Chapter Twenty Four
Stunt
0o0
Astoria awoke to the sound of her aunt's luggage hitting the parlor floor. For long a moment she lay awake, unable to remember why the sound made her so nervous. Then, with a terrible jolt, her confused thoughts finally dialed in on the mess she had left living room; glasses on the coffee table, cushions still askew. With a sense of dread bordering on conviction, she guessed that Bonky had not cleaned up after her party had left.
"S'at?" Tracey mumbled into her pillow, still half asleep.
"My aunt's home," returned Astoria tensely, pushing herself upright.
"Oh. Can I borrow something to wear?" Tracey yawned, blinking at the broad shafts of daylight. It was after one o'clock in the afternoon—had they really slept so late? "My dress has scotch on it."
"You mean my dress has scotch on it?" Astoria snorted, untangling herself from the blankets.
"Yes, fine. It was worth it, though," sighed Tracey. "Last night was perfect."
"For you, maybe," Astoria retorted, fighting to pull a brush through her tangled hair. If she was being totally honest with herself, there seemed to be a faint odor of scotch lingering about her skin as well. She hoped Belladonna would not notice...
"Blaise had his arm around you at the end of the night, didn't he?" she asked, trying to distract herself.
"He's so good looking it makes my eyes hurt," effused Tracey. She sat up under Astoria's comforter looking hopefully smudged and adorably ruffled.
"Your children will be demonic," Astoria muttered, allowing herself a small smirk before unzipping her black dress and kicking it across the floor.
"What about you?" frowned Tracey. Her expression was convincingly worried, but a caress of something unmistakably wicked colored her tone.
"What about me?" returned Astoria sternly. "Cormac tried to kiss me before he left, if that's what your hunting for. It was evil of you to invite him along."
"You should have seen Malfoy's face when Cormac took you into the hall!" cackled Tracey. "He looked so relived when you came straight back—I almost felt bad for him."
"They didn't get on well at all, did they?" remarked Astoria lightly. She took off her expensive necklace, carefully recoiled it inside its box and re-fastened the lid. "I suppose they are a bit alike, come to think of it..."
Tracey made a face that suggested Astoria had missed her point, but a knock on the door prevented her from saying anything more.
"Miss's presence is requested for tea," croaked Bonky's bullfrog voice. Astoria waited for more, but apparently this was his entire message; a small whip-like crack announced his Dissapration back to the first floor.
"Help yourself to whatever you want from the bureau," muttered Astoria hastily, pulling a long sweater on over last-night's tights.
Belladonna was waiting in the sitting room. Meanwhile, nearby, Bonky appeared to be making a great show of tidying up the living room. He had waited for Belladonna to return before starting in on the mess. Astoria glared at him, swept away by a surge of renewed dislike.
She studied the debris: a liquor glass on the coffee table—the rumpled couch cushions. How many times had Astoria come home to find that her aunt had left things in the same state? There had been no midnight seductions at Astoria's party, no whispered plots. Any backlash from her aunt would count as hypocritical in the extreme.
"Darling," called Belladonna warmly. She stood up to kiss her cheek. "How was your party? Sit."
Astoria sat, feeling distinctly thrown and no longer certain how best to proceed. She had expected Belladonna to be angry; she did not know how to react to so much good humor.
"Fine," answered Astoria shortly, still waiting for the ax to fall. "How was France?"
"Well turned out. As always," shrugged Belladonna, pouring tea."But you know how it is—for every true wit, there are a half a dozen poets lying in wait. The pretension of it all!"
Astoria sipped her tea warily. She couldn't remember the last time Belladonna had behaved so pleasantly. Either she had met a man on her trip or it was all a very clever act—one contrived to lull Astoria into a sense of false security. Personally, she hoped for the latter. Better an unexpected attack than a new uncle...
"I had people over," Astoria announced, perversely curious to test Belladonna's mood. "They were all underage and they raided the liquor cabinet."
"Yes, I noticed," returned Belladonna, sounding strangely un-bothered. "You might have kept them away from the scotch, you know. It's quite expensive."
"Good morning, Madam Lestrange!" cried Tracey brightly, bounding into view at the bottom of the stairs.
Irritated by the unexpected intrusion, Astoria turned and leveled her friend with a hard look. Hadn't she made it quite clear that Tracey ought to show herself out?
"Mrs. Lestrange will do," returned Belladonna wryly, recovering from the surprise of Tracey's entrance.
Astoria cleared her throat and volunteered the obvious: "Tracey spent the night."
"Are we expecting anyone else?" persisted Belladonna, this time with a little more of the dry sarcasm that Astoria was used to.
"No!" chirped Tracey, taking an empty seat between them. "It's just me. Astoria kicked everybody out at midnight because she said you'd want her to, only I think she did it to get rid of all the boys vying for her attention. Astoria, may I use your plate for this scone?"
Astoria shoved her plate roughly across the table. Belladonna raised an eyebrow, torn between contempt and amusement.
"You can use the floo downstairs whenever you're ready," insisted Astoria tightly, passing along her butter knife.
"I'll do that," Tracey snickered, eyes sparkling.
Astoria waited until the scone was gone and stood up to escort her friend to the fireplace in person.
"Nice having you," she hissed through gritted teeth.
Tracey beamed. Her gaze danced past Astoria, where it lingered on Belladonna's shoulders. "I'll see you tomorrow, then? We'll meet in the library—catch up on our Arithmancy?"
The moment the floo spun Tracey out of sight, Belladonna pounced.
