Harry Potter and the Society of Orpheus and Bacchus

Chapter 12: The Slings and Arrows of Outrageous Fortune (Part I)

KNOWING THAT HIS GODFATHER WAS SAFE WAS ENOUGH to carry Harry´s spirits through the following week, despite the outrageously heavy, or, in some cases, simply outrageous, work load.

Ron, who had finally come face to face with his Manticore, returned from his first scheduled feeding a pale and twitching wreck. Harry was quick to point out, however, that it hadn´t been a complete educational loss. At least Ron discovered that he did in fact harbour a deep-seated fear of something other than six-foot tall, hairy spiders. After that rather jarring discovery in Care of Magical Creatures, it was comforting to know that at least Divination proved easy enough once you sussed out Trelawney´s preferred Dire Prediction du Jour. This week she was doling out top marks for fabricated forecasts of students´ live burials. Yet Ron managed to steal the show by predicting himself the victim of a ritual sacrifice involving apple juice, turkey feathers and Spellotape. Ironically, reflected Harry, considering that his brothers were Fred and George, the odds of that actually occurring were in fact quite high.

Given the amount of research they had to complete for Professor Binns´s class, Hermione calculated that if they didn´t eat or sleep for eight weeks, there was a slim chance that they might finish about thirty percent of the term paper. Even the Muggle Studies assignment promised to eat up more time and effort than they´d initially expected. In the library, Harry and Ron pored over the lengthy literature syllabus, mulling over which books to read for their essays. Not being acquainted with most of the authors and titles, Professor van der Witte´s list left them quite at a loss.

In desperation, Harry closed his eyes, waving a hand haphazardly over the syllabus. "How does... this one sound?" he asked, peering at where his finger landed midway down the fourth page.

"Pride and Prejudice," read Ron. He grinned. "What´s that supposed to be? A subtitle for The Malfoys: A History?"

Harry snorted appreciatively. "Don´t think so. Apparently it´s one of Hermione´s old favourites."

Ron glanced up from a smaller slip of parchment, the blue of his eyes brightening. "Yeah?"

Harry grinned cheekily.

"Um... well, nevermind," said Ron hurriedly, as the flush crept past his collar. "Professor van der Witte´s suggested one for me anyway. Said I might find this one entertaining," Ron said, frowning at the wine-coloured writing on the small note, "though I can´t see how, even though it´s in the Restricted Section."

"Decided on one, then, have you?" Hermione came out of the stacks balancing a shorter than usual tower of books (they could see her eyes and nose over the gilded spines, at least).

"Maybe." Ron twisted halfway round on the bench to face her. "I´m just guessing, but this one sounds like it´s about early Muggle attempts at broomstick travel."

Harry pried his eyes from the bottom of his reading list. "Which one is it?"

"Something called Fear of Flying--"

An avalanche of books toppled from Hermione´s arms, thundering heavily against the marble floor. Her face was an uncommonly dark shade of red as she stooped to pick them up. Ron, the closest, was quick to his knees, piling the stray volumes into his long arms.

"Thanks." She smiled at him gratefully. "You know, I think..." Hermione cleared her throat. "I think this one... um, might be more... appropriate." She took a seat next to Ron and pushed a small paperback towards him across the bench. Over the table edge, Harry read the title: Mansfield Park by Jane Austen.

Peering at the faded illustration, Ron wrinkled his nose at a pink-cheeked girl in a frilly blue and white frock. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "This is a girly book, isn´t it?"

"It is not," huffed Hermione. "It´s an Everyone story. When I read it over the summer in Bulgaria, there were even some bits that reminded me of you--"

She immediately bit her lip, widening her eyes anxiously at Ron. Ron, however, took no notice. He stared at the book with renewed curiosity and a funny little grin on his face. "Really?"

Filling out a request slip for Madam Pince, Harry pretended not to notice the fresh blush sweeping across Hermione´s cheeks. Between Ron and Hermione, he hadn´t seen so many shades of red since he watched Fred and George testing modified Pepper Imps on unsuspecting Gryffindor first years. "Erm... we´d better get going," he said. "Transfiguration´s in ten minutes."

