't be possible to hold it against any of you- it's ridiculous to even think that way, but that's how it is, and I'm not stupid enough to think any different."

"I… I don't know what to say," said Hermione quietly. "I… I do, love my family, but Tempest, we're not perfect either."

"That's not what I meant-"

"No, but what I'm trying to say, is that maybe what you… think what I have, or Ron, or someone else with… with their family, isn't what you think it is. I don't always get along with my parents. They fight, they fought about my coming here, about their jobs, about finances, sometimes in the middle of the night, when they think I'm sleeping."

Tempest felt smaller suddenly. She reached over, as though to take Hermione's hand, only to have it fall between them awkwardly. "You never mentioned it before."

"I thought I hadn't much right to," confessed Hermione. "It seemed insensitive."

"It isn't," said Tempest, feeling worse, an impressive feat, as she had already been wallowing before Hermione had spoken. "It wouldn't be- your problems are just as important to you as any are to anybody else. I… I don't always do it very well at it, but it doesn't end well when you start comparing pain. I'd never want you to feel like you couldn't share."

"Thanks," said Hermione quietly. "But please don't feel sorry for me. I don't think I could bear it if you were. I'm not the point. You can't think that we love you any less- look at Ron and Percy."

Guilt hit Tempest hard and fast.

"I never wanted that to happen. I would never want that."

"I know Tempest," reassured Hermione, "the point is that it isn't healthy looking at Sirius like this, because… well, you haven't known him long, and what you're looking for might not even exist."

Tempest blinked, and then she began tidying away the letters, stacking them neatly and snapping the elastic back on. "Nothing about my life up till this point that actually made me happywas advisable," she said slowly. "None of it was initially a good idea… maybe I'm not being realistic, but Hermione… to hell with the rest of it… I'm not going to be."

Hermione looked down at the bedspread.

"Thank you, for worrying," said Tempest. "But, please don't."

"How could I not?"

"Because…" and here the feeling that had been flitting at the back of Tempest's mind ever since Hermione had looked down at Sirius's letters, something so unspeakably private, reared again, and in full force. "Because it's really none of your business, Hermione."

Hermione looked briefly hurt. "As your friend, I'm bound to worry."

"And he's my family," said Tempest with finality.

The morning of the match dawned bright and cold. Tempest woke early, but lay in bed for a few hours more. She had not slept well, but was unable to fall back into those elusive clutches. She regretted being so short with Hermione, Hermione, who had only meant well.

It wasn't a good feeling, and it only added to irritation when she entered the Great Hall to the raucous sound of other students in a high mood. As she passed the Slytherin table there was an upsurge of noise. She looked round and saw that, in addition to the usual green and silver scarves and hats, every one of them was wearing a silver badge in the shape of what seemed to be a crown.

Ron's arrival in the hall was met with great cheering and applause by the Slytherins. Ron's reaction was instantaneous: he went bone white.

"Ignore them," said Tempest, pushing him onward to the Gryffindor table. There they received a more reassuring rousing welcome, but far from raising Ron's spirits, the last of his morale seemed to seep from him, and he collapsed on to the nearest bench looking as though he were facing his last meal.

"I must've been mental to do this," he said in a croaky whisper. "Mental."

"We all are a bit," said Tempest, clapping him on the back. "Don't worry so much. You'll be fine."

"I'm rubbish," croaked Ron. "I'm lousy. I can't play to save my life. What was I thinking?"

"Nonsense," said Tempest. "You can play a jolly good game if you keep your head in it."

Ron pulled a bowl toward him and began shaking cereal into it half-heartedly.

Hermione and Ginny sat down opposite them. Hermione was wearing red and gold scarves, gloves and rosettes, and met Tempest's eyes before ducking down over her plate.

"How're you feeling?" Ginny asked Ron, who was now staring into the dregs of milk at the bottom of his empty cereal bowl as though seriously considering attempting to drown himself in them.

Ron made a noise like a dying cow.

"Well, that's a good sign, I never feel you perform as well in exams if you're not a bit nervous," said Hermione heartily, obviously trying and failing to make the best of a bad situation.

"Hello," said a vague and dreamy voice from behind them. Tempest looked up: Luna had drifted over from the Ravenclaw table. Many people were staring at her and a few were openly laughing and pointing; she had managed to procure a hat shaped like a life-size lion's head, which was perched precariously on her head.

