A/N: This is the first half/third of a request made by a reader! I've been dealing with some things (Fell in love like an absolute nincompoop, having to switch apartments, still working 40+ hours a week and volunteering) and so updating has been near impossible. That being said I am still working slowly on The Smiling Man.

As I mentioned, this is only a portion of the story. I will only write the rest if I get enough interested readers, otherwise why continue? This is me putting out, well, feelers of some sort, I suppose. Enjoy! Please drop a review if you enjoy!

A poor, innocent piece of parchment found its brutal demise. The fist of judgment crumpled it and sent it flying to join its dead brethren littering the ground, each gruesomely destroyed for its failure. They all lay around a wastebasket, which remained comically empty.

The girl to whom the fist belonged scowled at the offending metal basket, which seemed to taunt her in return. "Oh you wanna be like that, huh?" Hissed the girl. "Bombarda," She chanted, blowing a hole not only in the basket, but in the entire wall leading to the stairs. The wall blew outward, crumpling under the power of the explosive charm and sending stone, brick, and mortar flying in all directions.

"Eep-" was the only sound which came from the girl as she witnessed the wall come down.

A cry of "Protego!" Came from beyond the wall, and as the dust settled, an irritated — but interestingly enough not surprised — Daphne Greengrass could be made out. The tall blonde was dusting her robes off with quick, short motions, as if well accustomed to the best ways of removing dust of this kind from them. After a couple seconds of awkward silence, Daphne spoke.

"Again, Tracey? Really? What was it this time — a bug look at you weird again or something?"

The brunette girl came charging over and hugged her friend so hard a couple pops and cracks were heard from the blonde's back as she was lifted off the ground, and Daphne squeaked before Tracey put her down.

"I'll have you know," the aggressive hugger said, "that bug three weeks ago was indeed looking at me weird. No matter where I went, his eyes were there, and it's very insensitive of you to mock me for such a traumatic experience."

"Bloody- Tracey, it's. A. Bug. Its eyes are literally meant to see in all directions, it wasn't stalking you. It was just being a bloody bug."

"Yeah well, shouldn't have been born a bug then," replied Tracey smugly, as if that settled it.

Daphne sputtered in outrage but her friend ignored her, turning back to yet another piece of parchment and scowling at this with as much intensity as she had at the wastebasket, if not more.

"As I was saying," continued the still-dust-covered blonde, "what was it this time?"

"The bloody quill won't write the right bloody words, and that stupid wastebasket was looking at me nasty."

"Trace," weedled Daphne, "that's the third time this week alone! Have some self control! It's not the quill saying the wrong words, it's you."

"Are you blaming me for my problems?" Gasped her friend.

"Yes."

"Outrageous. I'll have you know I know exactly what I want to say to him, it's just not coming out right — and even now he's probably out there mooning over that Chang skank. That girl's heart itself is made of plastic, I swear."

Daphne Greengrass rubbed at her eyes in exasperation. There had been four straight years of this — Tracey was lucky Daphne was patient with her. "Okay," she said, trying to be gentle, "what is it you want to tell him?"

Tracey's eyes lit up. "That I think he's absolutely gorgeous, I mean I always thought he was fit but he's really been growing into himself, you know? And also that, like, I think he doesn't get enough credit for all the smack talk and slander he puts up with, and like, I don't care about his being kinda famous or whatever, I just think he's also really funny, and talented, and he's soooooooo good at spells and I wanted to know if maybe we could get together and practice spells and maybe also go to the ball and also maybe then date? I dunno I feel like that's too far ahead but I think he's absolutely brill, and I know there's a lot of girls after him but like I don't want to mess with him and I'm sorry that I'm a Slytherin — well I'm not really but I'm sorry the situation is like it is, ya know — and that I wish he'd give me a chance and that-"

"-Acey!" Came Daphne's voice, finally registering with Tracey, "Tracey! Snap out of it! You're word-vomiting again, love."

The short girl's cheeks tinged with red. "Oh."

