Disclaimer: J.K.R. owns my heart, and Alex Day my ears. (At least for this chapter.) Both could easily inspire 10,000 words, but this chapter is down by about eight hundred and sixty six (I couldn't force anything to happen; sorry!).
AN: I was determined not to add one of these for Chapter Twenty-Eight, but I just wanted to notify you all: this chapter was delayed in the posting partially because I lost internet connection and partially because I have been bed-ridden for the past three/four days, severely ill. (There was vomiting and many other disgusting symptoms of sickness. Sorry for bringing that up.)
Chapter Twenty-Eight
"Something that Varies"
Or
"To Hogwarts, with Love"
Hogwarts had decorated itself for the month. Everything looked lilac-tinted, and the air smelled like roses. As if coming from nowhere, melodious songs filled the corridors; loud enough to be heard, but quiet enough that one had to stop and listen.
Slughorn had scheduled another small dinner for the Valentine's weekend, but nobody seemed too keen to go. Many deals were being made in common rooms: "I'll go if you go" sort of exchanges. Albus and Rose, however, were not going under any circumstances. They were having tea with Hagrid that evening, and they hadn't done so in a while, so nothing would sway them from this visit.
Plus, it gave them a very good excuse not to spend time with the Potions Master, who tended to talk too much about their parents and insist the same magical talents were hidden inside them. (Which wasn't insulting, but it got very old very quickly.)
Friday rolled in, with the announcement of the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff Quidditch game that would be taking place shortly after Valentine's Day. The eighteenth of February was the closest Saturday to the date, and the match was scheduled accordingly. Gryffindor and Hufflepuff had the pitch divided between them and practice was so intense that neither Slytherin nor Ravenclaw could book the pitch. This probably had something to do with the fact that James was Head Boy, and therefore he oversaw all of the schedules regarding Quidditch; thankfully, he was lenient enough to at least let Hufflepuff use the pitch, rather than having Barbara force him into it. Perhaps he was over-confident.
Hugo was sitting in the stands, watching Gryffindor practice. Though he had no company, he was by no means the only person watching the team up in the air. There were people scattered all around. Thankfully, no one tried to speak to him.
In his mind, Hugo had always imagined being fifteen to be quite different to fourteen, but really, it was not the case. Seven days had passed since his birthday. He had received quite good gifts, ranging from chocolate cauldrons to cases of Keeper supplies, even though he did not yet play for the Gryffindor team. Hopefully, once Wood left, he would have a shot. But ultimately, he was still quite bored with being fifteen. Nothing had changed: Alana still looked smug whenever she saw him, and Lily still looked murderous when she noticed Alana looking smug, and Hugo was still annoyed that he had let himself get so upset over something so miniscule. Yes, the one with Alana had been his first kiss, but it wasn't as though it would be his last. Those were the kisses you were meant to make a big deal out of.
Perhaps this was one of the realizations that came with turning fifteen. No longer being miserable was one drastic improvement, in a sea of unnoticeable ones.
Somebody came over to sit a couple of rows behind him, but they didn't try to interact. When Hugo cast a cautionary look around, it turned out to be Gabbie Sterling, the Ravenclaw Seeker. Two pale blonde plaits trailed over her shoulders from under a light blue beanie, which matched the colour of her jumper. For about three minutes, they didn't speak. Then, Gabbie made the effort to.
'I bet you'd love to be up there with them,' she said, pointing to his cousins flying around above.
'What makes you say that?'
Gabbie shrugged. 'Just the way you watch them.'
'I would have thought James wouldn't let you in to watch,' Hugo noted.
'I don't think he minds too much. We've already played Gryffindor—and we lost, remember? So we're really not much competition in any sense.'
'You could be a spy for Hufflepuff,' he joked, inviting her by way of hand gesture to come down and sit beside him.
'I don't think Hufflepuff would think to use spies,' Gabbie remarked. She hopped delicately between rows until she reached Hugo and sat down.
'Strategy doesn't really seem like their thing, does it?'
She laughed. 'No. It doesn't.'
They sat together in silence for a moment, just watching Lily and Albus muck around with the Quaffle. For the first time in his life, Hugo didn't feel the need to instigate conversation, because for once, the silence wasn't one of discomfort. Roxanne said something to Wood which made him laugh, and then James darted over to resume the plays they had started out to perfect. Hugo didn't see much point in this: the team as a whole were so practiced, so learned in working together, that it didn't really matter.
It was Gabbie who spoke again, and her tone was somewhat tentative.
'I heard about what happened with Alana Harris.'
Hugo reassured her that she hadn't crossed a line of any sort, and then replied: 'Yeah, well, that was a mental decision on my part.'
'Was she your first girlfriend?'
Hugo nodded bitterly.
'Must suck being a Weasley when this sort of thing happens,' Gabbie supposed. 'Given your family, I'd bet it's hard to know if anybody cares about you, or just your name.'
'You've got that pretty well, actually.'
Gabbie smiled. 'I was a bit scared about offending you, to be honest.'
'Nah,' said Hugo. 'You're all right.'
James called his other players over to him in the centre of the pitch. It was slowly beginning to rain, and Gabbie put a hand up to greet the sprinkles of water. She looked over at Hugo.
'Are you going to be alone—you know, in Hogsmeade tomorrow?'
He shrugged. 'I've got a few people who I can spend the day with.'
'That's good,' Gabbie told him. 'Because the last thing Harris deserves is knowing you're not having fun.'
The rain was now falling freely, and James had sent his team back to the changing rooms. It was almost dinnertime. Gabbie and Hugo stood.
'Where are your mates, then?' he asked, looking around at the groups leaving the stands.
The Ravenclaw scrunched up her nose. 'They're trying to finish Potions assignments to look good and get into Slughorn's dinner party.' She put her hands in her pockets and the two of them began the slow walk out of the stands. 'I don't personally see the big deal. His gatherings are all a bit boring, don't you think?'
