With a Little Help from My Friends by Lucy Lupin
Author's Note: I'm sorry my last chapter did not contain author's notes. The editor was screwed up and I couldn't put them in. So the usual disclaimer applies for both this and the preceding chapter. Apologies for making you wait for the ball scene, but chapter fifteen had reached a natural closure and was already near 7,000 words, so I didn't want to attempt to crunch too much in. Hopefully you find the actual ball chapter worth the wait.
Requests for minor characters have been noted. And thank you to both Heather and the people at FictionAlley for the costume ideas.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. One of the songs performed at the Halloween Ball, "The People Who'll Need You," is actually mine (as are the Familiars!), so if you want to use it in your own fic, I can't imagine why but please credit me. So admin, please don't delete this due to copyright issues. I can get signed permission from myself if necessary ;-) Likewise for a few other snatches of lyrics that are obviously rooted in the wizard world. And the other, "Eight Days A Week," belongs to the mighty Beatles.
Chapter Sixteen: All Hallow's Night
Against the stars speckled in the night sky, two figures were silhouetted. The woman was not young, but she held herself as stiff and straight as a poker. The man was even older than she, yet he too moved with a buoyancy and lightness upon his feet.
"I'm not convinced that we made the right decision allowing the prefects to hire this band, Albus. Don't you consider the lyrics to be a little, well, suggestive?"
"Oh, senior students will do what senior students do, Minerva," the other said airily. "I hardly think a popular group will be the deciding factor on whether or not they save themselves for their husbands or wives."
"True, but I just don't like the idea of setting the scene for that kind of behaviour," the woman said resignedly. "But I suppose you're right, as usual."
"Now we both know that isn't true," her companion told her. "Look, a wisp of cloud is covering the moon."
"Tighter, just a bit tighter, damn you," Molly muttered, straining to ease herself into her ankle-length dress. "Come on, don't tell me I gave up chocolate treacle three times this week for you to not zip up properly." She held her breath and in one desperate tug pulled her zipper up to its finish line. "Now if I plan not to eat or breathe at all this evening, this should be perfect." Sucking in short, shallow gasps of air, she walked over the full-length mirror in the centre of the room. "Well, you've made my stomach look flat, which is a bloody miracle. But what will we do without ourselves at dinnertime, I wonder?" And bedtime. Most of her roommates had started drinking already, and she feverishly hoped that either Clarice Appleby or Zorah Brocklehurst would have enough of a grip on sobriety to help her get out of the contraption come midnight. Blair Zabini being amused by the request was unlikely, and she was just as unlikely to appeal for his aid. She wasn't that kind of witch.
Which led her to wonder, why exactly had the Slytherin boy asked her to the ball? They barely talked, but from what she had seen of him, he barely talked to most girls - and the unceremonious way in which he had asked her to accompany him would lend itself to a perception of a general lack of experience when it came to girls. What did she know about him really? Other than his being a prefect, and hating Quidditch, precious little. Well, at least this way you'll be able to ask him about himself, and have a better basis for conversation than with someone you already knew reasonably well, she told herself firmly.
She also knew that like herself he was a pureblood, but not from a family as rich and prestigious as the Delacours or Blacks or Malfoys. That, and his position as a prefect, made it so that he had little room to misbehave. In fact, the worst she had seen direct at herself or any other student were snide but ultimately harmless comments. And he had offered to sit with her and the other Gryffindors, which showed that he seemed to have her ease in mind.
While she would prefer to go with someone from her own house or a certain Hufflepuff Quidditch captain, she had to concede that if forced to go with a Slytherin, him and Nicholas Hicks would be her first two choices. Her real first choice would be to go with Amos Diggory, but that was beyond her control. She could only hope that after an evening with Imelda Page, he would realise what a simpleton she was and be ready to move onto someone who if not necessarily good enough for him - such was her level of infatuation that she did not consider herself to be on his level - was at least closer to being good enough for him than that simpering ninny.
What does he see in her? she huffed inwardly as she lowered herself onto the edge of her bed and carefully bent down to buckle up her rose-hued shoes. What on earth could he possible have in common with her? What has she got that I haven't got? The answer came to her unwillingly. At the moment, Amos' attention. She was so flustered by that last thought that she snapped the strap off her left shoe and released a torrent of swearwords.
"Have the goblins at Gringotts got your tongue?" someone asked. "Or should I say, Thierry, because you sound more like him than yourself at the moment."
Molly looked up. Emotions flooded through her, conflicting ones. She had seen how drawn and thin Lucille had become the last few weeks, had heard her creep back into their dorm at night after thrusting her head into the books to the wee hours of the morning - long after everyone else had gone to bed - and felt accordingly concerned. Yet she was still aching from Lucille's jibe about her weight. It would have been hurtful coming from Lucius Malfoy or someone else she had no care to build up cordial relationships with, but from one she still thought of as a friend, it was brutally devastating. She didn't know what to say, so she said nothing.
"Veronica told me about how Rhiannon lost her temper with you because she thought you were responsible for the Howler," Lucille continued. Molly looked up at her, surprised. "I know that you didn't send it. Personally I think it's her fault more than anyone else's for not being honest with your parents when she's old enough to know that they wouldn't approve of her attending with someone older, but sometimes it's difficult to see the finer shades of grey at thirteen." She smiled wryly. "And at sixteen."
Molly continued the pointless task of buckling up her now-ruined shoe.
"Well, if you're still not talking to me, I can talk to myself," Lucille declared, sinking onto the end of her bed. "As Thierry has often brought to my attention, I don't make a habit of paying any notice to what the other person is saying, so it won't make a terribly huge difference to usual. If you ask me - which I know you're not going to, but I'll pretend that you have anyway - you're wasting your time moping over Amos Diggory. You should concentrate on having a good time with Blair Zabini instead. And you should be flattered. From what little I do know of him, which is still a great deal more than you, he doesn't pay much attention to girls. Which makes you kind of special. And at least you got to choose your date, or choose whether to have one or not. In fact, your parents would probably prefer it if you didn't take anyone." Her fingers came up to toy with the ends of her blond bob. "If you're not going to respond, I may as well talk to myself in French. My relatives tell me that I understand it well but my grammar isn't very good, and producing the language yourself in either a spoken or written form forces you to examine your sentence structure more than passively absorbing anything."