"I'm supporting Gryffindor," said Luna, pointing unnecessarily at her hat. "Look what it does…" She reached up and tapped the hat with her wand. It opened its mouth wide and gave an extremely realistic roar that made everyone in the vicinity jump. "It's good, isn't it?" said Luna happily. "I wanted to have it chewing up a serpent to represent Slytherin, you know, but there wasn't time. Anyway… good luck, Ronald!"

She drifted away. They had not quite recovered from the shock of Luna's hat before Angelina came hurrying towards them, accompanied by Katie. "When you're ready," she said, "we're going to go straight down to the pitch, check out conditions and change."

"Yeah," said Tempest, setting her toast aside and draining the last of her tea. "Ron, you done?"

Ron nodded slowly and they rose from the table. On a whim, Tempest turned to Hermione, who had risen with them. They exchanged a long look, and Hermione spoke. "Don't let Ron see what's on those Slytherins' badges," she whispered.

Tempest nodded tightly. Ron ambled over to them, looking lost and desperate.

"Good luck, Ron," said Hermione, standing on tiptoe and kissing him on the cheek. "And you, Tempest-"

Ron seemed to come to himself slightly as they walked back across the Great Hall. He touched the spot on his face where Hermione had kissed him, looking puzzled, as though he was not quite sure what had just happened. He seemed too distracted to notice much around him, but Tempest cast a curious glance at the crown-shaped badges as they passed the Slytherin table, making out the words etched on to them:

Weasley is our King

Still confused, but now with an unpleasant feeling sitting in the pit of Tempest's stomach, she hurried Ron through the Entrance Hall, down the stone steps and out into the icy air.

The frosty grass crunched under their feet as they hurried down the sloping lawns towards the stadium. There was no wind at all and the sky was a uniform pearly white, which meant that visibility would be good without the drawback of direct sunlight in the eyes.

Angelina had changed already and was talking to the rest of the team when they entered. Tempest and Ron pulled on their robes (Ron attempted to do his up back-to-front for several minutes before Tempest went to help), then sat down to listen to the pre-match talk while the babble of voices outside grew steadily louder as the crowd came pouring out of the castle towards the pitch.

"Ok, I've only just found out the final line-up for Slytherin," said Angelina, consulting a piece of parchment. "Last year's Beaters, Derrick and Bole, have left, but it looks as though Montague's replaced them with the usual gorillas, rather than anyone who can fly particularly well. They're two blokes called Crabbe and Goyle, I don't know much about them-"

"They're idiots," filled in Tempest. Up until now, she had not known that the pair could even lift a foot off the ground, much less play a full game.

"Well that's a relief. They didn't look bright enough to tell one end of a broom from the other anyway," said Angelina, pocketing her parchment, "but then I was always surprised Derrick and Bole managed to find their way on to the pitch without signposts."

"Crabbe and Goyle are from the same mould," Tempest assured her.

She slid away from Ron and over to George when Angelina began running through the feints with the chasers. "Any ideas on what the Slytherin badges are on about?"

"Nothing to do me or Fred," said George in a low voice. "Think it's got anything to do with Ron playing?"

Tempest groaned. "Probably. He's going to lose his head."

"And there are only so many threats we can make in reverse," said George.

Tempest tightened her grip on her Firebolt and clasped George's arm in reassurance.

"It's time," said Angelina in a hushed voice, looking at her watch. "C'mon everyone... good luck."

The rest of the team shouldered their brooms and marched in single file out of the changing room and into the dazzling sunlight. A roar of sound greeted them in which Tempest could hear singing, though the cheers and whistles muffled it.

The Slytherin team was standing waiting for them. They, too, were wearing those silver crown-shaped badges. The new captain, Montague, was massively built, with immense forearm like hairy hams. Behind him lurked Crabbe and Goyle, almost as large, blinking stupidly in the sunlight, swinging their new Beaters' bats.

Malfoy was to the side, his blond head shining under the sun, handle of his broom gleaming from a fresh wax. He was looking at Ron, a smirk on his face.

"Captains, shake hands," ordered Madam Hooch, as Angelina and Montague reached each other. "Mount your brooms…"

Madam Hooch placed her whistle in her mouth and blew.

