Ruby tried to keep her eyes from glazing over as Zach continued to discuss Quidditch. She had made an honest effort to do what Annabelle did when she got stuck talking to a guy about sports: make eye contact, smile flirtatiously, give an occasional nod. It all felt very fake, though, so she had resorted to propping her chin on one hand and not falling asleep!
She consoled herself by going over the rest of the (wonderful?) date in her mind. She was wearing her prettiest dress - a violet-colored empire-waist creation. Unfortunately it only reached her knees, so she had accessorized functionally with thick black tights and her black winter cloak. In a Scottish February, there was no choice for footwear but her regular old winter boots. She had curled her hair, as always, and added a glittering butterfly hairclip for some sparkle.
Zach had picked her up in the Great Hall that morning, complimenting her appropriately. They walked down to Hogsmeade together and he had held her hand. Ruby supposed that, empirically speaking, it was a sweet gesture. They were both gloved, though, so there wasn't really a point. It was actually quite awkward. People kept giving them funny looks.
Madame Pudifoot's, coveted as the ideal date location by all the wistful single ladies of Hogwarts, was very . . . pink. Not that there was anything wrong with pink. Pink was a perfectly lovely color, in Ruby's opinion, and one that looked pretty on her. It was overwhelming in such high doses, though. She could still see why people liked this place, especially in winter. It was wonderfully warm and the tea was decent.
Zach had been quite charming. That is, until the waitress brought the second round of tea and he started lapsing into Quidditch Talk.
"And then, he just crashed into the goal post! Boom!" He looked to Ruby for an affirmative reaction, so she gasped appreciatively.
Why do guys feel like they need to talk Quidditch with their girlfriends? Ruby wondered, idly crushing a sugar cube with her spoon. Zach could just talk to one of his teammates . . . She looked over at the next table, where Mark Davies and Rose Weasley were sitting. Some couples were making out and it was gross, but not Rose and Davies. They were just talking, and seemingly having a great time. The way Rose was gesticulating, Ruby strongly suspected that they, too, were doing Quidditch Talk, and enjoying it. Because they were both, well, Quidditch players.
Ruby couldn't help smirking when she noticed that Rose was wearing dark jeans and a sweater. Not because of her casual attire - Ruby's own stylishly-clad calves were still recovering from the biting cold - but because the sweater was green. Well. It was clear whom she was thinking of on Valentine's Day. Honestly, she and Malfoy should cut the romantic tension and uhmahgod just get together already!
Rose smiled smugly at Mark. He was cracking up at one of her mostly-true, elaborately explained, Quidditch anecdotes. It felt really nice, being with a clever guy-friend that she could have a laugh with. Besides Albus, of course, but Albus was her cousin and also not a stunning piece of eye candy.
Mark was, as she had anticipated, the ideal Valentine. He was funny, polite, smart, gorgeous, and a Quidditch player to boot. It was probable that the only reason she hadn't thought of dating him sooner was that he had been going out with Julie Bertrand for several months.
He smiled engagingly at Rose across the table. "Hey, Rosie, I know we came here as just friends and all, but . . . I like you."
It was lamely phrased, but Rose found she could forgive those sparkling blue eyes. She giggled, nudging Mark's arm. "Well, yeah! A guy doesn't take a girl to Madame Pudifoot's on Valentine's Day without liking her!"
"So, you feel the same?"
Rose leaned forward slightly, about to give her reply, when the bell over the shop door jangled unexpectedly. She looked up, diverted by the sight of Annabelle Brown giggling and letting in all the cold air as she darted over to Ruby Kumar's table. They could be so annoying, Annabelle more than Ruby.
"The funniest thing!" she said in her rather piercing voice, clearly audible to Rose and Mark a few feet away. "You won't believe it." Her message was impeded somewhat by the gales of laughter that were bubbling out of her.
After attracting the attention and glares of half the patrons, she controlled herself enough to wheeze it out. "Malfoy is . . . someone gave him this potion, and he . . . !" More giggling. She gripped the edge of the table, presumably to keep from actually collapsing of mirth. "He's making out with a statue!"
