Chapter 8: A Salute to Frogs & Pants
Ben flicked his wand at the playing card lying on the bottom of one of the boxes, and a frog appeared in the card's place. Ringo quickly Stunned it and put the box in a stack with the others. One of Professor McGonagall's policies had been that anyone wishing to contribute some house points could choose some classroom supplies that the school went through a lot of – frogs were always a popular choice – and turn them in for house points, a point per frog. It was a policy, Ben reflected, spinning the familiar length of maple in between his fingers as Booker transfigured another playing card into a frog, that had saved Ben and his friends from being completely ostracized by their house.
On the average lazy afternoon, the boys could go through an entire deck of playing cards, which was fifty points right there. It might not have added a lot of points, but it usually did balance out whatever they'd lost that particular week.
"This is a lot easier when Cam's here to help me shove boxes," Ringo said.
"Detention," Ben reported when they looked at him.
"Of course, if you're not in class—or here with us—where else are you?" Booker rolled his eyes.
"He could be off snogging Selena." Kenny made kissy faces at Ringo, who batted his lashes, his face briefly becoming feminine. Ringo was a Metamorphmagus, and he'd been doing that since their first day at Hogwarts.
"Are they back together?" Booker asked, something in his voice causing Ben to turn toward the burly red-haired boy.
"You know Selena and Cam; they're like two magnets." Kenny gestured with his fingers, making a little sound effect as he did it.
"But the last break-up was bad, I heard." Booker sighed and flipped onto his back, staring up at the clouds dotting the blue sky like cotton balls in a child's mixed media piece.
"They aren't all bad?" Ringo asked cynically.
"Point." Booker sighed. "I'd … just hoped—" He cut the sentence off.
"Hoped what, Book?" Ben asked, quirking an eyebrow.
"I know this is gonna sound bad—but I think both of them … could … be happier with someone else," Booker admitted. "I like Cam. I like Selena too. I just don't think the two of them—look, this could end badly. Very badly. And not just in a 'tempestuously horrid break-up' sort of way. Hit Wizards, plus one of the biggest criminal cartels in Wizarding Britain? You could be dumber than a Slytherin Beater and see that ending coming."
"They care about each other, Book," Ben pointed out.
He sighed again. "I know they do. Look, I'm not trying to be a downer. Let's just get back to these frogs." Booker contorted back into a sitting position, facing them again. "Where were we?"
"Deuce of diamonds." Ringo tossed a card into a box.
"Forget the frogs; I've got something even better." Cameron dove in to close the circle around the box, a manic look in his blue eyes. The boys tried not to jump.
Booker, by some miracle, was the first to recover. "If that look is any indication, forgetting the frogs is the last thing we should do. I think we'll need them," Booker told him.
"You're a bloody cynic, McChurch." Cameron laid a hand to his chest like he was wounded.
"… Is whatever you're thinking likely to get us into trouble?" Booker asked. Cameron said nothing. "A cynic is what an optimist calls a realist."
"I present to you gentlemen an opportunity of truly epic proportions." With that, Cameron flipped out a pair of large, star-spangled blue underpants.
"What is that supposed to be—one of Professor Yaxley's girdles?" Booker asked.
"You could fit two of Yaxley in those." Ringo looked at Booker skeptically. "Believe me, even my mum's industrial strength Spanx can't take a person that size and make them the size of Yaxley."
"Your mum's got an industrial strength Spanx? For what?" Ben asked, confused.
"On stage?"
"I guessed that. I more meant—your mom's um—tiny—to begin with." Ben rubbed the back of his neck.
"Who knows?" Ringo shrugged.
"Besides—even Yaxley doesn't have that bad of taste. There's only one person on staff whose taste is this bad." Cameron grinned.
"Oh, no, no! Merlin's bleeding beard, no, Cam!" Booker shouted, apparently matching the article of clothing with that one very special person's very special lack of taste. "We'll have nothing but detention and sleep outside of class if we do anything but put those back wherever you found them!"
"They're not Lipskit's."
"He's the bloody headmaster, Cameron!" Booker protested.
"Live. A. Little." Cameron rolled his eyes.
"Well, before I go agreeing with either of you, tell me what you've got," Kenny said with a gleam in his eye better suited to Cameron.
"I've got a flagstaff and Rove's pants."