"Is she stupid or is there some other trick in it?" her aunt snorted, producing a cigarette from the silver case she always carried with her. "I cannot understand your fascination. Not that I'm complaining, of course—it's a relief to see you courting company outside of Theodore Nott."
"I stole her from Pansy Parkinson," Astoria admitted, "but she's grown on me. There isn't a stupid bone in Tracey's body—its an act. She just loves chaos. Disorder is her favorite ladder to climb and the girl is a born mountaineer."
Belladonna laughed appreciatively but her eyes sharpened in a way that told Astoria the adroitness of her analysis had taken her by surprise.
"And what does she aim to achieve, this mountaineering fried of yours?" asked Belladonna slowly. "What does she want out of life? Her mother is only a second generation pureblood and her father is dead. What does she aspire to?"
"So far as I can tell, she doesn't want anything more than Seraphina Zabini's son, unfettered access to liquor and company of any kind," Astoria listed, unable to suppress a grin.
Belladonna laughed again, but the sound took on a edge of cruelty at the mention of Blaise's mother; memories of their old rivalry seemed to color her expression with shadow.
"I sometimes forget that Seraphina's son is your age," she mused. "It's been nearly a decade since I've laid eyes on her boy. I suppose he was here last night?"
Astoria hesitated.
"I only approve if he was the poor fellow vying for your attention," Belladonna jeered, putting Astoria's fear of punishment to rest. "That I might find rather amusing."
"He was here," Astoria admitted cautiously, struggling to think of a way to describe Blaise to Belladonna, who had almost no interest in trivial niceties. "Truth be told, he doesn't like me much—and I'm not sure I like him, either. He's too smooth for his age. The epitome of carelessness, but it's intentional—almost studied."
Belladonna flicked ash from the end of her cigarette into a bronze ashtray. The inside of the bowl was painted with an obnoxiously cheery pattern of bucolic milkmaids and frolicking lacquered lambs.
"He pretends he doesn't care what's popular," Astoria went on, trying not to stare at the villainous pile of ash now obscuring the plump face of a painted maid. "But he only bothers because he's eternally preoccupied with proving how quietly competent and elegant he is."
"A masculine miniature of his mother, then," mused Belladonna, who was listening carefully—indeed, much more carefully than she had listened to anything Astoria had had to say in a very long time.
"Does he like your little friend?" Belladonna persisted. "She has a rather boyish figure, but that would be nothing if she really is as devious as you seem to think."
"He's amused by her," griped Astoria, voicing aloud an idea that had been bothering her for some time. "Tracey's obviously infatuated with him—and Blaise has an ego that appreciates that sort of thing—but he's not very nice to her. I don't know how she hasn't noticed—Tracey's usually very observant."
"Time has made you a rather observant force yourself, darling," returned Belladonna. She put out her cigarette and eyed her niece baldly. "I had no idea you were so keen."
Astoria paused with her teacup near her mouth, startled by the unexpected compliment.
"What a relief!" Belladonna cackled. "If you'd turned out to be simple-minded, we'd have spent the next forty years without anything to talk about!"
0o0
A mixture of thick, sludgy snow and rain fell heavily from dawn until dusk the next day, making Astoria's return to Hogwarts a wet and somewhat morose affair. Far from warm, the corridors stood long and damp, their windows misted over from the inside. The student body was equally unwelcoming. The state of agitation following Sirius Black's notorious break-in (excited still further by Harry's Potter's first loosing quidditch match) had finally worn off, leaving behind a subdued, post-holiday hangover. Astoria had to work very hard on Monday morning to avoid dozing off in class. The last thing she wanted to do after the lunch bell was trudge across the frozen grounds to Hagrid's cabin for Care of Magical Creature's class, but trudge she did.
"Miserable," muttered Theodore darkly, his mouth obscured by a thick and very worn-down scarf. "Tell me again why we signed up for this miserable subject!"
"Because sometimes," panted Astoria, breaking off to regain her balance after slipping on a patch of wet ice, "students get attacked. And we don't want to miss that, do we?"
Astoria had all of her hopes pinned on another bonfire lesson, but as they crested the hill, she realized that this hope had been in vain. Nothing stood between their class and the forest but a barren winter tundra where Hagrid, looking especially downtrodden, had arranged several boxes of flobberworms before the assembled students.
"Thas' it," crowed Hagrid, stooping over to feed lettuce to the contents of the nearest box. "Nice n' safe, see?"
"What's with Hagrid?" muttered Astoria suspiciously, falling in line next to Theodore.
"Dunno," snapped Theodore, shivering violently. "Don't care."
Astoria raked her eyes over the class until her gaze fell onto the backs of Harry and Ron's heads. She waited a beat before wandering over toward them.
"Do you two have any more lettuce?" Astoria asked. "I've dropped all of mine—cold hands."
Ron eyed her with his usual mixture of suspicion and even awkwarder dislike, but Harry promptly ripped a off few lettuce leaves and handed them to her.
"Also," continued Astoria, lowering her voice, "do either of you know what's going on with Hagrid?"
"What do you mean?" Ron demanded hotly. "This is a fine lesson!"
"It's nothing," Harry answered quietly, trying to soften Ron's rudeness. "Malfoy's dad complained to the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures about the hippogriff accident."
"Right," agreed Astoria, who had already heard this, "but that's not new news."
"They're trying to have Buckbeak—er, that's the hippogriff's name—executed," Harry explained in a rush. "There's going to be a hearing—Hagrid's really sweating it. He thinks the whole committee is in Malfoy's pocket and he's probably right."
Astoria took this in. "But they aren't suing Hagrid or anything?" she pressed. "It's not like he's being fired?"