"Now, I know this is wild," began the tall girl, and she grabbed her friend's cheeks, smooshing her face, "and completely outlandish, but have you ever considered talking to the boy?"

"An hanic an seh hinghs hat wuin wy hanshes foweve?" Answered the other girl, mouth still smooshed and causing her speech some difficulty. Finally managing to smack away the hands grabbing her, she took a step back. "Absolutely NOT. I might be crazy, but even I'm not that crazy. It'll be like I'm just some fangirl!"

"And you writing hundreds of letters a year and never sending any isn't fangirl behavior?" Replied Daphne drily.

"Maybe if I sent them," retorted Tracey. "But instead it's just normal pining. Plus, I didn't even know anything about him 'till you told me why everyone was muttering things about him during the sorting ceremony, first year. It's not like I'm after his fame, I liked him when I saw him getting on the bloody train."

Daphne snorted. "Fair enough, I guess. You still owe me for taking you under my wing before you got stomped flat by the other Slytherins."

"Oh yes, mighty magical mistress. Many thanks, I bow before thee and thy greatness. Prithee, wilt thou bless me with a bountiful harvest?"

"I'll curse you."

"I'm faster."

Appearing as though it was to own chagrin, Daphne admitted that statement was not mistaken. "I still don't understand," she said, "how you managed to 'Crucio' Draco twice and get away with it."

"It's always an accident."

"But you always mean it?"

"I can always want to hurt someone without intending to actually hurt them."

"Bloody hell, Trace, you're terrifying."

"I know," laughed Tracey, tossing her brown hair over her shoulder. "It's absolutely fantastic to be feared."

"I wonder what everyone would say if I spoke of the great and terrifying Tracey Davis pining like some-" She ducked the Reducto speeding her way, and casually waved a Reparo at the small chunk of wall which had been broken off, "-lovesick little girl."

Daphne stepped away from the wall. She'd leave repairing the big chunk knocked out for someone who actually knew what they were doing, she didn't trust herself to do more than the small things.

"Anyway," continued Tracey, "even if I was to say something to him, or approach him, how would I even do it?"

"You've got so many strengths, darling. Just play to your strengths!"

"Play to my strengths…" muttered Tracey. "Hmmmmm… yessssss…"

Daphne felt a jolt of fear spike through her (or maybe it was her back still feeling the repercussions of the hug). She got the feeling was going to have to keep an extra-careful eye on her volatile friend over the next couple weeks.

— 0 —

"Look, there's nothing wrong with you, I just can't-"

The above words were from an exasperated Harry Potter to the seventeenth — yes, seventeenth — girl that day to ask him to the Yule Ball.

It wasn't that Harry didn't want to say yes to all of the girls asking him to the ball, it was just that when he saw the hunger in their eyes, the desire behind their words… Well, it just felt like he was nothing more than a piece of meat, really. Besides, he was still miserable and pining after Cho and nothing was going to stop his sweet, sweet suffering as long as he had any say in it.

The girl sneered, face distorting and becoming ugly with distaste. "-Hmph, should've known you'd get a fat head, like the bloody tosser you are. Just can't deal with celebrities, they've all got their heads shoved up their own *rse."

"Well, hey now, I-" Interjected Harry, but the girl ignored him as she kept talking, not even paying attention to him at this point.

"You're not even that cute, you're just famous. I think," she added, turning on her heel with a swish of her hair, "I'll go find one of those Cedric Diggory badges."

Harry rubbed his eyes as the girl stomped away, and looked up only to find an enormous group of people watching. He groaned, throwing his hands up in the air. As if he didn't have enough problems, now everyone was going to be talking about this little event too. Harry had thought nothing could be worse than the "Eyes like a fresh pickled toad" debacle of his second year, but the way things were shaping out with the Yule Ball, boy had he been wrong. Not to mention, he was developing a horrible headache.