**********

Professor McGonagall began the first leg of their autumn Transfiguration project by having the students transform their familiars into opossums. In theory, it was supposedly simpler to commence animal-human transformation by focusing on these tiny creatures with opposable thumbs. It would be some time before they could begin to replicate figures resembling humans capable of reason and speech. Harry was glad; he had no burning desire to face recriminations from Hedwig after he´d turned her into an odd and distinctly unattractive hybrid. At the touch of his wand, her white feathered frame sprouted an enormous pair of teeth and tapered disproportionately in a long strip of furry tail. Ron´s luck with little Pigwidgeon was even worse: the weeny owl had transformed into only an opossum´s tail. In the end, the boys were forced to rely on Hermione to restore the owls to their original forms.

The entire exercise had lasted a mere fifteen minutes of Monday´s class period, but Hedwig soon proved that she could hold a grudge quite impressively. It was days before she would accept any toast or bacon from Harry, raising her beak diffidently into the air and twisting her head 180 degrees away from him on her owlery perch. The more apologetic he became, the more she thoroughly seemed to enjoy slapping her bony wings against his head to make her point. Rubbing his forehead (stinging, though decidedly not because of his scar), he wondered briefly if, in some past incarnation, Hedwig hadn´t been related to Uncle Vernon or his burly sister and paddle-in-schools advocate, Aunt Marge. Either that, or she was taking a leaf out of the Weasley co-captains´ book.

In the run-up to the Slytherin match, Fred and George ensured that the Gryffindor practices were no picnic. A growing sense of fanatic determination pervaded both Gryffindor Tower and the pitch. Being shaken awake by Fred at cockcrow seemed so natural now that Harry felt confident enough to stash away his alarm clock in Chef Rojah´s sack of parsnips. Outside, the moody greys and blustery winds of a Scottish autumn draped Hogwarts like a cloak, and several times that week the team kicked off reluctantly into icy sheets of rain. In the distance, the Whomping Willow and the trees of the Forbidden Forest bowed under the pressure of gales strong enough to capsize an ocean-liner.

And still they flew.

A Gryffindor-Slytherin match meant serious business. The twins left their sense of humour in the changing rooms and Harry suspected that their zealous work ethic was the influence of their former captain. Over the past week, Oliver Wood´s owl had been a regular at the Gryffindor breakfast table, double-dipping into the toast basket and dropping thick envelopes into the twins´ porridge. But George and Fred didn´t mind. Their blue eyes gleamed with military fervour as they huddled over the letters--quilled in Oliver´s energetic scrawl--detailing gruelling methods of torture-by-broomstick that Wood had picked up with the Puddlemere United reserves. Ron had once told Harry that P.U. wasn´t exactly top of the league ("Not the best team nickname either," muttered Ron), but were known for their intense and occasionally injurious training exercises.

Only today, the Gryffindors had mastered a new species of sprint, fleeing from heat-seeking Bludgers and lapping the pitch ten times, while Fred logged each player´s personal best. Moments after Fred announced the last lap, Harry brought his broom to an enervated landing. Eveline glided to a halt behind him and stood calmly unwrinkling her robes as the Chasers crashed inelegantly onto the pitch, panting and doing a great overall impression of evacuees from a quicksand pit.

George grinned. "Great work, ladies and gent." He gave the stopwatch in his hand a jaunty click. "You´ve all managed to hit your personal bests today." He blinked expectantly at them, as if waiting for some manner of group cheer. When it became apparent that nothing but ragged breathing and hacking coughs were forthcoming, he shrugged and passed the clipboard to Fred.

"Wa-wait," wheezed Angelina. From the grass, she levelled her finger at the captains. "Not. So. Fast--"

"That´s right," Alicia croaked. "It´s your turn."

Fred and George exchanged nervous glances.

"´Fraid they´re right," said Harry with a deceptively apologetic shrug. He relieved Fred of the clipboard and the stopwatch. "I´ll time you. You go on ahead with the... um... what did Oliver call these exercises again?"

"Suicides," muttered Fred into his scarf.

Harry threw a wink at the rest of the team. "All right, gentlemen. On my mark. One. Two..."

After putting the Weasley co-captains through their paces, practice finally ended with a run-through of routine shots, blocks and dives.

Harry darted forward with the Firebolt and lurched straight down like a stone. The damp blades of grass tickled his forehead as he pulled up, clutching the silver-winged Golden Snitch in his hand for the twelfth time that afternoon.

