With a Little Help from My Friends ~ by Lucy Lupin
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Dedication: I would like to thank Liz Dockson on fictionalley.org who kindly offered to host some of my fanart in exchange for me beta-ring her work.
Disclaimer: Hell hath no fury like a French Veela. Which you will find out if you attempt to sue.
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Chapter Seven: What Happened At Hogsmeade
"But Molly Morag, ma'am," the house elf protested, tugging on the left leg of a pair of trousers, "Pookie needs to iron your clothes, ma'am, or Pookie will not be doing her duty as a house elf, and Pookie will be most displeased with herself!"
"Pookie, I am perfectly capable of ironing my own clothes, thank you," Molly said primly, tugging back on the trousers' right leg. While the rest of the Gryffindor students were largely happy with the elves' house-keeping prowess, only Molly's finely-honed skills could find an issue of complaint. After Arthur's "performance" she had lain in wait for several hours for one to appear and make off with her garments to clean and iron them to a level that Molly found indecent.
"But, ma'am, I live to serve you," Pookie pleaded.
"And I live for pants that actually have a crease down the front of each leg," Molly stated firmly, giving the pants a tug that sent the house elf tumbling forward. "That way people know they've been ironed. To be completely honest, I don't really approve of your kind's way of doing a lot of things around here. You can't clean a toilet properly unless it's by wand, I reckon."
Pookie gave an offended hiss then snapped her fingers, disappearing into thin air. Behind Molly, Lucille gasped. "That's it," she said. "You've done it now. You're mortally offended it, and, who knows, they probably won't even want to come and clean our common area anymore. We'll have to-" she visibly swallowed "-do housework."
"And about time too, I'd say," Molly said, replacing her shirt on the pile of clothes on her bed with an air of satisfaction. "No one takes care of other people's property as well as their own."
"Uh, you should see my room," Lucille began.
"Lucille!" Molly cut her off. "You're actually- well, why are you wearing clothes that don't show your legs?"
"Because I'm tired of the first year boys pushing the armchairs in the library underneath the stairs that go up to its second floor so they can get a glimpse up my skirt every time I go upstairs," Lucille replied. The shortened girls' uniforms had that unfortunate side-effect.
"Boys that age don't have those kinds of thoughts," Molly huffed.
"Molly, we both knew Thierry when he was only a year older than that," Lucille pointed out. "And I also have the first of my detentions for crashing through the stained glass window in the Great Hall today, a detention for which pants are required."
"The first?" Molly raised her eyebrows. "Dippet must mean business then."
"He certainly does," Lucille confirmed. "And you know how our dear Headmaster is not one of those old-school educators, how he actually believes that a punishment should aid the development of a student instead of simply being a punishment and all that other clap-trap? Well, guess what my punishment is?" She paused, seemingly waiting for some kind of answer.
"I haven't the foggiest," Molly said.
"Flying lessons," Lucille said darkly.
"Flying lessons?" Molly repeated with a smile.
"It isn't funny, Molly," Lucille insisted. "Anyway, I'm to go to Hagrid's hunt and await instruction there. Why I'm not going to the field where we had our first year flight classes, I don't know. It all smacks of a lack of foresight to me."
"Lucille, have you ever tried taking a Knut off yourself every time you complain about something?" Molly asked. Her friend shook her head. "Well, that's probably a good thing. The legendary Black family fortune may very well be no more." Lucille smiled. "And besides, babe, you look fab in those cords. No one can wear flares like you except Mick Jagger."
"I don't want to look quite the same in flares as he does," Lucille grinned. Molly clucked disapprovingly. "Look, I'm probably not going to finish up in time for the Hogsmeade bus. If you're going, would you mind popping in at my place and make sure that Sirius and James haven't torn my room to pieces?"
"Sure thing," Molly said. "I always look forward to seeing your parents, and your adorable little-"
"Spawn of Salazar Slytherin that masquerades as my younger brother?"
"I concede that I may have a slightly different opinion of him had he been my younger brother. Anyway, I'm happy to do it. Now," Molly pursed her lips thoughtfully, "what will I wear? I hope that Amos Diggory is there, he's looking quite spunky now that he's let his hair grow a little over summer." As her eyes fell on her salvaged pile of clothing, her eyes widened in indignation. "That little so-and-so stole my favourite pink shirt!"
"Not stole, Molly," Lucille corrected, a smile dancing across her lips as she pulled on her trademark butterscotch leather boots underneath her flares, "took."
"It amounts to the same thing!" Molly declared stubbornly. "Look, I bet she's in here somewhere sniggering over me! Come out, come out," she called, started to pace around the room, "I know you're in here! I'm not stupid!"
"No, just insane," Lucille said. "I think I better leave now." She finished putting on her boot and vacated the room.
* * * * *
"Weel, I do not know, Veronica," Thierry said. "Personally I think yer should side avec zis 'Ufflepuff. Bien sur, 'e ees probablement not vair intelligent, mais at least weeth an alliance of only two, yer know oo ter trust. Weeth zee odairs, Arthur an' Diana could be tryin' ter screw yer ovair an' yer would not know until eet was too late. An' 'e ees a 'Ufflepuff. 'Ow could 'e be capable of deceiving yer?"