'They're a bit tedious. The Christmas one was frightful.'
Gabbie laughed. 'So you thought so, too? Thank Merlin I wasn't the only one!'
They reached the exit of the stands. Gabbie stepped under the cover of the tunnel, and Hugo followed, but it was only a little while under dry cover before the short trail from the Quidditch Pitch to the castle. Some other girls in Ravenclaw scarves hurried out onto the road and waved enthusiastically to Gabbie. She looked at Hugo.
'Thanks for the good conversation,' he said, grinning.
'No problem, Hugo.'
She sped up to meet her friends and Hugo couldn't help but notice the difference between Gabbie Sterling and Alana Harris.
James had been quite looking forward to the Hogsmeade visit, though now that he had seen the various reporters lined up with their notebooks, quills and half-hidden cameras in different places around the crowded pub, he was somewhat disheartened.
He was supposed to be on a date with Cordelia—the first proper one since before Christmastime—but both of them were now on watch, alert to the reporters, who were now sitting with cameras positioned in places that they obviously thought were out of the way. Three of them were jotting down notes on their memo pads.
'I'm sorry,' said James, watching his girlfriend blush as a reporter leaned forward to try and catch their conversation. 'This probably isn't your idea of a proper decent date.'
Cordelia shook her head. 'It's okay; I mean, it comes with the territory. It's not like you can help it.'
'Still,' James told her, 'I can't exactly do anything without it ending up on the front page of Witch Weekly.'
She seemed to understand that "do anything" translated to "kiss you", and she frowned. 'Bit of a pity, that.'
James chuckled.
Cordelia pulled a stray lock of hair back behind her ear and took a tentative sip of butterbeer. Her eyes; so like Albus's, only brown in colouring and heavier in eyelashes; trailed around the room, observing the scene. There were various reporters and photographers, including somebody who had decided that Jess Thomas was a very interesting person to interview on the "Cordelia and James" front.
She was trained to think before acting, and was very good at such a thing.
He, however, was more impulsive.
'To hell with the cameras,' James decided, flinging his girlfriend a crooked grin.
He scooted around the curve of the booth to sit right beside her, and then pressed his lips against hers. Cordelia Gilbert's kiss was similar to she: hesitant, gentle at first, then increasing in confidence. She wasn't one for public kisses, but it didn't seem to bother her now.
Hearing the magically-quietened click of camera shutters, the couple edged apart. James stayed in his place beside the Ravenclaw, grinning slightly, just to himself.
The bell above the door of The Three Broomsticks jingled, and a few familiar faces appeared. Fred and Barbara were amongst them, but the two did not seek to join James and his girlfriend. Instead, they slid into a booth vacated recently by a gaggle of third-years.
Cordelia took the last remaining sip of her butterbeer and noticed where James's attention was focused. 'I've never seen two people happier together,' she commented.
The Head Boy turned to her, his eyebrows arched. 'What about us?'
'I've never seen the two of us together,' she told him. 'Except for in fuzzy photographs taken by reporters like those over in corner.'
'What about at Teddy and Victoire's wedding? There's a picture of us there.'
Cordelia looked surprised. 'There is? I never got to see it—we l-left a bit quick for that.' Her face fell as her tone did, and James took her hand.
'Do you want to get out of here?' he suggested.
She nodded hastily, and the two of them slid out of the booth. James glanced over at where a couple of reporters were perched, and the duo looked away immediately, apparently unhappy that they had been caught.
Well it's not as though you made it very difficult, was it?
The Head Boy followed his girlfriend out of The Three Broomsticks, hoping that the rest of their afternoon would be free of reporters. Thankfully, it was.
'Great,' Fred muttered bitterly, watching James and Cordelia step out the door. 'Now all their attention will be on us.'
"They" referred to the Witch Weekly and Daily Prophet correspondents stationed in different places around the room. Barbara's dark hair swished as she followed Fred's gaze, her head moving as she did so.
'They're losing their touch,' she said. Her tone was somewhat disdainful. 'I mean, it's not as though those two are the only "celebrities" alive at the moment.' She noticed Fred's expression and swatted at him with her arm. 'I don't mean us if that's what you think! There's Quidditch players and—that cosmetics witch! What's her name? Carlotta Somebody, and she makes all those herbal remedies—not to mention that Warbeck boy.'
The Head Girl was silent a moment before adding, 'just because his Great Aunt was a singer; doesn't mean he's inherited the skill! I tell you—did you hear that song? What's it called?'
Fred knew little on the subject, but supplied, 'Fire Freed Me?'
'Yes!' Barbara cried, pointing to declare him correct. 'Fire Freed Me! It's ridiculous—he sounds like he's singing from the point of view of a phoenix!'
Fred considered it, swigging his mug of sour ale, and admitted, 'that would be quite an interesting vantage point... you know, as artistic motifs go.'
Barbara nodded begrudgingly. 'I still prefer the Hazel Gobstones.'
Rolling his dark eyes: 'of course you do.'
'What? They're good.'
'They're too... poppy.'
The Head Girl scrunched up her nose and said, somewhat disdainfully, 'I suppose you're more interested in Fever Dungeon.'
Fred nodded. 'Or Talentallegra.'
'Their name was inventive, at least.'
'It's actually quite an accurate description,' Fred thought aloud. 'Some of their faster songs really do make you want to dance uncontrollably.'
'Anything's better than Wonder Witches,' Barbara declared, chuckling slightly.
Wonder Witches were a group of five witches (in case this fact wasn't made redundant by the name), all with long curly hair and short sparkly robes. They were all tiny, though reasonably voluptuous in body shape. Every single one of their songs was about being enamoured with another person, who didn't pay them the slightest attention. Nobody thought these songs were particularly true-to-life, because two of the five Wonder Witches had longstanding relationships with their equally stereotypical boyfriends, and a third was constantly on-and-off with some Quidditch player.
