It took a week for the Floo repairmen to completely troubleshoot the Parsons' connection. Luke wouldn't let either of them use it until he had tried it both ways several times; eventually, though, he had to admit that it was in perfect order. Beth was delighted with the results when she took the trip to Diagon Alley. As the new fireplace in their home made traveling so much easier, both Mr. Parson and Lycaeon accompanied Beth to King's Cross Station to meet the Hogwarts Express. To Beth's surprise, her father handled the trip effortlessly.
"We used to take the Floo all the time," Lycaeon whispered, as Mr. Parson smartly dusted off his pants and stepped out on the other end. "I don't suppose he's done it for a while, but he must've used it loads of times before."
The hustle of the train station was as familiar as the students that hurried past, clutching cats and owl cages and trying to look as if it was perfectly natural to be taking a broom on a long train trip. Beth hugged both of them goodbye before strolling easily through the barrier between platforms nine and ten. It was another thing that had become second nature to her after five years of routine.
Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was, as always, a hubbub of see-you-soons to the parents and how've-you-beens to the other Hogwarts pupils. This year it was also a jungle of mist, owing to the heavy rain that beat onto the scarlet Hogwarts Express. Under the usual chatter, though, only one topic prevailed:
"Were you there?"
"Did you see it?"
"Wasn't it great?
Even the adults were still bubbling about the Quidditch Cup. Beth heard a conductor ruefully telling some of his chums about how much he had lost betting in favor of Bulgaria. "Knew Krum would snag it," he said, rubbing the back of his neck with one grimy hand. "Thought it'd be sooner, though."
The train gave a low boarding whistle. Beth was almost done loading her things onto the train when she was attacked from behind. "Hi, Bruce," she laughed, struggling against the arms that held her in a tight bear hug.
Bruce Bletchley let her go. "How'd you know it was me?"
"Through the mystic smoke of the Hogwarts Express," Beth whispered, in her best impression of Professor Trelawney, "I interpreted the signs ..."
"Beth! Bruce!"
"Bet you didn't see that coming," Bruce grinned, as Melissa Ollivander dropped her bags onto the ground and throttled them both in an enormous hug.
"Hi, Mel! How was your --"
"It was wonderful," Melissa broke in breathlessly. "After you couldn't come to the World Cup, Beth, Mum and Dad let me invite Galen instead --" Galen Melhorn, a graduated Gryffindor, had been Melissa's boyfriend for almost three years. "-- and we got excellent seats, right beneath the top box, you know ... just a few seats away from the families of the players ... and Bruce, I ran into Uther Montague in the campground, he says hello -- he's with the owl post these days --"
She broke off suddenly. "What are you wearing?"
Bruce's t-shirt read: "Quidditch players do it on the fly."
"Where did you get that?" Melissa stammered, over Beth's sniggering.
"Couple of Americans were selling them out of their tent in the campground," said Bruce. "I really wanted one that said 'Just because I'm Keeper, doesn't mean I can't score,' but they were all sold out."
"Pity," said Melissa dryly.
"Yeah," Bruce sighed.
They all ducked through the rain and crowded onto the train without getting too wet. The front compartments were mostly taken, so they wove through the many students crowding the aisleway and found an empty place near the back. Before long, the familiar sound of the train whistle cut through the relentless rain, and the Hogwarts Express lurched into motion.
Of everything that made Hogwarts home, the thing Beth loved the most was the train ride to school. There was always something to talk about; no one was ever in a bad mood, her friends were back together after being scattered for months ... Beth couldn't imagine anywhere that she would rather be.
The hours passed easily. Their talk was the easy conversation of those who have had five long years of acquaintance. Eventually, of course, talk turned back to the World Cup: reminiscences of especially good moments, speculation on what either team could've done differently, and even wondering about the next World Cup. (Not that any of them would probably be there; it was slated to be held four years later, in Zaire.) Beth didn't regret not seeing the match. She had spent the summer with her brother and father -- and after the trials of the previous year, valued that family time all the more.
The food cart came and left, considerably more empty than when it had arrived. Outside, the storm thundered. In compartment 12B, the debate raged over whether Viktor Krum's capture of the Snitch had been heroic or supremely thick.