The balls were released and the fourteen players shot upwards. Tempest saw Ron shoot off towards the goal hoops, while Tempest streaked upwards, dodging a Bludger and setting off on a wide lap of the pitch, eyes scanning for a glint of gold. Her path unintentionally mirrored that of Malfoy's on the other side of the pitch.

"And it's Johnson, Johnson with the Quaffle, what a player that girl is, I've been saying it for years but she still won't go out with me-"

"JORDAN!" yelled Minnie.

"Just a fun fact, Professor, adds a bit of interest- and she's ducked Warrington, she's passed Montague, she's- ouch- been hit from behind by a Bludger from Crabbe... Montague catches the Quaffle, Montague heading back up the pitch and- nice Bludger there from George Weasley, that's a Bludger to the head for Montague, he drops the Quaffle, caught by Katie Bell, Katie Bell of Gryffindor reverse passes to Alicia Spinnet and Spinnet's away-"

Lee Jordan's commentary rang through the stadium and Tempest listened as much as she could through the wind whistling in her ears and the din of the crowd, all yelling and booing and singing- She wheeled around in the air and came to a stop as the first of the words rose up to her.

"Weasley cannot save a thing,

He cannot block a single ring,

That's why Slytherins all sing:

Weasley is our King.

Weasley was born in a bin

He always lets the Quaffle in

Weasley will make sure we win

Weasley is our King."

"-and Alicia passes back to Angelina!" Lee shouted, trying to drown out the sound of the singing. Tempest continued her search for the Snitch, though her blood was boiling. "Come on now, Angelina- looks like she's got just the Keeper to beat! -SHE SHOOTS- SHE- aaaah..."

Bletchley, the Slytherin Keeper, had saved the goal; he threw the Quaffle to Warrington who sped off with it, zigzagging in between Alicia and Katie; the singing from below grew louder and louder as he drew nearer and nearer Ron-

Weasley is our King,

Weasley is our King,

He always lets the Quaffle in,

Weasley is our King.

Tempest abandoned the search for the Snitch and turned in the air to face Ron, a lone figure at the far end of the pitch, hovering before the three goal hoops while the massive Warrington pelted towards him. Tempest cut out Jordan's commentary as the Slytherins' song filled her ears.

"Weasley cannot save a thing,

He cannot block a single ring…"

She swore violently. Ron had dived wildly, his arms wide, and the Quaffle had soared between them straight through Ron's central hoop.

The Slytherins sang even louder:

"WEASLEY WAS BORN IN A BIN

HE ALWAYS LETS THE QUAFFLE IN…"

Tempest accelerated again in Ron's direction, looping the goal hoops and as soon as she was within earshot, she yelled: "Shake it off Ron! There's the whole rest of the game!" She saw Ron's knuckle-white grip on the handle of his broom and the nervous bob of his adam's apple as he swallowed hard.

"WEASLEY WILL MAKE SURE WE WIN

WEASLEY IS OUR KING,

WEASLEY IS OUR KING,

WEASLEY IS OUR KING…"

Tempest had no more time to dwell, the game wasn't stopping, and she hadn't the faintest idea where the Snitch was. She circled the stadium, and passed Malfoy, singing loudly,

"WEASLEY WAS BORN IN A BIN…"

"Shut your fucking mouth, Malfoy!" roared Tempest as they passed. Over on the other end of the pitch, the Slytherin Keeper, Bletchley was singing along with the crowd below, and Tempest wished for a moment she had been a beater.

"WEASLEY CANNOT SAVE A THING…"

"-and it's Warrington again," bellowed Jordan, "who passes to Pucey, Pucey's off past Spinnet, come on now, Angelina, you can take him- turns out you can't- but nice Bludger from Fred Weasley I mean, George Weasley, oh, who cares, one of them, anyway, and Warrington drops the Quaffle and Katie Bell- er- drops it, too- so that's Montague with the Quaffle, Slytherin Captain Montague takes the Quaffle and he's off up the pitch, come on now, Gryffindor, block him! Pucey's dodged Alicia again and he's heading straight for goal, stop it, Ron!"

Tempest yanked her broom around so hard, her brain felt like it had temporarily dislodged itself, but it was worth it as she managed to see Ron shoot forwards, and the Quaffle was sent spinning away from the hoops, to the loud cheers of the Gryffindor stands. It was by no means a spectacular save, nor one that would ever come close to winning any awards for style or grace, but he had saved the goal.