The bell struck, reminding all the students in transit of places they needed to be, and the surrounding masses shook free of the gaping they had been engaged in. A rumbling sound filled the corridor as all the students began to walk to their classes, all while chattering avidly about what they had seen, more than one sneering or biting out a quick insult to Harry as they passed.

Suddenly, however, there was a commotion on the opposite end of the corridor as the stream of people began to part like the Red Sea. Harry couldn't see what was splitting them all, though he could hear a girl's voice yelling out, "ALRIIIIIIIIGHT THENNNNNN, MOVE IT YOU LITTLE BUGGERS! YOU HEARD ME, YOU SLIMY PUBESCENT TROGLODYTES, YOU ABSOLUTELY DINGBATS YOU, I DON'T CARE, GET OUT OF MY WAY, I DON'T CARE IF YOU'RE LATE FOR CLASS IT TAKES HALF A SECOND TO TAKE A STEP TO THE SIDE, THIS IS IMPORTANT AND- MILLERS DON'T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT OR I'LL MESS YOUR FACE UP SO BAD YOUR OWN MUM WON'T RECOGNIZE YOU, BROWN YOU BETTER STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT OR I'LL MESS YOUR FACE UP SO BADLY YOUR MUM'LL TELL YOU YOU LOOK LIKE YOUR DAD, YOU ALL BETTER STOP WASTING MY PATIENCE, FOR THE LAST BLOODY TIME I WILL CURSE YOU, I-"

Finally, the swarm split right in front of Harry — and a short, fair-skinned and brown-haired girl broke through, still yelling for a split second before she saw Harry and drew up short, tripping on her own robes. She tumbled down to the ground for a second before scrambling back up.

Harry paled as he realized who she was: The fifteen-year-old cheerful terror of Slytherin house. She who bore the dreaded titles: Mistress of Wanton Destruction, Howling Halfblood, Destructive Damsel, Tiny Terror and Smiling Psychopath, Dreadful Dictator (the nickname-givers had run out of alliterative words after that point); The girl who just so happened to be an accidental terrorist (the reasons for that status involving an all-too long and complicated tale involving Diagon Alley, three muskrats, four ice-cream cones, a potted plant, a golden bracelet, a puffskein and two-thousand galleons of property damage), Tracey Davis.

Harry stepped to the side, not wanting to test whether or not she made good on her threats — Tracey Davis was known to have a short fuse, shorter attention span, and a shortest comprehension of social awareness — but her eyes narrowed and she pointed, finger terrifyingly landing solidly on him.

"Youuuuu-," she hissed, and stalked towards him. Harry remembered her Slytherin status and prepared himself for whatever was to come, reaching for his wand… but she was too quick.

The girl grabbed him by the front of his robes, which would have been funny to Harry — given the fact she was barely five-foot — except for the fact that she was bloody scary. One only needed to think of the rumors of her accidentally crucioing Draco during their class with Professor Moody — and getting away with it after multiple doses of veritaserum had confirmed it had been a complete accident — to know she was not a girl to be messed with.

She looked up into his face, eyes boring into his own. "LISTEN UP, POTTER," she yelled into his face suddenly, startling him, "YOU'RE GOING TO THE YULE BALL WITH ME, AND THERE'S NO IF-AND-OR-BUTS ABOUT IT, CAPISCHE?" She paused for a second and snorted, muttering "Butts," to herself. Then her attention snapped back onto him. "IF YOU'VE GOT ANY QUESTIONS," she yelled again, "SEND ME AN OWL- NO WAIT I'LL SEND YOU ONE, ACTUALLY."

Then, to the utter astonishment of everyone surrounding (many had decided this was well-worth missing class and getting docked a couple points), Tracey Davis began to noogie The-Boy-Who-Lived's head.

"Tracey Davis!" The loud shout came from one of the staircases nearby, and a fuming Daphne Greengrass could be seen marching down them, waving her wand menacingly. "Young woman, get back here!"

Like a startled rabbit, Tracey stopped noogie-ing Harry Potter and took off running with a large smile on her face — pausing only to wave enthusiastically with an even wider smile at a group of Gryffindor and Hufflepuff girls nearby (all of whom returned her waves just as enthusiastically).

