"Expelliarmus!" Hermione shouted, sending a jet of light at her opponent. A second later, she heard the satisfying clatter of a wand hitting the ground.

"Hey, that's not fair! You got me when I wasn't looking!" Ron shot back angrily.

"Oh I'm sorry Ron, you're right. 'Cause You-Know-Who is totally going to wait until you're paying attention to hex you!"

"Will you two cut it out already?" Harry, who had come up to watch their practice, glared at them. Then, in an undertone: "Good job, Hermione."

She gave him a small grin, trying - and failing utterly - not to look self-satisfied. Their secret Defence group was barely into its third meeting, and Hermione already felt that she was improving greatly, as were many of the others. Neville had already managed to cast the Impediment jinx without knocking himself off his feet, and Ginny had gotten so good that people were afraid to partner with her.

The success of Dumbledore's Army was even sweeter because it distracted her from the complete lack of progress in her other project. Her calculations were going nowhere, she frequently found herself feeling nauseous and somehow off, and, worst of all, strange things had begun to happen again. The other day, she had been repotting Shrivelfig seedlings in Herbology and, feeling a strange tingling in her fingers, looked down to see that her hands seemed to be fading into nonexistence. It had lasted for all of ten seconds, as Hermione stood there frozen in horror, and then it simply stopped. She didn't sleep a wink that night, or the night after.

"...next Tuesday at the same time, alright?" Harry was saying, "You all did a great job today, you should be proud of yourselves."

He's turning out to be a good leader, Hermione thought as she watched people filter out of the room. If things continue to go this well, we may actually have a chance in this war.

She left as well, but instead of returning to Gryffindor tower with the others, she spent a dull thirty minutes doing rounds of the first floor classrooms. Deciding that she'd put in a decent effort, Hermione made her way back to the Room of Requirement, having seen some interesting books in there during practice and hoping that, if she asked it nicely, the room might favor her with some new materials about time-travel.

But the room had other plans for her tonight, it seemed. Creeping down the seventh floor hallway, she was surprised to see that the black door was visible, meaning that someone was inside. Prying the door open as carefully as she could, Hermione peered inside and saw…

Cho Chang, of all people, who seemed to be doing some sort of very complex dance. More bizarre still, her hands were alight with blue flames, which made beautiful patterns as she moved. Every now and then she would raise her arms in a slow arc and send the flames shooting forth in a powerful surge.

Hermione was entranced, and her legs, as though of their own volition, carried her forward into the room. She must have stood there staring for nearly a minute, no doubt wearing an idiotic expression, before the other witch noticed her.

"Oh! Merlin," Cho clasped a hand to her chest, "Hermione, you scared me! I thought it might have been Umbridge!"

"Well I guess we're both lucky it wasn't."

Cho smiled a bit, but otherwise said nothing, clearly expecting the notoriously scrupulous Gryffindor to launch into one of her lectures.

"Sorry to barge in on you, I-um...I was just wondering what you were doing?" .

"Oh, you saw that, huh?" Cho said, nervously. "Well, to be honest, it's something I'm not really supposed to be doing...Listen, I know you're a Prefect and all, but, could you please just keep this to yourself?" She'd come closer, a pleading look on her face. She was so close that Hermione could smell her shampoo.

You're such a sucker, Hermione thought, with a flicker of disgust. "I'm not going say anything, Cho. We really need this room for the D.A. and if I file a report, Umbridge might find out about it." The Gryffindor didn't have to tell the other witch that she, herself, had been about to break the rules to read in here.

"Oh. I didn't even think about that!" Cho exclaimed, paling.

"I'm really curious though, what you were doing...was it a dance? Or a spell?"

"Well... it's sort of both. It's a really old fighting form where you channel your magical energy through movement, its...kind of like wandless magic," Cho explained.

"It's amazing," Hermione replied breathlessly,"I've never seen anything like it!"

"Thanks," the Ravenclaw said, clearly pleased at the compliment."My grandmother taught me when I was young - she was considered one of the best in the world! She's gone now, but I still practice it whenever I can. It helps me concentrate, you know."

Hermione tilted her head thoughtfully. "But how come you said you're not supposed to be doing it? Because it's past curfew?"

Cho flushed."Well, no... I mean that too, but mainly because…well, it's kind of illegal."

"Illegal?"

"Yes. In this country, at least. The British banned it back in the 19th century, when a lot of Chinese wizards were trying to come here. They said it was really dangerous dark magic."

"And...is it?"

"Of course not," Cho said with irritation, "no more than your typical wand-waving, but people fear what they don't understand, right? They put my Grandmother in Azkaban for it, the idiots. When she was 86."

"That's terrible!" Hermione said sympathetically, thinking of Hagrid and Sirius, and all the rest who had been imprisoned unjustly. "Although this is the same Ministry that thinks all Muggles are half-witted disease-carriers, so I'm not surprised. "

Cho snorted at that, and they shared a look of commiseration. But it only lasted a moment before the awkwardness of the situation reasserted itself.