Rose stood up, a grin tugging at one corner of her mouth and a lump rising contrarily in her throat. She turned to Mark. "This ought to be fun, no?."
"I - sure, let's go see," he said, a brief cloud of disappointment marring his face.
The little group, a triumphant Annabelle followed by Ruby and her date, Rose, Mark, and a few other curious passerby, marched back to the castle. "This way, this way!"
As they crossed the courtyard, Nicky fell in with their group, looking mutinous.
"If that Petracca bast -" She looked around at the eyewitnesses, and her expression cleared. "Petracca was supposed to cure him." she remarked in a neutral tone to Rose. "Whoever spread the news about Malfoy's accident . . ." she trailed off delicately, leaving the gory details to Rose's imagination. Nicky was careful enough about plausible deniability.
"So, it's true?" asked Rose, trying not to sound overly eager.
Her cousin snorted. "Oh, yes."
Rose couldn't keep a gleeful smile from stealing over her face as they rounded a corner to see a thick crowd, seemingly gathered around something. Mark and the others held back, meshing with the rest of the crowd, but Nicky wasn't afraid to utilize her brittle-yet-sharp elbows. She and Rose were at the front shortly.
Malfoy was, indeed making out with the Helga Hufflepuff statue. He was aggressively kissing and licking its face, and his legs were braced around the wide base.
"Helga, oh, Helga, my sweet," he crooned. Several people laughed, though a few were uneasy. The spectacle was just so bizarre.
For her part, Rose was deeply amused. The Pygmalion connection wasn't lost on her . . . Clever Albus, this must have been his plan! she marvelled. It was brilliant. It was elegant. It was Weasley-esque in the extreme. And yet . . .
As she continued to stare, Rose couldn't help admiring Scorpius's evident passion. His tie was slightly loosened, his light hair had gotten mussed somehow, and his expression was fevered. To her acute embarrassment, she felt vaugely aroused.
To increase her sudden humiliation exponentially, she wasn't the only girl who was impressed. Several girls that she knew by sight only were whispering and giggling. One of them, a tall blonde Hufflepuff, was close enough to be overheard by Rose. "Just watching him is making me a little hot!" the girl hissed to her friend, who tittered.
Malfoy shifted his attention to Hufflepuff's (not insubstantial) neck, and a shiver of lust moved from Rose's navel down to her toes. Hot, acidic shame followed quickly on the heels of the delicious sensation, and she slipped quietly away before Nicky or anyone else noticed her discomfort.
It was sick, really, all these students gathered to watch Scorpius degrade himself. Most of them were probably horny, too, judging by some of the whispered comments. Rose was right to leave when she did. It was nice to see that the good little Gryffindor's honor was untarnished yet. She probably thought that Nicky hadn't noticed Rose's subtle exit, but Nicky was more observant than her general uncouthness would suggest.
She found herself wishing that she could slip quietly away like Rose, but Slytherins generally didn't have that capacity. They threw elbows and enjoyed it a bit. Nicky despised attention-seeking narks and disliked involving teachers in strictly un-academic student business, but this all had gone a little too far. It was time to get a professor.
And later, she would make the Petracca bastard suffer.
Also, the mastermind behind the prank would pay. She could find out who. Probably.
Professor Gatlin, the Muggle Studies teacher, was conviently located in the classroom only a short way down the hall from the statue debacle. She adjusted her cat's-eye glasses dubiously and followed Nicky. When she saw the scene, Gatlin seemed to deflate slightly at the prospect of all the logistical nonsense and punishment that she would have to dole out.
"I can take him to the hospital wing, if you could just stun him or something," offered Nicky in what she hoped was a pleasant and helpful tone. The poor teacher just nodded helplessly.
It was quite a trick, levitating Malfoy all the way to the hospital wing, but he was in a Full-Body Bind jinx and couldn't squirm around. Madame Pomfrey sent Nicky to get Professor Slughorn and explain the situation.
