Chapter 12: Halloween Again
Albus
As it turned out, Vaisey had been given a similar punishment to the one James had received several weeks before – not expulsion, but a type of forced exile from the Gryffindor community. Where he'd been sent, none of the Gryffindors really knew, and Vaisey (who had taken to socializing with Desmond McLaggen during class, if with anyone at all) certainly wasn't saying.
As time went on, however, the cloud of that evening seemed to pale in comparison to its many silver linings. The first thing that had happened had been somewhat immediate – Rowan Lester and Albus were now on speaking terms again. Rowan was something of a lamb – a fact for which Albus couldn't completely blame him. After all, he was still trying to find his way in the wizarding world. To his credit, though, Rowan's tendency to follow was matched only by his innocence about the new world around him. In short, he hadn't grown up with prejudices against anyone, and was very quick to wash his hands of Vaisey's views. Unfortunately, though, Rowan still had an irrational fear of anyone female – except perhaps Professor Gladstone, whom he'd apparently taken to calling his "wizard world mum."
The second thing that had happened, strangely enough, was that the friendship between Albus, Scorpius, and Sylvia had solidified. Scorpius never did have a chance to carry out the war he had declared on Stephan Vaisey, but the fact that he'd thought enough about Albus to go that far meant a lot.
Unfortunately, though, whenever the three sat together in class or in the Great Hall or in the Gryffindor common room, there was always an empty space – at the table and arguably inside Albus himself as well. Albus had tried to apologize to Rose in the days following their row, but she had always walked away from him. Albus tried to be patient, figuring she had to relent at some point. After all, separating from Albus was one thing, but it had left her essentially on an island. She ate alone, studied alone, sat alone in class, and hardly talked to anyone. Sylvia, probably for Albus's sake, had invited Rose to lunch, but one withering glare from the Weasley girl was enough to make Sylvia give up the quest.
Albus wasn't about to bend and kick Sylvia to the nearest curb just so Rose could be comfortable – especially not now. Even though serenity wasn't nearly Sylvia's strong point, there was something comforting to him about having her around. Maybe it was the fact that she could find humor in just about any situation, whereas he and Scorpius were (according to her) a bit too serious.
Around all of this (as they tend to do in any school, magic or no) classes went on. Professor Ambrose and the Potions class had started work on the Shrinking Solution. As guilty as Albus felt for admitting it, he was starting to agree with Sylvia on one thing. The brews themselves were somewhat fascinating, as were the many processes used to make them, but the most entertaining portions of the Potions class were the accidents that tended to happen when students got them wrong. In less than two months, Albus had seen a number of these mishaps. More than a few potions had exploded in their brewers' faces; there had been a handful of melted ladles and, once or twice, cauldron bottoms gave way.
None of these accidents happened to Albus himself. He seemed to have something of a knack for Potions – a bit ironic considering his father's history with the course. Of course, Rose being Rose, she was the best potion brewer in their class.
Professor Gladstone was her usual self in Charms, somehow managing the all-but-impossible balancing act of making her class productive and enjoyable at the same time. Neville had debuted the discussion of the wizarding world's most dangerous plants, although he had (fortunately) not yet exposed the first years to any of them. (The exception, of course, was the Venomous Tentacula, which had apparently become something of a fixture in the Hogwarts greenhouses.)
Defence Against the Dark Arts was still tense. Astronomy was still extremely late and not that interesting. History of Magic was still early and even less interesting. The only saving grace for Albus and much of the class was Rowan, who (as good as his word) seemed genuinely interested in wizarding history, no matter who taught it. Whereas most of the class spent most of the hour in a Binns-induced stupor, Rowan Lester seemed immune to the drone of Binns' voice. He watched the ghost professor with rapt attention, taking down notes so furiously that he'd sometimes snap his quill clean in half, repair it with his wand, and keep going without missing a beat.
The undercurrent of excitement that had filtered through Gryffindor House in the last half of October turned into a groundswell of anticipation as Halloween approached. The first match of the Quidditch season, which would see Gryffindor face Hufflepuff, was now only days away. Despite the fact that Hufflepuff had won the Cup the year before, there was no shortage of confidence on the Gryffindor side. After all, Hufflepuff had fielded a mostly senior team the year before, and several of their starters from the previous season had graduated.