Indeed, it was the Wonder Witches who appeared quite often in Witch Weekly magazine; they were the cover story if a Weasley was not.
'Hey!' Fred reprimanded. 'Give them some credit; all that fast dancing in those tiny outfits—'
'—with blokes just about melting at the slightest whiff of them? Oh, must be a terrible life—'
'—you don't know them—'
'—what? And you do?'
'As a matter of fact,' said Fred loudly, 'yes. I met Gannydrea Lockhart at a party last year. She was very... nice.'
Barbara folded her arms and looked suspiciously at her boyfriend. 'Is there something I should know about?'
Rose Weasley's dark red hair was fluffy and covered over with a thin layer of snow. Her nose was bright pink and her smile, wide.
Breathlessly: 'hi.'
With a small wave in response, her Ravenclaw companion echoed, 'hi.'
Rose pointed over to the door to The Three Broomsticks. Her eyebrows rose up in a silent question. Are we going in there?
Will shook his head. 'Nah. I saw a bunch of Prophet folk going in earlier, and I don't really fancy the whole of Britain knowing how our date went by seven o'clock this evening; do you?'
His company sided with "don't really fancy", and the two of them decided to go up to the Hog's Head instead, where the crowd was much more varied in terms of people. There would definitely be Hogwarts students, but probably a lot of non-teenage guests as well; this allowed Will and Rose more privacy than The Three Broomsticks would have. (Besides, Lottie was in there with another Ravenclaw bloke she'd taken a liking to.)
'So,' the Gryffindor began pointedly, sticking her hands in her pockets. 'Some weather, huh?'
Will looked at her obliquely. 'Isn't it usually the bloke's job to act awkward and talk about such mundane niceties as the weather?'
She shrugged. 'You've been doing this longer than I have.'
'You make me feel old.'
'You're a year older than me,' Rose reasoned.
Raising his eyebrows, Will admitted, 'not quite. I mean, I don't turn eighteen until April.'
'My birthday's the end of this month.'
'Exactly.'
He held the door to the Hog's Head open for Rose and then followed her inside. There were about twenty other people in the pub, all divided into their own little groups. In the corner, there sat a couple of anxious-looking third-years, teetering in their seats and communicating in covert whispers. It was obviously their first time in the Hog's Head.
'So we'll both be seventeen for at least a month,' Will finished.
Rose looked at him slyly. 'You're placing an awful lot of weight on this fact.'
'Yes, but I haven't read too much into it, like you're about to.'
Laughing: 'touché.'
'Bridget Davies?'
'No.'
'Ruby Zabini?'
'No.'
'Emma Dearborn?'
'We're related.'
'How distant?'
'Great Grandma was a Dearborn.'
'Okay, then. Cross Emma off the list.'
Beat.
'What about Melissa Jordan?'
'No.'
'Oh, come on, Al! You've can't be single forever!'
The Gryffindor turned to face his pale blond friend. They were on their way to the Room of Requirement, which had been somewhat of a place for social activity within the school that only their select group of friends knew about.
Scorpius continued to throw out random names of girls in their year or the one below, presumably to get Albus's instant reactions on all of them; this consisted of one vocabulary word: "no".
When they arrived at the Room of Requirement, both thought "We need a place to spend time with friends".
(In his mind, the Slytherin had added: "and probably drink some form of alcohol, should it come to it, but that's not your job, Rory; that's ours.")
"Rory" had become their name for the Room of Requirement, and was especially useful when speaking around other students.
'Are you going to hang out with Rory later?' somebody would ask.
Another of the group would reply, 'yeah, about an hour before dinner; yourself?'
And whenever an outsider asked them who Rory was, a snobbish air would waft in and the person in-the-know would simply say, 'oh, he's just a friend. You don't know him.'
The door to "Rory" opened, and thankfully, it was to the room where Louis, Patricia, Ruby and Andy were already lounging.
'About time, boyfriend,' addressed Patricia.
Scorpius shrugged, and as he made his way over to his girlfriend, he explained the reason for their lateness in thirteen words (none of which involved he and Albus in a heated situation behind the closed door of a broom closet; an improvement), 'it's not my fault Al can't pick a girl he wants to date!'
Louis smirked, while Patricia rolled her eyes and Andy's inspected the floor. A fire crackled in the corner of the room, bathing the space in bright orange light that hurt the eyes.
'Why so disinterested?' Ruby asked Andy, her narrow eyes raking over the Hufflepuff with something of a knowing glance.
After a pause: 'I just don't think the fact Al can't get a girlfriend should rule all our lives.'
'Ouch,' said Albus, holding a hand over his heart like the words had stabbed him. 'That hurt, Andy.'
She poked her tongue out. 'You know I didn't mean it like that.'
'Ooh!' cried a Hufflepuff girl. 'Did you see it?'
Her small friend nodded, shivering. 'It was so icky!'
Fred, who was not entirely sure what the two of them were talking about, leaned in and asked, 'is this the same thing that's got people crowding around Hagrid's Hut?'
Both girls blushed. 'Y-yes,' said the girl who had apparently seen whatever it was. 'It's—it's a giant Acromantula. Dead.'
Fred raised his eyebrows, and then turned to Wood, who had been accompanying him to Hagrid's Hut to see what the fuss was about. Chris looked just as surprised.
'Blimey,' Fred emphasized. 'I'd heard there were Acromantula in the Forbidden Forest, but I didn't believe it.'
The two Hufflepuff girls, taking Fred's withdrawn attention as their cue to leave, hurried off. Both had red faces and were whispering excitedly.
Wood furrowed his eyebrows. 'Should we go? You know—to check it out?'