"No," Ron sneered loudly, "they're only trying to chop his off pet's head. Because that's Malfoy's idea of a good joke and his father enjoys bulling people!"
A startling image of Lucius Malfoy as she had last seen him briefly obscured Astorias vision: milling about Mr. MacLaggen's party, wearing a disdainful smile and a pair of cuff-links that cost more than Hagrid's house. The entire Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures had been at that event. Astoria had personally overheard several members praise Lucius Malfoy's recent contributions to St. Mungo's and compliment his wife's lovely dress. What chance did Hagrid have against such a force? Almost none.
"Well," said Astoria slowly, swallowing a wave of sudden disgust, "wish Hagrid luck for me."
"Sure," grunted Ron, accidentally knocking a flaccid cascade of flobberworms into the snow. He winced. "We'll do that."
0o0
Thankfully, Fred and George had returned to school in higher spirits than their brother. They walked her to class the next day and lost no time announcing that all of their free time over the holiday had gone to enchanting invisibility cloaks. Their line was now fully prepared to hit the shelves of the underground market at a moment's notice.
"We were thinking you might keep track of the sales," admitted George hopefully. "You're excellent at book-keeping!"
"Alright," Astoria shrugged. "I'll add the sales record to the journal I use for quidditch bets. I can factor the profits into your savings."
"Here's another idea," joined Fred, lowering his voice somewhat conspicuously. "I spent a bit of time over break thinking about our market. Who's keen to purchase invisibility? The depressing conclusion: Gryffindors, sure, but just as many Slytherins."
"Yeah," agreed Astoria, wise to the wisdom of this assessment. The average Hufflepuff might occasionally creep forth for a midnight snack, but their common room was so close to the kitchens that owning an invisibility cloak hardly seemed necessary.
"So," continued Fred, panting from the long walk up the stairs to the seventh floor, "maybe you can put out word for us in their common room? Your sister must know people. You've got that pal—Theodore What's-His-Face. He's a Slytherin, right? That's more than we have to go on."
"Am I allowed to tell Theodore details?" asked Astoria curiously.
"Er," Fred evaded. "Can't you just tell him that you know where to get the cloaks and leave it at that?"
"Theo won't say anything!" Astoria scoffed. "Not if I tell him that I'm helping. He'd never get me into trouble on purpose."
"Proceed with caution at any rate," warned George. "We'll continue this over dinner."
The twins both broke away at the landing and backtracked to reach their History of Magic lesson. Astoria joined the Arithmancy queue and began to search for Theodore, but Draco Malfoy's drawling voice distracted her before she could make much progress.
"Of course, Father will have to actually go to the hearing," he jeered, directing his bile toward Tracey. "Complete waste of his time. Still, he wants to make sure that they know all about my arm—you know, about how I couldn't use it for three months."
Astoria had been on the verge of moving toward Tracey. Now she paused, realizing what it was that Malfoy must be talking about.
"I honestly can't believe they're bothering with a hearing at all," continued Draco. "It's not as though anybody on the committee is holding out to hear that illiterate oaf's side of the story."
The same disgust Astoria had felt the day before came boiling up in her throat. The Malfoys were indeed pressing their case before the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures—and Draco was certainly making no secret about how gleeful the prospect made him.
"Ugh," moaned Theodore, finally lumbering up the steps. Without pause, he bent over to grasp his knees. Then he let out a painful, gurgling cough and wiped his wet nose on the corner of his sleeve. "Class outside in the middle of winter. I caught bloody head cold..."
Astoria smiled sympathetically and discreetly angled her body away from him until the doors opened and they were allowed to file in. There was a new Theory chalked up on the blackboard in Professor Vector's handwriting—a bad sign on the best of days. Before she could so much as shoot an inquiring look at Theodore, however, a renewed fit of coughing sent half the table scurrying for cover.
"Seriously?" snapped Malfoy, pushing his freshly contaminated worksheet away with scowl.
Are you serious, thought Astoria irritably. She opened her book to the assigned page and aligned her legs underneath the table so that they were as far away from Draco's as possible.
"I can't help it, can I?" grumbled Theodore. "Share with Astoria if you have to!"
Under normal circumstances this might have been cause for a celebration: Malfoy was much better at Arithmancy than she was and with his help, Astoria would probably manage to scrape by with a passing grade. But these were not normal circumstances and the just sight of his white-blonde head filled her with an irresistible desire to hit something. Draco turned toward her willingly; Astoria responded by shoving her own, untainted worksheet in his direction.
"Switch seats with me. I'll work with Theo," she insisted roughly. "You can partner with Tracey."
Draco's eyes instinctively flickered, plainly taken aback.
"I'll work with you, Draco!" volunteered Tracey happily. "Astoria's rubbish at these!"
Draco stood up, trying very hard to hide his dissatisfied confusion. Astoria took his chair without a word.
"It starts with the problem on page one hundred and five," Theodore informed her, his accent so thick with mucus that every 't' came out sounding like a 'd'.
Astoria flipped the pages of Theodore's book as quickly as she could, touching the pages by nothing but their outermost corners. Sensing Malfoy's covert gaze on the side of her face, she bent her head and began to scratch out a solution to the first problem.
For the life of her, she didn't know why the subject of Buckbeak's execution annoyed her so much, but it did. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that Buckbeak—a wild animal—had not done anything unnatural? It was Malfoy's own fault that he had been attacked, after all. Or, short of that, Hagrid's for teaching a lesson that was inappropriate for third years. Why bring the bird into it at all? Then there was also the matter of Draco's attitude—no decent person should get such a kick out of a miserable scenario...