Almost unconsciously, Albus found himself keeping a closer watch on Scorpius than before. His father had warned him that the atmosphere at Hogwarts could be a bit edgy when Quidditch matches approached.
Halloween came, almost before anyone even realized it. As Albus, Sylvia, and Scorpius followed the flow of a herd of Gryffindors walking toward the Great Hall for dinner, Albus allowed his eyes to wander. The torches that usually illuminated the castle walls had been replaced by (or perhaps Transfigured into) floating jack-o'-lanterns. Surprisingly, this didn't make the castle seem any more foreboding than it was already.
"Mum and Dad said that Hogwarts really goes all out with their holiday celebrations," Sylvia commented. "I can't wait to see what the Great Hall looks like."
Scorpius frowned, ruffling his hair so it stuck up at the back. "I sure hope the school ghosts don't take Halloween as an invitation to start popping up out of tables at random."
"Only the Fat Friar ever does that," Sylvia said, shrugging.
"I know," Scorpius said impatiently. "And he's the Hufflepuff ghost. Think about that for a second."
Sylvia laughed. "You think the Hufflepuffs would send a ghost after you to throw you off your game or something?"
Albus frowned. "This is Quidditch we're talking about. You can't put anything past anybody."
"You worry too much, Al," Sylvia said dismissively. "Besides, Hufflepuff House doesn't really have those types…"
"'Every flock has a few black sheep,'" said Scorpius sagely. Sylvia turned to look at him, obviously not expecting this level of eloquence. Scorpius looked away from her a bit nervously and added, "It's something my dad says every now and again."
"So how are you feeling?" Albus asked after a few moments' pause. "No more practices until the big game, right?"
"Relieved – the whole team is," Scorpius answered. "We need to play a game. We're at each other's throats, almost."
"McLaggen causing that much trouble?" asked Albus, naturally assuming this was the case. To his surprise, Scorpius shook his head.
"He doesn't help matters… but it's really everybody," he said pointedly. "We're seeing too much of each other, what with Cole taking us to three practices a week…"
"Three?" said Sylvia, her mouth agape with astonishment. "He does realize you have to do your schoolwork at some point, right?"
"My marks are fine, mum," said Scorpius sarcastically. Sylvia was caught off guard; this was so out of character for him that she burst into laughter. "You're starting to sound like –"
He stopped and looked at Albus.
"…Like Rose," he finished, almost at a mutter.
"I already know she's been helping you with your work," Albus said pre-emptively. "She told me weeks ago."
"Aw… that's so sweet," Sylvia mewled. Scorpius started looking down at his shoes. Albus took a deep breath. He couldn't believe it had come to this.
"So, do you actually talk about anything other than schoolwork?" he asked Scorpius.
"She tries very hard not to…" Scorpius muttered. "But…"
Scorpius swallowed hard. Mercifully, the momentary tension that followed was broken by the group's entrance into the Great Hall. The faux-sky in the Hall's ceiling was clear and starry. Floating jack-o'-lanterns had replaced the candles that normally bobbed in the air overhead, the melding of their firelights bathing the upper half of the hall in an orange glow. They sat down in their usual spot.
"Eurrrghh…" Sylvia groaned, visibly sticking out her tongue. "Pumpkin-themed sweets… should have seen that coming."
"Do you not like pumpkins?" Scorpius asked.
"Ask an obvious question, get an obvious answer," Sylvia simply replied. Albus looked up at the staff table and noticed that it was quite a bit more crowded than it normally was. In fact, most of the school had turned out to eat dinner at more or less the same time, which didn't normally happen. Albus had never bothered asking his parents if all the students ate at the same time for every meal in previous generations. He himself had grown somewhat used to seeing the Great Hall more or less half full. With a few exceptions, the older half of the student population tended to eat dinner a bit later. As for when the staff ate, that depended on the professor and it was really anyone's guess.