"Lucille, due to this corset, I have a limited amount of available oxygen for this evening," Molly told her. "So I'd rather not waste it. If this has a point, tell me now."
"Well, now that you've actually started talking to me for a change, it would be a shame to make you stop." Lucille took the bottle of Spiced Honeycomb Liqueur from off the top of her cabinet and poured herself a finger. Molly envied the thoughtless elegance, the manner in which she settled back on her bed and took a swill of the drink - until she noticed how her hand trembled. "I'd rather let you continue."
Molly eyed Lucille. Lucille stared unblinkingly back. Molly exhaled as much as her corset permitted and abandoned her shoes. "What you said to me last week was unforgivable," she said finally. "Coming from Lucius Malfoy or one of his cronies, it would have been bad enough, but from someone who's supposed to be my friend - well, I just don't expect to be attacked that way by someone who I have the history with that I have with you. I've opened myself to you, Lucille. I've left myself vulnerable in many ways. There are things about me that only you know - and when you said what you said to me last week, you threw it back in my face." Her voice had pitched and she forced it back to its customary levels. "You hurt me, Lucille. Badly."
"I'm sorry," Lucille said simply.
Molly gaped at her. She had expected more of the other girl's recently-acquired chill, or an insistence that Molly needed to hear the truth and that she was only telling her for her own good. What astounded her was not so much the apology in itself, but the sincerity and readiness of it.
"I'm sorry," Lucille said again. "I don't even know why I said it. It's not even what I think. I've always thought that you look adorable. I was listening to some people who I really should have tried harder not to. I haven't been myself this last while."
"Well, that's the understatement of the century," Molly said huskily.
"I haven't been myself - and it's cost me," Lucille continued. She tipped back her head and drained the glass. Molly frowned at this, but said nothing. "I've been trying to become something that it would make it easier for me to become, but I couldn't do it. No matter my bloodline, I could never fully become a part of that world. And now I've lost the world that I was a part of - and I've disappointed my father. He wanted me to do our good name proud - and I just couldn't do it. I've failed him."
"It depends what your definition of doing your family proud," Molly said. Her anger was still there, but it was being pushed to the side to make room for compassion and concern. Holding grudges had never been a forte of hers, and now her desire to tear shreds from Lucille was warring against her urge to take the girl in her arms.
Molly's words seemed to awaken Lucille from a trance, and she gave herself a visible shake. Her eyes didn't harden exactly, but Molly had the sense that a curtain had been pulled over them. When Lucille spoke again, she had retained some of her distant nature. "What I'm trying to say is that I treated you and everyone else appallingly, and I know that it's too late for our friendship, but I really hope-" she took a deep breath and made as if to scrub a hand over her face, but remembered her make-up in time "-well, things with me next term will be very, very different. Because of…external circumstances…we won't be able to have the friendship that we used to. Not that I want it to end, but it just won't be possible anymore. I just want your last memory of me to be of something positive, not what I've allowed myself to become." Her last sentence ended on a pleading note.
"Lucille, honey," Molly crossed the room and sat beside her, taking her hand, "if there's something you want to talk about, I'm here."
"It's nothing, Molly," Lucille said, but her averted gaze screamed of the lie. "Really, it's nothing. I'll be fine tomorrow. It's nothing a good night's sleep won't fix. It's nothing. Just forget about me. Enjoy the ball. It's really nothing." She seemed to be talking to herself more than Molly. "Right. You need shoes. You can wear my butterscotch boots. We're the same size."
"Really? But those boots are your pride and joy! You snap at the house elves if they even look at them funny."
"Well, they shouldn't have to suffer simply because I've chosen to wear these instead." Lucille gestured down towards her pair of white boots with a rounded toe, thankfully without a heel. Thankfully, because of the way she swayed on her feet as she crossed over to her closet and began to rummage inside. For not the first time Molly wondered exactly how much her friend had drunk. "Go on, put them on. Otherwise they'll never forgive me for leaving them behind."
The boots were a little snug around the leg - Molly had more developed calf muscles than Lucille - but otherwise were a sound fit. She was raising her head to say "thank you" when Rhiannon entered the room. "Your dates waiting," she said unceremoniously. "He's that Slytherin prefect, Blair Zabini. Funny, and I was half expecting it to be Nate Erklewhile. At least you didn't steal my date."
"Rhiannon, Molly didn't tell your parents that you needed an older date to go to the ball," Lucille spoke up. "I don't know who did, but it wasn't her. So whoever you plan to get angry with, it shouldn't be her."
Rhiannon gave Lucille a searching stare. "Did you tell my parents?" Lucille shook her head in a denial. "So if you didn't do it, and you don't know who did, how do you know that it wasn't her?"
"Because she said so, and that's good enough for me," Lucille said firmly. Molly's throat constricted at this show of loyalty. "And now that you no longer have anyone to blame, perhaps you have the ability to realise that you were the one who was dishonest with your parents and you knew you were doing something wrong, but didn't tell them. If Molly had already made a costume, yours would have gone to waste, and your parents would have been angrier still. So really you should be thanking her." Rhiannon scowled and stormed out the room.
"Don't worry, it's just sister stuff," Molly said briskly, placing her fake ruby and gold crown on top of her head and picking up her clutch. "She's at the age where she's capable of seeing reason but it's easier just to believe that the world is against her." She turned and faced her friend. The new shortened haircut made the other girl look more exposed, vulnerable. "If ever you need to talk me, I'm here."
"Thank you," Lucille said. "I'll remember that." Molly knew that her offer would not be taken up. "I'm about done here. I'll walk you to the common room. You look great, Molly."
"You too," Molly said, stretching her lips into a small smile.
Arthur and Thierry were in the common room. Arthur had shortened his hair to a brown bowl cut and was savouring what appeared to be a much-needed Butterbeer. Thierry had collapsed in one of the chairs in front of the fire and sat cradling a bottle of Firewhiskey. Molly gave them both a wave and continued outside.
Blair sat on the top stair, underneath the watchful gaze of the Fat Lady. Jack O' Lanterns were bobbing around in the portraits surrounding hers and cobwebs hung in the air. The Slytherin prefect looked up at her with a woefully wry expression. "I look completely out of place here."