"You catch the Snitch so your team wins," Bruce said, mowing through Cauldron Cakes like he hadn't eaten since April. "His team was too far behind. He should've pretended he'd never seen it, and tried to plough Lynch again."
"He did the only thing he could do," said Melissa primly. "He knew Bulgaria would never catch up ..."
"They didn't have to catch up," Bruce insisted. "They just had to narrow the gap to fourteen goals or under. They could've done that. Zograf was just hitting his stride, he's never in the zone until seven or eight minutes into the game anyway --"
"Seven or eight minutes can lose a game, you know," said Melissa.
Bruce threw up his hands. "As if you know anything about Quidditch!"
"For your information, Mr. Bletchley, I spent all summer studying about Quidditch to get ready for the World Cup!"
Bruce looked like he wanted to say something -- possibly about how it was impossible to learn a sport from a book -- but he caught the look on Melissa's face and refrained. Beth was glad. The last time she had that ferocious sort of glint in her eye, she had spent the entire year driving everybody crazy over women's rights.
Very fortunately for everyone, the conversation was interrupted by an enthusiastic knock on the door of their cart. Without waiting to be invited in, Aaron Pucey and his best friend Warrington, both sixth-year Slytherins, poked their heads inside.
"Hey!" Bruce greeted them delightedly. All three of them had been on the house Quidditch team at some point. "How are you? What's up?"
"Draco says he's got big news," Aaron grinned. "Might be about the team, eh? Maybe he's picked up something from watching Krum and Lynch." He nudged Warrington low in the ribs, that being all the higher he could comfortably reach. "It's our year to get the Cup back."
"Once and for all," boomed Warrington. His voice had deepened again.
"You think he's got a new tactic?" Bruce said anxiously, rising from his seat. "Man, what I wouldn't give to see him feint Potter into the ground."
"You and me both," Aaron agreed fervently. "Come on then, half the house is already there."
Leaving their things behind, the four of them got up and followed their classmates down the corridor of the train.
The compartment was so full already that Slytherin students spilled out into the corridor and filled up the compartment across the aisle. At the center of it all was Draco Malfoy, the smug and comfortable captor of everyone's attention. He was ringed by the rest of the fourth-years, several Quidditch players, and innumerable admirers. He had already changed into his school robes.
"Do you think there are quite enough people here yet, Draco?" Blaise Zabini said dryly, from Draco's right. "Or would you like us to spread the word to the Ravenclaws too?"
He looked down his nose at her. "That won't be necessary," he said coolly. He looked around at the assembly like a king before his courtiers. "You've all heard that something's going on at Hogwarts this year? Something secret, something big?"
There were nods and murmurs. Beth had heard nothing over the summer, but she recognized immediately what he was talking about -- Richard's letter had reminded her. Bruce's shoulders slumped as he, too, grasped what the "big news" was. He had obviously been hoping for something Quidditch-related.
"They're getting rid of Gryffindor tower?" someone said excitedly. Laughs and groans mingled between the two compartments, combined with a lot of "I wish" as well.
"No, they can't destroy it," Draco said. "Where else would they store all that hot air?" He smirked as his joke drew laughter from the crowd. There was nothing that Draco enjoyed more than being at the center of things.
"Just tell us, Draco," Pansy Parkinson pleaded.
Draco patted her hand. "All right then. Hogwarts is going to be hosting a Triwizard Tournament this year -- we'll be having visitors from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons." His eyes glinted. "Only one student from each school can enter."
A ripple of excitement spread through the students. Their reactions were amusing to watch. Most of the Slytherins were pretending that they had already known about the Tournament; the S.S.A. members were all trying to act as if they hadn't known about it for the past three years.
"You're going to enter, Draco, of course?" Pansy said, her hand resting in the crook of his arm.
"Of course," said Draco contemptuously. "All that fame? I'd be mad not to. Of course, the Weasleys will be entering for the money ... you could feed their family for almost a week on all that ..."
There was laughter around the compartment. There were so many Weasleys that just about everybody had class with one or two of them, and there were frequent discussions in the common room over which ones of them were the worst.