"Thad's wrong," muttered Theo, tilting his head upward to keep from dripping onto their shared parchment. "Id needs to be an eben number."
"Oh?" jerked Astoria, following the equation with her finger. "Yeah?"
"Here, gib— gib it to..." Theodore broke off just in time to smother a mighty sneeze in the crook of his elbow.
"Hospital wing, Nott!" Professor Vector called. He didn't even bother to look up from the problem he was explaining to Hermione. "Ask for a dose of pepper-up potion and you'll be feeling better by dinnertime."
Theodore shot Astoria an apologetic look and began to collect his things.
"The answer is a ten and two fives," drawled Malfoy bossily, craning to have a better look at her parchment—as though it was his business. "You can't ever use a four when the Latin prefix is 'Bene' or 'Corpus'."
Astoria ignored his unwanted advice and carried on to question two, leaving her incorrect solution untouched.
0o0
The quidditch match between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor was fast approaching and tensions were already running high. It was doozy of a match—the one that would determine whether Gryffindor remained in the running for the cup—and almost no one could resist having an interest in the outcome.
"We'll take bets, but only if people come to us," George cautioned a week before the game. "Don't go hunting people down, Astoria. Harry fell off his broom last time, which means even the teachers are paying attention."
This logic—perfectly sound in theory—turned out to be deeply flawed in practice. People already knew that taking bets was something Astoria, Fred and George did. Between the hype of the game and what was clearly their own solid reputation as bookies, no fewer than forty perspective gamblers sought Astoria out over the next two days.
"It's like we advertised," Astoria griped after a surprise ambush by Michael Corner in the hall (ten Sickles on a Ravenclaw victory).
"Don't make eye contact with them," Fred growled. "Expulsion isn't worth the galleons."
"Start turning down people who think Gryffindor will win at least," added George in an undertone. "Play it safe."
"That's right!" agreed Fred. "Those are the people we'll end up having to pay out to. Don't forget that Harry got a Firebolt for Christmas—I reckon we really will win the match."
But turning people down was easier said than done and it hardly quelled the ruckus. Sooner or later, Astoria expected the ax to fall. Sure enough, two hours after a particularly nasty fight with Anthony Goldstein during Ancient Runes, Professor Vector asked her to stay behind after class.
"Is there a problem, sir?" asked Astoria, breaking the excruciating silence after the bell.
"Not necessarily," sighed Vector, speaking in the direction of his his paperwork. "I'm sorry to keep you from your dinner, but it really couldn't be helped."
"What couldn't be helped?" demanded Astoria, already retracing trails and constructing excuses in her mind. Micheal Corner, she chanted silently. Micheal Corner told Anthony Goldstein who went to Vector.
"A student has approached me with an accusation of gambling—gambling within school grounds," admitted Vector. He finally looked up, but only to offer her a bashful smile. "I'm afraid they've explicitly named you as ringleader."
Astoria forced herself to listen to this news without reacting. Was it better to appear confused or offended? Which would Vector be most likely to believe? She did not know...
"Of course, taking bets of any kind at Hogwarts is strictly against the rules," continued Vector. "Not that banning the practice has done anything to stop generations of students from participating."
"Am I going to be punished?" asked Astoria coldly, finally settling on angry. "I didn't think students could be expelled for gossip."
"They certainly cannot," Vector reassured her, "and if expulsion were in the cards, don't you think the headmaster would be present?"
"Then I have no idea what you're talking about," trembled Astoria. " It sounds to me like Anthony heard a rumor..."
Vector's face folded gently into a tolerant smile at the mention of Anthony's name but he made no move to confirm her suspicions.
"That is good to hear," he murmured wryly. "I'm a terrible disciplinarian and I'd hate to have to explain my position to your aunt."
Sensing dismissal, Astoria bowed her head and began to shuffle toward the doors.
"But Astoria—" he called after her, this time almost mischievously, "if it turns out you do know something, put me down for five galleons on Ravenclaw. I'm afraid old house loyalties die hard—I hope you won't hold it against me."
0o0
"He did what?" hissed Theodore over a plate of eggs at breakfast on Friday.
"Goldstein ratted me out," repeated Astoria, for perhaps the third time. "I'm sure of it!"
"Not that bit," sneered Theodore, "the part about Vector!"
"He asked me to put him down for five galleons," returned Astoria smugly. Now that the real danger had passed, she could not help but feel a little bit triumphant about the way things had played out. "Can you even believe it?"
"Not really," countered Theodore sharply. "That's the sort of thing teachers get fired for."
"He'd only get in trouble if I told someone," scoffed Astoria, backtracking slightly. "Besides, he was probably joking..."
A rumble of laughter undercut Theodore's grave expression. At the opposite end of the table, Draco Malfoy was miming the flailing death spasm of a bird without a head.
"No one can read the notebook that I've been putting my bets in," Astoria scowled, angling her body so that she did not have to witness Draco's show. "I'd have to outright report him to another teacher and Vector knows I won't do that."
"Still," worried Theodore, "it's really appropriate to favor a student like that."
Pansy's Parkinson let out a shriek of laughter that caused both of them to jump (Malfoy had begun pretend-blubbering into his hands).
"He doesn't favor me," snorted Astoria defensively. "He's failing me!"
"He hasn't failed you yet," Theodore countered, "and he's been giving you loads of barely related side projects to bolster your grades!"
"What's everybody laughing about over there?" asked Tracey, slumping into a seat and pawing the sleep out of her eyes. "Did something fantastic happen?"
"Only if you think Hagrid's hippogriff getting its head lobbed off counts as fantastic!" shot Astoria tersely.