"You look fine," Molly assured him. "Whoever you are."
"Je te presente Monsieur Malecrit." Blair stood and whipped off his plush, plumed hat with a self-mocking flourish. "One of the worst playwrights of all time. He once wrote a work entitled, "Helas, j'ai Transfiguré mes pieds"." It means, "Alas, I have transfigured my feet" in French. Don't ever read his works. I've had suicidal moments doing so."
Molly giggled. Perhaps tonight wouldn't be so bad after all.
Back in the common room Lucille gave a squeal of joy and bounded over to Arthur. "You're dressed as John Lennon! I don't believe it!"
Arthur looked down at her and winked. "He's my favourite Beatle."
"He's everyone's favourite," Lucille declared stoutly. "And I'm going as Twiggy, the Muggle supermodel." She twirled around proudly. "I say, this is a real moment in the history of Muggle pop culture. John Lennon and Twiggy - together. I think this calls for a photo."
"Righto," Arthur said. "Could you do the honours, Thierry?"
Lucille had not noticed him sitting in the chair in front of the fireplace until he poked his head around the back of it. "I am not movin' unteel I 'ave drunk tout zis Firewhiskey," he proclaimed. "Eef yer want a photo, yer weel 'ave to come over ter me."
"Well, we can walk over in front of him and get him to take the picture seated," Arthur said to divert an eventual argument. "It's not too much trouble, is it?"
"None at all," Lucille said, although she looked vaguely uncomfortable having to go so close to the Quidditch captain. Not that there was anything unusual about that. The two had a peculiar kind of chemistry. "In fact, a photographer once told me that girls take better pictures when someone's looking up at them. It makes their longs look longer."
Arthur privately thought that if Lucille's legs looked any longer, they'd be sticking out of her forehead. He slipped his arm around her as Thierry broke the connection between his lips and the bottle of Firewhiskey long enough to take the snap. "Not bad," he said, passing it to Arthur.
In the picture Arthur and a Lucille who barely came up to his chin gave it each good-natured bunny ears. "Would the two of you like a picture together?" he offered.
Both Thierry and Lucille hesitated. "We're not exactly in costumes that complement each other," the latter said eventually, giving Thierry's outfit a cursory once-over. He was dressed as D'Artagnan, a character from a book he and Arthur had been required to read for Muggle Studies last year.
Thierry gave her a steady look. "It doesn't matter."
"There's no room for me."
"There is now," Thierry said, snaking his arm around Lucille's waist and pulling her onto his lap. The sudden movement made her shriek. "I'll always make room for you, Lucille."
As both Thierry and Diana had pointed out to him, Arthur's people skills often left a lot to be desired. He however had the impression that if he spoke, he would be intruding upon something very private going on between Thierry and Lucille. He didn't do a count-off of any form for fear of disturbing them. He flashed his camera and waited for the photo to develop.
"What does it look like?" Lucille demanded.
Arthur regarded the emerging photo. The brown-tinted forms of Thierry and Lucille made their costumes appear less diverse, made them look more like a couple. The two-dimensional Thierry pounced on his counterpart, bundling her into his arms for a hungry kiss. Lucille slapped him, then pulled him into a mouth-clencher of her own.
The three-dimensional pair were looking up at him expectantly. "It didn't turn out," he lied, stuffing the photo into the back pocket of his brown suit. Maybe it would take a photo to get them to see the truth. But tonight, with both taking different partners to the ball, was not the time for it.
The door to the common room swung open, admitting Herbie Jordan. The room's original three occupants gaped it him. He was dressed as a Golden Snitch and wobbled rather than walked, his arms and legs sticking out of the giant golden ball that enclosed him at awkward angles. "A Catherine Lee's here to see you," he puffed. "And Clarice Appleby's boyfriend. Shit, this thing is hot."
Lucille, who normally never missed the chance to blast Herbie for his liberal usage of profanities, instead turned on Thierry. "You made your date walk here?"
"Weell, I offered ter meet 'er outside 'er common area, mais she said zat eet eez no mattaire, et 'ere eez closaire," Thierry shrugged but still looked slightly shame-faced, which was a huge accomplishment. Lucille snorted. "Besides, Sylvian Davies was goin' weeth 'er."
"But still-" Lucille persisted.
"Hey, can someone tell Clarice that Davies has arrived?" Herbie cut in impatiently. "I ain't going up another flight of stairs in this."
"I'll go and get her," Lucille offered, dragging herself off Thierry's lap. Arthur suspected that she wanted to make herself scarce for the entry of Thierry's date. Thierry's eyes followed her out of the room. One girl on his lap, another to the ball. Such is the life of Thierry Delacour, Arthur thought dryly. "Just invite them in," he suggested. "Something tells me that not everyone will end up where they're supposed to be tonight." He realised that he had just spoken like this in front of a third year and felt his ears go pink.
"No worries, man," Herbie said easily. "I can dream. The way I look at it, I've got it made, because the old ones want a piece of fresh meat, and the young ones don't want to be corrupted by you old geezers."
"Thierry, let them in," Arthur said desperately.
Thierry's date was wearing a crown of leaves and berries and a strapless ivory dress with more leaves entwined around the bodice and threaded through the bones of her corset. Arthur felt himself gaping at her. She was much prettier than in her Ravenclaw robes. "I'm the May Queen," she explained. "But my real name's Catherine."
"An' zis eez ma friend Arthur," Thierry remembered his manners. Arthur leant forward to shake her hand. "'E eez ze 'ead boy."
"I know who you are," Catherine beamed up at him. Behind them Herbie straightened hopefully, clearly wanting to be introduced. "So it's your responsibility to try and keep this rabble in order, I take it?"
"I can try," Arthur said dryly. Catherine laughed. She really was a rather nice girl, although he somehow doubted that Lucille would see that. "Is there a mirror anywhere in here? I just want to check if my laurel's on straight."
"That stairwell, and just go into any room," Arthur directed her. "The first years won't mind if you duck in just for a moment." And you'll be more likely to avoid Lucille that way, he added silently.
As soon as she left Arthur turned to Thierry. "Don't," he warned. "I know what you're thinking, but just don't."
"Arthur, I promise I weell be on ma best behaviour," Thierry swore.