'If it hasn't been moved by now... who in their right mind would leave a great whopping spider corpse lying around? Especially where first-years could get to it!'
They hurried out of the Entrance Hall and down the path to where a collective crowd was thronging around the mass. Three boys darted past the seventh-years, eager to get away from what they had set eyes on. Spotting Molly, Fred and Wood shuttled in beside her.
It was, indeed, the corpse of an Acromantula. A massive spider, its spindly legs curled in toward its body. Chris winced.
Hagrid approached them, white in the face (well, what little of his face Fred could see through his bushy, black facial hair). 'That's the firs' Acromantula I've seen down this way since over twen'y years ago.' The giant man checked his wristwatch. 'It's gettin' on ter one o'clock. Yeh better be clearin' off fer yer afternoon lessons now.'
Eager to turn away from the hideous corpse, Molly, Fred and Wood bade Hagrid farewell and headed back along the path to the castle.
'What did you hear about that thing down at Hagrid's Hut?'
Ruby, who was sitting across the room brushing her hair, shrugged. 'Just that it was an Acromantula.' She paused, in both speaking and in the process of grooming herself. 'It was, wasn't it?'
Kathryn nodded, looking thoughtful. 'I saw it before Care of Magical Creatures—it was awful. Absolutely disgusting. What are they doing on Hogwarts grounds?'
'I heard there was a whole colony in the Forbidden Forest,' Venice put in. She had, up until this point, been reading Past, Present & Beyond: A Beginning Seer's Guide to Divination, and it was the first time in three months or more that any of the girls had heard her speak a word not relating to Shelley or McCormick or the two of them together.
'Really?' asked Kathryn. Her face held distaste. 'That's no way to run a school—what if one had attacked a student?'
'Apparently it has, once or twice,' said Venice. 'But nothing awful happened.'
'That was a very contradictory statement.'
'Shut up, Zabini.'
'You shut up, Higgs.'
A lot can happen in a year. You can look back and think of how you were a completely different person. You can form new relationships, or get out of old ones. You can write a book, you can put together an album; you can cook over 365 new recipes.
By February 8, 2024—which was exactly one year away from the present—many things would have occurred.
James Potter would have made a bad decision, Fred Weasley would have made a good one; Albus Potter wouldn't have made the right one, and Hugo Weasley would be glad he made the one he did.
Scorpius Malfoy would have asked a good question, Louis Weasley would have left one unanswered; Cordelia Gilbert would have raised two or three, Patricia Day would have replied to a very important phrase, and Barbara Tennant would have said one word to shape the rest of her life.
A lot of other things would happen, too. (Some very much more significant.)
But—and I do hope you'll forgive me for this many-a-time uttered sentence—we'll get to that much later.
Elena Finnigan had never been good at making decisions. They usually involved things blowing up in her face (which happened a lot; both figuratively and physically), and were just messy over-all. She wasn't particularly skilled in the realm of subtlety either, and so there was very little to be done about her current predicament that wasn't simply "keep quiet and not tell anyone". Because this secret wasn't exactly the one she could tell her dorm-mates about, especially not given their relatives, and Elena was finding being cooped up in such a dormitory quite difficult at the moment. Perhaps she could start sleeping over with Barbara.
'You excited for the Spain trip, then?' Quentin Embry asked her at breakfast-time.
She exhaled. 'Let me use the next four months to build up some enthusiasm.'
It wasn't that Quentin Embry was a bad lad—Muggleborns usually weren't, for some reason—but all Elena could focus on in that moment was the dilemma she was facing, and nobody else mattered.
Later that day, in Potions, she was partnered with a speckled bloke named Gerald Dickinson. He wasn't completely unfortunate: tall with wiry hair and a yellow-and-black tie; Elena might have tried to strike up conversation if she wasn't having trouble focusing. About forty-four minutes into the lesson, once their brewed Amortentia was on the boil, Gerald Dickinson found reason to speak.
'I wanted to be partnered with Molly Weasley,' he told Elena.
'Well, I'm sorry to disappoint.'
Dickinson looked over at her. 'I didn't mean to be rude, I just thought it was better you knew. She's really smart... and fit—'
'—and-recently-single-so-I'm-gathering-you-think-you'd-either-be-able-to-slip-her-some-Amortentia-or-perhaps-even-get-her-to-bed-you-without-it?'
Stirring their potion to check its progress, Dickinson replied, 'are you always this insightful, or do you genuinely think I could get in with her?'
Elena contemplated shoving his wiry head into the bubbling cauldron in front. She would undoubtedly fail for the lesson, so she refrained, instead telling him: 'you sound like a sick pervert. If you think you stand a chance with somebody like Molly Weasley, then you'll need to clean up your act. Oh,' she added as an afterthought, 'and you should probably brush your hair, too.'
'Why do you hate me?'
'Why did you just ask me if I thought you'd have an easy time bedding one of my best mates?'
Dickinson bit his lip. 'I probably should have worked up to that.'
'No,' Elena corrected, 'you never should've brought it up at all. Case closed. End of story. Punch-line reached.'
'Punch-line reached? Really—reaching the punch-line?'
'I'll reach your punch-line, Gerald Dickinson; no problem!'
POTTER BOY PUBLIC WITH PASSION
by Noelle Turpin
If you had asked around in the streets of London twelve months ago about James Sirius Potter, you wouldn't have heard anything about a girlfriend. However, now that vivacious Ravenclaw Cordelia Gilbert has caught his eye, there's no sign of stopping. The two have been dating steadily since late September, and have always been relatively quiet about their relationship.
The two of them were seen last week in The Three Broomsticks, a popular Hogsmeade pub (presumably on a trip from their schooling at Hogwarts), and things were definitely heating up!