"Yeah," Veronica mused, "but I really would like Gryffindor to win those fifty points, and it makes sense to work with Arthur and Minnie rather than against them." They were sitting in the library having both elected not to go to Hogsmeade. Well, Arthur had also chosen to stay, but after sobriety had kicked in, he had locked himself in his dorm with shame and therefore didn't really count. Out of Molly, Lucille and Thierry, she had chosen to confide in the latter about the Assassins game and her own plans for it, judging him to be the one most up to a little underhand scheming and subversion. "Besides, I haven't decided which one I'm going to go with yet. I'll just wait and see how the rest of the cards are dealt before I play mine."
"Oui, ma cherie, mais joost make sure zat yer are not being played een ze meantime," Thierry warned her. "Arthur may seem sweet an' innocent, an' ter an exteent ee ees, mais ee ees also capable of trickery. Zere ees a reason why ze Ministaire 'ave not caught eem at any of ees Muggale inventions yet."
"I know all this," Veronica told him. "In fact, I'm counting on it." Briefly she told Thierry about her plan to assassinate their house head.
"Vair good," Thierry nodded when she had finished, "but when ee does go ter carry ze plan out, make sure ee does eet properly. Parce que eef ee fails, Dumbledoer weel zen know oo ees out to kill em, an' ze game weel be up."
"I'd never thought of that," Veronica admitted. "Good point." They had learned to keep their voices low when plotting, not because they were worried someone would blab their secrets, but because Veronica had already been forced to chase down a pair of frightened first years and explain exactly what she had meant by her talk of "killing" people.
The library doors creaked open and Sylvian Davies walked in. Veronica drew herself upright and gave him her best malicious smile.
"It's no good trying to convince me that I'm your target and getting me to relax because I think I know who my killer is, when really one of your Gryffindor friends is after me, Ronnie," he told her, putting his books down in front of Thierry and sitting. "I already know for certain who it is. Flora Sprout happened to trip and my name fell out of her pocket." He laughed. "What a house elf."
"You got me," Veronica said, all the while thinking to herself that Sylvian had just unwittingly given her a piece of information that may turn out to be useful. If Diana succeeded in killing Flora - and who would bet against those odds - Sylvian would be her next target. "Who are you killing?"
"Not telling," Sylvian pressed a finger to his lips. "Like Arthur said, trust no one." Nestled deep inside his cloak pocket was the name Filius Flitwick.
"Suit yourself," Veronica shrugged.
Farmers put cowbells on their cattle so that they could hear them coming. In a similar way Veronica, Thierry and Sylvian heard the approach of the many-bangled Divination teacher minutes before she actually appeared. Professor Trelawney walked into the library, saw Veronica sitting across from the entrance, then turned pale and abruptly walked out again.
"Fucking Merlin," Veronica swore, "don't tell me the one time she actually gets a genuine premonition, it's about me being her assassin!" Thierry and Sylvian started laughing. "And I thought I had it in the bag. This is not good. Drastic revaluation is required."
"We're as shocked as you are," Sylvian assured her.
Veronica was no longer paying attention. The unfortunately-named William had appeared in the doorway and gestured to her quickly, then popped back out of sight. Hoping Sylvian hadn't seen him, she said, "I just remembered, I left an important textbook on my bed. I'll be back in a few minutes."
Once outside she ducked to the side of the door where William was standing. "Glad you saw me," he said. "I was waiting for that French bloke to leave you, but the pair of you seem to be inseparable. Are you an item?"
"No," she answered him honestly since he was a little thrown by the question. "He's my indispensable guy pal, in case of balls and that sort of thing. Even single girls need dates. Lucille Black and I are actually trying to set up Arthur and Molly, but I think I'll keep Thierry to myself in case of emergencies." She couldn't understand what any of this had to do with him, and why she was babbling on about it.
"Black. That name sounds familiar," William mused. "Should I know Lucille?"
"Probably not, since she's a Gryffindor and a year above you," Veronica said. "She's short and skinny with long brown hair that she parts in the middle, and she's always wearing eyeliner. Rather gorgeous." This was the first time that last description had felt like it was being pulled out through her teeth.
"Ah, I know who she is," William said. Veronica felt her mood inexplicably blacken. "Half the boys in my dorm have crushes on her. She's a little bit grumpy, though, isn't she? Not my type at all."
"Yes, a bit grumpy," Veronica agreed. For some reason she was grinning broadly.
"Is there no one else that you'd rather take to balls?" he asked.
"Well," Veronica mused, "I'm not interested in anyone right now, so I guess the next best thing would be to take a friend. At least that way I know I'll have a good time. But it would be nice to just once take someone that I'm actually interested in instead of someone who's only my date out of friendship."
"Me too," he said. They were silent for a moment, then William said, "Shall we go somewhere more private where we can strategize?"