"Oh," Tracey deflated, rolling her eyes. "Boring."
"More like completely ridiculous!" Astoria retaliated. "Malfoy practically begged Buckbeak to attack him. By that logic, the ministry should just exterminate him!"
"Buckbeak?" repeated Theodore witheringly.
"That's the hippogriff's name, isn't it?" Astoria snapped, feeling her cheeks flush a balmy red.
"Since when do you care about hippogriffs?" jeered Tracey, plainly flabbergasted.
Astoria let out a sound of irritation and poured milk over her cereal.
"Are you going to watch the match tomorrow?" Tracey wondered, wisely changing the topic.
"Of course she's going," taunted Theodore. "She's got to keep tabs for her illicit betting ring."
"Oh, that's right!" exclaimed Tracey, suddenly wide-eyed with excitement. "I forgot you and the twins did that!"
"Does everyone know, then?" Astoria wondered out loud.
"Can I help you?" begged Tracey. "I'll hold things and add up sums!"
"No," returned Astoria flatly.
"Why not?" Tracey whined. "That sounds like so much fun!"
"Because the bets are supposed to be anonymous," answered Astoria.
"Can I sit with you at least?" pleaded Tracey. "I won't snoop!"
"Sure," Astoria conceded, privately thankful that she wouldn't have to beg Theodore to come down with her. "The ledger is enchanted anyway—you couldn't snoop if you tried."
"I've heard Cho Chang is a really good seeker," continued Tracey, ignoring the insinuation that she was untrustworthy. "Ravenclaw won against Slytherin last term. I suppose they'll probably win again tomorrow."
"Ravenclaw doesn't stand a chance," Astoria bragged compulsively, thinking only of Harry's secret new broomstick.
"What's that?" demanded a displeased voice behind her. Draco had finished up his act and, accompanied by Crabbe and Goyle, he had came to hair-pin stop halfway toward the entrance hall.
"You think Potter's going to win tomorrow, do you?" he repeated nastily, leaning against the edge of the table. "I mean, I suppose it's possible. If he manages not to faint again, that is..."
Crabbe and Goyle both guffawed stupidly.
"He's not going to faint," clipped Astoria coolly. "And of course he'll win. He always wins."
Delighted, Tracey raised a hand to cover her smirk.
"Not on his broken Nimbus, he won't," Draco retaliated, his carefully cultivated look of haughty indifference dissolving into a twitchy scowl. "What's he riding tomorrow—one of the school's old Comet Two-Sixties?"
"He got a new broom," teased Astoria, eagerly floating the possibility of a Gryffindor advantage. After all, Harry was going to play with his Firebolt on Saturday; surely there was nothing left to hide? She might as well have some fun at Malfoy's expense...
A whole new motive hijacked Draco's expression. "What model?" he asked sharply,
"One of those new ones," Astoria shrugged, experiencing a savage kind of pleasure at the sight of Draco's discomfort.
"A nimbus Two Thousand and One, then?" Draco demanded. "Who cares? That's the same broom I've got and—thanks to my father—so does everyone else on my team."
"He's playing Ravenclaw, not Slytherin," Astoria reminded him. "Besides, it's not the same broom you have. It's the one that came out this year—the Lightning Rod or whatever it's called."
Draco's expression did not change, but his body froze.
"You're talking about the Firebolt," he finally grunted. "Those are still in their trial stage. There's no way Potter has a Firebolt."
"That's the one!" declared Astoria serenely. "They're awfully good brooms, aren't they? Must be a lot faster than yours judging by the way everyone makes such a fuss over them. Harry got his over break."
"No he didn't," Draco sneered. "He probably just told you that he got one to impress you. It worked, too, because you don't know enough about quidditch to tell the difference between a Firebolt and a stick."
Astoria shrugged.
Unable to stop himself, Draco leaned harder against the table. "What did it look like?"
"Like a Firebolt!" Astoria laughed, cherishing the look of horror on his face. "You don't even have to take my word for it—since apparently I'm too stupid to read the side of a piece of wood. You'll see it for yourself tomorrow."
0o0
Harry Potter provoked a wave of applause when he entered the great hall the next morning. Because he was walking with his broomstick in hand, the rest of the Gryffindor team spread out like an honor guard and flanked him on both sides. There could be no refuting it now: Gryffindor was in possession of the finest broom that money could buy.
"Boys," scoffed Tracey, letting out a dry little laugh. "Can you imagine getting so worked up over a piece of wood? Don't they know how ridiculous they are?"
"Not all boys do that," interjected Theodore, eager to separate himself from such foolish behavior. "I don't own a broomstick—not even at home."
"No, but you wouldn't," laughed Tracey thoughtlessly. "You're not exactly the macho type..."
"What's that supposed to mean?" demanded Theodore.
"It means that you're confident in yourself as a man," insisted Astoria, speaking over Tracey's continuing dialogue. "Don't ever change."
Just barely placated, Theodore went back to his coffee. Meanwhile, at the opposite end of the table, the Slytherin quidditch team had put their heads together and were discussing the new development in lowered voices.
"I don't know why they're acting so surprised!" exclaimed Tracey. "It's not as though you didn't tell Malfoy yesterday."
"Maybe he didn't tell anyone else," ventured Astoria.
"Malfoy?" snorted Tracey. "As if. He hates Potter more than anyone and he's got a huge mouth. You know how much he loves to be the first person with a bit of news."
As though to prove Tracey's point, Draco Malfoy stood up and elbowed Crabbe and Goyle to their feet. He sauntered across the hall in the shadow on his own bodyguards, making a direct beeline toward Harry.