"Bloody brilliant, Ron!" shouted George as he flew by the Gryffindor goal hoops.

"Yes!" yelled Tempest as a close second. Flying by Ron, they managed to execute a shoddy fistbump, and then she was off again, listening to Lee Jordan's commentary, boldened by Ron's triumph.

"-and Katie Bell of Gryffindor catches the Quaffle, dodges Pucey, ducks Montague, nice swerve, Katie, and she throws to Johnson, Angelina Johnson takes the Quaffle, she's past Warrington, she's heading for goal, come on now, Angelina- GRYFFINDOR SCORE! It's ten-ten, ten-ten tied and Pucey has the Quaffle…"

Something in Tempest's chest eased as she shot upwards, scanning the skies and ground alternately for gold. It was tied and Ron seemed to coping. The Slytherin singing wasn't abating, but Tempest could ignore it if Ron could.

"-Pucey throws to Warrington, Warrington to Montague, Montague back to Pucey- Johnson intervenes, Johnson takes the Quaffle, Johnson to Bell, this looks good- I mean bad- Bell's hit by a Bludger from Goyle of Slytherin and it's Pucey in possession again…"

But then Ron let in two more goals, and there was a look on Ron's face when the singing increased in volume that made Tempest cast her eyes about the pitch with increased urgency. If she could just get the Snitch, then Gryffindor would have won, and she could get Ron away from the pitch, away from that fucking singing.

"WEASLEY WAS BORN IN A BIN,

HE ALWAYS LETS THE QUAFFLE IN,

WEASLEY WILL MAKE SURE WE WIN…"

"Hey, Potter!" called Malfoy, hovering about fifty meters from where she was, "how long do you bet it'll be before Weasley starts crying?"

Then she saw it; hovering feet from the ground at the Slytherin end of the pitch. She didn't hear anything else Malfoy said, already shooting past him and down towards the ground.

He was after her in seconds, a green and silver blur lying flat on his broom…

The Snitch skirted the foot of one of the goalhoops and scooted off towards the other side of the stands; its change of direction suited Malfoy, who was nearer; Tempest had lost what ground she had on Malfoy, and they were now neck and neck…

The ground was rushing by beneath her; Tempest's right hand let go of her broom, stretching forwards, a reflection of Malfoy inches from her, both reaching, groping in the air… It was over in two breathless, desperate, windswept seconds- Tempest's hand closed around the Snitch, the tiny wings fluttering against her palm; Malfoy's fingers clutched desperately at the back of her hand.

Tempest whooped in triumph, yanking her broom upwards, away from Malfoy. She raised her arm; the struggling ball clutched tightly in her hand and Gryffindor spectators screamed their approval… She was laughing, head thrown back and face flush with adrenaline. It was all fine, it didn't matter that Ron had let in some goals, Gryffindor had won-

WHAM.

Tempest's vision whited out for a second as a Bludger hit her squarely in the back and she flew forwards off her broom. She had only been ten or so feet off the ground, so she landed winded but fine, flat on her front on the frozen pitch. She heard Madam Hooch's shrill whistle, uproar in the stands compounded of catcalls, angry yells and jeering, a thud, then Angelina's frantic voice.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah," said Tempest shortly, taking her hand and allowing herself to be pulled to her feet. Madam Hooch was zooming towards one of the Slytherin players above her, though she could not see who it was from this angle. Malfoy was still in the air, slowly descending- from where she stood, she could see he was staring in her direction.

"It was that thug Crabbe," said Angelina angrily, "he whacked the Bludger at you the moment he saw you'd got the Snitch- but we won, Tempest, we won!"

Tempest heard a snort from behind her, and turned around, Snitch clutched tightly in her hand. Malfoy had landed close by; white faced with fury; he was still managing to sneer.

"Saved Weasley's neck, haven't you?" he said to Tempest. "I've never seen a worse Keeper... but then he was born in a bin…Did you like my lyrics, Potter?"

Behind her, the rest of the team had convened, and she felt tugging and pounding at her back and shoulders as they cheered and celebrated their triumph, but Tempest had her eyes fixed on Malfoy.

"Youwrote that rubbish?" she said quietly.

The twins' faces bobbed up and down before her, but she was looking straight through them to Malfoy's ugly expression.