Readers, I'll have you know that I witnessed this with my own eyes, and I tell you, it's the real deal. The two began the outing calmly; remaining on their opposite sides of the compartment, as you see in the pictures above. (Doesn't Cordelia have wonderful fashion sense? Oh, she's the sweetest!)
But after about fifteen minutes or so, talking about the strain James is put under, what with being a public figure, all pretence was abandoned. The seventeen-year-old Potter could stand it no longer—he scooted around to his girlfriend and the two shared a passionate kiss.
The only problem I can see the two of them facing in the future would be the fact that James is leaving Hogwarts at the end of this year and—really—when you're who he is, who wants to keep a relationship going with a girl back at school? It's sad, of course, but a realistic truth.
One of our sources (a close classmate of Potter's) commented on this: "I don't know, but [er...] the two of them will make it through and decide things for the better. [I mean] it's their relationship. Who are we to judge?"
The world's on their side! Let's hope for the best, yes? Send in your responses to the address on page thirteen!
That weekend was not one for a trip to Hogsmeade, nor one for a Quidditch match. Many people continued to talk about the Acromantula carcass, even though it had long been removed from the grounds, and how it could have possibly got there in the first place. ("How dare they let things like that near a school?" complained one Slytherin third-year as she exited the library.)
The students in relationships were preparing for Valentine's Day; those not were looking on with loathing. Horace Slughorn was constantly reminding the people involved that he was holding a Valentine's weekend do, and that they were all certainly invited. He seemed extremely disappointed that Rose and Albus couldn't make the trip ("it is a pity about the two of you having to go down to Hagrid's...") but, by his bad luck—and by their good—nothing could be done on the matter.
Dear Lily,
Things have been going really well at home—your father and I have been having to jinx every other reporter ("What do you think of your son's relationship with that Ravenclaw bird?"-blah-blah-blah)—but apart from that, everything's quite nice.
I got a letter from Neville a while ago telling me that you'd used the Bat-Bogey Hex on that horrible girl who was awful to Hugo. Don't tell anybody I said this, but good job! She deserves it 100%, and Uncle Ron wants to tell you you're his favourite niece (even if Aunt Hermione wishes you hadn't gotten yourself in trouble). Classic.
Make sure to keep me posted on how everything is.
(Oh and I know that Professor Slughorn's dinner parties are a drag, but just struggle through them, all right? You never know who you'll meet.)
Lots of love,
Mum
'What the hell is this? Who's sodding boyfriend is at fault?'
It did not have to be said that Cordelia Gilbert's Valentine's Day did not start out smoothly. (Unless, of course, the definition of "smoothly" in the dictionary is synonymous with "lots of shouting from Bridget Davies, accompanied by a dormitory covered in red rose petals and smelling of sour sweets, liquorice and Honeyduke's Finest".)
The Quidditch Captain looked around the room evidently as curious as the other girls. They sat up in bed for a few silent, curious moments before Shelley Corner stumbled into the room, her hair rumpled and her lipstick slightly stained. At the sight of the roses and various sweets around the room, she smiled slightly.
A declaration: 'Dylan is so adorable.'
It was as though she had no qualms that it was he who had sent the gifts. Tabitha Perkins climbed out of bed and said, 'I don't know, Shelley; perhaps it's from that Smith boy—he's been smitten with Bridget for months, hasn't he?'
Miss Corner and Miss Davies both blushed. Sarah Boot, pushing her duvet back and looking around the room, decided: 'let's look for a card, eh? Before we go slinging around uncertainties.'
Cordelia hastened out of her four-poster to help in the search. It was not a moment before she located, on the top of an old stack of letters, a new card addressed in the half-developed scrawling of a teenage boy. The note was addressed to her.
Shelley sighed at this news.
'Well, what does it say?' Bridget pressed.
'If the details aren't too graphic,' Sarah mended in a hurry.
Cordelia threw her a look before reading aloud, '"Hey, Poppins. It's been a while since I've called you that, isn't it? Oh well, no matter. Anyway, Happy Valentine's Day. I hope you like the sweets. I'll see you in a bit. And if it doesn't seem to corny or over-done: Love, James."' She paused, glancing up at her roommates. '"P.S. I did a bit of counting and we've been together six and a half months (roughly). Don't know why I felt the need to tell you that; I just thought it was cool."'
Tabitha was smiling to herself when the Prefect looked up. In her hand, she held a little package of sweets, like so many others around the room. She eyed them tentatively and Cordelia nodded: go ahead; it's alright.
'I think Cordelia liked James's surprise.'
The Entrance Hall was quite crowded, but even across it, Fred and Barbara could see the two Quidditch Captains embracing one another in front of the entrance to the Great Hall. The Head Girl looked over at her boyfriend.
'I still like my gift just as much,' she said.
She had awoken that morning to, not only a new Hazel Gobstones album, but a house-elf dressed up in pink with a poem to recite—
Though not much for romance or crisis,
Fred Weasley knows what "being nice" is:
So on Valentine's Day,
He's sent Trinket to say
That he wants to give Barbara a big kiss!
—then Trinket the house-elf stepped aside and revealed her boyfriend, who had been hiding under James-and-Al's Invisibility Cloak until that point, and the elf vanished with a pop!, allowing the two eighteen-year-olds to pull each other in and... well, needless to say... do as the song explained, really.
But Barbara certainly thought the grand gesture rated equally to filling a room with rose petals and sweets. It was certainly much more personal.
Accompanying Fred into the Great Hall, the Head Girl crossed the massive area and took a seat towards the front end of Gryffindor table. Rose was a little way down, trying to keep a delicate silver-crystal bracelet out of her friends' grasp, and Hugo was casting glances around the room: over Ravenclaw table and then back to his own, but not contributing greatly to any frivolity. No relatives tried to distract Fred or Barbara from one another.