"Well, considering who that promise is coming from, forgive me if I feel less than assured," Arthur muttered. He was rendered correct when Thierry's grin widened.
"Ah, there you-" Sylvian broke off as his girlfriend came down the stairs. "What the blazes are you supposed to be?"
"I'm a witch," Clarice Appleby giggled. She was normally quite attractive, but was wearing an oversized black robe, a misshapen pointed hat, and had charmed warts onto her nose and chin. "I was talking to a Muggleborn and this is what she thought witches looked like - at least until she found out that she was one. There's a bunch of us dressed like this tonight. Ironic, isn't it?"
Sylvian eyed her dubiously. "You're green."
Catherine returned to the common room. Her and Thierry stood at the fireplace and began to talk amongst themselves in low voices. Arthur couldn't catch all they were saying, but he gathered it wasn't in English. They looked quite intimate, yet when Sylvian and Clarice made a move towards the door, as if by unspoken agreement they followed the couple.
"Well, I never!" came an indignant voice from the stairwell. "Spilling out of that dress of hers and shoving her cleavage under his nose."
Arthur rolled his eyes. "Hello, Lucille. How long have you been there?"
"Long enough. I wouldn't have thought the Ravenclaws could be such scarlet women. And the way she speaks to him in French - the nerve! That's our language."
"Actually, I thought it was the language of about fifty million French people. And those in the Quebec territory of Canada. And in Northern Africa. And Belgium. And Switzerland. And not to forget Vietnam and a few clusters of islands in the Pacific-"
"Pah!" Lucille said, sounding eerily like Thierry. She stomped downstairs and flung herself into the armchair that Thierry had vacated.
"I'm exhausted." Herbie collapsed into the armchair opposite Lucille. "I can't imagine how I'm going to get around in this for the rest of the evening." His eyes lit up suddenly. "Arthur, do you think you could perform a Buoyancy Charm on me?"
"Well," Arthur began.
"Oh, come on, it will make my night a lot easier," Herbie wheedled. "Besides, if you won't do it I'll just ask Lucille or someone else, and she's not half the wizard that you are."
"I should hope so," Lucille said coolly, "given that in actual fact I am a witch."
"All right," Arthur acquiesced, "but only because like this, I know it will be performed properly." He performed the charm. Herbie whooped, then grabbed the armrests of his chair as in his exuberance he began to float off it a little way.
"Are you ready to go?" Lucille asked. Arthur nodded. "Good, I'll go with you."
Arthur looked at her in surprise. "Isn't your date coming to get you?"
"No. I'm taking Quentin Maugrim, a Slytherin." Behind her Herbie Jordan made gagging noises. "He's a…family friend of ours. So I'm meeting him in the foyer outside of the entry to the Great Hall. As if I would tell a Slytherin where our common room is!"
"Molly told Blair Zabini," Arthur pointed out.
"Yeah, but he's pretty decent as far as that house goes. For a start, he's not a pureblood maniac." As they exited the common room Arthur took her arm.
By the look of things they were some of the last to arrive. The students sat clustered at tables in a transformed Great Hall. The regular house tables had been removed, and instead against the walls there were several levels of balconies, their edges blackened and jagged to resemble stalactites in a cave. Arthur spotted Thierry and his date seated with a group of Ravenclaws on the second tier to the right of the entry, his plume swaying from side-to-side as he chatted to her. The main act of the evening wasn't due to perform until after dinner, but a pianist sat on the raised stage that normally held the teacher's table. She appeared to be playing a duet, as every so often a set of keys would lower without her aid. Diana dressed as the Grey Lady was pacing around in the doorway, checking her silver pocketwatch with a tight-lipped expression. She saw Arthur and Lucille and her eyes narrowed.
"I'll leave you to it," Lucille said, giving him a sympathetic look as she noticed Diana. "My dates over there, next to the fountain." Arthur turned and saw a swarthy-looking fellow who he didn't like the look of at all.
"There you are!" Diana grabbed his wrist and dragged him into the hall. "The band needs feeding, and third years have to be stamped so that they cannot consume alcohol. I've been looking for you."
"Who would have thought?" Arthur said, a little snidely.
Diana looked at him sharply, but something about his manner warned her not to say anything. "Well, you're more familiar with the third years than I am. You go on and cast the Stamping Charm, check their names off the list-" she tapped her wand in thin air and a clipboard appeared "-and I'll go and offer the band refreshments and check that they have everything they need to have to perform."
Arthur would have quite liked to meet the band, a popular rock group, but he could tell that Diana was struggling to maintain her equilibrium. He took the clipboard and turned towards the first row of tables. A small body collided with his, and he put his arm around the girl to steady her. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be," the girl said nicely. "I wasn't looking where I was going." She was wearing a ballgown and had loose, wavy hair that hung past her shoulders.
"Have you been stamped yet?" Arthur asked her.
"I don't need to be," the girl told him. "I'm Shapelle DuBois, a fourth year. My boyfriends a fourth year as well. We're both Ravenclaws." She turned away and waved to a boy dressed as a mummy, who waved back. "Um, but you might want to check on Herbie Jordan. I saw him get a pint of Butterbeer from the drinks table, and I know that despite what he's telling everybody, he's not a seventh year."
"Too right you are," Arthur muttered. "Thanks for the heads-up, Shapelle." Behind them there were scattered cries of indignation, then someone said, "Herbie, come down from there. You're getting Butterbeer all over everyone."
"I can't!" Herbie cried.
"Not so fast," Arthur said grimly, grabbing one foot and pulling the Gryffindor Chaser back down to earth. "You've been sneaking alcohol from behind my back."
"No, I haven't," Herbie insisted. "Y'see, I didn't see the "beer" on the side, and I just thought it said "butter," so I took some."
"And it took you a whole pint to figure out that it wasn't butter?" Arthur queried sceptically. Herbie at least had the grace to look a little abashed. "I'm afraid your career in underaged alcohol consumption is over, my little friend." He took his wand and gave Herbie a sharp tap on his forehead. A bright red spot appeared. "And one more thing-" He drew back and waved his wand over the third year with a flourish, who collapsed suddenly to the ground as the Leviating Charm was removed. "Have a fun-filled evening, Mister Jordan."
"Aw, this party sucks," Herbie said sourly, shooting a venomous look at his head boy's departing back.