"We wanted to write another couple of verses! But we couldn't find rhymes for fat and ugly- we wanted to sing about his mother, see-"

"Talk about sour grapes," said Angelina, casting Malfoy a disgusted look.

"-we couldn't fit in useless losereither- for his father, you know-"

Fred and George had realised what Malfoy was talking about. Halfway through shaking Tempest's hand, they stiffened, looking around at Malfoy.

"Leave it!" said Angelina at once, taking Fred by the arm. "Leave it, Fred, let him yell, he's just sore he lost, the jumped-up little-"

"-but you like the Weasleys, don't you, Potter?" said Malfoy, sneering. "Spend most of your time with them? Can't see how you stand the stink, but I suppose when you've been dragged up by Muggles, even the Weasleys' hovel smells okay-"

George took a step forwards threateningly; Tempest's hand fisted his sleeve. Meanwhile, it was taking the combined efforts of Angelina, Alicia and Katie to stop Fred leaping on Malfoy, who was laughing openly. Though Tempest was holding George, she could feel heat prickling the back of her neck, her throat, making it difficult to swallow.

"Or perhaps," said Malfoy, leering as he backed away, "snuggled up all close to half-breeds and blood-traitors like your mongrel godfather, you're trying to replace your dead parents with a family so dirt poor they're willing to snug up to anyone with a knut-"

Tempest hit Malfoy in the face.

She did not know how she had crossed the distance between them. All she knew was that she wanted for Malfoy's smirking face to contort with pain, for the mask to crack and splinter, and for him to hurt.

Malfoy staggered backwards, a look of shock in his eyes, and then Tempest felt an elbow in her gut, and George was in her vision, attempting to punch every inch of Malfoy he could reach.

"Tempest! TEMPEST! GEORGE! NO!"

The three of them were knocked to the ground; someone was screaming, Malfoy was yelling, George was swearing, a whistle blowing, and the crowd around them swelled with noise. She did not care. Limbs were everywhere, but she sought out the silver hair and sank her fist into the flesh attached, over and over…

"IMPEDIMENTA!"

She was thrown backwards violently, and leapt straight back up.

"What do you think you're doing?" screamed Madam Hooch, she had been the one to cast the jinx. Tempest stood there, still burning with rage. Hooch was holding her whistle in one hand and wand in the other, her broom lay abandoned several feet away. Malfoy was lying on the groand groaning, his nose bloody, and robes torn. George was sporting a swollen lip; Fred was still being forcibly restrained by the three Chasers, and Crabbe was cackling in the background.

"I've never seen behaviour like it- back up to the castle, both of you, and straight to your Head of House's office! Go! Now!"

Tempest and George stormed off the pitch, both panting, neither saying a word to each other. The howling and jeering of the crowd grew fainter and fainter until they reached the Entrance Hall, where they could hear nothing except the sound of their own footsteps. George stopped abruptly halfway across. Tempest noticed and stopped as well.

"What?" she said, her voice shaking.

George's jaw worked, until he said, "I think I hit you when I ran for Malfoy."

Tempest frowned, the words taking a moment to register. "Forget about it," she said, "it hardly matters."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be fucking sorry, Malfoy's a bastard-" Looking down at her hands, hands which she now noticed were bruised and purpling near the knuckles, she noticed she was still grasping the Snitch, it's silver wings protruding from between her fingers, struggling for release. "Come on."

They had barely reached the door of Minnie's office when she came marching along the corridor behind them. She was wearing a Gryffindor scarf, but tore it from her throat with shaking hands as she strode towards them, looking livid.

"In!" she said furiously, pointing to the door. Tempest and George entered. She strode around behind her desk and faced them, quivering with rage as she threw the Gryffindor scarf aside onto the floor.

"Well?" she said. "I have never seen such a disgraceful exhibition. Two against one! Explain yourselves!"

"We were provoked," Tempest bit out.

"You were provoked?" shouted Minnie, slamming a fist on to her desk so that an inkpot overturned, spilling dark liquid across the polished wood. "You are provoked on an almost daily basis Tempest! He'd just lost, hadn't he? Of course he wanted to provoke you! What on earth could have justified what you two-"

"He insulted both our families," snarled George.