"Great save, Harry!" George took a brief moment to flash him a proud grin before deftly ducking to avoid a Bludger to the head.

Harry dismounted and assessed his injuries. His glasses had fogged beyond the help of De-misting Charms; his palms, pried from the broom handle, were reduced to thick red-yellow calluses; and his chest ached from when he´d stopped a Bludger early on with his ribcage. Every limb pounded with a fierce new ache. But Harry had never felt more ready, or more determined, to win a match.

Propping his elbow on the Firebolt, he squinted at the fuzzy red and gold of the Chasers´ capes as they executed one final Porskoff Ploy and watched Eveline thwarting their attempts to score. From the pitch she resembled a tiny crimson blur. But there was no mistaking the gold of that blonde ponytail. A wide, admiring grin cracked across Harry´s face. There was nothing the French girl couldn´t block. He looked on in awe as she reached out with a single hand, knocking back Angelina´s toughest topspin Quaffle with ease. George and Fred joined Harry, both alighting on the pitch with their eyes still fixed skyward.

As the girls descended, Fred flicked through the trial times on the clipboard, a slow satisfied smile etched from cheek to freckled cheek. George winked at his twin.

"Team." Fred nodded officiously. "We´re ready."

**********

"AAAAAAAAAARRRGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!"

Bethany´s head snapped up from the last of the sixth year essays as her quill hand jerked across the desk. "Oh, bugger!" She swiped desperately at the stream of ink from the overturned inkwell.

Dabbing at her sleeve with a conjured cotton cloth, she swivelled round to the open door as a flash of white fur catapulted through the threshold. Lilith stopped in the centre of the well-worn kilim and directed a feral hiss into the corridor. But once underway, Snape´s tirades, only picked up momentum with cyclonic ferocity.

"...could have your toad donated to Ministry Reptile Research for this! I said TOUCH NOTHING. Perhaps you´d like to plead temporary deafness? No? Or - why not stick closer to the truth - your old stand-by: debilitating stupidity?!...

"Do you know how long it takes to grow Chizpurfle Larvae, Longbottom? Do you have any idea?! No, of course you don´t. Twenty-five years, Longbottom. TWENTY-FIVE YEARS in the making and you manage to render it all USELESS in under FIVE SECONDS!

"Detention, you talentless, good-for-nothing clod. And twenty-five points from Gryffindor for your clumsiness and disregard for instructions..." The verbal assault degenerated into an impressive accompaniment of loud cringe-worthy crashes, bangs and shattering glass.

The Potions Master, was, if anything, a spiteful bully, Bethany decided, pressing her weight against the heavy oak door until it groaned shut. At last, Snape´s voice gave way to the howling of the wind from the half-open window.

That brute.

Bethany clenched her teeth. It is not the job of the mercenary to judge, she reminded herself, but to strike.

She frowned at the dagger on the mantelpiece, giving an impatient sigh. And when might that be? Still no word from Pettigrew. Or any of the others.

Sinking back into her chair, she willed herself not to listen to the muffled echoes of Snape´s rant against poor Longbottom, who hadn´t offered up a single word in his own defence. Not that it would have made the slightest difference, she was sure. Snape´s acid tone unruffled even the unflappable Lilith. The kitten fled up the closest stack of peeling weapons manuals, running along the bookshelves and the high ledge before disappearing through the casement window. Bethany leaped to the ledge, too late to grasp so much as the irksome creature´s snowy tail.

"Lilith! Lilith, come back!" A strong wind whipped roughly against the castle walls, tugging at the stray locks from her chignon and carrying her words away like a thief.

It was pointless, anyway, calling after the kitten like that. Lilith lived by her own rules and came and went as she pleased, announcing her presence with a good scare when she wanted attention. Like a poltergeist. That stray was more trouble than she was worth. Bethany preferred canines herself. She scowled at the distant shadows of the tree line.

Releasing the sill, she dropped her heels back down on the cold slate floor. The dungeons offered little for a view but a small patch of charcoal sky. Despite the early hour, daylight--what there was of it--had given way to a veil of darkness and a crisp chill. Shivering, Bethany flicked her wand at the far wall, watching with satisfaction as bright orange flames erupted in the hearth. Well, that feckless feline will have to find another way back in if she plans to traipse around for hours at night again. Wand in hand, she turned her attention once again to the window, intending to lock the panes together.