As the night wore on, one participant sat and did all but participate, at least not truly, at one of the tables opposite the Gryffindor side of the Great Hall. Chatter ebbed and flowed around her, leaving her untouched. The alcohol surging in her blood served as a buffer from not only what was happening at this very moment, but what would happen in her future – and her thinking too much on it. Although she knew the fix to be only temporary, and with dire consequences in the morning, she held out her glass yet again.
Across the other side of the room her classmates swooped from one table to another, dipping in and out of the dance floor and laughing among themselves. For the house that produced the most Aurors, the house that would have the cares of the wizarding world dropped upon it in these darkening times, they were a remarkably carefree bunch. How she ached to be a part of them still.
But that was a dream. Reality waited and it was intertwined with snakes.
"I'm coming," she said, and downed her glass.
Though Lucille did not know this, over at one particular senior Gryffindor's table, things were not significantly merrier. Thierry and his date had moved to one of the window seats within a high set of Gothic arches that had seemingly sprung up from nowhere, but were most likely the handiwork of a certain Professor Flitwick. From what Arthur had seen he had not taken to the dance floor once that evening, instead lavishing all his attention on the Ravenclaw May Queen. By his exuberant hand gestures he was evidently telling some sort of funny story about Quidditch, each movement sending droplets of wine sailing over nearby students. Catherine, however, appeared less than impressed and was staring vaguely over at where Zachary Lupin was talking with Winston Shacklebolt.
Catherine was more fortunate than Molly, however. While she was merely bored, Molly was downright miserable.
"Why are you sitting with us?" Belmaine was demanding rudely. "I thought it was usual that the girls sat at their dates' tables."
"Meaning that you don't want at least one of us around, I take it," Blair's glare was icy. "Most likely myself. Well, since Molly doesn't know many people from my own house, I thought she would be more at home if I sat here."
"And we would be more at home if you didn't," Zachary muttered under his breath.
Molly sighed. This had been going on all evening. Belmaine and several of the other Gryffindor boys seemed to have made it a mission to antagonise the Slytherin, and while Blair hadn't started anything, he certainly wasn't trying to finish anything either. She focused her attention on her glass of Elf wine in front of her and mentally counted to ten.
"Now, now, let's just forget about house rivalries for a nigh, shall we?" Ben Thomas suggested easily. Blair and Belmaine continued to eye each other up. "Who's up for a dance?"
Molly turned eagerly to Blair. "Would you mind if I went dancing?"
"If you must," he sighed, waving her away idly. "You'll excuse me if I decline. Dancing is not the domain of a civilised society." Molly scooped up her clutch and ran onto the dance floor after Ben, the jellyfish bobbing on top of his head making him easily visible above the crowd. Professor McGonagall had just discovered Roy Connolly's attempted clone of her and looked none too pleased.
The instant dinner was finished, Lucille had deserted her date and taken to the dance floor. She was swinging her blond head to the beat and dancing with Ravenclaw Alistair Bell without an apparent care in the world. Alistair's date Cordelia Sinistra, dressed as Rowena Ravenclaw and closeted by Winston Shacklebolt, was shooting wary looks over at the couple. It was reasonably well-known that Lucille and Alistair had been an item during their fifth year. Winston meanwhile was unaware that his dance partner's attention was diverted elsewhere and was punching his fist to the music.
You hit me like a Stunning Charm
And I swore I would do you no harm
Baby, eventually you I'll disarm
Now hold out your little white palm
With the tall Ben leading the way, Molly managed to push her way through the crowd and reach Lucille. "How are you doing?" she shouted.
"I'm having a jolly good time," Lucille cried. A thin veneer of sweat was visible on her brow and there was a definite slur in her response. "I'm going to live it up, babe. You know," she added, pushing her face closer to Molly's conspiratorially, "I have to do what he tells me because he's my father, but I won't go quietly. I'm going to step on more than a few toes, and not just on the dance floor." There was a sudden surge between them and Molly fell forward, almost knocking her face against Lucille's. Alistair put an arm around each girl protectively.
"Hey now, Alistair, you can't keep these two to yourself," Sylvester Ricketts, the Hufflepuff chaser, was grinning good-naturedly at his Ravenclaw counterpart. "It's not allowed."
"Hey, I contribute to the pool so that I may take from the pool," Alistair said, nodding over at Cordelia and managing to ignore her head tilts indicating that he was to leave Lucille and get over there this instant. Lucille giggled. She seemed only half-aware of what was going on around her. "I'm not breaking any rules. You can have this one." He put his hand in the small of Molly's and gave her a push forward.
"Well, thanks, what flattery," Molly squawked resentfully in Sylvester's arms.
Sylvester took one of her hand and with the ease of a practised dancer, whirled her away. "Don't worry about him," he said amicably. "The Ravenclaw blokes are notorious for having dodgy taste in women. Which is funny, considering what a fox their founder was." He realised what he just said and gave her an abashed look.
"Do you mean Rowena Ravenclaw herself or the one going as her tonight?" Molly asked. Sylvester seemed like a decent chap and she wanted to ease some of his embarrassment.
"Well, I was talking about the actual founder," Sylvester began, pushing his head closer to her ear confidingly, "but now that you mention it, I've had my eye on Cordelia Sinistra for some time. Looks, talent, class, style - she has it all. I mean, if Alistair Bell ever dropped her, I would so be there."
The girl in question was watching Alistair and Lucille with her mouth drawn into an unquestionably disapproving line. It looked like Sylvester wouldn't have much of a wait. She saw the hapless Zachary near to the punch bowl, chatting animatedly with Professor Dumbledore, and for the first time since their date debacle felt sorry for him. "So, who are you here with?" she asked.
"Well, I was going to go with Flora Sprout, but she already had a date, Herbie Jordan," Sylvester explained. "So I'm going with Elizabeth Lee - as a friend." He looked down at her thoughtfully. "You play Quidditch, don't you."
"Yes," Molly said wearily. "I was the one hitting Bludgers into the stands."
"I wouldn't say you played quite that badly," Sylvester assured her. "You've got a powerful arm on you for a girl; you just need to develop your accuracy more." Molly thanked him and cast a wary look over her shoulder at Lucille. Her and Alistair appeared to be getting quite cosy.