Draco, it turned out, didn't know much more about the Tournament, so after a little group discussion everybody left. Nobody minded the scant information; the Slytherins had all grown to enjoy lording over the other houses something they knew but no one else did, no matter how little it was. Chatting and laughing, they dispersed to their separate compartments, in a good mood and feeling comfortably superior.
By that time, the train had almost reached its destination, and a long, low whistle warned the students that it was time to change into their school robes and prepare to disembark. Beth and her friends slid into their compartment and started pulling on their robes over their jeans and t-shirts.
"I wonder where Mervin is?" said Bruce, as he fastened the collar of his cloak. "Haven't seen the fellow yet."
"He'll be around," said Beth. "He's probably off sulking." She yanked her robes over her head. "Never was a very happy -- what the --?"
She jammed her hand up her left sleeve and pulled out a twelve-foot strand of ivy. It had been cut, but recently -- the notched leaves were still green and shiny.
"Weird," she said slowly.
Melissa leaned in to look at the plant. "What is that?"
"How should I know?" Beth shrugged, tossing it on the ground. The vine landed at Bruce's feet. "I dropped Herbology."
But Bruce had leapt backward as if the ivy were a snake. "Don't chuck that around!" he yelped. "That's poison ivy!"
"Oh bugger," said Beth. She started struggling out of her tainted robes.
Suddenly Melissa let out a short, piercing shriek. Beth whirled to see her best friend's long, brown hair twist and begin to rise, as if it had been caught in a sudden whirlwind. The long locks floated upward, braiding themselves haphazardly, until they stood ramrod-straight three feet tall. The hair stiffened. Then hundreds of full, green leaves burst into bloom.
Bruce started to laugh.
"It isn't funny, Bletchley," Melissa snarled. Her hands hovered near the shrub as if she didn't quite dare to feel the damage.
"Yes it is," said Bruce. He laughed for about four more seconds before yellow tentacles sprouted all over his face.
The Hogwarts Express screeched into Hogsmeade station to the sound of one long, furious cry.
"Weasleys!"
"You look like Marie Antoinette," sniggered Bruce.
Melissa sneered at him, and the three feet of foliage on her head bobbed slightly under its shawl. "And you look like a sea anemone."
"Just make for the infirmary," Beth pleaded, clawing at her arm under the sleeve. The poison ivy had started to take effect; she could practically feel the pustules rising on her skin. "Oh -- wait -- we have to find Mervin! Someone has to record the Sorting --"
"There he is," said Bruce. His voice was slightly muffled as he had wrapped his scarf around his entire face. At the same time, Mervin Fletcher seemed to spot them and came running across the Entrance Hall to meet them.
Mervin was soaking wet and looked very relieved to see them. "There you are!" he said. "I couldn't find you on the train -- I had to sit with these firsties that haven't even been Sorted yet --" He caught sight of Melissa's towering turban. "What are you keeping under there, the Dark Lord?"
"We're going to the hospital wing," said Melissa, in an extremely dignified tone. "You have to hand out the S.S.A. notes."
"And take notes on the Sorting," Beth added.
Mervin's face fell. "I have to do the potato thing?"
But the others were already on their way down the hall.
"And take notes," Beth called over her shoulder.
Surprisingly, they were not the only ones in the infirmary. A house-elf sat on one of the cots, legs dangling over the edge. The nurse, Madame Pomfrey, was putting a plaster on the end of one of the elf's batlike ears. She finished and put her hands on her hips.
"There you are, all patched up," said Madame Pomfrey briskly. "I'm sorry about what happened ... Willy, is it?"
"Gilly, miss," squeaked the house-elf. He bounded down from the cot and scurried out the door.
Madame Pomfrey sighed and shook her head. "It's so difficult to keep them all straight." She looked up at Beth's group. "What's this, then? Not fighting on the Hogwarts Express?"
"We don't know for sure," Beth said darkly, furiously scratching her arm, "but we think it was a Weasley attack."
"Say no more," said Madame Pomfrey. In a flash she had them sitting around on the infirmary cots. She bustled away and came back with a cart filled with supplies: her wand, a beaker full of pink paste, some bandages, a vial of glimmering yellow potion, and a pair of pruning shears.