"Good idea," Veronica said. He told her by the arm and led her down a hallway until the trail of students walking past got more and more sparse. His grip felt warm and solid. Beater, most like it, she thought to herself. "Did your dad play Quidditch as well?" she asked.
"Nah, Mum never lets him onto a broom," William responded. "She says he manages to injure himself enough with both feet on the ground. Veronica?"
"Yes?" She turned and found herself staring down the point of a wand. Realisation hit. "Oh, bloody hell."
"Sorry about this, Veronica," William told her. In her shock she didn't even think to draw her own wand and deflect his curse. "Assassinium!"
Veronica jerked backwards and hit her head against the wall. William immediately grabbed her arm. "Looks like Arthur neglected to mention that particular side effect," he grimaced. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, no long term damage except to my pride," Veronica said, rubbing the back of her skull and grimacing. "Merlin, I can't believe I went down so quickly."
"Happens to the best of us," William shrugged. "I wasn't planning on killing you when I suggested an alliance but when I looked at my piece of paper and your name was on it, well, it was just too good of an opportunity to pass up. I don't really care whether I win or not; I just wanted to go out having killed at least one person."
"Yeah, don't I understand that," Veronica said. "Especially since that was how I left the game."
"I truly am sorry," he said, looking genuinely contrite. "I deliberated over this for the better part of a week before I made up my mind, and if I had known how bad you would feel after I took you out, I would have come up with something else."
"I believe you," Veronica said, starting to feel ashamed of her lack of sportsmanship. "I was actually trying to play you off too. I had alliances with another group of people, just to hedge my bets, you know. So no need to feel bad." A smile spread across her face. "Your next target is Professor Trelawney, you lucky bastard. And I'll tell you what, since she actually seems to have had some kind of premonition about me being her assassin, I'll make your job all the more easier and won't let on that I've been killed. That way she'll be suspecting me, and she won't notice you creeping up the rear."
"Great!" he said, catching her up in a quick hug. "You truly are the best. Are you sure your head's okay?"
No, she thought, considering that both house pride and points are at stake and I'm actually volunteering to help a non-Gryffindor, absolutely not. "Yeah, I'm fine," she said. "I'll just walk back to the library and finish my homework. To be honest I was getting a bit snowed under with Quidditch practice and thinking about this game. At least now I have one less thing to take my mind off my studies." William gave her one last sympathetic look, then patted her on the shoulder and sprinted down the hallway.
Thierry looked up expectantly as she entered. "Bien, yer 'ave returned," he said. "I 'ave ter go somewhere an' was unsure what ter do avec yer theengs. Did yer manage ter off 'er?"
In reply Veronica produced the piece of paper and plunked it down across from him. His eyes widened at the Dead branded upon it. "You know what?" she asked. "I think we both need to reassess our opinions on Hufflepuffs."
* * * * *
Lucille's boots crunched determinedly over the kaleidoscope of leaves that were already beginning to carpet Hogwarts' grounds as she walked towards Hagrid's hut on the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest. The stark black eyeliner was still present, but there was a chilly wind and she had dressed appropriately, wearing a cherry red turtleneck and mustard-coloured corduroy jeans and pulling her gleaming hair into a high ponytail. Veronica and Molly often teased her about her fondness of flashing some leg, but, unlike some of the third year girls, that didn't mean she was prepared to freeze. And unlike her two friends, it wasn't as though she had any other assets she could display. Thierry had made that clear often enough. She hoped he wouldn't find out what her detention task was, or she would be forced to perform a self-inflicted Impedimus curse in order to stop herself from slapping him silly.
Just because he's so capable and talented doesn't mean we all have to be, she huffed silently to herself as she marched along. You only possess your qualities in relation to other people, so if we were all capable and talented it would mean he would no longer be. It's a stupid thing to want. Smoke was rising from Hagrid's chimney, and she guessed that even the impressive bear of a man that was the school's groundkeeper was feeling the first bites of winter.
"Lucille, me darlin'!" The bear in question descended upon her and she was scooped several yards off the ground into a hug that smelt of stale cigars and whiskey. "Long time, no see, eh? 'Ows me little girl bin?"
"Great, Hagrid," Lucille said, secretly wishing that he would put her down before she developed a serious case of vertigo. As her first year flight lessons attested to, she wasn't the best with heights. "Sirius lost his first tooth just before I left and, guess what, Da persuaded the Ministry to make electricity compatible with Hogsmeade' magic pocket in our cottage there! So I can play my new Beatles records."
"Beetles, eh?" Hagrid had finally replaced her on solid ground and was staring down at her, his great brown eyes shining with excitement. "An' ar dey special Beetles, like dem big green ones you git in der Forbidden Forest?"
"No, Hagrid, they're nothing like those," Lucille said, shuddering visibly. "But they certainly are special. They play instruments and they can sing."
"Singin' Beetles?" Hagrid's eyes nearly popped out of his massive head. "Say, Lucille," he continued, leaning closer to her, "on dar quiet, yer know, yer don' think yer could tell me where ter git me some of those singin' Beetles?"