"Now all we need is a chorus to sing the 'Star-Spangled Banner,'" Ben muttered. "What?" he asked as Kenny and Cameron looked at him, excited – and Booker looked at him horrified. Ringo … wasn't actually looking at him. He was looking at the pile of boxes with the frogs in them.
"But I don't know the 'Star Spangled Banner,'" Kenny said, having also shifted his gaze to the pile of boxes.
"What about 'God Save the Queen'?" Ringo asked. "As we've got that chorus." He patted the boxes right then.
"Hello, career in Vegas, hand me those undies, would you?" Ben said, a grin splitting his face. He knew it was stupid, dangerous even; it could have gotten him kicked out of school or at the very least his archaeology class.
But some things … some things just had to be done full-out.
"I hope you all know, if—no, when, when we get in trouble for this, I am throwing you all under the bus," Booker informed them, his tone resigned. "You're all insane. And you owe my mother an apology when you get me kicked out of school."
About the time that Hogwarts was going to dinner, a light flashed in the courtyard, accompanied a few moments later by a second, third, fourth, all converging on the flagpole to illuminate a flag – of sorts – of blue blowing proudly in the breeze, the yellow stars upon it shining with the gaudy light of an Elvis impersonator convention. Below, arranged in tiers, were frogs, and as the first students stepped out into the courtyard, a lone frog soon joined by a dozen others began to croak "God Save The Queen."
It was, when Ben had time to think of it later – and he had plenty of time to think of it later while in detention – a truly magical moment.
Oh—my—Merlin.
Rowan and her friends had been in easy view of the courtyard when the spectacle occurred. They must have been heading into dinner, but from where? She was never able to remember later.
But she'd never forget what had happened when the first light flashed.
Rowan had looked up from whatever she had been doing, staring out the door at the flashing light.
And then there was another. And another. And a fourth. They all converged on …
"Merlin's fucking beard," Aubrey whispered, and he didn't even get a scold from Blair. "Is that—is that what I think—?"
That was a pair of—Rowan blushed—men's pants. At least she thought they were men's. At this distance, it was hard to tell.
Except … there was only one person in the school who was both that size and who would actually wear dark blue underpants embroidered with bright yellow stars …
Oh Merlin!
She barely had time to process that thought as she was swept along with the crowd toward the door. This was Hogwarts. This was a spectacle. Everyone wanted front row seats to whatever happened next. And it was just as the crowd started to fill the courtyard that the croaking began.
Then – then it came. At first it sounded like a choke. Then a snort. Then—
Rowan doubled over, and there was no stopping the guffaws.
She wasn't the only one, either. Jon was leaning on her, and Quill was leaning on Jon. Candice was on her own, but she was practically screaming as tears ran down her face. Aubrey was laughing, and even Blair had a pinched expression as she watched the frogs croak their way through "God Save the Queen."
Then even she gave up and started laughing.
And when Rowan looked around – when she tried to look around – she caught flashes. A knot of prefects from different houses burying their heads in each other's shoulders so that nobody would see them react. All of the first-year Hufflepuffs were practically crying, including little Miri whom Zach worried so much about. Even the Slytherin Quidditch team, just coming in from practice, was standing together and laughing, all except for James Fawley … and even he was coughing in a very suspicious manner.
The whole school, it seemed, was laughing, and the laughter continued until the doors to the castle banged open. "What on earth," came a very familiar voice, "is the meaning of—OH MERLIN'S BEARD!"
Unfortunately for everyone, that voice was Professor Rove's. Unfortunately for Professor Rove, his reaction just made everyone laugh harder.
But Rowan could feel sorry for him, she really could, even if she was still laughing too hard to breathe properly. He was staring horrorstruck at the pants flapping in the breeze. His normally rather florid face was almost white.
At least, it was until he started shouting. "LEO! GET OUT HERE RIGHT NOW!"
That was the signal for the teachers to exit as well.
Professor Yaxley was one of the first out, and when she saw the display – well, Rowan almost felt sorry for her, too, though not as much as she felt sorry for Professor Rove. Her eyes went wide and she put both of her hands over her mouth in an expression that was probably supposed to be a gasp but that wasn't convincing, not at all.