A shouting Daphne ran by a few moments later. "Oh hey, Potter," She said, stopping in front of him. "Sorry about this, I've got to go wrangle the little beast in. 'Scuse me." And with that, she continued her chase.

"Of course the brute girl and Potter are involved," came an all-too familiar drawl, calling out above the crowd in the direction the two girls were running. "How did we not see the two morons ending up toge-"

Tracey Davis didn't even break stride as she charged the pale, blond boy; the surrounding masses dove to a side as she ran at him and kicked him in the groin. Malfoy shrieked like a three-year-old girl whose favorite doll has been thrown in the trash — squealing in pain and dropping to the floor.

The two girls kept running till they turned a corner, and then the crowd began to move, chatter and laughter filling the air.

'What-?' Thought Harry, shellshocked. 'What the bloody hell just happened?'

(It should be noted that Harry Potter was a fourteen-year-old boy, and that demographic is widely known for its uniquely stupid complete lack of basic situational comprehension.)

— 0 —

Harry spent the day in a daze, numbly going from class to class, and even Ron, thick as he could be sometimes, noticed something was off (granted, the rumor mill operating at peak capacity had allowed for some things to reach his ears). After a particularly silent dinner, the lanky redhead pulled his friend off to the side.

Harry finally spoke, voice raspy from disuse. "I'm so screwed."

"What? Don't say that! What's wrong? What happened? I heard someone told you to go to the dance with her, but surely it can't be all that ba-"

"-It was Tracey Davis."

Ron's mouth snapped shut. Clearing his throat, he dredged up the strength to somberly pat Harry on the back. "I'll prepare the coffin."

Harry hit him. "Don't make a coffin, you tosser, help me get out of it!"

"...At least she's pretty?" Offered up Ron, weakly. "And she seems cheerful enough when she's not on a rampage."

"Oh yeahhhh," Said Harry, sarcastically. "Like that's supposed to make me feel better. That's like telling me 'at least your coffin has nice decorations and bright colours!'"

"Maybe she's learned more control over her magic recently?"

"Didn't McGonagall say something two days ago about the professors considering giving her her own House Elf supporting staff because of all the damage she causes?"

"Well… yeah."

"What if she accidentally blows off my feet?" Harry's eyes widened. "What if this is all a plot to help Voldemort kill me? What do I do?"

"Try to get a goodnight kiss before she ruins-slash-ends your life?" Suggested the redhead.

"Now listen here, you beanstalk-looking moron, this isn't helping!" But it was, if only a little. Ron had his failures, but he knew how to calm Harry down when things became too much. Plus, years of procrastination had made Ron an expert on dealing with sudden panicking.

"Look," said Ron. "She's a snake, and so her asking you to the dance shady as hell. That being said, she's not ugly, and she seems funny enough. You could also always just write her an owl and tell her you don't want to go with her."

"And give her the chance to earn another title? 'Hitter of Harry,' 'Petrifier of Potter'?"

"The-Girl-Who-Killed-The-Boy-Who-Lived," offered Ron helpfully, and Harry groaned.

"This is going to be a nightmare, isn't it?"

"Buck up, mate, at least you've got a date."

"A terrorist date."

"Yeah, but she's hot." Ron made it sound like all other concerns were somehow immediately lesser because of this. "Plus, at least women want to dance with you, girls look scared I'm even going to ask them when I just pass them in the halls."

"Ron, you've got to have more confidence."

"Says the guy women just line up for." Ron puffed his chest out and began to strut comically. "Plus, I'll have you know I've got plenty of confidence, it's just been napping for…" he began to count on his fingers, "...Yep, fourteen years. I've got it though. I've got so much confidence you wouldn't believe."

Ron kicked the wall, growing silent for a moment. "For all the good it does me when I've got no money-" He looked up hastily, stumbling over his words as he tried to quickly clarify, "-not that I want your charity or anything, mate. I swear I-"

"-I KNOW, Ron. I know."