"To be honest, I was coming here to read," Hermione blurted to fill the silence, and instantly felt foolish.

"Well that makes sense, I don't like reading in my common room either. And my dorm-mates don't exactly live up to the Ravenclaw name, you know. It's hard to concentrate when they're giggling like mad over some stupid gossip all the time."

"I know how that feels like, Lavender and Parvati are awful!"

They spent a few minutes trading stories, and Hermione soon found herself wishing for a couple of armchairs and a nice of cup of tea...and as soon as she had thought of it, the room obliged.

If Cho found this strange, however, she didn't mention it. Instead she curled up in one of the chairs and grabbed a Ginger Newt from the tin which had materialized on the table. Hermione watched her face, lovely by the light of the fire, as they sat in silence.

"Everyone thinks I've lost it, you know," Cho said, not looking at her.

"Well...I don't think that."

"People don't understand what it's like though. When someone you love dies, it's like a part of you dies too…" she trailed off, and Hermione could see her eyes mist over. She wondered if Cho, despite her many hangers-on, really had anyone to talk to.

"Cedric-" Hermione began, but the other witch cut her off.

"It's not just Cedric. My dad died last spring. Potions accident."

Hermione pitied her more then, if that was even possible. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," Cho replied, bitterly."He was a complete arsehole. Always making my mum cry. He made really bad investments, too. We nearly lost our house."

The look on Cho's face was hard as she stared into the flames, and Hermione stayed quiet.

"I didn't like him very much, to be honest. But... it still hurts. A lot."

When it seemed like Cho was really on the verge of tears, Hermione asked the first thing that came to mind: "How's your mother taking it?"

"Not well. She really loved him, for some reason, and now she has to work all the time. And my sister's had to put off her apprenticeship to get a job, and she thinks I'm not helping out enough. She doesn't say anything, but I know she resents me."

Hermione felt a pang of recognition at that, thinking of her own father.

"And I can't even sleep anymore, all I dream about is Cedric dying, over and over and over...I think I'm going mad… that's why I come here sometimes, to clear my head," Cho continued. Then, seeming to recollect herself, she looked at Hermione, apologetic. "Sorry to dump all of this on you, I know you probably didn't expect to listen to me complain all night."

"I don't mind," Hermione replied, thinking how strangely soothing it was to sit there in the Ravenclaw's mournful presence; she felt more at ease in that moment than she had felt all term.

That saying about misery loving company must have been true, after all.

A sudden fierce longing to tell someone what happened that summer - to share her terrible secret with just one other living soul - seized her, and without considering, she burst out: "Can I... tell you something?"

"Of course," Cho looked at her intently, and her gaze was so clear and guileless that Hermione couldn't bear the weight of it.

"Umm…" Quick! Think of something, anything! "Um… Harry fancies you."

A moment of stunned silence passed as Cho tried to absorb this piece of information and Hermione berated herself for the thoughtless betrayal.

"I...I really shouldn't have told you that…" You're just as bad as Ron, you idiot.

"Well, at least that explains why he always acts so odd…"

"Promise you won't say anything-"

"Oh no, I would never. To be honest, I actually think he's really... well, nice. And cute." Cho giggled. Despite the fading firelight, Hermione could see a faint blush stain the Ravenclaw's cheeks.

Of course you do, Hermione thought bitterly.


Of all the stupid decisions he had made in his admittedly short life, this was certainly the most stupid, Ron Weasley though. Maybe he'd let the entire Prefect thing get to his head, developing some grandiose notions about his own skills. Or, perhaps the twins' persistent mockery had pushed him to try and prove them wrong. Now, as his sweating hands gripped the broom handle and his meager breakfast threatened to come back up, he fervently prayed to all the spirits, fairies, ghosts, and specters who were listening for a miracle. Or a painless death.

Anything to spare himself the humiliation of letting in goal after goal to the relentless soundtrack of "Weasley is Our King."

The score was 100-10. For the first time in recent memory, Slytherin was positively slaughtering Gryffindor. He would surely go down in history as the greatest embarrassment to his house that ever lived.

"-Spinnet's got the Quaffle, she's heading for the Slytherin goal- " Lee Jordan's running commentary echoed through the stadium, "and …ohh, that's a near miss with the bludger for new Beater Goyle - Spinnet reverse-passes to Katie Bell-"

Ron watched Katie zooming toward the green and silver flags across the field, followed closely by the Slytherin captain. He hoped that things would finally turn around.