"But instead of leaving it to Madam Hooch to sort out, you two decided to give an exhibition of Muggle duelling, did you?' bellowed Minnie. "Have you any idea what your combined stupidity-"

"Hem, hem."

"Fuck me," muttered Tempest, turning. Umbridge was standing in the doorway wrapped in a green tweed cloak that greatly enhanced her resemblance to a giant toad, and was smiling in the horrible, sickly, ominous way that Tempest had come to associate with imminent misery.

"May I help, Professor McGonagall?" asked Umbridge in her most poisonously sweet voice.

Blood rushed into Minnie's face.

"Help?" she repeated in a constricted voice. "What do you mean, 'help'?"

Umbridge moved forward into the office, still smiling her sickly smile. "Why, I thought you might be grateful for a little extra authority."

Tempest saw Minnie's nostrils flare.

"You thought wrong," Minnie said, turning her back on Umbridge. "Now, you two had better listen closely. I do not care what provocation Malfoy offered you, I do not care if he insulted every family member you possess, your behavior was disgusting and I am giving each of you a week's worth of detention! Do not look at me like that, Miss Potter, you deserve it! And if either of you ever-"

"Hem, hem."

Minnie closed her eyes as though praying for patience as she turned her face toward Umbridge again. "Yes?"

"I think they deserve rather more than detentions," said Umbridge, smiling still more broadly.

Minnie's eyes flew open. "But unfortunately," she said, with an attempt at a reciprocal smile that made her look as though she had lockjaw, "it is what I think that counts, as they are in my House, Dolores."

"Well, actually, Minerva," simpered Umbridge, "I think you'll find that what I think does count. Now, where is it? Cornelius just sent it... I mean," she gave a little false laugh as she rummaged in her handbag, "the Ministerjust sent it… Ah yes..." She had pulled out a piece of parchment that she now unfurled, clearing her throat fussily before starting to read what it said. "Hem, hem... 'Educational Decree Number Twenty-five…'"

"Not another one!" exclaimed Minnie violently.

"Well, yes," said Umbridge, still smiling. "As a matter of fact, Minerva, it was you who made me see that we needed a further amendment… You remember how you overrode me, when I was unwilling to allow the Gryffindor Quidditch team to reform? How you took the case to Dumbledore, who insisted that the team be allowed to play? Well, now, I couldn't have that. I contacted the Minister at once, and he quite agreed with me that the High Inquisitor has to have the power to strip pupils of privileges, or she- that is to say, I- would have less authority than common teachers! And you see now, don't you, Minerva, how right I was in attempting to stop the Gryffindor team reforming? Dreadful tempers..." Tempest gritted her teeth. "Anyway, I was reading out our amendment... hem, hem… 'The High Inquisitor will henceforth have supreme authority over all punishments, sanctions, and removal of privileges pertaining to the students of Hogwarts, and the power to alter such punishments, sanctions, and removals of privileges as may have been ordered by other staff members. Signed, Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, Order of Merlin First Class, etc...'"

She rolled up the parchment and put it back into her handbag, still smiling. "So… I really think I will have to ban these two from playing Quidditch ever again," she said, looking from Tempest to George and back again.

Not for the first time that day, the air left Tempest's lungs.

"You're not serious," George said faintly.

"Hardly Mr Weasley, I think a lifelong ban ought to do the trick," said Umbridge, her smile widening still further as she watched him struggle to comprehend what she had said. "You and Miss Potter here. And I think, to be safe, your twin ought to be stopped too- if his teammates had not restrained him, I feel sure he would have attacked young M. Malfoy as well. I will want their broomsticks confiscated, of course; I shall keep them safely in my office, to make sure there is no infringement of my ban. But I am not unreasonable, Professor McGonagall," she continued, turning back to Minnie who was now standing as still as though carved from ice, staring at her. "The rest of the team can continue playing, I saw no signs of violence from any of them. Well... good afternoon to you." And with a look of the utmost satisfaction Umbridge left the room, leaving a horrified silence in her wake.

"Banned," said Angelina in a hollow voice, late that evening in the common room. "Banned.No Seeker and no Beaters... What on earth are we going to do?"

It did not feel as though they had won the match at all. Disconsolate and angry faces were everywhere Tempest looked; the team themselves were slumped around the fire.

"It's just so unfair," said Alicia numbly. "I mean, what about Crabbe and that Bludger he hit after the whistle had been blown? Has she banned him?"