"Hagrid." Lucille stepped back and gave him a disapproving eye.
"Ar, yes, forgittin' meself," Hagrid said, the enthusiasm in his eyes undiminished by the slightly chagrined expression the rest of his face had adopted. Lucille knew he would be hanging out for the next available opportunity to drop by the Hog's Head, a shifty tavern in Hogsmeade Lucille knew only by reputation, to enquire about the whereabouts of these "singin' beetles." She had a mental picture of the Fabulous Four shrunken and trapped in a glass jar with Hagrid offering them slugs and smiled to herself. "It's yer flight lessons yer after."
"Yes," Lucille confirmed, her eyes darting around the outskirts of Hagrid's property. "Except they seem to have forgotten to leave any brooms."
"Ar, yer won' be needin' them fer this lesson," Hagrid said. Lucille's eyebrows rose. "Dumbledore, a fine Quidditch player in his day, said that yer had a fear of heights an' that ter best way would be fer yer to learn to ride, on ter ground, that is, before yer learnt to fly, so ter speak-"
"Hagrid, I'm sorry, but I don't follow you at all," Lucille cut in. Try as she may, she would never have her friends' patience for the gigantic grounds keeper. "Please try to be a little less evasive."
Hagrid raised his fat fingers to his mouth and gave a whistle that was more like a bellow. Seconds later a magnificent black horse bounded into the clearing, its midnight mane billowing behind it. It reared once and stopped in front of them, then tossed its head and fixed Lucille with an eye as if to say, So, thinking of taming me, are you?
"Steady on, now," Hagrid said, grabbing Lucille's arm when she would have run away. "Dumbledore had ter go to a lot of lengths ter git him ter do this. Grand, ain't he?"
"Er, if you say so," Lucille stammered, pressed back against his side as far as she could go. If Lucille knew anything about horses, she would have noted that the stallion stood at over nineteen hands and was of exceptional breeding. "And does Professor Dumbledore actually expect me to, you know, ride this thing?"
"Ain't that what yer do with horses?" Hagrid asked, confused at her less-than-enthusiastic reaction.
"Actually, I usually try to stay as far away from them as possible," Lucille told him. The horse snorted in a way that suggested if he was human, he may have laughed.
"Ar, now, come on, he's as harmless as a baby," Hagrid said, striding forward and giving the horse a hearty slap across the rump. "Oops, sorry there, mate, forgettin' meself- Yeeoouch!" The horse had just stomped on his foot and jogged away a few steps. "Ar, yer little devil, yer gonna git it later, eh - see, he's as safe as a vault in Gringotts, Lucille!"
"Has Gringotts been broken into lately?" Lucille joked weakly. The horse turned away from Hagrid and swung its ebony gaze towards her, and she froze. For a minute she thought the look it gave her reminded her of someone she knew, or rather someone that she only thought she knew but knew her far better, but she shrugged it off. Then the horse was walking towards her, its muscular flanks gleaming even on this dull day. Her first instinct was to back away, but it is not the lack of fear but its mastery that makes courage, and - as she often mourned when faced with putting on her uniform in the morning - she had certainly not been sorted into Gryffindor because of what scarlet did for her colouring. Closing her eyes and holding out a shaking hand, she stood her ground. Warm breath flooded her palm and a wet, rough tongue snaked out and licked her hand.
"Ar, ain't that sweet?" Hagrid said, and Lucille opened her eyes. The stallion was now pressing its leathery nose into her palm, sniffing curiously. "He's lickin' ter salt off yer skin. Ye've made a new friend now. He likes yer."
Lucille cautiously slid her hand up the side of the creature's face. His fur was like the softest velvet. She had never felt anything so pleasant to the touch. He's beautiful, she thought. Out loud, she added, "How do I ride him?"
"Yer start off best without the saddle," Hagrid told her. "Git a better feel for him that way. I was considerin' the bridle, but he don' take kindly ter the bit - the cold metal part yer normally put in their mouths. Yer must never try ter ride him with a bit."
"Well, how else am I supposed to control him?" Lucille demanded. Despite her fascination with the stallion, fear was lingering in the back of her mind. And Lucille was the type of girl to hide her fear. And people that hide their fear show anger instead.
"Yer just guide him with yer hands," Hagrid continued. "More like a broom in that way. Now I'll just come on over and lift yer onto his ba-"
In one fluid movement the horse fell forward into a kind of bow, extending one foreleg forward and bending down on the other. His back was now lowered to a height where Lucille could quite easily climb onto him, which she did not do so right away. "How did he know you wanted to lift me onto his back?" she asked once she was safely aboard. The horse had even seemed to give her a moment to get adjusted to being on his back before raising himself up to his full height. "Is he magical?"
"He's no more a magical beast than me or yerself," Hagrid told her. "But he's great at readin' humans, and he's one of the smartest of his kind. Now, what ar yer goin' ter call him?"