After the antidote was sorted out, ("My, my, remarkably strong product, this is," the old Potions master had mused. "I don't think this ought to be available to school children . . . or anyone at all, for that matter . . .") Nicky stayed in the hospital wing with Scorpius. He was, quite understandably, completely and totally crushed.
"I hate my life . . ." he mumbled weakly. "I'm so stupid . . . everyone knows, this is going to be here until I graduate. Probably until I die."
"Loads of people do dumb stuff in school, and this isn't even your fault," said Nicky bracingly. "It'll blow over."
"But, it's so embarrassing," he moaned, burying his face in the pillow.
"Look, if Pomfrey would let me, I'd bring you a bottle of firewhiskey and you'd be feeling loads better in no time," she assured him. "I promise, we'll get properly stoned as soon as you're feeling well enough."
"That won't change anything."
"No? We'll see. A touch of firewhiskey always makes me feel better."
He sat up hopefully. "You know what would make me feel better? Revenge."
"Already on it, dear. Petracca is going to pay for making the potion and also not helping me cure you. From her I'll find out who bought the potion and things will start to get interesting."
The pale boy smiled wanly, the light of classic revenge in his eyes. "I feel a little better already."
Victrola chuckled darkly to herself as she watched the caretaker grudgingly scrub the saliva off the ancient statue. The Muggle Studies professor had dispersed the crowd with unformed threats of detention, but this was an event that was probably branded in their memories forever. Victrola didn't usually stay around to enjoy the results of her handiwork, but this had been priceless. The Potter boy was sharper than he looked.
He had been smart to keep his distance from the scene. Nothing diverted suspicion like a good alibi. Hopefully he had gone to Hogsmeade with some friends, that would be the most airtight plan. Victrola walked out onto the freezing grounds, her black cloak billowing in a suspiciously batlike fashion behind her.
As far as her own alibi went . . . well, she had never needed one in the past, had she? Sure, all the nastiest potions that surfaced at Hogwarts were rather easily traced back to her, but she was skilled at dueling. And covering her tracks. A few sixth-year Slytherin brats with ruffled feathers shouldn't be a problem.
Well, there was Malfoy's bitchy girlfriend, the gingerish-blondish Weasley. She was rather infamous for her hexing capabilities, and a Slytherin to boot. Honestly, she had been so rude earlier, demanding an antidote. Surprisingly, a little common courtesy tended to go a long way with Victrola. Most of the younger students (and a few in her year) treated her with the fear and disgust of a Muggle encountering a venemous adder, and it got boring.
The Potter boy was polite. He was also clever (for a little Gryffindor bastard), and easy on the eyes. Victrola found she had taken quite a shine to the Potter boy.
"Hey, you!"
Ah, the Slytherin-Weasley.
"What?" snapped Victrola, reaching for her wand.
The other girl pulled hers out to dueling height.
Victrola let her eyes dart around, scoping out the scene. They were near the Quidditch pitch, standing in a few inches of white powder. There were some students a few hundred feet away, returning from Hogsmeade, but no teachers.
"You already admitted to making that vile potion."
"I did make that vile potion."
The girl's blue eyes narrowed, and she started treading slowly sideways, evidently intending to circle Victrola. Victrola rolled her eyes.
"Ooh, let me guess, if I tell you who bought it, you'll let me trip on my merry way," she theorized drily. "If not, you'll hex me into a million slimy little pieces. Correct?"
"That's right."
The older girl considered hexing and running, but then she would just have to deal with the consequences later. By her calculations, Malfoy should be recovering from his little infatuation shortly. She smirked.
"I don't want to tell you," she drawled.
"Then, we duel."
"Wait." Victrola's dark eyes narrowed gleefully as she remembered something. "Weasleys are a clannish lot, yes?"
"Er." Taken aback, the Weasley girl let her concentration waver slightly. "You could say that, yeah."
Potter's mother was a Weasley.
"It was Potter."
Well, that had given the little chit something to think about. She couldn't take on her own Weasley cousin in an honor duel. Probably she would tell Malfoy, but Victrola had faith in Potter. Besides which, Malfoy somehow seemed too cowardly for a classic duel.