"Bell's got the Quaffle - she's getting close, let's see what Bletchley, the Slytherin Keeper can do! … And - ouch! Warrington nearly knocks Spinnet off her broom! And Johnson's going to help her - watch out girls - Warrington's got the Quaffle, he passes to Montague, and it looks like Montague has a clear shot, the Gryffindor side of the pitch is unprotected...where are the Weasley twins? Let's hope the new Keeper shapes up soon, Gryffindor can't afford another-"

As Montague sped towards him, a great collective yell rose from the enemy stands:"Weasley is our king! Weasley cannot save a thing…"

Ron tried to concentrate on his breathing, on the wild hammering of his heart...anything, anything but that awful song. But that deafening shouting drowned it all out, echoing in his head over and over: "He cannot block a single ring, That's why Slytherins all sing: WEASLEY IS OUR KING."

Montague was close now. So close that Ron could see every spot on his ugly, troll-like face.

Come on Ron, he told himself, you need to get this. Harry will hate you if you don't. Fred and George will never let you hear the end of it. You'll never get a date, like EVER.

Montague circled up to the goalpost… and Angelina was flying towards them with an insane speed, her face frozen in fury and concentration… but she could never make it…

Ron knew what was coming, he could feel it in the way his stomach flipped as the Quaffle zoomed towards the goal.

He stretched out ….so close, dammit, so close...and he could just barely get his hands on it…

But the ball slipped through his fingers. Fortunately, he didn't have time to curse himself as the sick sinking feeling of gravity grabbed hold of him, and he plummeted.

Everything went black.

He didn't know how much time had passed before he woke up, but the room was dark.

Where am I? Ron wondered. And what the hell happened?

On instinct, he tried to sit up and look around, but immediately regretted it as a sharp pain shot down his spine.

"Oh Ron, you shouldn't do that!" it was Hermione's voice, and she sounded worried. "Harry help me!" Hands grasped his shoulders and painstakingly pulled him into a seated position.

Now, he saw that he was in the hospital wing, with a very glum-looking Harry and panicked Hermione at his bedside.

"What...what happened?" He asked, trying to put the scattered pieces together: he remembered the game, "Weasley is Our King", Montague…

"You don't remember?" Harry asked, deadpan. His mouth was pressed into a thin line that gave him an uncanny resemblance to Professor McGonagall.

"Let's just say you're a contender for the Worst Keeper of the Year Award." Gingerly turning his head to the right, he noticed his sister, standing there with her arms crossed. She was grinning at him, as though trying to make light of a bad situation. "But don't worry, Fred and George are trying to convince everyone that the Slytherins put the Confundus on you."

Ron groaned, as the memories came flooding back. "Please someone put me out of my misery…" he whined pathetically.

"Hermione! You know spells!" He shot her a pleading look. "Can you make me forget this ever happened? I don't think I can live with the shame…"

"No, Ron! You know I can't, it's very dangerous!"

He fully intended to keep begging her, but a thought occurred to him then, and he looked at Harry, hopeful.

"Hey! Harry, you must have caught the Snitch, right? That means we could have won!"

"Yeah, I caught it all right," Harry replied miserably. "But only because Malfoy was about to get his slimy hands on it. We lost 110 to 120."

"That's nothing: only ten points!" Hermione chimed in.

"Doesn't matter," Ron responded, utterly wretched. "I am NEVER going to be able to live this down. It's all because of that stupid song!"

Harry gave a heaving sigh and stood.

"I have to go. Detention."

And with that terse pronouncement, he stalked out of the hospital wing with all the good grace of a goblin who'd lost his Galleons.

"Don't mind him, Ron," Ginny said, consolingly. "He's mad at himself for not catching the snitch sooner."

Hermione's head jerked up at that statement, and she stared at Ginny thoughtfully. Soon, the redhead witch excused herself too, promising to return with the twins after dinner, a prospect that Ron wasn't really looking forward to.

"Maybe they'll bring those Skiving Snackbox things," he told Hermione sadly. "Then I could stay in here forever."

But Hermione was looking at him with that strange, burning look in her eyes that she got sometimes when she'd just figured out a particularly difficult Arithmancy problem or finished a complicated Potion.

"There may be another way."

She stood up and paced to the window, then back to the bed, and her gaze seemed to flit from object to object as though rushing to keep up with her thoughts.

"Just go to sleep. I'm going to take care of it," she declared cryptically, and hurried out of the Infirmary, leaving Ron entirely on his own.

That girl's finally cracked, he thought. Must be all those crazy revision schedules.

He fully intended to spend the rest of the day planning how he was going to run away to Egypt, change his name, and live out the rest of his days in lonely - but mercifully, anonymous - solitude, but the sight of a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans on his bedside table quickly drew his attention. He chose a yellow specked one.

"Hmm… popcorn?" Popping it in his mouth, his expression turned from pleased, to thoughtful, to nauseous.

"Nope," He choked out. "'S belly- button lint. Should've known."

Deciding that it just wasn't his lucky day, Ron pulled the covers to his chin and turned towards the wall.