But in that moment, she saw it. A flash of white blonde hair and the hem of a robe dissolving into the blackness.

Claire!

There was no time to think. In a single reflexive movement, she snatched the dagger from the mantelpiece and, balancing precariously on the edge of her desk, hauled herself through the window´s narrow opening.

**********

"Ow!" Ginny covered her eye with her hand and swatted vaguely in the direction of Lavender Brown. "Forget it!" she said, massaging her eyebrow. "Let´s forget I even mentioned it, all right?"

Lavender threw an exasperated look at Parvati Patil across the fifth year girls´ dorm. She set her wand down on the dressing table, crossed her arms and shrugged.

"Look Ginny, you asked me--"

"I know, I know." She hung her head, despite herself. Asking Lavender and Parvati to execute part of Dame Francesca´s makeover probably wasn´t such a brilliant idea after all. Not if she was going to have to surrender sixty percent of her brow line to Lavender´s Tweezing Charm.

"It´s just..." Ginny rubbed the bald red patch above her eye. "Well, come on. Nearly two thousand years of Cosmetic Enchantments and no one´s ever come up with a Painless Tweezing Charm?"

"No pain, no gain," droned Parvati unhelpfully from the far bed. She turned on her stomach, tossing back her braided black hair, and flipped a pink-highlighted page in Unfogging the Future.

Ginny gazed mournfully from Lavender´s vexed pout to the glass above the dresser, now showcasing her uneven ginger brows.

"The asymmetrical look died round about 1350, poppet," said the mirror.

Not for the first time Ginny began to doubt Dame Francesca´s optimism about her DIY (Chapter 3: Ten Steps to DIY, the "Dazzlingly Irresistible You"). A little nip here, a little twig there... the witch made it sound so easy. But so far, the only thing Ginny had managed to twig was her own patience.

Although she knew she could, Ginny wouldn´t bring herself to impose upon Hermione, who stumbled back to the dorm most nights on the brink of exhaustion from homework and O.W.L. prep. So really, what were her alternatives? The other fourth year girls, Ivy, Margaret and Betty, spent entirely too much time chatting up Ravenclaw chess champions in the library to be of any use. And Eveline... the new girl was nice enough, she reckoned, but...

Yes, there was a but. Nothing Ginny would articulate without the influence of Veritaserum... but... It could be that, annoyingly, Eveline managed never to look unruffled. Stepping out of bed in the mornings, the French girl had not so much as a hair out of place, while everyone else´s looked like a nest of Bowtruckles. On the other hand, perhaps it was that Eveline had achieved celebrity status the moment she glided onto the Quidditch pitch. Or that she felt she could come and go as she pleased, occasionally sneaking out of the dorm after lights-out to explore. ("At Beauxbatons, ze students have ze freedom to wander ze school. Eet should be quite safe.") But... if she was being really truthful, decided Ginny, it was probably Eveline´s little prying questions about Harry that peeved her the most ("And `is best friend is your bruzzer, non?"; "Is it true zat `e spends every summer wiz your family?"; and "And zis `Ermione, zey are spending much time togezzer... Is she `is -`ow do you say--`is petite amie?"). Ginny rolled her eyes. Then instantly felt guilty. It was only natural for a girl to be curious about a famous hero, so she couldn´t begrudge her that. Much. Still, Ginny couldn´t put her finger on it exactly, but whatever it was... whenever she thought of Eveline and Harry together, she couldn´t help but feel a bit jeal--erm,... uncomfortable. That´s it. Uncomfortable.

She wouldn´t have asked Eveline for makeover assistance if she was holding the last Easy-Glide Hair Pin on earth. Ginny sighed.

That left her with Lavender and Parvati. In truth, mostly Lavender.

"Well?" Lavender tapped her wand impatiently against the dresser. "Either you let me finish, or you´ll be getting up tomorrow bright-eyed and bushy-browed."

Ginny made a mental note to threaten Dame Francesca with a backstage pass to the fireplace if any of her other makeover advice promised to be this painful. She eyed the blonde girl´s wand with a chary expression. Taking a deep breath, Ginny wondered briefly what apocalyptic lapse of good judgment had led her to this impasse. When the answer swept to the fore of her mind with a mop of dark hair, green eyes and a scar, she relented.