Thierry had abandoned his attempt to ensnare the rather fetching Catherine Lee. In lieu of his lap she had now claimed a seat of her own and was shooting wistful looks at the dance floor, punctuating them every so often with a pointed look at Thierry. More than one passing male had cast a similarly wistful look at Catherine, but quickly made a detour once they had noted the dark look on Thierry's face. They weren't to know that the dark look was not intended for them, but to a certain Gryffindor and Ravenclaw couple whose past romantic dalliances appeared to be not entirely resolved.
"Aren't you going to ask me to dance, or do I have to do it myself?" Catherine demanded irritably.
"Of course," Thierry nodded vaguely.
"Of course to what?"
"Whatevair you like."
Catherine's mouth had drawn in a tight, angry line. "You're just nodding and agreeing to everything I say whenever I pause without actually paying attention to what I'm saying, aren't you? Where did you learn that, Pigs 101?"
"Yes – what?"
"Never mind," Catherine snapped. Her line of vision followed Thierry's and her tightened lips all but disappeared into her face. "It's her, isn't it? Well, I've had enough. I'm going to dance. A woman doesn't like to be made to feel second-best, you know. And if you'd only asked her in the first place, you would have saved us both a lot less trouble?"
"Quoi?" Thierry blinked, but Catherine had already swished off in the direction of the drinks table.
"Oh, I say, there's my team-mate Amos." Sylvester's eyes were darting over the top of the heads pressed around him and Molly. "You know him, don't you?"
"Er, in a matter of speaking," Molly floundered, but Sylvester was already pulling her over to where he and Imogen Page were dancing together.
"Hello, Molly," Imogen said cheerfully, making room for you. "I saw you play in the pre-season friendly a month or so back. You're awfully good." Molly scrabbled for conversation, but fortunately the blonde's attention was diverted elsewhere. "Ooh, he's very defined for a fifth year."
Molly scanned over the top of the crowd. By the turned heads and cluster of conversations breaking out away from the stage, an entrance was indeed being made. A handsome centaur loomed in the doorway with a pretty dark-haired girl wearing a red dress of a fabric that left little to the imagination on his back. Her mouth dropped further open as she recognised the couple.
"Like it?" Will asked, drawing up close to her. "When I found out that Ronnie was going as a Veela, I decided to transfigure myself into the most intimidating beast imaginable to ward off any unwanted male attention." From his back Veronica stuck out her tongue. "The Head Girl herself made the necessary adjustments for me."
Molly took a step back to take in the now four-legged Hufflepuff. The result was spectacular. "I'm surprised Diana agreed to go along with that."
"Yeah, well when I told her that if she didn't make the potion, I would just ask someone significantly less skilled than her and probably end as a Chihuahua, she grudgingly gave in. So here I am. William Edward Zjablomej, thoroughbred."
"Well, you look very impressive. Excuse me. I'm going to get some air." She looked over to where Alistair was half holding Lucille up. "And so is that little madam." Marching over to the couple, she grabbed her friend's arm. "You're coming with me."
"Oh, stop spoiling all my fun," Lucille complained as Molly dragged her off the dance floor. "We were having a good time."
"Alistair may have been. You were making a fool of yourself."
Lucille pushed back against her. Because of the floppiness the alcohol had induced in her, she was proving difficult to keep a hold of. "I don't want to go back to my table."
"I'm not taking you back to your table, you silly girl. We're going back to my table." Blair looked up as they approached. Seeing Lucille in obvious difficulty, he rose to his feet and pushed a chair out for her. "Blair, can you get Lucille a jug of water?" The Slytherin nodded and walked over to the drinks table. "Now pull yourself together, Lucille. You're acting like a crazy person."
"My whole life is crazy," Lucille moaned, burying her head in her hands. "And this party is absolute crap."
"Here you are." Blair returned with a pitcher. He poured some water into a glass that was shaped like a squashed, upside down witch's hat and pushed it under Lucille's nose. "There was pumpkin juice there too, but I suspect it has been spiked. And my housemates wonder why I hate parties. Perhaps your friend here has the right idea."
A cheer rose from the crowd. The lead singer of the Familiars had just shrugged off his jacket. The band broke into a new song and he strutted across the stage, singing:
Oh I need your love, babe
Guess you know it's true
Hope you need my love, babe
Just like I need you
Hold me
Love me
Hold me
Love me
I ain't got nothing but love, babe
Eight days a week
There were many nods and whistles from the Gryffindor quarter of the school towards Arthur, who grinned and broke out blushing. Molly and Lucille turned to each other and laughed. "I knew it!" Blair cried. "This is a song that those Muggle imposters, the Beatles, have been passing off as their own! I've been saying it for years."
"That's not true," Lucille protested. Or rather, Lucille slurred. "This is a Lennon-McCarthy original. It says so in the liner notes of the album."
"Oh, you think so?" Blair said snidely. "Let's make a small wager, shall we? Five Sickles says it's the Familiars."
"And five Sickles says that the Beatles wrote it," Lucille retorted. They leant across the table and shook hands, Lucille sending a fork falling to the floor as she did so.
The crowd on the dance floor had swelled and people were regularly pushing against Molly's chair. She walked around to the back of the table and drew up a seat next to Lucille, slipping an arm around her to keep her upright. Blair, surprisingly, had removed a hanky chief from his coat pocket and was dabbing at Lucille's forehead with it, who just as insistedly was pushing his armaway. A cheer from the students arose as the band played the final chords of the song. "And that was the cover of one of our favourite bands, the Beatles!" the singer announced.
"Aha! Pay up!" Lucille cried. She jabbed a finger at Blair and sent a bottle of wine rolling to the floor. Molly and Blair caught her between them as she slid off her chair in the direction of the bottle.
"As much as I like the idea of Gryffindor being docked points, maybe we should take her back to your common room before she gets into trouble - and has more to drink," Blair reasoned. Molly glanced towards Professor McGonagall in the corner of the room, whose attention was fortunately diverted elsewhere, and nodded in agreement. "But unless she can stand on her feet, I don't know how to get her out of here without it looking too obvious."
"Let's keep on pouring water down her throat and see if it makes a difference," Molly advised in an undertone. Fortunately they were in one of the darkened corners of the room and relatively away from teachers' eyes. "I'm going to see if there's any Pumpkin Pasties left for her to eat. Keep an eye on her, will you?"