Professor Sprout stood up and gave a warm speech about Valentine's Day, though many people weren't paying attention. Professor Dryden, Barbara noticed, was sitting with a pile of pink-purple-and-red pieces of parchment on the table beside him; many of the older students—girls, mostly—were throwing covert glances at the valentines and giggling. Professor Longbottom nudged Dryden, smirking, but the young Scottish wizard rolled his eyes and swatted him away with a free hand.
'Reckon that bloke's getting more valentines than Al is,' Fred snickered, tilting his head first towards the teachers' table and then to a spot further down their own, where multi-coloured pieces of parchment were flying over to rest beside an absolutely red-faced Al.
'I give Dryden until lunch before he takes over,' Barbara challenged.
'One Sickle?'
The Head Girl raised her eyebrows. 'I don't bet.'
'Five kisses?'
'That's much easier.'
(Barbara won the "bet", though I suppose winning didn't really matter much, in the end.)
A song named Wander was playing in the Room of Requirement during Patricia and Scorpius's afternoon free. They were alone, and the Room was controlled in such a way that the two Slytherins knew they would continue to be, unless either of them decided not to be. Hoards of angry students could have been jinxing the hall outside, screeching for the Room to open, and it would not.
In case the point hasn't been made clear to you yet: Patricia and Scorpius were alone.
And they would be, for as long as they liked.
'You're absolutely beautiful.'
Patricia turned, cutting off the song just as "I never thought you'd hear me in my..." began. She looked slowly at her boyfriend, as though she was somewhat surprised about what he had just said. As far as Scorpius knew, she had never been told such a thing before. Not by any other boys. She could have been told for years, by him, with the same sincerity, but instead, both had remained quiet about their feelings.
The way her eyes looked at him now: a brown which he had never before thought, as a colour, could be so telling. Somehow, this brown was wonderful; the most beautiful shade of any he had ever seen. Scorpius could see nothing but surprise, and he loved her for it. He loved her modesty and he loved her slight smile as she realized he was telling the truth and he loved her long hair and he loved how she flicked it back over her shoulder and he also loved her for not understanding that she was completely magnificent. He loved her for every moment of the year and he loved her for the blank hours between evening and dawn and he loved her.
And he was usually better at keeping it from rushing up on him like this.
'You are,' Scorpius continued. 'I know I don't tell you enough.' He paused. 'I also don't tell you that I love you, which is quite a big mistake. Because you might end up with somebody who tells you twice as often and means it half as much and that would be quite unfortunate.'
Patricia smiled again. Then she sighed quietly. She stood up to pace over to him, snaking her hands around his abdomen and looking up into his grey-green eyes.
'You're just saying this because it's Valentine's Day,' she tried.
Scorpius tilted his head. 'Perhaps. But isn't it nice to hear, regardless? I love you.'
Patricia closed her eyes and leaned closer into his chest. 'I love you, too.'
'How much do you love me?'
'More than you love me.'
Scorpius chuckled. He looked down at her fondly. 'Unlikely.'
'No,' said Patricia lightly. 'Bloody terrifying; that's what it is.'
'Why do you think you love me more than I love you?'
She opened her eyes, and pulled back so that he could see into them. 'Because this sort of thing doesn't just happen. Two people aren't just best mates forever and then suddenly fall in love. It doesn't work that way. Life's never that fair.'
Scorpius raised an eyebrow. 'Why not?'
'It just isn't,' Patricia told him; in that kind of defeated, honest tone that only girls can utter.
'May I just remind you that the two of us did promise that we would get married by twenty-five as a "practical choice"?'
'It's not my fault your family has mountains of gold.'
Scorpius laughed. 'I fancied you then,' he admitted.
Patricia nodded. 'Me too.'
'You should've tried for twenty,' he breathed.
She raised her eyebrows. 'Would you have?'
'Of course.'
They looked at one another a moment: gentle, enjoying the moment. Patricia leaned up on her tip-toes, and Scorpius leaned downward; down to the girl around whom his arms were already placed.
They kissed and it felt like forever.
Neville Longbottom quite enjoyed being a teacher.
He liked knowing that he was making life easier for somebody who was, in their own way, very similar to him. He had been just as clueless, just as practically inept as any of his first-years, at one point or another. Then again, they were probably less dismal at Potions, but none of them had had to endure time under Severus Snape's teaching.
Neville Longbottom enjoyed the comings and goings of the students. He enjoyed watching them grow, develop, become the adults he had been waiting for them to.
James had fulfilled all these categories, to the greatest extent. He was Head Boy, for crying out loud—like his grandfather had been; like Harry probably would have been, thought Neville, if he had concerned himself with returning to school. But there wasn't much thought to be placed on what might have been. (Though top of the class, James wasn't necessarily academic.)
Albus was difficult to fault. He looked so much like his father that Neville almost addressed him by "Harry" at times. And Lily—Lily looked so similar to Ginny that it was almost as though the two Potters were their parents incarnate. (If they had to be, James would have been his namesake, for he looked like Harry but with darker eyes.)
Neville Longbottom had not thought in depth about coming of age, or love, or magic, or marriage, for a very long time. But perhaps that time was creeping up on him again; not in his own case, but in that of his students. Though he rather hoped none were eloping too soon.
But coming of age and love and magic... those were all easier topics to stomach.
Shelley Corner didn't love her boyfriend.
(She prided herself on the fact that she was not a fool enough for "love".)
Shelley Corner didn't need James Potter.
(She thought it would have been nice to have him, though.)
Shelley Corner didn't know much about things that weren't lust or blokes.
(She was a bit worried that she was starting to care about McCormick...)
'We've got our game against Hufflepuff tomorrow.'
Barbara Tennant looked pretty under orange torchlight.
She and Fred were sitting together in the Heads' Office; the former lying on the floor using her boyfriend's Weasley jumper as a pillow, and the latter sitting a little way off looking over Quidditch plays on a piece of moving parchment.