Today, though, he noticed that a large portion of the staff table had gathered. From this distance, it looked less like Hagrid was eating and more like Hagrid's beard was absorbing the food. At another end sat Professors Malcolm and Gladstone. This hadn't been the first time he had seen them together, either. Now that he looked at them, he supposed they might have been about the same age, and wondered if they had attended classes at Hogwarts together. A few chairs away, the Potions professor, Ithamar Ambrose, was stealing glances at them and looking sullen. Neville was trying to get his attention. Albus wondered if they were discussing lesson plans. Both professors had revealed that they would be co-teaching a class or two in the near future. It made sense, Albus supposed, as many potions were made from magical plants and herbs.
Flitwick looked a bit somber as he contemplated his food. A witch in her later teens that Albus vaguely recognized as being Hogwarts' Head Girl bent down low and whispered in his ear. Flitwick looked at her for a moment, then nodded and pulled out his wand as he leapt off his chair and waddled around the staff table to where the podium would have been. Just as Albus began to wonder, the podium magically appeared as if conjured. (Then, Albus reminded himself that it probably had been conjured.) Flitwick stepped up to it. Albus, figuring that some sort of announcement was coming, rapped Scorpius on the arm and pointed in Flitwick's direction. Sylvia looked that way as well.
"Attention, students," Flitwick's squeaky but magically amplified voice carried across the Great Hall. The myriad of conversations that had been taking place died out as he repeated the statement. They had been replaced by curious murmuring.
"What's going on?" whispered Sylvia.
"No idea," answered Albus.
"Some of you will have been acquainted with Mr. Argus Filch," Flitwick said. Albus had been told (or rather, warned) by his Uncle Ron to steer clear of Filch if at all possible. Between his advanced age, even more advanced rheumatism, and the fact that his dear pet cat had finally died several years ago, Filch wasn't nearly as visible or as feared as he'd been in years past. In fact, most of the students now thought him to be something of a sad joke – desperately clinging to a post he likely should have relinquished decades ago. "Mr. Filch, for those of you that don't know, served as Hogwarts' caretaker for nearly fifty years and was famously an overseer of the cleaning efforts after the castle was attacked during the last war. Well…"
Flitwick took a breath.
"I have the unfortunate duty, dear students, staff…" he said somberly. "…to inform you all that Argus Filch passed away early this morning."
A hushed murmur filled the castle. Filch was the furthest thing from popular, but not nearly hated enough for his death to be cause for open celebration. In fact, most students knew his life story and rather pitied him.
"He went perhaps the best way possible for one who had seen so much in this castle – peacefully, in his sleep, without prolonged suffering," Flitwick went on. He seemed to choke up for a second or two, then continued: "Argus Filch, whatever you may have thought of him as a man, was loyal to the care of this place to the end – even he was never able to attend here as a student. He will be buried properly, with our people, along with other former Professors, Headmasters, and contributors in the Hogwarts Row of Honours at Hogsmeade Cemetery."
Silence, and then scattered, perfunctory applause followed Flitwick's statement, although he did hear someone say, "Good for him."
"While we mourn the death of the old," Flitwick went on, "we must also remember to celebrate the arrival of the new. As fortune would have it, we began our search for Mr. Filch's eventual successor at the start of this term, and I am happy to say we have found an individual more than willing and able to take the job. Will you please give a warm Hogwarts welcome to our new caretaker – Mr. Gregory Vincent!"
As the students applauded, the Great Hall's doors burst open. A quite large gorilla of a man walked through them – tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired. A dark, stubbly, not-quite-a-beard covered his face. He wasn't nearly as old as Filch had been – he looked to be middle-aged, if that. His large, somewhat dim eyes were blinking quite a bit as he passed by. The crowd of students hushed quickly as he stood below Flitwick's podium and turned around.
"Does he look familiar to you?" Scorpius asked.
"Not a bit," said Albus, shaking his head.
"He's a monster," Sylvia commented. "I wonder if he's part-giant like Hagrid?"
"He's not nearly as big as Hagrid," Albus disagreed.