"Plus, it doesn't help that I have a face my mirror tells me it has nightmares about."

"Really?"

"Yeah. She's mad loud about it, too."

Harry paused, thinking. "Ron, I can't fix your face… But what if I made you a bet for some cash?"

"A bet? Not a donation?"

"A bet."

Ron paused to consider. "A bet… alright then. I need the money, so if it's not a donation I'll do practically anything."

Harry grinned at him. "I'll bet you a hundred galleons you won't ask Fleur Delacour to the dance."

Ron laughed incredulously. "Mate, I just stand there slack-jawed when she passes by. You want me to form not only a coherent sentence, but a coherent sentence asking her on what is essentially a date?"

"Yes, but Ron," Harry said, needling, "a hundred big ones."

A gleam began to shine in Ron's eyes, as he began to seriously consider — and realize — the implications of a hundred galleons. "You're serious, then? A hundred?"

"You'll actually do it?"

"Mate, for a hundred galleons I'd ask Snape to marry me."

"You would?"

"No! It was a bloody EXAGGERATIVE STATEMENT."

"Ron?"

"Yeah?"

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I think you've been spending too much time around Hermione. Those words were too big for you."

"Shut up and get ready to pay me that money." The boy paused, grabbing Harry's arm. "Wait — I don't need to get her to say yes, right? Just ask?"

"Yeah, just ask."

The gleam in Ron's eye shone even brighter, a strange iron will in them Harry had never seen before except during his sacrifice on the chessboard. "Perfect."

— 0 —

A small army marched behind Ron that very evening as they made their way to dinner, and, more importantly, the scene of The Bet.

It hadn't taken long for information to spread about The Bet, and Harry didn't regret being their source in the slightest. If Harry was going to suffer with whatever hellish fate had been imposed upon him, Ron was going to suffer too. And at least Ron was getting paid.

To his credit, the lanky redhead seemed fairly confident as he made his way through the corridors, an assortment of twenty-or-so students (mostly Gryffindor and Slytherin, for once in agreement about needing to observe something crash and burn) following behind him, hushing giggles and whispered conversation.

Their timing, thanks to the ever-observant Lavender Brown — mistress of all things gossip — was perfect. The part-veela girl was walking in with her horde of chattering blondes, nose upturned at everything which, and everyone who, passed her by.

Harry looked at Ron sympathetically. "You can still back out, mate."

Ron swallowed, but then cracked his knuckles. "I'm not bloody losing out on a hundred galleons, and you'd better be ready to pay me."

The watching group "hid" behind the corner, peeking out in row after row, which resulted in them being fully visible but granting them the delusion of believing otherwise.

Without more preamble, Ron marched up to the group of tittering girls, all of whom paused to look at him with disbelief, shocked that any boy, let alone one like this, would approach them. Ron's thick skin did him well as he ignored their disgusted looks and elitist sneers, moving to speak to Fleur Delacour herself. A nameless girl got in his way, and though they were a little distance aways, the mockery in her voice was audible for all.

"Who said you could talk to oos, you ugly, soulless little gingegh?"

"I'm soulless because I've got red hair, what's your excuse?" Ron fired back. "Did you sell it to buy all the mascara and charms you have caked on your face? I mean, bloody hell, has anyone asked you if they can dig through the layers of your makeup for fossils?"

Barely controlled laughter came from the watching group, a couple of the Slytherins even snorting at the line before conscientiously covering their mouths and looking around as if hoping no one had noticed.

The girl, outraged, smacked him, and his cheek went red from the contact. "How dare you!?" She shrieked. "Je ne-"

Ron only smiled at her, cutting into what surely about to be a rant. "While I like getting smacked, I'd rather it wasn't you doing it. So if you'll please move and stop being a little sycophant, I have something to ask your ringleader, or whatever she is."