Lucille thought for a moment. His coat was such an extraordinary midnight colour that she had no choice to refer to him by any other feature than that, but "Black," aside from being her own family surname, was far too plain a word for such an animal as this one. "I'm going to call him Noir," she said, remembering her heritage. "That's French for black." Noir snorted up at her as if he approved of his new name.
"He seems ter like that one," Hagrid noted. "Now, Dumbledore expects yer to do a couple of hours in the Forbidden Forest-"
"The Forbidden Forest?"
"-an report back to him after yer done," Hagrid continued. "The forest is fine during ter day, I've bin in plenty of times meself. An' yer new friend Noah-"
"Noir," Lucille corrected him. "Pronounce it closer to "knaw," like how a dog knaws on a bone." She remembered the place she was about to enter and wish she hadn't mentioned creatures knawing on bones.
"-Knaw, he'll keep yer safe," Hagrid finished. Lucille looked less than convinced. "Anyhow, Dumbledore's orders. Now, off with yer." He raised his hand as though to slap the stallion's flank again. Noir swung his head around gave him a look as if to say, Slap me on the arse again and I'll give you a kick that you won't forget. Lucille giggled. "Er now, perhaps yer better start him off yerself," Hagrid re-evaluated. "Jus' squeeze yer legs into his sides and give him a little kick."
"Kick him?" Lucille repeated, aghast. "I can't-"
"It's like if yer nod or shake yer head at one of yer friends; it don' hurt him," Hagrid said. Lucille gave Noir a reluctant kick. He started forward in a gentle gait towards the Forbidden Forest, his muscles sliding smoothly beneath Lucille. "Now eef yer don' come back by tomorrow morning, I'll be out lookin' fer yer meself."
"Comforting," Lucille muttered. "By that time I may very well be fertiliser." Underneath her Noir made a sound that she could only describe as a snigger. "Oh, you can just shut up," she told the horse, wondering what, for not the last time that day, she had got herself into.
* * * * *
By around nine Arthur had stopped feeling drunk. By around ten the headache had kicked in. By around eleven his forehead felt as though someone had smashed an anvil into it.
He did not remember what he had done to get this way, but he was sure it had been humiliating. Nor did he care to remember. He knew the other senior boys, when they returned from Hogsmeade shortly before dinner, would fill him in soon and gleefully, but for now he preferred to remain in the dark.
Speaking of dark, never before had he envied the Slytherins their cold, black dwellings in the castle dungeons to the extent that he did now. The thick scarlet velvet curtains surrounding his bed, which had been sufficient enough even to block out Thierry's snores before, now seemed inadequate to deal with the onslaught of sunlight that crowded his battered head. He supposed he could always get out of bed and walk across the room to pull the curtains of the ceiling-high window across. But that would involve moving. And he was pretty sure that had he heaved the heavy quilt off his shaking limbs, nothing stood between him and showing the room's portraits - one of which he had earlier yelled at to stop that infernal racket when it had coughed - exactly what Weasleys were made of.
The one good thing was that he was pretty sure he was in his own room. With that in mind, exactly how bad could what he had done earlier been?
On second thoughts, he really would rather not know.
What I wouldn't do for a glass of ice cold water, he thought to himself, burying deeper into his bedding and finding some brief relief from his throbbing head under the coolness of one of his pillows before that too became saturated with his body heat and had to be discarded. If Lucius Malfoy had appeared in front of him he would have happily exchanged his head boy's badge for such a thing. His mouth was so dry his tongue was glued to its roof and there seemed no relief, no compensation for the sweat that was seeping from his body.
Don't think of how your head feels, he instructed himself. Think about what's happened so far this week. No, not this morning. Let's forget about that for now. He had been running around trying to keep tabs on his new Head Boy duties and fine-tuning his plans with Veronica on how to "kill" Dumbledore. She, along with Thierry and Molly, had been worked to death with Quidditch practice. His best friend was a tough task-master, and with the new changes made to this year's team, more than house pride was at stake. Even Lucille had flung herself into the furore. She with Molly had spent evenings working frantically on the girls' Quidditch uniforms. "Zat eez ze first time I 'ave evair seen 'er avec a needle een 'er 'and," Thierry had reflected dryly one such time.
Even involved in a domestic activity Lucille could not be sedate. Every now and then swear words would float downstairs whenever she punctured her finger. Not being as adept a sewer as Molly, this would happen quite often. Assumedly bored with the frequency this incident was occurring, she would swear in both English and French. By the week's end Arthur knew how to say "damn," "shit" and "bastard" in French, which were punaise, merde and connard respectively.
"What ees zis about not giveeng objets genders een Engleesh?" Thierry had pondered at this last one, no doubt remembering Lucille's Kings Cross lecture. "I thought ze aim was not ter be sexeist."
"Better not let her catch you saying things like that when she has sharp objects in her hands," Arthur had warned, reaching for a fresh scroll.
"Bah!" Thierry had scoffed. "What can zat skeeny leedle zing do ter moi avec a needle?"
"If I were you, it wouldn't be the needle I'd worry about," Arthur had said delicately. "It would be the scissors. And bearing in mind her disposition towards our gender, I would comfortably wager the Sacred Blue on the part of your anatomy she would go for."