0o0
Tracey and Astoria set off across the grounds for the quidditch pitch the minute they were done eating. It was a clean and cold, late-wintery sort of day outside; for the first time all week, the sun dazzled radiantly off the icy snow crust. Emboldened by the freshness, Astoria closed her eyes, enjoying the hopeful, spring-like quality of the air.
"See!" declared Tracey, jabbing Astoria in the ribs as they located seats. "That's Chang. Apparently she's had loads of injuries this year. Doesn't she look sort of frail and delicate?"
Astoria snorted but found that she had to agree: Cho Chang did have the look of a lost damsel.
"Five galleons says my brother has tried to ask her out," grumbled Tracey, her mouth twisting into a tight smirk. "I bet she turned him down every time, even if he is team captain..."
The Gryffindors walked out onto the field, provoking a storm of shouting and clapping. Ignoring the way Tracey's hands remained folded neatly in her lap, Astoria joined in.
"Potter's getting taller, isn't he?" remarked Tracey, squinting at the far-off green. "Do you reckon he'll turn out to be nice looking? Or do you think he'll always be knobby?"
"I think he's already nice looking," Astoria admitted carelessly, taking out her notebook and flipping to the correct pages.
"Do you?" asked Tracey at once, turning to peer slyly at her.
"Yeah, sure," scoffed Astoria.
It took a moment for her to catch Tracey's meaning; when she finally did, she blushed.
"I mean, in an objective way," Astoria persisted. "He's fine looking. Mostly I just think he's just a decent person."
The truth was actually somewhat more complex. The root of Astoria's interest in Harry was very obscure; so much so that she had never fully managed to understand it herself, let alone voice it aloud. Her confusion discomfited—taught her not to discuss the subject in public. This was because, in a vague and metaphorical way, Astoria could not help but occasionally feeling as though she owed Harry a debt.
Perversely, if it hadn't been for Harry, the Dark Lord might never have fallen and Astoria's mother probably wouldn't have been imprisoned. But, if Astoria had known any tentative peace in her early life (and she felt that she had), it was surely also because of Harry's influence. She had grown up in a world largely removed from war, from her mother's prejudices. Harry had done more than save the school when he had thwarted Quirrell in first year: he had also saved Astoria from the life she would have to live if Lord Voldemort rose to power a second time and a small, very guilty part of her was secretly thankful for his heroism.
Despite the way she occasionally made it sound around Theodore, it was not an enlightened moral code that prevented her from resenting Harry's popularity or the unfair amount of attention he always seemed to receive—it was an unshakable feeling of a debt that she not only owed, but actively concealed. There had never been a wide-spread connection at school between Astoria's mother and the Dark Lord; she had never suffered the ugly indignity of being socially 'grouped' together with the children of old Death Eaters by her teachers. Why? Because Harry Potter had banished Lord Voldemort before Astoria was old enough to speak—and lost his own parents in the process. But how could she explain such an idea to Tracey without revealing herself in a hideous and vulnerable way?
"I guess his hair is sort of roguish," Tracey amended, quirking her head. "If Malfoy pops up to hiss poison about how rubbish Potter is on his top of the line Firebolt, you should casually mention that he looks sexy in his quidditch uniform. I'm sure that would keep me laughing until dinner time."
"I did not say Harry is sexy," Astoria chided, laughing despite herself. "I said that I think he looks fine—or at the very least, that I don't think he looks knobby. He hasn't been knobby since first year."
Gryffindor was already leading by eighty points to zero. Despite Ravenclaw's best effort, it seemed as though Oliver Wood's training and Harry's superior broomstick were paying off. Up in the air, Cho was marking Harry, imitating his every move, but it wasn't enough: Harry broke off and tore across the pitch in a soaring arc. Everyone turned to look, because there could be no mistaking this motion—Harry Potter must have seen the snitch.
Only something was wrong; Harry clung to his broom like a parachuter and the rest of his teammates had stopped playing. An unexpected darkness crept forward near the bottom of Astoria's vision.
"Oh!" cried Cho, falling back.
The look of horror on Cho's face was enough to send Astoria's eyes flying toward the grass, where she was startled to spot several darkly-robed figures sweeping out onto the field.
"No!" moaned Tracey, pitching forward in her seat. "No, not again!"
But before the wave of cold that accompanied all dementors could reach the stands, Harry dived. Plunging his hand into his robes, he withdrew his wand; a vast and silvery-white ghost burst forth and shot in the direction of the cloaked figures. The row of dementors buckled and—miracle of miracles!—collapsed very ungracefully, rendered into a puddle of fabric and limbs by the spell.
"What?" muttered Astoria, trying desperately hard to understand what she had seen.
A second roar of sound told her that Harry had caught the snitch, but her gaze lingered uncomprehendingly on the writhing black figures. People on either side of her were beginning to stand. Harry had won the game; it was over. Only Tracey was still bothered, still staring at Astoria with the same look of baited terror she could feel animating her own features.
"Where those even dementors?" panted Tracey, wild with panic. "They didn't feel like dementors!"
"Well, if they were, then Harry must have killed them," Astoria answered grimly. She felt no trace of the characteristic and overwhelming command to faint that she had come to associate with a dementor attack...
The mystery briefly deepened at the bottom of the stairs.
"Disgraceful!" Professor McGonagall roared, towering over the robed figures. "An unworthy trick!"
From their new vantage point at the bottom of the stands, Astoria could finally see the dementors properly. A pair of shoes twisted uncomfortable near the bottom of one of the cloaks; someone else appeared to be trapped in the hood. Not real dementors, then, surely?