She handed the vial of potion to Bruce and ordered him to drink. He did, grimacing, and put the empty vial back on the cart. Then he pulled a sickly face and belched loudly. His eyes turned as yellow as the potion had been. "Urgh ..." said Bruce, as the yellow color swept across his skin, hair and even fingernails, "I think I'm going to ..."
"Don't you dare," said Madame Pomfrey. "You need that stuff in you. Hold still, it'll only be a moment."
Bruce clamped his lips shut and clenched his eyes tightly.
Madame Pomfrey picked up the pruning shears and advanced on Melissa. "Hold still, dear," she ordered, and she began to snip away at the overgrown shrub sprouting out of Melissa's head.
"What happened to the house-elf?" Melissa asked, as Madame Pomfrey carefully pruned her hair back to its usual length.
"Peeves," she huffed. "Causing trouble as usual. Hurling pots and pans around the kitchens, overturning the soup -- as if the poor dears didn't have enough to worry about, what with the ovens and the knives and what-have-you -- and poor Nelly ... Rolly ... well anyway, this one got clipped in the ear by a big roasting pan." She snipped a final vine away from Melissa's head. "There, you're trimmed back ... now close your eyes, dear ..." She tapped Melissa on the head with her wand and all the leaves fell off, leaving ordinary brown hair behind. "That's it, you can open them up again."
Melissa paled at the sight of her molted leaves scattered on the cot, but calmed when Beth assured her that her hair was quite back to normal. Bruce nodded his agreement. The yellow color had faded, and the tentacles were gone, but he still didn't look like he was feeling well.
"Splendid," said Madame Pomfrey briskly, as she banished the molted leaves with a sweep of her wand. "Now onto you. Roll up your sleeve, please."
Beth carefully rolled her sleeve back. The blisters had swelled, and there were new bumps where there had been none before. It was thoroughly disgusting.
Madame Pomfrey bent over to examine the skin and tutted loudly. "Scratched it, did you?" she scolded. Beth nodded. "This is ordinary old poison ivy, my dear, and I'll never forgive you if you scratch at it again. Spreads like wildfire, this stuff. I forbid you to touch it."
She lathered a layer of the pink paste all over Beth's arm and dabbed it onto both hands for good measure. The aching itch faded immediately. Then she wrapped the whole thing in bandages. "Horrible plant," she said, as she wound the bandages around each finger individually, "it'll be three weeks before this fades. More if you scratch it. Have all of your clothes washed immediately." She leveled Beth with a severe glare. Then she thrust the paste into Beth's bandaged hands. "Reapply as necessary."
Beth nodded obediently. Bruce hiccupped.
The feast was almost finished by the time they made their way down to the Great Hall. They slipped in as quietly as they could and took seats near Aaron and Warrington.
"Where were you?" growled Warrington, through a mouthful of steak.
"Weasleys," said Bruce.
All of them looked across the Hall to the Gryffindor table, where the Weasley twins nudged each other and waved, wearing twin grins of triumph.
"You'll never believe what they did during the Sorting," Aaron said, while Bruce turned away from the Gryffindors, glowering. "See that kid down there, with the curly black hair and the freckles? He got Sorted into Slytherin and they hissed at him."
Beth was appalled. "They didn't!"
"They would, and you know it," said Melissa, angrily slopping mashed potatoes onto her plate.
"They absolutely did," said Aaron. He smacked his fist into his other hand. "I've got to get on the team this year, Bruce -- it's the only way to take them down once and for all!"
Beth looked at him, worried. "You're not going to try out for the team again? After all those injuries?"
"My arm's better now," Aaron insisted. "I can write again and everything. Bruce, you've got to let me play Beater again. I practiced every day over the summer, I swear. And I was watching Vulchanov and Quigley extra careful at the Quidditch Cup, I mean they're two of the best Beaters in the world --"
"Trials are in two weeks, Aaron," Bruce murmured.
"Well, couldn't you ... I mean, I am in your class ..."
"Wait until the trials," Bruce said firmly, and Aaron fell into disappointed silence.
Melissa was giving Bruce a look. "What've you got to do with the decision?" she asked suspiciously.
Bruce shrugged awkwardly. "Well ... I'm captain this year."