"Well, he's quite large enough," remarked Sylvia. "I wouldn't want to get on his bad side – I'll put it like that."
As the applause died down, Flitwick spoke again: "Thank you – and thank you, Mr. Vincent, for agreeing to take this post. Now, students, I should note to you, that unlike some of his predecessors, Mr. Vincent here can perform magic. In short, that means that some of the tactics you and others before you have used to hoodwink some of our other caretakers will not work on him."
Flitwick's eyes glinted knowingly.
"As a footnote to these announcements – and correct me if I'm mistaken – I believe I heard something about the Hogwarts Quidditch Cup season starting again soon?"
The students laughed appreciatively at Flitwick's tongue-in-cheek statement.
"Ho ho… dear me, it's that time already," he chuckled. "The seasons do seem to run together at my age. In any event…"
James
"…I would like to take this opportunity to formally extend my best wishes to the teams of Gryffindor and Hufflepuff this weekend," Flitwick went on. "As well as to Ravenclaw and Slytherin."
Richard Murphy stifled a yawn. "Is he gonna keep talking all night or can we enjoy our meal?"
"Good question," James muttered.
"So…" Murphy had been dancing around the subject until Flitwick brought it up. "The big day's almost here, huh? Do you think you'll get into the game at any point?"
"Depends on how long it goes," James answered casually. A buzz of sound filled the Great Hall again. Evidently Flitwick had stopped speaking, allowing everyone else to go back to their meals and conversations. "And the weather. If there's bad weather, we'll be subbing out all the time. If Malfoy catches the Snitch in thirty seconds, well –"
"I don't know if you're going over the top to be nice about him since last month," Murphy interrupted, a wry grin on his face, "but Malfoy's not gonna catch the Snitch in thirty seconds. Nobody does that."
"You haven't seen him in practice. He just might," James said somewhat darkly. "In any case, I like our chances. Hufflepuff's got a young team this year, and unless the guy that replaced Teddy at Seeker's gotten loads better over the summer, there's no way they stay with us."
He glanced up at Professor Malcolm, who had evidently told Gladstone some sort of joke, as she was laughing.
"If I get in, though…" he said. "I'm going for the throat. I'm gonna make sure we bury 'em."
He took a Pumpkin Pasty.
"You know your mum wouldn't like you eating dessert first," laughed Murphy.
"Well, that's why mums don't come on the train with us to Hogwarts, isn't it?" chuckled James. "Look, I can't stop Malcolm from being a git. What I can do is crush his House so badly on the pitch that they've got no shot at the Cup this year."
He went to lean back and found his head in someone's stomach. That someone backed up a step.
"Oh, sorry," he muttered a bit awkwardly, sitting up and turning around. "Oh… hi."
"You know these three?" Murphy asked, sounding astonished. James looked over the three. They were standing in a sort-of arc around him, and he honestly felt a bit crowded in. Flanked by two boys was a young witch with dark red hair and a red face.
"I haven't introduced you to- " stammered James, looking between Murphy and the other three. Murphy shook his head. James grimaced. "Murph, this is Tellius Nott, Phillip Bletchley, and Brynne Walter."
The boys' faces stayed stoic; Brynne beamed widely.
"You're Slytherins," said Murphy, tilting his head, his eyes fixed on the neck area of the three first years, where their green ties indicated their House.
"Yes, we are," Tellius Nott answered. "Is there something wrong with that?"
"No, not really," Murphy answered, nevertheless looking terribly uncomfortable.
Phillip Bletchley frowned.
"C'mon, it's not like we're vampires or anything. You act like you've never seen a Slytherin in broad daylight."
"Well, you lot live far enough underground…" muttered James.
"Oh, shut it," Phillip replied, a smirk nevertheless crossing his face. Brynne burst into laughter, earning her a few uncomfortable glances from the four boys.
"Um… d'you guys want to sit down?" James asked.
"Nah, we were just leaving," Phillip answered. "We actually would've just gone, but someone insisted we stop and say hi to you before we left."
He was staring rather intently at Brynne, who stared back with her big, blue eyes until Phillip backed off. She turned her attention to James. "We just wanted to wish you luck this weekend. We'll be rooting for you."