Thierry had gone green…
Several hours later the room was dark. Arthur had awoken from a fitful sleep and emboldened by the lack of sunlight, had shakingly raised himself onto one elbow and pulled back a corner of the curtain to take a peek at the outside world. Salvation awaited. The window curtains were pulled shut and placed on top of his bedside cabinet was an inviting-looking pitcher of iced water and a stack of glasses.
"Merlin bless house elves," Arthur murmured. He grasped the pitcher and, heedless of the way water sloshed into his bedding around him, put it to his forehead and crashed onto his back.
* * * * *
"…This is the song that doesn't end. It just goes on and on, my friend. Some people started singing it not knowing what it was, and they continue singing it forever just because…"
Molly settled back in her seat with a sigh. "Zachary, you're a prefect," she began. "Can't you tell those third years in the back seat to shut up or something? They're doing my head in."
"Technically, they're not breaking any rules," Zachary shrugged. "So, sorry, but no can do."
Molly twisted around in her seat to give the offending students the evil eye. Her own third year, Rhiannon, was fortunately sitting further up the bus with Holly Wood and Herbie Jordan. Well, at least she knew what had become of her pink shirt now. "What third years are doing in the back seat of the bus is beyond me," she muttered. "This is only the first time any of them are allowed to go to Hogsmeade. When I was their age I respected the senior students, and the back seat traditionally has only senior students. What should happen is some seventh years should go back there and beat the crap out of them. Where are some Slytherins when you need them?"
"Now then," Zachary remarked, raising one eyebrow, "I would really have to intervene. You really don't like that song, do you?"
"Nope," Molly said.
"So, what do you have to do at Hogsmeade today?" Zachary asked, casting around for a change of conversation.
"Oh, the usual. Thierry's given me a novel-length list of things to pick up from Zonko's - you'd think being Quidditch captain would have given him some sense of responsibility - Arthurs gone and locked himself in his room so I couldn't find out whether he wanted anything, and Lucille asked me to check up on her brother. For myself, I may have time to duck into the Three Broomsticks for a Butterbeer."
"Count me in," Zachary said. "I haven't had one of those in ages." Molly sighed inwardly. The Gryffindor prefect had stuck to her like Bubotuber pus all morning, and she wondered what his game was. As much as she liked Zachary, she really hoped he hadn't developed a crush on her. Amos Diggory had even waved to her as he boarded the bus. Perhaps it was her new lime green sweater which she had been told brought out her summer tan and was wearing today for that reason. But if that was the case, why then had Zachary stiffened next to her when Cordelia Sinistra, the Ravenclaw prefect, had walked past? It was all very strange.
"Lucille's brother," Zachary mused, "he's that kid with messy black hair, quite tall for his age, hangs out with that Potter boy, doesn't he? Cyril or something."
"Sirius," Molly corrected. "I think he's adorable. Lucille doesn't agree with me though."
* * * * *
"…And then there was the time he and James started duelling with my parent's wands," Lucille sighed as Noir meandered deftly through the overhanging branches of the twisted black trees that surrounded them. "Sparks were flying everywhere. My cat's, Sergeant Pepper, tail caught on fire. And then when I came running in to stop it, there was Thierry Delacour on the drawing room floor, laughing fit to burst. Honestly, sometimes I could just - ow! - hey, there was no need to walk that close to that branch, pal!"
The horse sniggered and continued onwards. Lucille scowled and rubbed her temple. Up until then she had almost been, dare she think it, enjoying the ride with Noir in the woods. "So anyway, this morning, Veronica and I decided that as his dare to cover for Molly, Arthur should strip in front of the entire Gryffindor house. Which was all very well - except for the bit where he got drunk and took off his undies, that is - but then Thierry decides the best possible way to keep Diana out of it is to - ugh! I don't even know what girls see in him. It has to be because he's part-Veela, when you put him next to guys like Amos Diggory and Alistair Bell, he's not that good-looking - Aieeeee-yeow! Hey, come back here!"
The horse had thrown Lucille to the ground and jogged away a short distance. "Ow, that was right on my tailbone!" she protested. "Come back here you awful, you horrible beast - oh, I mean you lovely, kind, gorgeous horse, please don't run away!"
Noir paused and cocked his head as if to say, Keep talking.
"Yes, and you're a special, wonderful, patient, intelligent, even-tempered animal," Lucille continued through gritted teeth, pulling twigs out of her hair and brushing off the seat of her pants with a grimace. "Now will you pleeeease let me get back up?" Surprisingly, the black stallion complied. "And this is all a bit painful now so do go easy on the trotting - hey, I said no trotting! Jeez, now I can see why black animals are meant to be the omens of death - that was a joke, by the way, it was a joke…"
* * * * *
Just to test Zachary, when the bus arrived at Hogsmeade Molly announced that she had now changed her mind and felt like going to Honeydukes. Zachary, who early been moaning about how the hot day had made him feel parched (Molly's arms had goosebumps on them), apparently no longer required a drink. Molly's uneasiness increased when Blair Zabini, the olive-skinned Slytherin prefect, announced that he would join them. The sweater was working wonders, just not on the one guy she had intended. Molly then "remembered" that she had to pick up some leather grease for Thierry's Quidditch guards. "But you two both seem to want to go," she said. "Why don't you go together?"