Others had similar reactions. Poor Professor Kilduff was trying to hide her mirth by burying her head on the shoulder of Professor Puccini, the Transfiguration instructor. For his part, Professor Puccini was trying to hide behind Hagrid. As for Hagrid, he wasn't bothering to hide – his booming laugh echoed off the flagstones and went soaring into the night.
But he could laugh. The only parties that had been able to remove Hagrid from Hogwarts for any appreciable length of time were dementors, Death Eaters, and Dumbledore. Professor Rove didn't stand a chance.
One of the last to come out was Professor Lipskit. And he was one of the few that didn't laugh or have to pretend not to laugh. His eyebrows merely rose …
And he stood, very stiffly and most correctly, hands at his sides, until the last frog stopped croaking.
"LEO!" Professor Rove shouted. "What—you—what are you waiting for?"
"For the song to be over, of course," Professor Lipskit replied. "Wouldn't want to go disrespecting the national anthem." His eyebrows lifted. "Was there something you needed?"
"That—those—my—" He hopped from foot to foot, pointing at the flagpole. "Do you see that?!" he demanded.
"I do," Professor Lipskit replied.
"Well? What do you intend to do about it?" Professor Rove asked.
Professor Lipskit waved his wand. "Accio pants!" The pants unhooked themselves from the flagpole and floated over to Professor Lipskit. A lazy flick of his wand ensured they stayed floating. "I suppose we ought to return these to their proper owner …"
"I—we—give me those!" Professor Rove sputtered. He snatched the pants out of the air and stuffed them up the sleeves of his robes. "Leo, I've about had enough of your—your—those five!"
"Which five?" asked Professor Lipskit.
"You know which five!"
"Hmm … well, I suppose I do," he conceded. "Still, how do you know they did it?"
"Who—who else would?" Professor Rove snapped, throwing his hands out. Unfortunately for him, his sleeve flapped open, putting his pants in full view once again. "Ask them! Ask them and see if they don't admit it!"
"Very well." Professor Lipskit looked up. "De Falco—Moore—Vasile—Garen—McChurch—a word, if you please?"
The five Gryffindor boys marched through the crowd to where Professor Lipskit and the rest of the professors were standing. "Would you happen to know anything about this?" asked Professor Lipskit.
The boys looked at each other, and it was Ben who was first to speak. "Yes, sir."
"Would you happen to be behind this?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," said Ben once again.
"It seems you were right," Professor Lipskit remarked to Professor Rove. "Clean up this mess, then to my office."
"Yes, sir," said Ben, and the boys headed back to the flagpole.
All except Kenny. "Um … Professor Lipskit—about the frogs—we were going to donate them to the Potions department, so—"
Professor Lipskit raised an eyebrow.
Kenny stopped talking.
"I'm sure Professor Yaxley will appreciate that," Professor Lipskit replied. "Now get moving."
Kenny got moving.
"Was there anything else you needed?" Professor Lipskit asked Professor Rove.
Professor Rove looked at Professor Lipskit – then at the flagpole – and the frogs – and every student in the school – and Professor Lipskit again.
"This is a very serious matter, Leo," he said, drawing himself up to his full height. "I expect you to treat it with all of the seriousness it deserves!"
"Understood. Anything else?" Professor Lipskit asked. His voice was just this side of polite – which, considering this was Professor Lipskit, probably ought to be put down as heroic self-restraint.
Rowan could see Professor Rove grinding his teeth even from where she stood. "That—that is all, Leo! I expect that those boys will not try anything of this—scandalous—nature again!" And without another word, he pushed past the rest of the teachers and stomped back into the castle.
The laughter started to pick up again, in fits and starts, at least until Professor Lipskit "accidentally" tapped his cane against the flagstones. "I hear there's dinner in the Great Hall," he said, almost conversationally. "So, what are you all standing out here for?"
The school got the hint in record time.
As always seemed to be the case with Cameron and Ben's pranks, the school was still buzzing about the prank in the courtyard two days later. Not least because that very morning several large, bright, exotic birds arrived for the group of boys responsible. No one knew exactly what the letters said – or exactly whom they were from – but rumor had it that George Weasley had heard about the prank, and the letters were either congratulations or offers of employment post-Hogwarts. Possibly both.