"Speak for yourself," Tellius scoffed. "I haven't forgotten which House I'm in."
"Well… we'll be rooting for you until you play Slytherin," Brynne said. Turning to Tellius, she added, "Fair enough?"
Tellius shrugged his shoulders. Brynne turned to James, biting her lip for a moment.
"Okay… well… bye," she said, skipping off without the other two boys. Tellius and Phillip both watched Brynne skip away and then shook their heads in tandem.
"I guess we'll be seeing you around… James," Phillip said with a nod as he and Tellius departed.
"You didn't tell me you had a fan club of Slytherins!" Murphy exclaimed, startling James.
"Oh – what?" he uttered distractedly. "Fan club? No, it's not like that."
"Well, someone's obviously a fan," said Murphy wryly. "Or did you not notice how dotty she was acting?"
"Brynne? Oh… she's always like that," James murmured.
"Around you, or in general?" asked Murphy. James looked at him askance.
"What are you getting at?"
Murphy groaned. "She fancies you, idiot."
"What?" James squirmed in his chair uncomfortably. "And how do you figure that?"
Murphy raised his eyebrows. "I have a sixth sense about these things, mate."
James rolled his eyes. "You're full of it, Murph."
"What's going on?" James winced as a boy sat down opposite them at the table. He liked Freddy enough, but this was a terrible time for him to show up, in James' opinion.
"Oh, nothing much. James just has himself a girlfriend," Murphy said casually.
"Do not!" James retorted hotly.
"Our little James has a girlfriend?" Just as James had feared, Freddy was going to take it and run with it until somebody stopped him. Then, he was going to run with it a couple miles farther. "Please do elaborate."
"She's not my girlfriend," James said stubbornly, folding his arms. "She's a friend… who happens to be a girl."
"Ah – you hear that? Those are the famous last words, mate," said Freddy to Murphy. Turning to James, he asked, "What's her name?"
"None of your bloody—" James started, but Murphy cut him off.
"Brynne Walter. She's a first year," he said. "She's also a Slytherin."
"Titchy? Redhead?" Freddy asked, seemingly unperturbed about Murphy's last bit of information.
"Right in one," Murphy nodded. "You know her?"
"Merlin's pants," groaned James. "Have you been spying on me in the Great Hall or something?"
"Not really," chuckled Freddy. "I just happened to see you together at lunch a couple of times… a week. I'm rather busy. You'll know what I mean soon."
"Brynne and I are friends," snarled James stubbornly.
"Anyway… let me let you in on a dirty little secret they don't tell you," Freddy said. James winced; knowing Freddy, he wasn't sure he wanted to know what was coming next. "Girls are always little bit ahead of us. That's why it's so hard for us lads – and never gets much easier. By the time he's going on thirteen, he thinks maybe girls aren't so terrible to be around. By the time she's going on twelve, she's already got a place in mind for the wedding, and a couple of names each for a son and a daughter."
James cringed. Brynne was just mad enough that James couldn't put that sort of behavior past her. If Freddy and Murphy were right, she might have returned to her bed or a couch in the Slytherin common room, and she might even now be thinking about what her and James's children would look like…
"Come off it, guys," James finally groaned. "I mean, I'm only a second year… and she's a first year…"
"So there's no way she can fancy you because she's just too young to think like that?" Freddy asked, a glint seizing his eye. "Why don't you run that theory past your mum and see what she makes of it?"
And with that final, maddening comment, Freddy jumped up from the table and departed, leaving James gaping after him.
"What in the ruddy hell did he mean by that?"
Murphy shrugged his shoulders. "'S your family…"
Albus
Albus awoke to find his bedroom quiet and half-empty. After wondering why this was the case, he realized with a jolt that both Scorpius and Desmond would have departed. Rowan was silently but hurriedly pulling on his clothes. He eyed himself in the room's one mirror with an air of dissatisfaction. He pulled his wand from the back pocket of his jeans and pointed it at his sweater. (Dad would have had a heart attack, Albus thought; apparently neither of these actions were good ideas.)