'I just hope nobody takes a Bludger to the head this time,' Barbara replied, looking up at him from her place on the floor.
'Don't you fancy seeing me in a bed?' teased Fred.
The Head Girl chuckled. 'Not injured.'
With a sigh: 'I guess that whole thing depends—has Hufflepuff hired Connery for the match?'
Though his tone was one of jest, Barbara didn't smile.
'He felt awful! Cordelia said—Poor lad!' she told Fred, swatting at him from a far distance. He caught onto her hand and held it, slowly pulling her up by the arm until they were sitting almost side by side.
The Beater grinned at his girlfriend. Slowly, she returned the gesture. He pulled her in for a myriad of kisses, and she smiled into them all, because the debt Fred owed for losing the "bet" of Valentine's Day was most definitely repaid, and despite this, Barbara was not about to stop him.
Yes, they had a Quidditch game in the morning. But the Quidditch game wasn't until morning.
Albus woke up at four in the morning, which was a good hour or two before he had to—or possibly would have liked to—but due to the fact that if he went back to sleep, he probably wouldn't get up again for at least eleven hours, and also that Kane McLaggen snored loud enough to wake a bear from hibernation, the sixth-year decided it was probably best to roll with the punches (well, hopefully not punches) and to go with what had already happened.
He took a bit longer in the shower than was probably necessary, but since nobody else seemed to be awake when he exited the bathroom in his Quidditch robes. Albus tried twice to alert Louis before departing the dormitory for either Gryffindor common room or—if time was better—the Great Hall.
Lily and Roxanne were already downstairs, dressed in similar robes to Albus. The two of them seemed to be on the topic of who was a better Keeper out of the four at Hogwarts: both were partial to Chris Wood, of course, but Lily supposed Will Bowen was a close second.
Nobody needed reminding that it was Gryffindor's final game of the season. They had played Ravenclaw and Slytherin, and now there was only this game, and the one between the Blues and the Greens at the end of May to decide everything. James had worked everything out: they were already 110 points above their closest competition—Ravenclaw—and if Gryffindor beat Hufflepuff today (which wasn't a big "If", really) by more than 200 points, it would be difficult to counter in the last Ravenclaw-Slytherin game, especially with the two sides facing the opposition they were.
Granted, the whole thing had sounded a lot more evidential, planned and proper when James announced it to the common room last night.
'Bright and early, aren't you?' Albus's sister noticed.
'I could say the same to you.'
Roxanne notified him: 'James went jogging twenty minutes ago, and as far as we know, Chris is still asleep.'
Having been told about the rest of the team, Albus asked what was happening with Fred and Barbara. Were they awake? The clock said five thirty, which was much earlier than the sixth-year would have liked. He did not notice Lily and Roxanne exchanging looks.
'The two of them—er,' began Roxanne, chewing her bottom lip anxiously. 'Well...'
There was a pause.
'"Well"?' Albus pressed.
Lily looked as though she were trying not to smile. 'They—er—they h-haven't... they haven't been in.'
The sixth-year's green eyes widened. He let out a breathy laugh. 'Not all night?'
Roxanne and Lily shook their heads. 'The two of us would have heard her coming up to the Head dormitory. No such interruption.' Roxanne paused. 'You would've heard Fred; he's just upstairs from you and with the bloody ruckus he's always making, you'd hear him from the capital of bleeding Botswana, wouldn't you?'
Still chuckling, Albus considered the point and nodded when he found Roxanne correct.
"Bleeding Botswana."
There was a new voice in the stands today: it was neither Scamander twin, nor Melissa Jordan, but instead somebody unexpected: Jenna, the younger sister of a very well-known sixth-year Hufflepuff. (The two sisters so closely resembled each other that, from afar, Albus thought it was Andy.)
'Hello, Hogwarts!' called the fifth-year. 'It's a lovely day down at the Quidditch pitch—good winds, yes, running west with a bit of sou'-easterly—the two teams are about to enter the field! You know 'em, you love 'em—well, perhaps a few grouchy Slytherins don't, but let's be generalists for a bit, eh?—here's Hufflepuff!'
The first player shot out of the tunnel off the pitch, and when their names were called, the others followed suit: 'Clarke! Cadwallader! Macmillan! Smith! Finch-Fletchley! Eckert!'
Jenna paused for dramatic effect. '...and Burns!'
Once everybody had finished cheering for Hufflepuff—or, rather, once Hufflepuff (and half of Ravenclaw, most of whom felt bad) had finished cheering for Hufflepuff—the Gryffindor team was called.
'Tennant! Potter... Potter... Potter...! Weasley, Weasley... and Wood!'
Five minutes had passed. Lily had scored a goal for Gryffindor, and after a foul from Hufflepuff Eckert (who was playing on a Quidditch team for the first time this year and really was quite awestruck at the concept of the Lily Potter approaching him under any circumstance; he had simply stopped in mid-air and cut her off), she was now shouting a penalty.
'Potter goes left, but it's a fake! Burns bites it! Thirty-nil to Gryffindor; good job, lions.'
Of course, knowing Jenna, her mouth ran off and her tangents grew long: rants on how Miles Clarke was only half nice, the fact everybody thought James Potter was cripplingly attractive, and her thoughts in relation to Albus and how he should probably find a girlfriend out of his close, personal friends soon, otherwise he would lose the opportunity.
Professor Longbottom gave her one last chance before he took the megaphone away.
'Sorry about that, folks! Okay, so it's Hufflepuff in possession...'
Macmillan and Cadwallader scored a goal apiece, and James and Albus raised them both figuratively and literally; the former taking care of the "literally" after his brother scored two goals. The Head Boy probably would have been reprimanded for his indecent gestures if it hadn't been up in the air and so skilfully hidden from teachers' eyes.