Zach had to wonder, though, as he sat in the library working on a report about Acromantulas for Care of Magical Creatures, why they had done that. Sure, it was hilarious – for everyone except Professor Rove – even the Slytherins had had themselves a good laugh. But Professor Rove's patience was not inexhaustible, and that meant they needed Lipskit, the strictest, most straight-laced of the instructors to stand for them. And that – at least to Zach, who granted was a Hufflepuff and not a Gryffindor who counted bravery in its many house traits – was an awfully tenuous thread to hang the remainder of your academic career on.
They never even tried to hide that they were behind it. Ben would always cop to it when asked, and the other boys seemed to know that he would. So, every time they pulled one of these pranks, they knew they'd be getting into trouble for it – and they still did it anyway.
Spencer was spinning his quill around on a piece of parchment and glancing across the library at something. Zach tried three times to see what he was looking at—it seemed to be in the restricted section—but he saw nothing.
"Spence?" Zach finally asked.
"Yeah?"
"Is—is everything—uh—okay?"
"Fine. Why wouldn't it be?"
"Because that was the same rune you were translating ten minutes ago?" Zach offered sheepishly.
"I—it's nothing."
"Does this 'nothing' … have a name?" Zach asked innocently enough.
Spencer shot him a look.
"Spencer."
Zach's head swiveled toward the speaker—and so did Spencer's, though the rate at which the quill was spinning increased.
"Sybilla. Can I—we—uh—help you?" Spencer asked.
"I was looking for that book, actually." She pointed at one in the stack of books beside Spencer, tossing a lock of black hair over her shoulder. Zach was far more used to seeing Sybilla with pin-straight hair, often tied back in a knot of some sort. Today, however, it fell in lazy curls that flattered her face far more than the sensible styles she normally wore.
"Oh—uh—I don't need it at the moment." Spencer dug the book out of the stack and thrust it at the dark-haired Slytherin. "I need to get this translation done before I move onto Potions theory anyway. Your—uh—your hair looks—nice." Spencer pushed a lock of sandy blonde hair out of his face.
"Belle." Sybilla shook her head and rolled her eyes. "Every time the latest magazine comes, she's not happy until she can duplicate all the latest styles—especially if they come from the continent." Sybilla looked at a curl, an unreadable expression on her face.
"My sister, Cyn, does that to my youngest sister, Marty." Spencer offered a quarter of smile.
"Yes, well, I can sit still, don't have a ton of product in my hair, and am not constantly bothering Belle as she works. That's not easy to find in Slytherin—about the only other person who'd work is Vivianne, who does her own hair, thank you." Sybilla shrugged, and Spencer's smile increased from a quarter to a third.
"Shhh," Madam Pince scolded with a scowl.
Sybilla looked over her shoulder at the librarian. Zach wasn't quite sure what Madam Pince was on the receiving end of, but she didn't hiss at them again.
"Please—uh—sit. Does it bother you? Belle experimenting on your hair?" Spencer asked.
Sybilla slid into the seat that Spencer pushed out with his foot with surprisingly graceful economy of movement, though Zach did briefly wonder why he found it surprising. He couldn't recall Sybilla ever plunking into a seat like Juliette did.
"As long as she doesn't block my book, not really," Sybilla said. "Belle, thankfully, has excellent taste. And she never goes for the faddish, outré styles. She doesn't chatter while she works. Occasionally she'll read over my shoulder and ask questions—but those dry up when I ask her not to."
Spencer chuckled. "I'd imagine."
"I do ask, you know. It isn't all glares and scowls." Sybilla smirked. "Which is good, because Mother says that I really shouldn't have scowl wrinkles at sixteen."
"Really?" Spencer asked. "I don't think Mum's said anything to Cyn or Marty since the whole 'if you keep making that face, it'll freeze that way' thing stopped working on them."
"If you're looking for normalcy—there are many, many, many places to go before stopping by Cromwell Manor, Spencer." Sybilla propped her chin on the palm of her hand, offering Spencer a smile as he laughed quietly. "Besides, I suppose all things being equal, I should be grateful. Mother took after the snobby-yet-vapid side of the Carrows—not the 'let's traumatize an entire generation of students so that people do that finger cross-y thing …'" she made an X with her fingers, frowning at it until Spencer reached across the table and tilted her hand so that the fingers made a T instead, "'…every time the name gets mentioned' side." She put her head back on her hand, though smiling at Spencer.