Both boys looked horrified. "You're not leaving as alone - together," Zabini said hastily, sneaking a quick look at Zachary.
"Please, Molly, you have to stay with us," Zachary begged, clinging to her arm. "What if he's after me?"
"You could very well be after me," Zabini glowered back.
"Oh for goodness sake, you two," Molly huffed. "Zachary, just because Zabini hasn't noticed women yet doesn't mean he's noticed anyone else either. He doesn't have to be one of those. And so what if he is? I know of some perfectly nice men who are, like those lovely boys in the Rolling Stones, for example. Zabini, Zachary isn't after you either. I saw the way he straightened up when Cordelia Sinistra got on the bus." Zachary's cheeks pinkened. Zabini smirked. "Now both of you, pull yourselves together, you're prefects."
"That's exactly it," Zachary said earnestly.
"Oh for goodness sake," Molly once again huffed, throwing her hands up in the air and stalking off. She saw the two of them give each other shifty looks before dashing off in opposite directions. Boys, what was with them today? She had seen Ravenclaw prefect Sylvian Davies just before breakfast, who had told her he had forgotten how to get to the great hall and if she knew the way, then bumped into Sylvian's Hufflepuff counterpart, who asked her to accompany him to the bathroom of all places. It had to be the sweater. Well, it certainly couldn't be the hair, which today sprung out everywhere like the most untidy of birds' nests. "Merlin, they're only boobs," she sighed to herself.
"Yes, they are," said someone behind her. "Big ones." Lucius Malfoy was leering down at her. Before she could retaliate he turned around slightly and made to glance out in the direction of the departing Zachary and Zabini.
Now that he was no longer obviously insulting her, she couldn't really do anything about it without looking hysterical. Molly's hand unclenched itself from the fist it had balled itself into. "And a pair that stick so flagrantly always draw attention to each other," Lucius continued. Molly felt sick. "How they ever made prefects I wouldn't know. In the case of two members of more fortunate old blood families, I would say money exchanged hands, but, well, you see what they're wearing."
Molly's face flushed. While her own family wasn't exactly drowning in poverty, they weren't exactly one of those "more fortunate old blood families" Lucius was referring to. And given the Malfoy sentiments, despite the wealth of their respective families Lucille and Thierry most likely weren't either. Next to Lucius's silk open-necked shirt and black trousers, her prized green sweater felt worn and shabby. "Well, it's still no mean feat making the position of prefect," she said, carefully keeping her tone neutral. "They may even be considered as head boy next year. I mean, can you imagine that there are actually people who apply for head boy or girl and don't even make prefect for their own house? I would die of shame, wouldn't you? Oh, but I forgot, you're still standing here in front of me, aren't you?" Lucius did not flush, but his mouth had tightened a fraction. "I'll see you around, Malfoy."
"One minute, Molly," Lucius said, taking her arm in a grip that was loose, but would close around her like a vice the minute she tried to pull away. Up close his green eyes were gleaming with fury. "Now," he began in that deceptively smooth tone of his, "I do not pretend to understand exactly what you and that half-breed you call your Quidditch captain are playing at-"
"Don't call him half-breed," Molly snapped, trying to pull her arm away.
"Temper, temper, Molly," Lucius drawled, "you wouldn't want to make a scene, would you? Now, as I was saying, the motives of such boys as Delacour are beyond my understanding, but someone as yourself should be aware that the Quidditch pitch is no place for a lady."
"I never said I was a lady," Molly retorted.
"That is becoming more apparent," Lucius snapped, his grip tightening around her arm. "Well, be it your funeral then. Just don't assume for even a moment that any gentlemanly conduct the Slytherin Quidditch team reserve for even the lesser wizarding families on the ground will still occur during the match. If you are still determined to act like a man, then I for one will certainly treat you like one."
"Good!" Molly shouted, her temper finally sliding out of her control. "I'm counting on it! Perhaps that would stop you leering at my breasts all the time!"
A group of fourth year girls had stopped to stare at them. Lucius scowled in their direction and they quickly looked elsewhere. "Don't flatter yourself, Morag," Lucius continued in that polite sneer of his. "I have been betrothed since I was ten, and if you had ever laid eyes on exactly who that pact was made with, it would never occur to you to even suggest that I would even spit in your direction." He finally released her arm. Molly jerked it away and resisted the urge to rub at the red spots that had appeared on it. "My, what a chubby little thing you are. I hope I didn't pinch."
There was the sound of running footsteps and Molly turned to see Amos Diggory running over to them, his grey cloak flying behind him. "Is there a problem here?" he demanded breathlessly.