"That's Flint," whispered Tracey in a low, awed voice, pointing at the nearest cloak.
"And Crabbe and Goyle," Astoria murmured back, gesturing to two sets of boat sized shoes.
"Oh-ho-hoo!" cheered Tracey delightedly, grasping her knees. "That's Malfoy kicking around in the top!"
"Detention for all of you—and fifty points from Slytherin!" rasped McGonagall, eyes roving wildly, clearly beyond herself.
"Bloody hell!" Tracey cursed, no longer laughing. "Not worth it! They didn't even stop Potter from catching the snitch, the idiots!"
"Ow!" roared Goyle, finally managing to extract himself from the bottom of Malfoy's cloak.
"Get out of it then!" snarled Draco's voice from somewhere deep within the voluminous folds of fabric.
"C'mon," urged Tracey, pulling Astoria away. "I can't watch—I'm afraid McGonagall will take more points for sheer stupidity."
They wandered back up to the castle in silence, jostled about by the crowd. With every jarring step, Astoria found herself replaying the image of the tangled Slytherin quidditch team until her heart sang with the preventable villainy of it all. She was the one who had told Draco about the stupid Firebolt; she was the reason they'd had enough time to put together their plan...
When they reached the entrance hall, Tracey broke the silence by suggesting that they find Theodore and have lunch.
"I can check the Slytherin common room for him, if you want," Tracey reasoned, sounding high-pitched and overly helpful. Did she know that Astoria was angry with herself? Had she perhaps guessed at the source of her irritation?
"No, let's grab some sandwiches to go," returned Astoria distractedly. "I bet he's in the nook by the Divination tower."
Tracey readily agreed to to tag along. She had never been to Astoria and Theodore's favorite study nook before, so they stopped in the Great Hall just long enough to stack a dozen tuna sandwiches between napkins before setting off for the seventh floor.
They found Theodore in the exact spot Astoria had imagined: quietly reading a book about trolls in his favorite, frayed armchair by the window.
"How was the match?" he asked between mouthfuls of tuna and lettuce. "If Astoria's expression is anything to go by, I'm guessing Gryffindor won."
"They won," confirmed Tracey, eyeing her shabby surroundings approvingly. "But the real gossip happened later. Marcus Flint staged a field invasion."
"Whad'ya mean?" frowned Theodore, swallowing a hunk of crust the size of his thumb.
"Flint, Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle tried to scare the spit out of Potter by going out onto the pitch dressed as dementors," explained Tracey. "But Harry shot them with a giant ghost cloud and caught the snitch anyway. McGonagall's taken fifty points off of us for it."
"Seriously?" Theodore deadpanned. "Little twits! Marcus is team captain, for merlin's sake! He should know better."
"Honestly," agreed Tracey. "It was Malfoy's idea, though—you really shouldn't have told him about the Firebolt, Astoria."
Unwilling to outwardly accept blame, Astoria stared stonily out the window.
They finished lunch in agitated silence. Afterwards, Tracey grew restless so Astoria agreed to accompany her on a quest to the library. Tracey babbled during the walk down, making up for Astoria's sullen mood by doubling up her merry train of complaints. She fell silent when they neared the librarian's desk, however.
"Overdue!" exclaimed Madam Pince. Her voice—cruel and unexpectedly shrill—cut through the muffled quiet like a foghorn, startling Astoria back to her senses.
"Yes," agreed Tracey, somehow managing to ignore the check-in stamp quivering under her nose, "that's why I'm bringing them back."
"Books are to be returned on time," seethed Pince, flipping open the next several covers to inspect their due dates.
"Move!" hissed Tracey, eyes wide with warning.
Astoria pivoted, knowing what would happen next.
"Every one of them—OVERDUE!" Pince's voice echoed tremulously, already several feet behind them. "DISORDER!"
They shot around the corner and darted along a row of books, moving as quickly as they could, pushing into each other and snorting with mirth. Finally, just as a stitch was beginning to form in Astoria's side, they toppled into a long and unfamiliar chamber where stacks of maps pushed up against the eaves and scrolls of magical blueprints cluttered the shelves. This low, noisy room was lit by long windows and their sudden arrival stirred up a cloud of floating, sun-dazzled dust particles.
It was a very odd room. A large globe hung overhead, suspended from the rafters by unseen magic. Even in broad daylight, this globe appeared to be oddly fluid—pulsing, shifting and glowing from within. Far below it stood several varnished study tables, all dappled by the orb's strange illumination. Stacks of atlases crowded every surface, lending the space a very shut-in and closet-like feel. But luckily, several feet away, a door leading to the fourth floor stood slightly ajar.
Astoria made for the door, dragging Tracey along by her sweater sleeve.
"Tracey!" hollered Flora, startling them both by popping up from behind one of the long, claustrophobic tables in the shadow of the globe. "Was that you Madam Pince was yelling at? What on Earth did you do to her?"
"Turn your books in late again?" suggested Pansy, smiling a thin smile. "God, you'd think there would be a learning curve for that sort of thing..."
In addition to these two of Astoria's least favorite people at Hogwarts, half of the Slytherin quidditch team also seemed to be loitering underneath the illuminated globe, basking in the last few hours of winter sunshine streaming in through the tall windows.
"Congratulations, Greengrass!" called Marcus, sitting up far enough to see over his feet (which were propped up on the Directory of Swamps of Great Britain). "I hope you made a pretty penny off of Golden Boy Potter, because that was his last win of the season."
Adrian Pucey laughed and elbowed Lucien Bole. They both turned to stare.