Maybe Zach was reading things in that weren't there, but he'd have sworn that Spencer almost seemed reluctant to draw his hand back.
"That takes a—special—sort of person." Spencer shrugged.
"Like me, perhaps?" Sybilla asked archly, some sort of challenge in the tone that Zach couldn't quite place.
"I'm quite sure you're capable of doing anything you set your mind to, Sybilla," Spencer told her; whatever the challenge was, Spencer wasn't backing down, though his tone and expression hadn't really changed.
"That I am," Sybilla said, her silver eyes seeming more like mercury in that moment, shifting as they met Spencer's violet.
Spencer simply smiled that same rueful quarter-smile at her.
"Trish, are you sure you want this straight?" Belle was asking as she frowned over Trish's mousy brown locks. "I think you'd look much better with the one that has the lazy waves. At least with the length you've got …"
"Straighter looks longer," Trish replied. "I'm trying to grow it out."
Trish, Vivianne reflected as she sprawled out on her bed, frowning over her History of Magic essay, had been trying to grow out her hair since … third year? Either Trish's hair grew uncommonly slowly – she should have probably seen a Healer about that – or she needed to learn how to tell her hairdresser to cut less.
Vivianne tapped her quill against her lips and glanced again at the essay assignment. The pure-blood doctrine is widely held to have risen to prominence in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Explain the causes of this rise and the tenets of the movement at this point in history.
She rubbed the bridge of her nose. This was one of the periods that her grandmother researched, which meant that she … knew things. The problem was that what she knew from her grandmother did not always match up to Professor Binns's interpretation of the "facts."
She'd made the mistake of complaining about this once to her grandmother. Igraine had merely raised her eyebrows, amused. "That, Vivianne, is the challenge," she had said. "Find a way to tell the truth while still relaying the so-called 'facts' as Professor Binns understands them." Igraine had frowned. "Though—I suppose I had best admit that at your age, I was far from mastering that art. I usually just regurgitated the facts as Professor Binns wanted to hear them and did my research when his back was turned."
If Grandmother couldn't do it … Vivianne thought. No, she didn't say couldn't. And that was last year. OWL level. Perhaps there is more room for interpretation at NEWT level …
He can't actually believe all that tripe he tries to sell us about historical "facts," can he?
She glanced at the outline she had prepared. She certainly had the facts that Professor Binns had mentioned in class and those in the assigned chapters in A History of Magic. And her interpretation wouldn't be too far from the one Madam Bagshot had espoused. She had even found some of her grandmother's research texts – the ones they had at the Hogwarts library – to back her up …
What the hell. He can't bloody fail me as long as I mention his facts and fill enough scrolls.
Dipping her quill into the inkpot, Vivianne swept her hair over her shoulder and began to write.
She had most of her first paragraph written before Trish's voice intruded on her thoughts.
"You're going to wash my hair?"
"Trish," Belle said, very gently and almost apologetically, "you've got a lot of product in here. I need to wash it out if I'm going to be able to work."
"Well—all right—but not yet! Let me get my shampoo!" And barely giving Belle a moment to respond, she hopped up from the chair and ran out of the dorm room.
Vivianne looked up and raised an eyebrow at Belle. "Does she really think that her shampoo would be better than yours?"
Belle frowned. "Well, Mum does make mine special for my hair …"
"She could use mine if it came down to that," Vivianne snorted, shaking her head and turning back to her essay.
She had finished her first paragraph and was starting on her second when Trish came running back in. "Here it is!" She pressed the bottle – an awfully small bottle – into Belle's hand. "Locks of Love!"
"This is shampoo?" Belle asked, squinting sidelong at the bottle. Vivianne looked up.
The bottle was quite small – and was that a heart-shaped stopper? What the hell?
"It's the newest from WonderWitch!" Trish grinned, glancing at Vivianne as if she was inviting her to share in a great secret. "Use it as shampoo, and the boys will come running when they smell it. It's like—a love potion and a shampoo all in one!"
Vivianne raised an eyebrow. "What, all of them?"
"Uh huh!" Trish nodded eagerly.
Vivianne glanced at Belle. Belle was frowning at the directions on the back of the bottle. "Just use a handful," said Trish, unstoppering the bottle. "That's what I do!"