Melissa looked astonished. "Captain?" she said. "But you buggered out of the championship game last year!"
Bruce reddened but held his ground. "All the players know why," he said, "and they voted for me anyway."
"Congratulations," Beth said quickly. "You'll do a fantastic job, won't he, Mel?"
Melissa picked at her mashed potatoes. "You know, maybe I'll try out for the team this year."
Her classmates stopped and stared.
"You'll -- what, sorry?" Bruce said, twisting a finger in one ear.
"Yes, I think I will. I'm going to try out for Chaser." Melissa looked round at them all resolutely.
There was another moment or two of silence. Then Aaron Pucey said, "Don't be stupid, Melissa, you've never played Quidditch in your life."
Sometimes, Beth thought, Aaron was even thicker than Warrington.
But Melissa held her temper. "At least I know the rule about staying on your broom," she said sweetly.
Aaron turned beet-red as his classmates jeered. Everyone remembered when he had taken a fifty-foot fall in the middle of the Ravenclaw game two years ago. Back then the incident had been frightening -- Aaron had been unconscious for a week -- but now it was one more piece of ammunition that made up a Slytherin arsenal.
Aaron looked like he might try to work up another barb of his own, but just then the food and plates faded away, and peace was maintained. At the Head Table, Dumbledore rose to his feet, smiling, as he always did, at the very thought of another school year.
"So! Now that we are all fed and watered, I must once more ask for your attention, while I give out a few notices."
"Oh!" Beth, as Society secretary, was supposed to be taking notes on everything that Dumbledore said. She dug around in her pockets and pulled out her new Quick-Quotes Quill -- a back-to-school gift from Lycaeon. She hadn't had a chance to try it out yet. She licked the nub and held the pen over her napkin, where it hovered on its point. When Dumbledore began to speak, it skated along the napkin, recording the Headmaster's words.
The first several announcements were all the usual: no magic, making out, or Fanged Frisbees in the halls, and the Forbidden Forest was still forbidden. Beth was pleased with the way her quill worked. It wrote in Beth's handwriting, which was kind of eerie, but it was very good at punctuation and even knew when to start a new paragraph. Beth was just thinking how she might dictate some of her essays this year, just to see how it went, when Dumbledore said something that broke in over her thoughts:
"It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year."
There were gasps around the Great Hall. Beth's jaw dropped. She looked quickly at Bruce -- he sat watching Dumbledore with a slightly puzzled expression. He tilted his head quizzically toward Beth.
"I thought I heard him say ..."
"He did," moaned Aaron.
Unimaginable horror dawned on Bruce's face.
Dumbledore forged ahead quickly. "This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers' time and energy -- but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts --"
Bang.
The doors to the Great Hall burst open. In a flash of lightning Beth could make out a stooped, cloaked figure hovering ominously in the doorway. The room fell into a tense hush. Slowly, the cloaked stranger lowered his hood and began to walk between the long tables toward Dumbledore at the front of the room.
His hair was shaggy and gray, his face a network of wrinkles and scars of a more ominous derivation. One of his eyes was large, crystal-blue, and it rolled around in his grizzled face with no regard to the motions of the other eye. Beth was weirdly fascinated with the way his absurd eye seemed to take in the entire hall, while the other kept a steady gaze on Dumbledore.
He reached the Head Table, shook hands with Dumbledore, and took his seat beside the headmaster. Completely disregarding the wide-eyed stillness of the students around him, he pulled out a pocketknife and began to eat.
The room was deathly silent.
"No Quidditch?" said Bruce faintly.
"Bruce!" Beth hissed, horrified that someone might have heard him, but thankfully the Headmaster broke the silence for himself.
"May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?" said Dumbledore cheerfully. "Professor Moody."
Professor Dumbledore and Hagrid started to applaud -- they were the only two -- but at the pronouncement of the name, Beth felt a rill of tension ripple through her table and disappear under the rows of carefully cool exteriors. Moody ... Mad-Eye Moody ... where had she heard that name before ...? She saw now that the nickname fit him perfectly. The one magical eye was eerie, true -- but the other one glinted with sharp intellect, observation, and mistrust. Mad indeed. He would have to be watched.