Harry wondered where this side of Ron had come from. The usually awkward boy seemed to have turned into a fiend at the mere mention of easily-earned money. The usual aura from the girl didn't seem to be affecting him like it normally did, and the gleam in his eyes he'd gotten at the mention of the hundred galleons still occupied them.

The sycophant looked at Fleur Delacour, who nodded slightly — and the girl stepped back with a scowl.

Speaking loudly and hilariously casually to Fleur Delacour herself, Ron waved finger guns at her. Harry facepalmed, regretting ever having taught Ron what finger-guns were. Behind him, many of the muggleborns' and half-bloods' laughter had increased. Even the pure-bloods — who had no idea what finger guns were — thought the strange action was hilarious, and the muffled laughter grew stronger.

"What's up, Flower Girl?" Asked Ron. "Sorry, I forgot your name." (He hadn't.) "Anyway, you want to go to the Yule Ball with me?"

Fleur Delacour, cheeks flushed at his statement of having forgot her name, through her hands up in anger. "I would ghather," She said, voice cold, "Die tghampled by ze Abghaxan Hoghses zan goe to a dance avec toi."

She looked at him, clearly expecting him to be crushed by the news just as the dozens of other boys had been.

And while generally, this would have been the correct expectation, Broke Ron was a completely different man than he would be otherwise. The fire in his eyes only grew brighter in his triumph, and the veela-girl's aura seemed to bounce off of him.

With a wide smile, he high-fived her upturned hand and gave her a thumbs-up.

It was at that specific moment that the entire watching audience "hiding" behind the corner — which had already been struggling to keep quiet — broke, and an assorted group of Gryffindors and Slytherins went howling down the corridor in the opposite direction, with yet another portion of the watchers rolling on the floor weeping of mirth. For the first time in decades, Slytherins and Gryffindors were making physical contact — supporting themselves on one another as they shrieked with laughter — that wasn't their fists making contact with the other side's faces.

"Oh well!" Ron continued cheerfully, turning around and waving his goodbye as he walked away. "Thanks so much, have an absolutely fantastic day! Gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss and all that other stuff!" He saluted the girl who had first blocked his way, cheerfully adding, "You too! You've already gaslighted yourself into believing that zit on your forehead is gone, you're already a third of the way done!"

The audience was now hammering at the floor as tears streamed down their faces.

Harry noticed two things as Ron approached him with an outstretched hand: Firstly, Ron wasn't slouching any longer. And secondly — something which piqued Harry's interest — was the way that Fleur Delacour watched Ron walk away, her eyes sharp, her face… hungry? 'What the bloody hell-?'

He shook his head, dispelling the strange thoughts and looking back at Ron.

"Oy mate, where's the hundred?" Said Ron, grinning cheekily and holding out his arm.

"I'll write you a cheque."

"Goodie. You got any more bets up your sleeve?"

Harry laughed. "You're a menace, you know that, right?"

"Never underestimate my need for a sugar quill."

"THAT'S what you're going to spend this all on?"

"... Pretty much, yeah."

"You're an idiot."

"Ah, but I'm an idiot with a hundred galleons of his own. So chop-chop, and get it to me so I can squander my newfound wealth."

Harry happily signed the cheque and handed it off to his friend.

His good mood was spoiled, however, as a small, aggressive brown owl with a letter in its grip began ramming Harry's window with its head.

Harry quickly opened the window and took the letter, tossing the aggressive owl a treat in thanks. Ripping the letter open, messy handwriting greeted his eyes.

To: Harry Potter, Gryffindor tower, or wherever else that handsome bugger is at (write a line through)

Hi, so listen. We need to get our colors coordinated bc I don't think it'd make a good impression if we were clashing for our outfits and everything yk.

We gotta get together to figure this stuff out. Be at the library tomorrow at 6:00 pm sharp so we can talk about it all and not panic at the last second and all that.

Looking froward forward to it ttyl.

P.S. This is Tracey btw pls don't ignore this or I'll beat you up or smth

Harry groaned yet again. This had to be a nightmare. He would wake up at any moment and it would all be over, all just in his head. His head still pounding with a painful headache, he managed to eventually drift off into an uneasy sleep.