The minute the stopper came off, a sickly-sweet smell filled the room – it was pure cloying femininity, boiled desperation, eau de clingy girlfriend bottled and sold. Vivianne coughed as the stomach-churning scent filled her lungs. Even Belle frowned and quickly stoppered the bottle. "Er, Trish … this isn't a shampoo."
"Wait—what?" Trish asked, squirming around to read what Belle was reading.
"It's—I think it's more like leave-in conditioner. And you're only supposed to use a drop. It says here," she pointed, "to apply it right after you're done washing your hair, just to gently massage it into the scalp."
"Oh …" Trish rolled a lank lock of hair between her fingers. "Do you think … do you think that maybe that is why my hair is getting so oily?"
"… That might have something to do with it," Belle mused, somehow not sounding scornful or sarcastic at all.
"Well, we can still use it, right? I mean—I'm meeting Antony Quince later, I managed to convince—I mean—we're studying for Astronomy together …" She moved to unstopper the bottle again.
And that was enough for Vivianne. Muttering a couple of charms, she swept her things off the bed and hurried from the dorm. She was not going to be in the room when the stopper came off the bottle again.
Neither Belle nor Trish seemed to notice her leaving.
Once she got to the common room, it wasn't hard to find an unoccupied alcove with a desk. Vivianne murmured the charms to deposit all of her things on the desk and hurriedly sat down. Tapping her quill against her nose, she tried to regain her train of thought.
It didn't come easily. The first interruption came from a wandering nose. Vivianne almost jumped, but when she looked down, it was only a black-and-tan ball of fur – Canyon, her cat.
She permitted herself a single smile. "Hello, my fine feline friend." She reached down to scratch him behind the ears.
No such luck. Canyon ducked his head out of range, his yellow eyes narrowed at Vivianne as he sniffed her fingers with the greatest suspicion. Satisfied that it really was her – and that she was a tolerable person to have around – he permitted her to give him a single scratch behind the ears.
But just one. As soon as Vivianne was finished, he stepped off to the side – just out of her reach – and began to wash himself.
Vivianne rolled her eyes. She glanced again at her paper.
And that was as far as she got. "I thought I'd find you here," came a slow, drawling chuckle.
Vivianne looked up again. "Oh … really?" she asked. She pushed quill and parchment off to the side, raising her eyebrow. "And why is that, Blake?"
Blake leaned against the wall, hands thrust deep in his pockets and his uniform tie loose around his neck. It was the picture of ease, confidence, nonchalance. Barely even moving, he nodded at Canyon. "That cat. You walk into the room, and he'll get up from wherever he's been lazing and head right to your side."
"He does?" Vivianne glanced at Canyon. "Is that true, Mr. Canyon?"
Canyon had stopped washing himself and was shooting Blake a look of pure feline disdain.
Vivianne chuckled. "And here I thought he only tolerated me."
"That might true, Vivianne … but if it is, you're the only one he tolerates." Blake smirked.
"I'll take it." Vivianne shrugged. "So …" She leaned back, draping herself around the chair. "What can I do for you, Mr. Skinner?"
Blake blinked—he actually blinked. "Do?"
"Well, you are following my cat to try to locate me." Vivianne shrugged again. She watched as Blake's eyes followed the line of the movement, the way her hair spilled over her shoulder and rippled on the way down. "I'm assuming you needed something."
"Ah." Blake returned a smirk. "I was only looking for the pleasure of your company, Miss Gorlois."
"You flatter me," Vivianne purred.
Blake only smiled. He took a step into the alcove. At this distance – while Vivianne was still seated – he seemed very tall indeed. She almost had to crane her neck to look at him. "That's my intention."
"Is it?" Vivianne stretched—and, in the course of her stretch, she grabbed her wand. "Accio chair!"
A chair came floating into the alcove and tapped Blake in the knees, and when he jumped, it was there to catch him as he almost collapsed into it.
"Well, then," Vivianne went on as he stared at the chair and then, smilingly, at her, "if that's your intention … keep going, Blake. Let's see what you've got."
He chuckled. "With pleasure, Vivianne. With pleasure."
Happy Friday to you all, and we hope you enjoyed the chapter! Many thanks to Winter for her lovely review. If you read and enjoyed it, you can always leave some feedback!
See you on Sunday!