Diana glanced around at the throbbing crowd of students below her and Arthur as they stood on the podium. "Isn't this terrible?"
Arthur looked over at her, an amused smile playing on his lips. "Well, actually I'm having fun," he said.
"I'm not, because I'm being responsible," Diana retorted archly.
"Well, I find it possible to be responsible and let my hair down at the same time – so to speak," Arthur told her, giving the short brown mop on top of his head a facetious tug. "Now if you'll excuse me, I think I've done my share of duty for the night. John Lennon wants to boogie."
"Boogie?" Diana repeated, her eyebrows shooting up scornfully.
Unlike her housemate, Veronica appeared to be having the time of her life. Her and Will were cutting quite a scene on the dance floor – and the rest of the student body was cutting a wide circle around them in order to avoid Will's flailing hooves. She was having too much fun to notice how dry her throat had become until Will suggested drinks. Once left alone on the dance floor, she bopped with a group of Hufflepuffs and was attempting the shimmy with Sarah Abbott when a finger tapped her on the shoulder. She turned around and screamed.
"Aw, did I frighten you, little sis?" the apparition said.
Veronica stared agog at her dismembered older brother, Peter Vector. "Only you would go as Wilfred Elphick," she said.
"Yep, the only wizard to ever get gored by an Erumpent," he boasted, turning around to give her a better view. Veronica's stomach turned. "Pretty convincing, isn't it? I really wanted to go as something genuinely scary."
"You'll never grow up," Veronica scoffed. "How did you get in here anyway?"
"I got an invite," Peter puffed out his chest proudly. For the first time she managed to drag her eyes off her brother's costume to notice the small, dark-haired girl clinging to his side. "This is Hazel Whinlater. She's a seventh year Hufflepuff. I hear Gryffindor/ Hufflepuff couples are all the rage these days," he said, winking at her. "Speaking of, when do we get to meet yours?"
"He's coming over during the holidays," Veronica informed him. "I haven't set a date yet. I'll wait until I know you won't be around, then I'll invite him over to meet Mum and Dad. You won't get a look-in. I'm Veronica Vector, the much-maligned younger sister of this lout," she added to Hazel, offering her hand. "We have Transfiguration and Astronomy together, right?"
"So is he here?" Peter asked, his eyes scanning the crowd. Veronica heaved a sigh. The twit didn't even know what Will looked like, and it wasn't as though he would be wearing a t-shirt saying Veronica Vector's boyfriend. "Fucking Merlin, where's the rest of your outfit?"
"This is my outfit," Veronica said, sweeping into a low curtsey. Behind her Willy Widdershins, who was topping up his glass, poured Lilywine onto his robes and jumped back, swearing loudly. "I'm a Veela. I made it myself."
"Well, get back up to Gryffindor Tower and finish off the job," Peter told her. Veronica stuck her chin out obstinately. Hazel gave her an apologetic smile. "I'm not having all the senior boys going around staring at my baby sister's ta-tas."
"Your baby sister?" Veronica echoed indignantly.
"Here you are, they didn't have Nutmeg port so I got Gillywater, hope that's alright-" Will broke off as he took in Peter and frowned. "Is everything okay?"
"Not particularly," Veronica sighed. Will's brow darkened threateningly. "This is my older brother, Peter. Peter, my boyfriend, Will."
For all his earlier bluster, Peter was thankfully civil to Will. He smiled and shook the centaur's hand politely then introduced his own partner, who by the way she was glued to his side was more than just that. Upon finding out the younger boy was a Chutley Canons supporter, the pair became engrossed in conversation.
"Let's leave them for a bit," Hazel said, taking Veronica by her arm and steering her away. "I'm dying for some air, and I need to freshen up."
"Right," Veronica nodded. "Let's stop by the drinks table on the way out though. After all this dancing I need a glass of water." They threaded their way through the students and collected their drinks in silence. Veronica cast around for something to say. "I didn't know my brother was seeing anyone," she said finally.
"Oh, Peter and I?" Hazel shrugged. "We're not going out. We just sleep together when we can, that's all."
"Um, okay," Veronica managed, completely unsure of how to respond to that one. What surprised her was that it was she who was embarrassed, whereas Hazel appeared completely at ease. Her mind was still reeling when, again, someone tapped her on the shoulder.
"May I have a word please, Veronica?"
Veronica rewarded her boyfriend with a beam that fell short when she noticed the expression on his face. "Is something wrong?"
"Outside," he insisted.
Feeling suddenly sober and disquieted, Veronica followed him out beyond the fountain in the entryway and down a little side corridor which she guessed was close to the Hufflepuff chambers. She looked up at Will expectantly.
"Are you ashamed of me?" he burst out.
Veronica's eyes widened. "What are you talking about?"
"Are you ashamed of me?" he repeated. "Is that why it didn't occur to you to tell your brother that I was only a fifth year? He asked me what kind of job I was planning on getting after my NEWTs," he rushed on. "When I told him that I hadn't even taken my OWLs, he looked really shocked. Care to explain?"
"What am I meant to explain?" Veronica's mind was reeling.
Will pushed his head close to her face. "Why your own brother doesn't know that I am a fifth year!"
"It just…never…came up in the conversation, that's all," Veronica said awkwardly, taking a few steps back. "Why are you talking to me like this? It's making it difficult for me to think."
"More likely you made sure that it never came up in the conversation," Will snapped. Veronica had never seen him so angry before. "You've always been ashamed of me because I'm younger than you. You didn't even want to go out with me at the start because of it. The only one who has a problem with it is you. I'm going back inside for the prize announcements. When I talk to you tomorrow, you better have a really good excuse for this!" He turned his back dismissively and his footsteps clattered away.
NEWT worries, prefect worries, Quidditch worries, Lucille worries and alcohol – everything seemed to hit her all at once then. Veronica sank down onto the nearest stone seat and burst into tears.
The dance floor was more packed than most boxes of Bertie Bott's Many-Flavoured Beans. Molly managed to elbow her way through to the snack table, only vaguely aware that the Familiars were performing their unreleased song that she had been waiting to hear the entire evening, "The People Who'll Need You."