"As I was saying," Dumbledore went on, over the deathly silence of the hall, "we are to have the honor of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year."
"You're JOKING!" one of the Weasley twins said loudly.
Most of the hall broke into nervous laughter. Professor Dumbledore smiled at the Gryffindor table.
"I am not joking, Mr. Weasley, though now that you mention it, I did hear an excellent one over the summer about a troll, a hag, and a leprechaun who all go into a bar ..."
Professor McGonagall fixed her gaze on him and cleared her throat.
"Er -- but maybe this is not the time ... no ... where was I? Ah yes, the Triwizard Tournament ... well, some of you will not know what this tournament involves, so I hope those who do know will forgive me for giving a short explanation, and allow their attention to wander freely."
Thank goodness, Beth thought. "Make sure you get all this down," she whispered to her quill, which bobbed dutifully as it swept across the page, recording Dumbledore's every word. Instead of paying attention to Dumbledore's speech, however, Beth fixed her gaze on the prefect's table, where Richard Shaw was watching the headmaster with rapt attention.
Richard. Beth chewed on her lower lip. He'd only written her a few times over the summer; only once or twice when it didn't have to do with the S.S.A. None of it had been remotely romantic. But he had kissed her at the end of the year ... only on the cheek, but nonetheless ... and he had looked so embarrassed afterward. Beth let out a nervous little sigh. What if he really had been embarrassed -- what if he regretted it? He hadn't come to find her on the train, and he certainly wasn't paying attention to her now, not when Dumbledore was outlining the rules for the Tournament ...
"... have agreed to impose an age limit on the contenders this year. Only students who are of age -- that is to say, seventeen years or older -- will be allowed to put forward their names for consideration."
Melissa let out a cry of outrage. Aaron almost stood up in his fury.
"So ... no Quidditch this year," said Bruce.
"This is a measure we feel is necessary," Dumbledore went on, raising his voice slightly to trump the exclamations and complaints, "given that the tournament tasks will still be difficult and dangerous, whatever precautions we take, and it is highly unlikely that students below sixth and seventh year will be able to cope with them. I will personally be ensuring that no underage student hoodwinks our impartial judge into making them Hogwarts champion."
He cast a knowing eye at the Gryffindors ... entirely missing the calculating look that fell over Richard's face. We're usually on your side, Dumbledore, but when it comes to glory the Society stands alone.
"I therefore beg you not to waste your time submitting yourself if you are under seventeen."
Dumbledore smiled. "The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving in October and remaining with us for the greater part of this year. I know that you will all extend every courtesy to our foreign guests while they are with us, and will give your whole-hearted support to the Hogwarts champion when he or she is selected. And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rested as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!"
Beth collected her pen and napkin and joined the rest of the school in the swarm toward the common rooms.
The password was "Empyreon." You could tell a lot about your prefect by the passwords they chose, Beth reflected. Two years ago, with Randall Riggs, it had been things like "pure blood" and "anaconda". Richard tended toward cheerier terms -- he had been known to use "Elysium", "Nirvana" and "Valhalla", all of which were slight exaggerations of the quality of the Slytherin dormitories.
She spotted him across the common room, chatting with a bunch of other seventh-years. He caught sight of her and gave her a smile. Ignoring the way her stomach jumped nervously, she smiled back.
She had thought it would be awkward to see him again. In fact, Richard didn't look remotely embarrassed. Maybe he doesn't remember, Beth thought, and flushed pink.
"Beth!" He broke off from his seventh-year friends and came over to her. "Did you have a good summer with your family?"
"It was great," Beth beamed. "How about you? Did you make it to the World Cup?"
"Oh, yes," said Richard. "I had to sit with my parents' business associates -- half of them missed the ending, they couldn't stop talking about the company --" He blushed. Then he drew a deep breath as if savoring the scent of the chandeliers. "It's going to be a good year."
"Can't be worse than last year, can it?" Beth laughed.
Richard smiled. "I certainly hope not."
"Oy! Prefect!" A clutch of first-years stood in the center of the room. Two or three were snickering to each other; a few had their arms crossed imperiously. A snub-nosed boy with curly black hair had spoken up from the center of the group. "Where's our rooms?"