He dreamt that he was back at the World Cup with his family, except... he wasn't a spectator, he was playing Keeper for Ireland! And instead of Quaffles and Bludgers, they seemed to be playing with giant pork chops and flying meat pies. And an ear-splitting roar was rising from the stands, except it wasn't "Weasley is Our King", no, it was a real roar, since everyone seemed to be wearing enormous lion-headed hats…

Ron woke with a start. Well that's a new one, he thought, remembering the odd dream. Groggy, he rubbed at his eyes and tried to sit up, pleasantly surprised that the shooting pains were gone.

"Ready for the game, mate?" someone was saying, and looking up, Ron saw Seamus's grinning face peering through the curtains. Wait, curtains? There aren't curtains in the hospital wing….

That's when he recognized where he was. In bed. His bed, to be specific, in Gryffindor tower. What the hell was going on here?

"What are you talking about?" Ron asked, his face a slack-jawed mask of confusion.

"Uh, Quidditch. You know, with the flying," Seamus flapped his arms about comically. "Against Slytherin?"

"Wait…" Ron's eyes bulged. "What the - t-that's today?" I must still be dreaming.

Seamus shook his head in disbelief. "Oi, Harry! Come over here," he called.

A moment later, Harry's disheveled head poked through the curtain next to Seamus.

"What's up?"

"Harry!" Ron exclaimed."You've got to tell me what's going on! I mean… we already played Slytherin, and we lost, because I couldn't block any flying hams - I mean Quaffles - I mean -"

"It was just a dream." Harry said, bracingly. Grabbing Ron by the arm, he pulled him out from the tangle of covers. "Come on, let's get you some breakfast."

He knew that Ron wouldn't turn down breakfast even if the world was ending.

"Alright," Ron assented, still confused. But...wasn't yesterday… today? Hadn't his dreadful playing cost them the game? Or had it really been a dream after all? Even as he pulled on his jeans, he could feel the memories begin to fade, as though they weren't quite real.

"It's just pre-game anxiety," Harry was saying on the way down the stairs, "but you get used to it eventually, don't worry." But that bizarre out-of-place feeling didn't go away, although it got easier to ignore as the minutes wore on.

"How're you feeling?" his sister, who had picked a seat across the table, asked with concern.

"He's just nervous," Harry broke in.

"Well, that's a good sign, I never feel you perform as well in exams if you're not a bit nervous," Hermione said cheerily, drawing Ron's gaze.

Was it just his imagination, or was she smiling at him a bit too stiffly? Could it be? Did she…? Ron wondered, but just as soon as the thought came to his head, it flittered away and he turned towards his now-soggy cereal.

Of course it had all been a dream: his mind was merely taunting him with the worst outcome he could imagine. And with good reason too, Ron thought miserably as he trailed behind Harry on the way to the Quidditch pitch. There was no chance in hell that Gryffindor would win with his abysmal Keeping abilities - he might as well start getting used to it.

Malfoy was standing near the changing rooms with his cronies as though he had been waiting for them. Ron tried to ignore the lot, but couldn't help noticing that both Crabbe and Goyle were making ominous slashing motions at their throats, wearing moronic twin grins.

"Hope Mummy's already planned your funeral, Weasel," Malfoy stage-whispered out of the side of his mouth. "'Cause if the Bludgers don't kill you, the embarrassment will."

He snickered at his own barb and stalked off to the Slytherin side, Crabbe and Goyle following behind like a pair of overgrown (and very ugly) puppies.

The game, mercifully, was rather short since Harry managed to catch the Snitch in record time. Ron alighted from his broom to the deafening cheering coming from the Gryffindor stands - which had entirely drowned out the chant of "Weasley is Our King" from the green-and-silver section - and thought gratefully that no one would remember his poor performance because they'd scraped a win, after all.

Fred touched down beside him and thumped him on the back of the head.

"Ouch! What was that for?" Ron demanded indignantly.

"Besmirching the good family name," George, who now stood beside his brother, explained.

"You better shape up, little bro, or we're going to have to start telling people you were adopted," Fred added.

"Have you seen us?" Ron replied, voice laced with sarcasm. "Nobody would believe you."

But the banter was cut short as an incipient scuffle drew their attention: Malfoy was goading Harry, who looked about ready to tear the blond boy's head off.

It happened in a matter of seconds: the twins, realizing that Malfoy was mocking their parents, jumped into the fray along with Harry, pummeling the Slytherin Chaser with their fists. Madame Hooch and the Gryffindor Head swept down upon the scene instantaneously, and while the angry set of McGonagall's jaw frightened Ron, it was the worry in her eyes that made his blood run cold. With a sinking feeling in his gut as though he knew exactly what she was thinking, Ron looked into the stands… and met the icy, triumphant glare of Dolores Umbridge.