PART 2

"Trace, please tell me you didn't threaten the Boy-Who-Lived."

"What? Where'd you hear that?"

"I heard it from Lavender, who heard it from Parvati, who heard it from Hermione, who heard it from Ron, who heard it from Harry."

"And you trust the rumor grapevine?"

"When the rumor comes from Lavender and Parvati? You bet I do. Those girls know everything about everyone. So did you, or did you not, write a note in which you threatened the Boy-Who-Lived by telling him you'd beat him up?"

"It was a joke!"

"Trace, you blow things up because they mildly inconvenience you."

"Well yeah but I'm in love with the bloke, I'm not going to murder him."

"Does he know you're in love with him?"

"Absolutely."

"How?"

"I mean, I told him we were going to go to the dance together."

"Told? As in, not ask? Told? Informed?"

"Well, yeah."

"Tracey, darling the poor lad probably thinks you're going to murder him."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm sure it'll be fine. Besides, it's almost 6:00 and then we can talk and I'll explain everything."

"If you don't accidentally set him on fire or blow him up first," muttered an exasperated Daphne. "How you haven't been expelled yet, I'll never know."

"Dumbledore says he 'likes my energy' so he helps keep me around."

"Of course he does. The two of you are bloody nuts, after all."

Tracey skipped out the door, waving to Daphne as she left. The door slammed closed behind her, and Daphne heard Tracey hum for a couple seconds, before hearing the sound a screech, and the sounds of descending thumping and crashing. A muted "Ow!" came from the bottom of the stairs, and Daphne snorted. The little idiot was clumsy enough to be a pick-me-girl. All she needed was the whiny voice and the "Ohmygoooooosh I have such small handssssss".

She feared for Potter's life. Even if Tracey wasn't a pureblood assassin, she was chaotic enough to murder him by accident.

— 0 —

The library was quiet in the mid evening, and as Harry Potter scanned the bookshelves, the terrifying girl was nowhere to be found. Relieved, he decided he had done his due diligence and could probably go back to the dorms, when a loudly whispered "Hi!" behind him made him jump in place.

He turned, and his eyes met the dark hazel of Tracey Davis. Harry would have been overtaken with how pretty she was if he hadn't been overtaken by fear. Once again shocking him, she gave him a hug as he stood in petrified terror.

"How's your day been?" She whispered, not shouting for the first time Harry could think of."

"Please don't blow me up," he answered.

"Blow you up?"

"Or whatever you Slytherin assassins do."

"Slytherin assa- Potter, you daft idiot, I'm a halfblood who spends her summers going to comic-cons, I'm not going to assassinate you." She paused. "Well, okay, maybe by accident, but not on purpose. Of course, a bunch of stuff can always happen and I'm volatile but it's not like I have the intent, you know? Plus like-"

Harry raised his hand tentatively. "Um, I still end up dead is the problem."

"Just keep bugs and Draco Malfoy away from me and we'll be fine. I hate few things more than those two."

Harry blinked. "Well, that's at least one thing we can agree on."

"His face-"

"-It's so pinched-"

"And he always looks like he wants to throw up."

"His mum looks like that too, you know."

"No WAY, REALLY?"

A loud shush came from Madam Pince, who looked ready to commit murder.

"You want to go outside instead?" Asked Tracey.

"I dunno, my uncle and aunt always told me that I should definitely follow strangers to a secondary location, so I grew up knowing it wasn't safe."

"Well your uncle and aunt sound like right bloody bast- wait a second, did you just make a joke, Potter?"

"I guess so," Harry realized, "fascinating what mutual hatred for a third party can do for a relationship."

Tracey fanned herself. "We're not in a relationship yet, you moron."

"Yet?"

"What?"

"What?"

"What?"

Harry stared at her as her cheeks grew red before she grabbed him by the arm and pulled him along. "Anyway, we've got to talk about colour coordination and all that jazz."