"Yeah," returned Astoria brusquely, faking her best impression of true neutrality. "We'll see."
"Hear that, Malfoy?" leered Montague. "Greengrass reckons you're going to let Potter beat you in the final!"
Astoria suffered a fresh stab of annoyance the moment she spotted Draco's pale, arrogant face a few seats down.
"After the stunt you lot pulled earlier, I'm surprised they'll be letting anyone play," snapped Astoria. Her gaze moved past Flint, where it hooked coldly on Malfoy. "I see you've finally got Goyle off of your head."
Malfoy flushed, Montague laughed and Pansy made a great show of scoffing loudly.
"It's a competition, isn't it?" Pansy demanded. "Potter's got a Firebolt—so why shouldn't our team be able to dress up like dementors?"
This was the most failed logic Astoria had heard in a very long time. What was more, she could tell by the way that both Marcus and Draco held silent that even they weren't especially keen to latch on to her argument either.
Draco continued to stare back at her, scowling reflexively. Clearly he found her expression frustrating.
"What?" he snapped defensively.
"Nothing," Astoria sneered. "Only, were you really so afraid of having to face Harry in the final? Is that why you sabotaged the match?"
"I'm not afraid of facing Potter," spat Malfoy and his nasty sneer told Astoria that her dig had struck home. "Are you trying to tell me off for cheating? Everyone knows the reason you're upset—did we upset the secret betting ring going on behind the teachers backs!"
Hearing this, Pansy affected an expression of false shock and turned to grasp Floral's shoulder. Astoria wanted to slap her across the face.
"It wasn't even good cheating," Astoria exploded. All of the annoyance she'd been feeling over the past week seemed to be rising to the surface; Draco's imitation of Hagrid weeping at breakfast, his stupid obsession with having Buckbeak executed. "Harry literally hexed you so far into your own hood that you got stuck there!"
Montague laughed again and—unless Astoria's eyes deceived her—she thought she saw Flint shoot half of an amused glance in Draco's direction, too.
"Harry shouldn't have used that spell!" argued Pansy primly, moving around Flora to stand nearer to Malfoy. "It's against the rules to play quidditch with a wand—everyone knows that!"
"Yeah, well, it's also against the rules to invade the field" Astoria snapped back, feeling that Draco richly deserved this taste of shame. "So good for Harry for having his wand, I say!"
Draco sneered, but a dull flush of embarrassment was creeping up his neck—a clear sign that her verbal attack was taking him by surprise.
"It's only detention," Flint shrugged soothingly, correctly sensing that the argument was close to reaching its boiling point. "Potter still won his match, Greengrass. There's no harm done."
"Really!" agreed Pansy, spinning around to nod at Flint. "If anything, it's Marcus and Draco who were nearly harmed—they had some weird spell shot at them! I can't believe McGonagall took fifty points off and never said a word about Harry's wand!"
"Yeah?" Astoria jerked tensely. "Because that's crazy? Right, well, come on Tracey."
"What's with you?" sneered Draco, too stupid or too stubborn to let the matter drop.
Pansy's eyes flicked between Draco and Astoria with an twist of poorly concealed annoyance.
"Nothing," Astoria snapped. "Plot all of the embarrassing quidditch subterfuge and hippogriff executions that you like, Malfoy! I'm out here."
Marcus Flint whistle behind her as she strode out into the hall, but Astoria did not turn around to yell at him. She could hear Tracey's dogged path behind her; eyes down, doing her best to avoid the inquisitive stares of her housemates.
"I can't even handle that room right now!" Astoria flared, ripping aside a tapestry to reveal one of her favorite shortcuts.
"No kidding," agreed Tracey wryly. "Penny for your thoughts?"
"The whole lot of them are such a pack of idiots!" Astoria sneered. "Pansy with her snotty little looks and Flint with his whole 'big brother' act? I don't know how you can stand sharing a common room with them!"
"Are you alright?" wondered Tracey, suddenly blunt as a hammer. "Only, you seem a little piqued, Astoria. You've never had such a problem with Marcus before—"
"I'm fine," Astoria shot back, but it was obvious from the tone of her voice that she wasn't. She heaved a sign and rubbed her eyes.
"I'm just—I don't know. I'm not in the mood to sit around and listen to DracoMalfoy brag about how impressive it is that he's using his family name to have someone's pet killed!" she rambled, trying and failing for a sense of cutting clarity. "Listening to Pansy stand up for him is even worse—'Potter got a Firebolt, so why can't our team dress as dementors?' Is she serious?"
"Pansy's always been like that, though, "Tracey shrugged. "For that matter, so has Draco. I don't know how any of this is different from the thousands of other times they've acted the same way."
Because my sister prefers Pansy over me, thought Astoria, stiffening as the bolt of self loathing struck. And listening to Malfoy talk about Hagrid the way he does makes me sad.
"I think I'm just going to go have a nap," she sighed at last. "Maybe it'll put me in a better mood."
Tracey seemed disappointed by this—most likely because Astoria's fit had effectively prevented her from being able to return to her friends in the library—but she didn't raise any objections. So, heart-sick and soul-tired, Astoria beat a weary path back to the Gryffindor common room alone.
0o0
You guys, Mrs. Zabini (Blaise's mother) has no name in canon. I decided to go ahead and try to name hermyself and I settled on Seraphina, which literally means 'ardent or fiery' in Latin. (Bonus Points: The name is also a reference to the highest ranking angels, the Seraphim. While Blaise's mother is notoriously murderous, she is also quite famous for being enchantingly lovely to look at and I rather think the name does her a type of justice.)
As always, thanks for reading and reviews are a treat!