"Oops -- duty calls," said Richard, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. He lowered his voice. "Rude little blighters, aren't they? It'll be a job picking out two of them for the you-know-what." He stood up and started toward the first-years, calling, "All right then, I'm on my way ..."
Beth watched him go. She let out a little sigh and turned back towards her own dormitories. Melissa had her arms crossed and a very wide smirk across her face. Beth blushed brilliantly.
"Hey!"
They turned around to see Mervin Fletcher standing there with his hands on his hips and a scowl on his face.
"Where the devil were you at dinner?" Mervin demanded.
"The Weasleys --" Melissa began.
"Do you have any idea how hard it is to give a baked potato to somebody who doesn't want it? The kid, Bergeron, whatever his name is, he hates baked potatoes, didn't want it near him, kept moving it back to my plate -- as if I needed another enchanted letter from the S.S.A. --"
"What did you do?" asked Beth, fighting to hide her smile.
"I took the note out of the potato," said Mervin, "and I stuck it in his cinnamon roll."
Bruce smiled. "You know, maybe it's time to change that tradition."
"Audra took it, didn't she?" Melissa said anxiously. "I was spying on her, you know, she's so sweet and quiet ..."
"She didn't move," Mervin said. "She didn't say a word. All she did was look at me ... she has these weird blue eyes, they look half gray ..." He shuddered. "In any case I'm never going to do that again."
"You're off the hook for this year," Melissa told him. She yawned hugely. "Ugh, I'm off to bed. It's been a long day ..."
Beth and Melissa bid the boys goodnight and headed upstairs to their dormitory. Their classmate Antigone von Dervish was already there; she always went to bed early, claiming that it was the secret of her flawless complexion, which made sneaking out to S.S.A. meetings a great deal easier for the other two girls.
"Good summer, Antigone?" Melissa asked cheerfully. She always got on better with Antigone than Beth did. "Break many hearts?"
Antigone was dabbing Caducea's Cold Cream onto her delicate cheeks. "None that didn't deserve it," she said lazily. She put down the cold cream and got to work on her nails.
"It's exciting, isn't it?" said Melissa, laying out her clothes for the next day. "The Tournament. Such a grand event at Hogwarts -- and foreign visitors, too."
"That depends on the foreigners," Antigone yawned. "Of course, I've known about it for months. My parents, you know, have very good connections." She sat down on her bed and began brushing her long blonde hair thoughtfully. "I even had time to learn a bit of Spanish before the foreigners get here. Te quiero, guapo," she purred huskily, in illustration, and smiled proudly.
"Er ..." said Beth. "Good job."
Melissa grinned. "Too bad none of the schools that are attending are from Spain."
"Don't be silly," said Antigone, brushing her hair. "There's Beauxbatons."
"They speak French," said Melissa.
Antigone's hand stopped halfway through a stroke, gripping the brush tightly. "What?"
"French."
Antigone's pretty mouth dropped open. Then she hurled her brush across the room and swore loudly in Spanish. "Now I've only got two months!" she said hotly, and stormed out of the room.
"They're kind of alike," Beth called after her, and was rewarded with another volley of curses, this time in clear and irate English.
She and Melissa grinned at each other. "How much French d'you think she can learn by Halloween?" Beth asked, changing into her pajamas.
"With her O.W.L.s?" Melissa snickered. "She'll be lucky just to get 'Voulez-vous coucher avec moi.'"
"Well, that's all she needs, isn't it?" said Beth wickedly.
They climbed into bed and dimmed the lights until Antigone -- assuming she eventually came out of her snit -- would be able to see when she went to bed. Lying there in the comfortable dark of her canopies, Beth suddenly felt the weight of time on her shoulders. Only two more years of this, she thought. Only two more years with Mel and Bruce. Two more years of Hogwarts. She sighed aloud, and heard Melissa rustle in the next bed. Only two more years to laugh with Aaron -- to fight off the Weasleys -- to encourage Warrington, to put up with Antigone --
The next thought came unbidden.
Only one more year with Richard.
~~~~~~~~~
Challenge: Ten house points and a cookie to anybody who writes a joke that starts out with a troll, a hag and a leprechaun all going into a bar. Double points if it's actually funny.