"Aurochromius!" he shouted. Albus vaguely recognized it as a spell they had gone over recently in Charms. Instantly, the brown sweater he was wearing lightened to a gold color. Rowan frowned. "Blech… too bright. Rossochromius!"
The sweater turned orange. Rowan squeaked.
"What happened?! I thought rossochromius was red!" he groaned, looking down at himself.
Albus sighed, climbing out of the bed. "That's because you can't go straight from one color to another. You have to use the Uncoloring Charm first – otherwise the colors will just mix."
Rowan frowned. "Oh. Okay, I'll try again. Chromia finite!"
The sweater went back to its normal brown. Albus started to put on his own clothes.
"Rossochromius!" Rowan said again. His sweater went from brown to a perfect Gryffindor scarlet. He beamed broadly. Looking over his shoulder, he asked, "Does it work on body parts, I wonder?"
Albus grimaced as he pulled on his shirt. "Rowan, I wouldn't –"
"Aurochromius!"
Albus watched, now unable to stop it. To his surprise (and relief) Rowan's thatched, light brown hair lightened even further and gained golden tones, so that it looked rather like flax or straw.
He turned around. "Hey, it worked! How do I look?"
"Very, erm… Gryffindorian?" Albus said, trying to hide his doubt that the last word of his statement was indeed a word.
"This is going to be my first time seeing a Quidditch match," he said very quickly. "I'm so excited!"
Albus smiled, thinking that Rowan was rather stating the obvious.
"C'mon, let's get down to the Great Hall so we can eat and get some good seats at the pitch!" he exclaimed. Albus frowned.
"Um… Rowan?"
"What's going on?" asked Rowan quickly.
"I was actually sorta planning on… meeting some of my friends and family for breakfast," he murmured. "And… well, Sylvia and Rose are gonna be there."
Actually, it was Sylvia, Roxanne, Tommy Jordan, and then possibly (but not probably) Rose. But the 'Sylvia and Rose' part was all Rowan needed to hear. His face fell.
"Oh… well, I guess I'll just… I dunno…"
Albus felt a bit bad. Rowan had been friends with Vaisey, but the two hadn't talked since Vaisey and Albus had gotten into that fight. Scorpius and McLaggen were gone as well, which meant that Albus was essentially the only friend Rowan had in their year.
But, Albus – or at least a part of him – said to himself, it's his own fault. If he wasn't so stupid about being around girls, he'd probably have more friends.
"Why don't you come with us?" asked Albus insistently. "You're not that afraid of girls, are you?"
"I'm not afraid of girls," said Rowan much too defensively. Albus gave him a flat expression.
"Every time one comes anywhere near you, you run away," he deadpanned.
"There's a girl in my neighborhood that likes to hit me, okay?" Rowan blurted out as if he'd been holding this in for months. He flopped down onto the bed. "She's the same age as I am. You can go ahead and laugh now."
"So all the girls in our year remind you of her?" Albus asked, frowning at this rationale.
"I don't want to take any chances, alright?" Rowan whimpered. "Especially since this lot can use magic. I don't wanna be a punching bag for some girl's jinxes just for kicks and giggles, okay?"
"Sylvia's not like –" Albus stopped himself. "Well… only if you make her mad. Just… don't make her mad, and you'll be okay. Roxanne's really funny – wait 'til you meet her. Rose is actually kind of shy like you… and she might not even show up."
Rowan responded to all of this with a thoroughly noncommittal "Mmph."
Albus, who had grabbed a jacket and was on his way out of the room, turned to him and said, "Look, I don't want to be mean, but I promised this lot… so either find your stones or spend the rest of the day by yourself."
Rowan frowned. "I can't…"
"'Course you can," Albus laughed. "You're a Gryffindor, right? Chivalry, courage, all that stuff."
Rowan didn't respond. Albus gave up and departed. He wasn't nearly naïve enough to believe that everyone around him could be one of his best mates. Some people – McLaggen, Vaisey, and Rowan, just to name a few – simply had their hang-ups and quirks.