"All right," said Ginny, drawing her chin up with the selfless determination on the face of every great martyr. "Mutilate at will."

After half an hour of fearful cringing, she opened her eyes and gasped.

"Lavender!" Ginny gripped the mirror frame with both hands and leaned in. "Lavender, what did you do? I look... I look..."

"Do you like it?" Lavender bit her lip.

"It´s... amazing."

It was. The face staring back at her in the mirror still resembled the one she´d woken up to for the past fourteen years... and yet it wasn´t, not exactly; nor did she look outrageously tarted up like... well, like Dame Francesca. She arched her brows. They were slender. Sleek. Sophisticated. She lowered her eyelids. Smokier--smouldering, even--with that charcoal colouring. And what long lashes! And skin! Radiating with tinges of rose pink on the apples of her cheeks. And her lips fairly glistened with the lush colour of red wine.

"You look lovely, dear," pronounced the mirror. Ginny beamed. "Though perhaps... that lip colour is a bit..."

She swung round at Lavender in a panic. "You don´t think this lip colour´s a bit dark?"

"Oh, no! No, no, no." Lavender waved the question away like it was a gnat. "Dark is in. Trust me. It´s the most sophisticated shade there is. And with your colouring," she cooed, "it would be positively criminal not to use it. Right, Parvati?"

"What?" Parvati glanced up distractedly from the book. "Uh, right. Criminal."

"Didn´t I do a wonderful job?" Lavender clapped her hands, swinging her blonde ponytail and bouncing on the balls of her feet in excitement. "I did! You look marvellous!"

Ginny arched a streamlined brow. It wasn´t a big leap to see this girl as Witch Weekly´s new makeover maven in a couple of years.

Lavender stopped in mid-bounce. "Fine, don´t take my word for it. Try yourself out on the other Gryffindors. Take a stroll out there and see if anyone notices you´re different," she said, opening the door with a flourish. With both hands she propelled Ginny onto the landing.

Was that the goal? wondered Ginny as she climbed down the steps. To be different? What´s wrong with just me? ...Hmmph. So much for avoiding circular whinging. But... why did self-improvement have to feel like such a long hard slog?

At the threshold of the common room, Ginny paused on the cusp of a slow-burning wave of indignation. Hang on. Why should I change?

For fourteen years she´d been content (well... reasonably content) with her wallflower self without all this makeover madness. Damn that book. This was all so utterly undignified. When Ginny thought of how much eyebrow hair she´d just surrendered, she was of a mind to head straight back to her room and toss Dame Francesca and her DIY out the bloody--oh! Voices.

That sounded like Harry. Oh, Merlin.

Why am I perspiring? Oh, no, oh, no.

Okay. She took a deep, calming breath (Chapter 4: Approaching the Target). I can do this. I´ll just be...me.

Witty. Charming. Confident.

Wait, did I say me?

Arrrgghh! ... All right. Deep breath. Focus. Focus.

"...then when I reached in to grab the empty bucket, it nearly tore my arm right off!" Harry stepped through the portrait hole with Ron. His left hand, masquerading as a Manticore´s jaw, gnashed viciously at his right arm. Harry´s story alone might have been enough to horrify Ginny, but not as much as the fact that he and Ron weren´t alone.

At Harry´s elbow, Eveline gasped, brown eyes wide. A dainty hand moved up to her unblemished, unfreckled cheek. "And zat did not frighten you?"

Harry turned from Ron to smile at Eveline. Oh, no. "Well, the scariest part was as I was leaving. I was climbing up the rope ladder when Phoebe lunged at the bars--"

"Phoebe?" A little dimple appeared over Eveline´s pert little nose.

"My Manticore," explained Harry. "Hagrid´s gets a bit creative when christening his pets."

"Pets!" cried Ron indignantly. "Sharp-toothed homicidal horrors, more like. With a complete lack of table manners."

"No kidding," agreed Harry, shaking his head. "Doubt they´ve ever learned the expression `Never bite the hand that feeds.´"

Ginny watched Eveline laugh and grin up at Harry. What, he´s... blushing now?

"Well, I´m glad you got to keep your Snitch arm, Gryffindor´s going to need it tomorrow," said Ron. He plopped his satchel next to Harry´s and snatched at a plate of biscuits. "Think you´re ready to take on Slytherin?"