"Mrs. Weasley got me some emerald dress robes, she said they match my eyes."

"Oh bloody hell, no, you don't want that combination, it's too cheesy." The girl paused, thinking. "Alright, listen up, stupid. We're going to go in navy blue dress robes, okay? Don't act like you can't afford a nice dress robe, I know you're loaded."

Harry's eyes hardened. "I'm not going to buy you-"

"Buy me something? Harry Potter, you nincompoop, I can afford my own outfit, I don't need your money. Relax."

Harry took a deep, shaky breath, and Tracey watched him.

"That's the problem with wealth, innit? Everyone always wants a piece."

"Ron and Hermione don't. It's part of why they're so great. They don't just want to take from me. Hermione is a bit of a know-it-all, and Ron can be a bit of an *rse, but they really love me for Harry, not for Potter." He laughed bitterly. "I don't even know if any of that makes sense."

They found a bench and sat, and her voice had grown gentle and quiet when she spoke. "It makes perfect sense. Friends like that are good friends indeed. Few and far in between."

Harry lost himself for a little before startling out of his thoughts. "Anyway, you said navy blue?"

"Yessir."

Harry paused. "Davis, you talk really… casually. Is there a reason for that?"

"I mean, part of it is just me. Especially the whole 'word vomit' thing I do where I talk and can't stop. It happens when I get nervous, which is why it's happening right now."

"You!? Nervous!? Why?"

Her cheeks grew red again and she punched him in the stomach. "Shut up, you nimrod."

"What-" gasped Harry, "what'd I do?"

"Anyway," she continued lightly, "The other part of it is that the look on the purebloods' faces is precious. They get so offended and snooty, it's great."

"You're a dangerous woman."

She tossed her hair over her eyes and struck a dramatic pose. "Only to my enemies."

"Mmmmm… I'm not so sure. I've heard some stories through the rumor mill about you and accidentally blasting Daphne Greengrass every couple of-"

She hit him again, this time on his arm, and more softly. "Just admit I'm right, Potter."

He smiled. "Yes ma'am."

They stayed quiet for a few minutes — and Harry realized that, to his surprise, he didn't mind it. Maybe Tracey Davis was a psychopath, but she didn't seem to hate him too much, even if she was a little trigger-happy with the punches she was handing out.

Remembering the time it was, Harry groaned as he stood, back popping and joints creaking. "I've got to go to bed. Turning in early, tonight."

"Well, I most certainly am not turning in early, insomnia is my best friend. But I should head back to the dorms as well."

Surprising even himself, Harry held out his hand to help her up. She took it, and jumped up to her feet.

"You know, Davis," said Harry, smiling slightly, "you're not all that bad."

"Don't tell anyone," she whispered back, "I have a reputation to uphold."

They shook hands and began walking before awkwardly realizing they were going the same direction.

'What do I say?' Thought Harry.

'What do I say?' Thought Tracey.

He smiled, a genuine smile. "Thanks, Davis."

They parted ways, but from the staircase below him, Harry heard a shout.

"Oy POTTER!"

He leaned over the balcony, only to witness Tracey Davis using her hands as a megaphone as she stood on the railing of a currently moving staircase.

"WHAT!?" He yelled back.

"CALL ME TRACEY FROM NOW ON, SCRUB!"

"GET DOWN BEFORE YOU BREAK YOUR NECK!" He replied, voice high in a mix of fright and amusement.

"NO! WE DIE LIKE WARLOCKS!"

His staircase having arrived at where it needed to, Harry shook his head and stepped away from the crazy girl behind him.

As he lay in bed that night, he realized his headache was gone.

A/N: For those of you wondering where Hermione is at, I promise she's on her way :D Get this story some favorites and follows and I'll show you exactly what she's been up to.

Note: For some reason, is blocking words such as "*rse," and as such certain pieces of text are/were missing. I'm trying to find a solution as I write this, so if anyone has one for me, my dms — and my ears — are wide open.