In any case, it wasn't his fault that one of the first girls Rowan met happened to like punching people. Just like it wasn't his fault that Vaisey's and Scorpius's grandfathers had come across each other so many years ago. Just like it also wasn't his fault that Desmond McLaggen's father wanted the amount of fame and notoriety that seemed to come so easily to Albus's father.
He felt guilty enough for the row he'd had with Rose now coming up on several days back, but at least he could be reasonably certain he'd earned Rose's ire. Everyone else was distant or hostile for things that simply weren't Albus Potter's fault.
You shouldn't be complaining, he thought to himself as he found his way into the Great Hall (shivering as a Hogwarts ghost took the path of least resistance right through him). It could be worse. You could be your dad. He spent most of his time in this castle with a great Dark wizard target on his chest.
His eyes immediately found the others. They were a bit further toward the staff table than Albus was used to sitting, and between them and him was another girl, eating her breakfast alone. She was a bit older than Albus, quite pretty, and had long, silvery blond hair that looked to have been given extra care.
Albus walked past her, and then turned and did a double take.
"D-Dominique?"
It had been a wild guess at best; nonetheless it had been the correct one. Dominique Weasley, whom Albus hadn't seen at length in quite a while, looked up from her breakfast and straight at Albus. Albus instantly knew there was something wrong. While not particularly boisterous or loud, Dominique's disposition was usually upbeat.
"Oh… morning, Albus," she said, her perfect English tinged with the tiniest bit of an accent.
"Hi," Albus replied. Then, suddenly remembering something, he uttered, "Er… happy birthday!"
For today was the fourth of November, and Dominique would be turning fourteen years old.
"Thanks," she replied, smiling a very weak, false sort of smile.
"What are you doing here?" asked Albus. "I thought you didn't like Quidditch."
"I don't," Dominique said. "But the whole school will be here in an hour. I'm not in the mood for crowds today."
"Oh." Albus frowned. "Not even Roxanne?"
Albus knew Roxanne and Dominique, although their personalities differed, were fairly close.
"It's… complicated," Dominique sighed.
"Oh," Albus said again. "…Girl stuff?"
"You could say that," Dominique replied.
Albus wasn't sure what to do. He knew that the chances of Dominique explaining to him why she was so sullen (because it was painfully obvious) were slim to none. At the same time, he wanted to help.
He always wanted to be the one to solve people's problems. His mum always told him that he got that from his father – and that, while it wasn't a bad thing, it wasn't necessarily a good thing, either.
"Well…" Albus finally said, "If you're sure you're alright… I guess I'll see you around."
"Bye," replied Dominique, looking up from her steaming mug of tea as Albus began to walk away.
"C'mon, Al, you're already late!" a shout came from further up the table. Albus looked up and watched Sylvia slide down a hair, rapping the empty spot on the bench where she had just been. Albus settled in next to her and looked up and around at all the people that he knew. Roxanne looked a fair bit like her mum, with her black hair in a myriad of plaits. It looked like it had taken a long time to fix. Tommy Jordan sat next to her, half-leaning against the table while drinking a piping hot cup of something. Richard Murphy's long, lank hair hung somewhat over one of his eyes in front. He kept having to toss his head back to see properly. Sylvia, much like Rowan, had made an obvious effort to dress in Gryffindor colors, with her scarlet sweater and gold lace ribbon in her ponytailed hair.
"What took you?" asked Murphy.
"My roommate needed some help getting ready… don't ask," Albus said, rolling his eyes.
"Well, don't sit there gaping at us like a prat," said Roxanne impatiently. "Hurry up and eat so we can go get seats."
"Good lord, woman – don't get your knickers in a twist," sighed Tommy. "Match doesn't start for near three hours."
"I don't want to have to find out details of the match secondhand, thanks," said Roxanne. "And I'll also thank you to leave my knickers out of the conversation."
Albus couldn't find any possible way to segue from Roxanne's knickers to his area of concern, so he just asked the question: "Any idea why Dominique's sitting over there looking like Christmas just got cancelled?"
Roxanne broke from her rather violent encounter with a biscuit and looked in that direction. Her face grew sullen. "Oh, she's been that way, I dunno… last two weeks."