"No," said Ginny miserably; she and Hermione were sitting on either side of Tempest. "He just got lines, I heard Montague laughing about it at dinner."

"And banning Fred when he didn't even do anything!" said Alicia furiously, pummeling her knee with her fist.

"It's not my fault I didn't," said Fred, with a very ugly look on his face. "I would've pounded the little scumbag to a pulp if you three hadn't been holding me back."

Tempest stood up. Everyone looked at her.

"Sorry," she said uselessly.

She left.

Her feet led her where they always led her when she needed to get away. Up and out through the window of the Owlrey.

Snow was falling lightly, catching in her hair and landing on her bare skin, a bite of cold before it melted and became a chill. Her signature ledge had a dusting of snow on it, and she cleared it away with several sweeps of her sleeve. Clutching her now damp arm to herself, she settled down, knees to her chest.

There were lights lit in some windows of the other towers, and the fires in the Entrance and Great Hall had not yet been extinguished, their glow spilling through their massive windows and out onto the snow.

Banned. From playing Quidditch for life. Both her Firebolt and Fred and George's brooms had been taken from them. It didn't mean she would stop flying, but the team. Losing two beaters and a seeker was no small blow. Angelina would have to find replacements and train them up before the next game, to say nothing of how Ron must be feeling.

He hadn't been in the common room, in fact Tempest couldn't remember seeing him anywhere after the match, and part of her was grateful that he hadn't heard Malfoy's words at the end. She hoped Hermione might have found him by now, given him a bit of a talking up to.

Even now, hours later, Tempest heated as she recalled the Slytherin singing. It had been such a low attack, that Tempest couldn't believe it hadn't been taken up as an issue by any other teacher. And to think that Malfoy had written it, that it had in someway been his idea

And then, like he had been summoned, Malfoy rose up past the lip of the roof on his broom.

Tempest wasn't even surprised.

"You arsehole," she said quietly, getting to her feet.

"You hit me," replied Malfoy.

"I'm not sorry," snapped Tempest.

Two against one.

"I am sorry we attacked you at the same time," she amended.

"Could I sit?" said Malfoy, drifting closer.

"What? No! You wrotethat awful song- you spread it to your whole house and… and do you have any idea how Ron feels?"

"And that means I can't sit?"

"It means if you do sit I can't promise I won't push you off the roof," said Tempest shortly. "You insulted my parents, you said-"

"You said you happy that my dad was tortured."

"-the Weasley's only- no I didn't-"

"You did."

Tempest paused, trying to remember. "I didn't say I was happy," she said lamely.

Malfoy shrugged.

"I didn't mean it," said Tempest defensively. "It's no excuse for you anyway- the things you said- the Weasleys are the nicest people I've ever met, and their family is worth a thousand times of yours. You don't know a damn thing about any of us, how dare you say that they… that they-"

"You don't know a damn thing about me either," said Malfoy, and at some point, he had drifted all the way over, and Tempest had already instinctively moved aside, allowing him to dismount and stand safely.

She was still furious, but it was with some small amount of gratification that she noticed a purplish bruise standing out on the left side of his face.

"I know you're petty, you're small, spoilt, and your dad's a death eater."

"And I know you're a bitch, Potter."

Tempest blinked. "Thanks. Anything else?"

"You've already said yourself you were glad your parents were dead. You were fine with my dad being tortured. Then you'll say you didn't mean either. You're a hypocrite, and you say all this crap, all the time, then act though you're above it all, insulting me or anyone else as you will."

"You're exaggerating."

Malfoy merely looked at her.

You're an entitled prick.

If I was going to be as dependent on my father as you are, I'm glad he's dead.

I'm not sorry.

It's really none of your business, Hermione.

I'm not sorry.

They were two pale statues that could have been ghosts, both dusted with snow and skin faded from alabaster to an almost translucent white. Tempest thought she could see the veins in Malfoy's neck.

"I am sorry for being such a crap person," said Tempest. Then: "but that doesn't mean that you're not basically a shit person as well."

They looked at each other, and then away, then by mutual unspoken consent, they both sat.

Snow had fallen on their seat when they had been standing, and it instantly soaked through the seat of Tempest's pants. Beside her, Malfoy shifted uncomfortably.