Albus crunched through the snow, glad to be returning to the castle. Hogsmeade had been simply overrun with happy couples. Ew.
He saw Nicky standing near the Quidditch pitch and went over to say hello. She would be irate over the Malfoy incident, and Albus would act surprised and innocent. There was someone with her. It was . . . Petracca?
As he approached them, he noticed with a shiver of dread that both witches were in dueling position.
At the same moment, he saw Malfoy making his way towards them. He ignored Albus completely and started talking urgently to Nicky. They both looked over at him, and Petracca folded her arms.
Finally Albus reached their group, only to be greeted by Malfoy's fist. He was agile enough to dodge, and Malfoy stumbled.
"You piece of shit!" he roared.
"You deserved it," said Albus evenly, reaching for his wand.
"What the fuck?! What did I do to deserve that?!" He send a jet of purple light at Albus, who dodged again.
"You seriously don't know?" said Albus. "Expelliarmus!"
"Protego! Trying to use Daddy's signature spell?" sneered Malfoy. "You're worthless."
A spike of white-hot anger shot through Albus. "Leave my dad out of this, tosser! You're pathetic!"
"Oh, I'm the pathetic one? You can hardly go anywhere without Cousin Weasley to hold your hand! Are the rumors true, Potter, about your true feelings for her?"
Albus's brow knitted in confusion. There were no actual rumors like that. Where was Malfoy getting this shit?
"I don't know what you're talking about. It's bloody obvious that -"
"You ruined my life!" screeched Malfoy, forgetting his wand entirely.
"It's because of Rose!" Albus bellowed, not caring who heard him. "You are such an indescribable git to her, I can't even! You push her buttons again and again, for what? Some sort of sadistic satisfaction? And," his face reddened with sympathetic shame for his cousin, "she likes you, you bloody idiot! I don't know why or how, but some deep down part of her is still hurt every single time you make fun of her, or say her face is weird, or whatever! You know what I think, Malfoy? I think that subconsciously you know that, and that's why you tease her so much. You enjoy hurting her. Is it such a surprise that I took a little revenge?"
Malfoy was frozen on the spot. Albus had expected anger, denial, some sort of retort. What he was not prepared for was the naked shock on the other boy's face. He had gone even paler than usual, and his coin-like grey eyes were vulnerable. Albus might as well have slapped him across the face. A physical hit might even have been a safer alternative to this messy emotional standoff.
"She likes me?" asked Malfoy quietly. Albus didn't want to try to muddle out the conflicting kaleidoscope of feelings in the Slytherin's eyes. Dammit, it was Rose who was supposed to have the guilt-inducing eyes!
"Um, yeah. If you used your tiny mind for anything besides being an asshat, you would have figured it out ages ago."
"Oh," said Malfoy. Very, very quietly. He turned on his heel and walked quickly but unsteadily back in the direction of the castle.
"Merlin knows why!" Albus called after him. He thought about calling him another unsavory name, but it seemed like overkill, so he let Malfoy go.
Albus looked around. It appeared that their little shouting match had drawn a good-sized crowd of spectators. There were about a dozen assorted students, looking disappointed and vaugely mutinous. Apparently they had been expecting a good duel, or at least some nice, old-fashioned Muggle fisticuffs. Most of them, including Nicky, dissipated after Malfoy left, leaving Albus alone with the now-familiar form of Petracca. She started clapping slowly.
"Well done, Potter m'boy."
"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, somewhat aggressively.
She raised one eyebrow. "Not used to confrontation, eh? I thought you did rather well. Very acidic. Shouldn't have announced your cousin's secret to the world, though."
"Oh . . . right." Shame washed over Albus as he realized his mistake. "I'm sure it'll blow over. She can just deny it, right?"
"Mm. Sure." Petracca rolled her shoulders and stretched, inadvertently (or perhaps intentionally) showing her tiny figure to best advantage. "All this revenge has left me bored by comparison. Fancy a walk by the lake?"
Albus eyed the older girl dubiously. "Er . . . okay."