"Oh, don't get on your high horse just yet," Lucius soothed nastily. "Although it is adorable how self-righteous you Hufflepuffs get sometimes."
"My fist is pretty self-righteous too," Amos growled.
"Merlin grant me strength," Lucius sighed, but his eyes had widened and he had taken a few steps away from Molly. "Using Muggle means to settle a conflict? How drole and unnecessary. No, I was merely exchanging a few Quidditch strategies with Miss Morag."
"Well, exchange them with my fist," Amos offered.
"My, you Hufflepuffs don't have a lot of depth or variance, do you?" Lucius scowled. Amos took a step towards him. "Fine, fine, I know when I have overstayed my welcome, which I credit to my good breeding, something that certain so-called pureblood families lack." He spun on his heel and strode off.
"You alright there?" Amos asked. Sometime during his confrontation with Lucius he had put his hand on her shoulder and was now starting to rub it.
"Yeah," Molly replied. It was hard not to feel alright when she could only focus on the feeling of Amos's hand on her shoulder. "Thanks for sending him away. The trouble with some pureblood families," she continued angrily, "is that they think that gives them the right to lord it over everyone else. They think it makes them superior and untouchable, when in reality it means nothing. I mean, look at Thierry, who's half-Veela, and he and Diana are probably the best students in the school. Well, Thierry isn't so much a good student as such because of all the time he spends in detention, but he's probably the most gifted. He was doing NEWT standard spells in his fourth year, ooh, that awful boy makes me so angry!"
"Er, Molly," Amos began, "I mean, I completely agree with you and everything, goes with fair play, but I just think you look a little pale and that maybe we should get something to drink." Molly's heart skipped a beat. "Let's see, I do believe Madame Puddifoots is the closest place."
Molly's heart felt like it had ceased beating altogether. Madame Puddifoots was the couple hang-out for Hogwarts students. She nodded in agreement and they walked to the tiny pink teahouse together, Molly not caring that the hand on her arm was more out of concern than affection. Sure, she knew that. But the fifth year Ravenclaws with jealous eyes they had walked past didn't have to. Her lime green sweater no longer felt worn and shabby.
In her daydreams she had regaled Amos with tales she had told with Lucille's wit, Thierry's sense of mischief and Arthur's eloquence all rolled into one, causing him to reach over the table and take her hand and say, "I really like you, Molly." That didn't quite happen, but neither was it a total disaster. They had stumbled for conversation initially until one of them fell on the topic of Quidditch, then they scarcely drew breath. And Amos didn't tell Molly that he really liked her, but he did say the green of her sweater looked nice with her eyes. Molly resolved never to let the house elves near it. She was very regretful when an hour had passed and she would have to leave or risk running out of time to fetch all her friends' things.
Lucille's residence was not on the way to Zonko's, but Molly wanted to wait until lunchtime when the crowds thinned out before braving the jostling students inside, so she bypassed it and headed towards the red brick cottage several streets away. What struck people seeing the Black home for the first time was how, well, "homely" it was. Flowerbeds in little handpainted boxes nestled on the balcony railings and white shutters framed the window. It hardly looked like the lair of a prestigious old-blood wizarding family. Raising her fist, Molly knocked on the front door.
There was no reply.
Molly frowned and knocked again. This time the door popped open softly; despite the house's vacated appearance it had not been secured properly. It wasn't like Hector and Elodie Black to be so reckless. Molly reached into her pocket for the reassuring length of her wand and entered.
The first room she passed was the laundry on her left. That appeared empty. A floorboard squeaked beneath her and she froze in terror for a minute before she was able to continue. What would she do if someone was there? Would she be able to hex the intruder first? She had just passed her second room, the kitchen to her right. Mentally reviewing every curse and counter curse she had ever been taught, most no more harmful than that Longbottom staple, the leg-locking curse, she continued on. Every second grew longer. Every second grew worse. She passed the stairwell. A suspicious shadow had a wand pointed at it, then was dismissed. She would have been anywhere but here - there, what was that noise?
She inched along carefully to the last room on the first floor, the drawing room. There. That was where it was. Someone was sobbing. A victim perhaps, but where was the aggressor? Now at the end of the hallway, Molly paused. If she opened the door slowly, quietly, then if the attacker was looking the other way, he wouldn't see her and she would have ample time to Stupify his turned back. But if he was facing the door, he would see it opening and be prepared, whereas she would be off her guard. Flinging the door open would alert the attacker to her presence regardless, but she at least would have the advantage of surprise. A decision made, she leapt forward and hurled her wait against the door.
For all the impact her entry had on Mr Black, she may as well have screamed in his ear. He did not move from his position in front of the hearth and next to a crumpled up figure on the floor. Nor did he register any expression as Molly crawled forward and took the wrist of that same figure. There was a pulse, no, that was her own pulse beating frantically. The thumb had a pulse of its own; she had learnt that in her first year. Adjusting her grip, she retook the pulse with her fingers this time. Then the room seemed to rush towards her and her arm slid mutely to the floor.
Lucille's mother was dead.
* * * * *