Fred's eyes were following Barbara's attempts at the Golden Snitch almost more attentively than he was watching the Bludgers in play. Clarke continued hot on her tail, flying above and slightly behind the Head Girl.
Though he knew there was nothing there, and that the whole thing was a bloody Quidditch game for crying out loud, Fred couldn't help but be wary. Miles Clarke looked good on paper, and from afar, but the Gryffindor Beater knew what pricks lay underneath.
(Which was a pity, really, because he'd been waiting for Rose to screw up again so he could use "every rose has its thorn" on her and not some Merlin-Mary Hufflepuff.)
Miles Clarke took a Bludger to the shoulder seven minutes later, at which time James Potter scored a goal with his eyes closed while holding onto his broom one-handed just to prove to everyone he could, and Barbara Tennant caught the last Snitch she ever would as the Gryffindor Seeker.
Hufflepuff had managed to score four more goals, but this was mostly because Wood felt pitying, and the entirety of Gryffindor house departed the stands with nothing but a well-earned party on their minds.
At this party, which lasted for almost twelve hours and celebrated nothing in particular (minus their win and probable Quidditch Cup success), there were barrels of butterbeer, flasks of firewhiskey, and a Ravenclaw who refused to enter the Gryffindor common room under the directive that it "wasn't allowed".
'Bloody law-abiding citizens...' James grumbled. 'Goody-Two-Shoes Ravenclaws...!' He had already drank a pint of mead.
Cordelia Gilbert observed the Head Boy. 'You,' she scolded, 'are supposed to set an example. Not get drunk and frolic about in front of first-years.'
'First-years, my arse,' said James, who did not take to Firewhiskey particularly well when previously exhausted (Quidditch games were physically and emotionally draining). 'We told them all to go to bed or outside or dinner or something... or at least that's what Felix said had happened.'
The Ravenclaw raised her eyebrows, peeking through the portrait hole. She pointed to a girl in the corner. 'She is Verity Cattermole; one of the youngest in her year, so my brother says.' Folding her arms, she added: 'And she's a firstie.'
'W-Well,' James spluttered, 'a-apart from Verity Cattermole...' In hopes to distract her from his plain guilt, he changed the subject: 'Come in! You won't get in trouble!'
He dodged a flying slice of sponge cake as it soared out of the portrait hole. Cordelia stepped a bit further away from where it fell, before pulling out her wand and Vanishing the mess with an almost lazy flick of her wand.
'Come on—please?'
The Ravenclaw shook her head. 'No. Really. It's dinnertime anyway; seems like you lot are eating up here, so I'll just head off to the Great Hall and eat tea with Bridget...'
'Is this because I'm not as good at "not drinking" as you are?'
She had already half-turned to leave, and then Cordelia shook her head. 'No,' she continued to say for what seemed like the eightieth time, 'it's not because you've had a pint or whatever it is that's making you... marginally not right... it's because it's dinnertime and I'm hungry and I don't want to risk getting in trouble by "partying" with your entire house.'
'Not the first-years,' James reminded her.
Cordelia chuckled. 'No—not the first years.'
'Imagine how weird that must feel,' said Andy.
The fair-haired boy in the green-and-silver tie turned to her. 'What?'
'You know... the fact that James Potter, Fred Weasley, Barbara Tennant and Christopher Wood are never going to play a Hogwarts Quidditch game again?'
Scorpius looked up at Patricia, whose legs he was leaning on since he sat on the grass and she on a tree root placed significantly higher. Patricia considered the Hufflepuff's statement. 'Same for Miles Clarke, but I don't really think anybody will miss going against him.'
'Nah,' Scorpius put in. 'But those Gryffindors...' He paused, taking a moment to be simply in thought. 'I don't know—it'll be interesting to see who they get to replace everybody.'
As though on cue, Albus and Louis strolled by. They seemed to have heard their friends' conversation.
'I've already had a few ideas,' the Gryffindor Prefect confided.
'Yeah? Like who?'
'Do you know Liz Pembridge? Our year, Gryffindor; strong-willed, stubborn; sort of stocky?'
The company nodded with different degrees of certainty.
'She's a great Beater,' Albus told them. 'And Lily's probably going to switch to Seeker; Hugo likes the idea of playing Keeper, because that's what he does at home, but...' He stopped, looking slyly over at them all. 'I can't trust any of you,' he said with dawning realization. 'You're all from other houses—hell, Scorpius, you're the Captain of the Slytherin team! You'd probably drop a statue on Liz's head!'
Scorpius frowned. 'Well, I can't do it now that you know...'
Louis looked at his cousin. 'You're going to have to deal with this, mate; you're the easy candidate for captain.'
The other three nodded slightly. Patricia watched a collection of third-year boys marvelling at a trail of spiders making their way to the Forbidden Forest and she herself shuddered.
Things were going to be weird come September, but Quidditch might not just be all.
Tuesday morning was going nicely. Everything was serene, and the day had been easy-going. Nobody had been stressed. It was for this reason that almost everyone in the castle was set into a sort of calm state, as though nothing was wrong in the world. "Idyllic."
'Me and Louis used to talk about having birthdays together when we were little,' Rose confided. 'Mine is always a week after his: last day of February.' Her dreamy tone faded and she added, 'except on a leap year, of course.'
Melissa continued in the process of gnawing on a quill as she finished her Charms homework. 'And this birthday's the special one: seventeen! What do you want to do?'
'I don't know,' sighed Rose. 'I don't really think I want to do any—'
The door flew off its hinges and shattered into a thousand wooden shards on the floor at the end of the room.
'—I hate her! I hate that slagheap: that ugly bint! Who does she think she is? I have been seeing this bastard for two bloody weeks and then she—she just—how dare she? He was going out with me! She's meant to have a bloody—I can't believe somebody would just—I hate her!'