"What's wrong with her?" asked Tommy. Albus caught a glimpse of a very uncomfortable expression on Roxanne's face.
"Ah, well…" she said, grimacing. "She's kinda hit that stage – you know how it is. She's going through changes…"
"Say no more," said Tommy, raising a hand. Darkly, he added, "I'm serious. I don't want to know."
Roxanne laughed appreciatively – but Albus saw her smile fade for a moment.
James
The stiff breeze whipped James's black hair, making it messier than it had been. He grasped his broom, a school-issued original Firebolt. Another gust of wind unbalanced him for a second.
"Really whipping this morning," muttered Cole Murphy, who had come to James's side to stand next to him.
Murphy walked forward, further into the mostly empty stadium. Turrets surrounded the pitch in a vague ring, the vast majority of them adorned in checkerboard patterns with House colors. A few particularly fanatical Quidditch fans were already taking seats in those towers. James looked around himself. He'd been on (and over) this pitch what seemed like a hundred times in the last couple of months, but only now, with the match now mere hours away, did he gain an appreciation for just how vast it was.
Cole Murphy took a deep breath. "Alright, lads!"
"Excuse me?" called Greta Stanford from somewhere vaguely behind James.
"And lass," Cole added much too late with a weak smile. "As you can probably feel, we've got a bit of a breeze blowing."
"A bit?" repeated tall, blond seventh year Chaser, Gaspar Mitchell. "This is bloody awful. We'll need a miracle for the Chasers to do much scoring in this."
"We'll just have to play good defense, then," replied Cole. "Another thing – from what I've heard, the Chasers on Hufflepuff's bench are nothing to trifle with, either. We can't afford to be lax. And Beaters, be careful. Know what the hell you're doing before you swing. The Bludgers won't fly true in this wind. Aim wrong and you'll wind up cracking someone's head open."
"I thought that was the whole point of being a Beater," grunted Desmond, who looked about ten times more foreboding with Quidditch gear and a Beater's club in his hands.
"Not if it's a Gryffindor head," answered Cole impatiently, putting his hand up to his forehead to smooth back his windblown hair. "And, for God's sake, keep the bloody darks off Malfoy. It's gonna be enough of a time catching the wicked in these conditions."
This was one of the rare times James was very glad he'd spent quite a bit of time around Cole. Otherwise he wouldn't have understood a word Cole was saying. "Darks" were a slang term for Bludgers, derived from their usual jet-black color. The "wicked" was, apparently, the Golden Snitch. James didn't quite understand what the connection was between the Snitch and the word "wicked" – except that it was wicked difficult to catch.
"I wouldn't complain, Murph," Mitch chuckled. "It could be worse. 'Least it's not rai—"
"Don't say it," Cole interrupted with a shudder. "All right, you lot, back into the locker rooms."
James hung back for a moment, staring up into the stands. For once, he had to admit to himself, he wished his dad was here. He was terribly nervous. He knew he could fly well in practice. But doing it with about a thousand people screaming at you and real games at stake was another thing entirely.
" 'Just remember, you're only a Chaser,' " James muttered to himself, because that sounded like the sort of thing his dad would have said at the moment. " 'And a reserve one at that. The whole game isn't on your shoulders.' "
Which was true, thought James, but since he was the son of Harry and Ginny Potter, a lot of eyes would be trained on him – all wanting to see if he had any of his parents' talent. He couldn't very well go out and make a prat of himself with a poor showing. Other people could get away with it in their first game, but since he was a Potter…
"Nervous?" a voice, and one James wasn't expecting, asked. Scorpius was walking toward him, his blond hair every bit as wild as James's black locks, if not moreso.
"You could say I've got a lot to live up to," James answered after a while. "Hey, listen –"
"Forget about it," Scorpius cut him off, shaking his head. "I don't hold any grudge against you."
James was flabbergasted. "Wh – you don't?"
"I never wanted a fight," Scorpius said simply. "And you obviously don't, either. So what's the problem?"
James sighed meaningfully. "Guess there isn't one."