You've got your friends
Yeah girl, you've got them a lot
But you don't know, girl
True to you they're not
Yeah, you've got money
But ain't it funny
That with that you sure ain't got a lot
Yeah, with money, girl, you sure ain't got a plot
Do you have around you the people who'll need you?
Do you have around you the people who'll feed you?
Because sugar, once they find they don't need you
You'll be what they feed on for sup
So look around you, girl
See where your privileges have got you found
In things money can't buy
Yeah, in things there's no currency for
Girl, you ain't got a pound
I said, girl, you ain't got a Muggle pound
To your name
So what's your name worth these days?
Is it enough to buy your shame these days?
Do you have around you the people who'll need you?
Do you have around you the people who'll feed you?
Because sugar, once they find they don't need you
You'll be what they feed on for sup
The song had ended by the time Molly was able to force her way back to her table, only to locate Blair – without Lucille. "Where is she?" she demanded. "I left her right here – with you!"
"And I left her right here as well, but I had to leave to deal with a scuffle that broke out between a group of fourth years," Blair retorted. He was looking pink-cheeked and very rumpled. "I left her here – with my best hanky chief!"
"And I told you to look after her!" Molly cried.
"Which I did – until something else called my attention," Blair shot back. "I would have never started the evening expecting to nurse a sixth year. I can't be expected to be everywhere!" He glowered down at her, then his expression softened at the look on her face. "We'll find her eventually, Molly. She can't have gone far – in her state. Look, why don't you go and ask that prefect friend of yours if she's seen her and I'll scout around, alright?"
Molly nodded and threw herself back into the throng. "Veronica," she called, dashing onto the dance floor. She tried in vain to scan over the top of the sea of bodies, but the seventh year was nowhere to be found. "Veronica!"
"Don't go anywhere," Cordelia said, clutching her arm. "They're about to announce the award for the best costume."
The head of Gryffindor house, Professor Dumbledore approached the microphone stand, the lead singer of the Familiars making way for him. "Mermaids, Satyrs, Wood Nymphs and Hags," he began, "I am very happy that you were able to join me in our first ever Halloween Ball. I trust that the pumpkin juice was as good as ever. Shortly I will let you return to tonight's entertainment-" the students cheered and the Familiars swept into various bows "-but now I must announce the winners of tonight's costume competition."
The students around her had turned and pressed themselves eagerly towards the front, but Molly wasn't taking in anything. She turned and tried to push her way through the crowd, but the students weren't budging and those nearest to her were giving her indignant looks.
"Each winner will receive a voucher of ten Galleons to Honeydukes in Hogsmeades and go in the draw to win one of the latest models of Cleansweeps. Now, I must begin by saying that out of all the costumes, my personal favourite was Alistair Bell who went as myself-" his younger form waved up at him cheerfully "-but the decision was not left to me. The Head Boy and Girl selected a representative of teachers from each house, who throughout this evening were monitoring not only your behaviour." He gestured towards the seated panel on his left, and the students applauded. Professor Flitwick of Ravenclaw was jiggling up and down cheerfully in his seat and Professors McGonagall and Haricot were smiling pleasantly enough, but Finch sunk into his chair with a half-scowl, as if he would rather be anywhere else in the world. "Third place for the girls goes to Sally Pint of Hufflepuff house."
A tiny girl dressed in yellow floated up to the stage, her shimmering wings flapping behind her. Cordelia elbowed Molly, who clapped mechanically.
"Second place goes to Nadia Sombre, of Slytherin house." Molly turned to see a cold-looking blonde slip through the crowd and approach the stage. She didn't see what was so special about the girl's costume, a plain white dress with a train and bell sleeves. Nadia took her gift certificate, curtsied - and transformed into a swan. Molly gasped and applauded loudly, Lucille temporarily forgotten.
"First place goes to our very own Head Girl, Diana McGonagall of Gryffindor House."
Molly's mouth dropped open. She gathered by the whispers that the choice was as unexpected to several other people as it was to herself. Diana reached the stage and extended her arm towards Dumbledore. Instead of shaking his hand, she pushed her arm clean through his chest. There were loud cries and a thud as someone in the back of the hall fainted. Diana had somehow managed to transfigure herself into a ghost. Once the crowd had gotten over its shock, the applause was tumultuous.
"Very well done, Sally, Nadia and Diana. Now it will be my great pleasure to announce the gentlemen. Third place goes to Alan Turpin of Ravenclaw house." An exact replica of Professor Flitwick hopped onto the stage. Dumbledore had to lean down quite a way to present the fourth year with his certificate. "Now the students in the next two positions both did a stupendous job with their costumes, and the judges tell me that it was very difficult to choose an eventual winner. Second place goes to Winston Shacklebolt of Gryffindor house."
The crowd applauded enthusiastically. Winston was well-liked among most houses. The Quidditch player's celebration was a little muted, knowing that he had narrowly missed out on winning, but he still grinned broadly and performed a jig with his cloven feet in time to the claps of a group of his friends.
"First place goes to William Edward Zjablomej of Hufflepuff House."
Cordelia shrieked and pumped her fist in the air in an uncharacteristic fashion. The response from the Hufflepuff contingent was equally raucous. Molly expected Veronica to fling herself out of the crowd and leap into Will's arms for a bearhug, but surprisingly she didn't materialise. At about two feet taller than even the senior boys, Will easily made his way through the crowd. He reached around Dumbledore to shake Winston's hand, then took his certificate from the professor.
"Thank you," Will said, taking the microphone. "I'd like to similarly offer my congratulations to all the other winners. And now my Quidditch captain, Amos Diggory, would like a word." Students next to Molly glanced at each other - this was highly irregular. Molly felt her heart sink as Amos took the stage. She had never seen him look so handsome.
"Now after Dumbledore has participated in tonight's festivities, I have an announcement of my own to make. And for that, I ask your forgiveness." A few people chuckled. "As some of my housemates know, I have been friends with Imelda Page for some time and this year, we became more than friends. It is with delight that I announce that tonight she agreed to become my wife."
Molly's world stilled.
Author's Notes: 23 pages. 10,192 words (dies). The bass from downstairs is still thundering away beneath me, so I may as well continue until I get the seventeenth chapter up (rubs eyes).
I know I haven't mentioned a couple of readers' OCs yet. They'll come up in the next chapter.