"Aren't you going to apologize then?" said Tempest abruptly. "You set your whole house to target Ron. If two against one was bad, then how does that compare?"

If anything, Malfoy looked surprised. "We've done the same sort of thing to you a thousand times before. You never seemed all that bothered."

"Not that bothered-" said Tempest incredulously; "I was hardly going to pour out my feelings to you at that point, was I? And Ron's not me! I don't appreciateit, but I've had worse and I've gotten used to it. And what you said about his family and mine-" and here Tempest's voice shook for a moment, "that's crossing a line."

"I was unaware that we'd drawn some," said Malfoy. He caught Tempest's eye and cleared his throat. "Then I'm sorry as well. There, we're even."

Tempest scoffed. "Not even close."

"Oh? Do go on."

Tempest could have. She felt perhaps that she should have. There were a thousand and one things she had lingering on the tip of her tongue, but she stopped herself. At some point the thousand had become all of Malfoy, and here she was, still sitting beside him.

And Tempest had never been a paragon of virtue.

"Your guy asked me to join him," she said.

Malfoy looked at her.

"Voldemort," clarified Tempest. "The night he came back." Malfoy remained silent, and it made it easier, easier for her to voice something that she hadn't spoken aloud. "He invited me to join his inner circle. He said… it doesn't matter what he said. But he asked me. So he must have thought that I would say yes."

Still, Malfoy said nothing.

"And I didn't, but he thought I would have. How could he have?" Tempest sucked in a breath through her teeth. "I can't help it sometimes, I just get angry, or I get frustrated, and it's as though everything else matters less, and I say these things… things I don't mean, and that's no excuse, I know I'm not a great person, but surely that doesn't make me like him."

"Why ask me?" said Malfoy, and it was like a kick in the gut. Which, in retrospect, Tempest thought, was only fair.

"I can't seem to keep a single good thing that matters in my life," said Tempest. "So I suppose this is me trying to. Trying to open up and share, trying to explain myself, to be better. Hopefully make people want to stick around."

A familiar smirk crossed Malfoy's face. "I'm a good thing that matters?"

The smirk induced further urges to punch in Tempest, but she tamped down on them with an effort. "You'll do."

Malfoy grinned. It was in stark contrast to his usually sneering features, and Tempest was reminded vividly of the time before Voldemort's return. It had been simpler, happier and better.

"In the interests of sharing… I know I'm not a great person," said Malfoy mildly. "I know that might be difficult to understand, as amazing as I am-" Tempest snorted. Malfoy gave her a reproving look. "I say things as well. I usually mean them… but I often regret them. I do things I mean to do… then I feel guilty. I heard about what Umbridge did."

"You weren't pleased?"

"No I was," said Malfoy hurriedly, "Slytherin will win all of the games for the rest of the year, so thank you. I'll be glad, but I'll miss the challenge."

Tempest let out a hard sigh. "It's like you're two separate people, Malfoy."

"I could say the same about you."

"Could you?"

Malfoy examined her for a moment, his forehead creasing. Snow had collected in his hair, and formed little caps on his shoulders and in the folds of his robes. If they stayed outside much longer, the snow would begin to melt, and the damp would seep through their clothes.

"No, actually. I think you're pretty much the same everywhere," said Malfoy.

Tempest laughed in surprise. "How reassuring."

And together, they watched the movement of the Giant Squid by the ripples that spread across the lake, watched the flight of a late night post owl, which winged its way out of the Owlrey beneath their feet, and soared up into the sky. Then it turned, and headed directly for them.

Tempest and Malfoy exchanged glances, and both stood, anticipating the owl's arrival. As it grew closer, Tempest squinted. "That's Pigwidgeon."

Malfoy frowned. "What?"

Tempest extended an arm, and the tiny owl landed, fluttering its wings and holding out an expectant leg.

Confused and rather cautious, Tempest untied the piece of paper that was tied on, and read the few sentences scribbled on. She looked up at Malfoy.

"I've got to go."

Malfoy looked rather bemused. "All right, fine. I wasn't keeping you here or anything- er, you're smiling."

"It's allowed," said Tempest, unable to repress it. She eyed Malfoy's broom. "Mind giving me a lift down to the ground? Hagrid's back."

"Urgh, that half-breed."

"For fuck's sake, Malfoy!"

Malfoy laughed.