"´Arry is ready for anything... aren´t you, `Arry?" Eveline casually rested a hand on Harry´s arm, magically turning his face beet red. Right, that´s it.

Ginny purposefully cleared her throat.

The French girl´s eyes flew across the room and carefully raked her up and down. Eveline smiled politely. "´Allo, Geeny." She had a strained sort of expression around her little pout, like she was fighting a scowl.

Ron frowned, almost choking on the last bit of biscuit. "You look..." he cocked his head to one side, "... a little... Did you do something?"

Harry looked over his shoulder, his jet-black fringe swinging down from his temple. "Oh, hi, Ginny." His green eyes flickered habitually towards her, then away... and then back again.

He stared.

Ginny felt her stomach drop.

"Er... hi," he said.

"Hi."

Ginny perched on the closest armchair, not trusting her legs to take her much further. How could she be expected to walk--breathe, even--with him looking at her with that curious expression? Like what, exactly? Like what? WHO CARES? This is no time for a play-by-play analysis. Not when Harry was smiling at her. Like that. Oh my. She looked down, trying to collect her thoughts. Which proved pointless because they only evaporated once she glanced up to find those green eyes still on hers.

Now what? Dame Francesca. Oh, right, right. Be charming, witty. Say something attention-grabbing, intriguing, diverting, something like... something like--

"Look!" cried Eveline. "Out zere!" She pointed at the window. "Zere. Someone is running into ze forest."

Ginny sighed. In an eyeblink, the moment was lost. Harry and Ron swung round as the dark-haired figure vanished into the wood.

"Looked like Professor White," said Ron, turning his attention back to the tea tray.

Harry squinted through his wire-rimmed glasses. "Bet it´s her cat she´s running after. Didn´t you see it?"

Ron shrugged disinterestedly. "Anyway, what was I saying?" Ron paused to scratch his head thoughtfully. "Oh, yeah, met Seamus in the Hall after lunch. He reckons the match´ll all be over in under twenty minutes with a Gryffindor win. And Dean´s got a pool going with the Ravenclaws."

Harry flashed a crooked half-grin. "Really?"

"Yeah. Funny, though," said Ron, his face twisting into a disbelieving scowl, "Terry Boot´s got twenty galleons on a hundred and fifty to ten... on Slytherin."

"What?" Harry sounded mildly hurt. "Oh. Well, I hope Boot rethinks his bet, because we´re ready for whatever Slytherin´s got to throw at us--"

"Famous last words."

George´s voice echoed in the room as he stepped across the portrait hole. Fred stood beside him, looking unusually grave.

Harry´s head swung round in surprise. "What? What are you talking about?"

"Come and see for yourself," said George.

Whatever it was, thought Ginny, for once it was no laughing matter. The twins´ took leaden steps back through the threshold as if heading a funeral procession. Ginny followed the others through the portrait hole.

Ron hung back and collared Ginny as she stepped into the corridor. "Ginny," he whispered cautiously, "I´m only asking as your brother, so... so don´t be mad, okay?"

She rounded on him suspiciously. Ron attempting tact. They do say there´s a first time for everything.

"What?"

He hesitated before tapping a finger to his lips. "Isn´t that colour a little, you know... dark for you?"

Ginny´s eyes flashed. "You sound like mum," she spat accusingly. A few Hufflepuff stragglers heading back from dinner glanced at them over their shoulders. In an act of great self-restraint, Ginny lowered her voice to a quiet hiss. "And being a boy, perhaps you wouldn´t know, but dark is in this season."

"Well, in the dark, maybe it looks better," quipped Ron, earning himself a sharp punch on the arm. "Ow!" He massaged his left arm, giving her a wounded look. "I don´t suppose now´s a good time to tell you that the perfume´s a bit strong, too."

"And I´m not wearing perfume!" Ginny said hotly.

A tall Hufflepuff sixth year threading through the flow of students paused suddenly in mid-step. Looking alarmed, he sniffed his travel cloak and his face shifted into a sheepish grin.

"Oy, I think it might be me," he admitted, spying Ginny for the first time. A broad, disarming smile lit up his fine-boned features and he brushed back a wavy lock of sandy hair from his eyes. "Hi, I don´t think we´ve met." He held his hand out to Ginny, who felt herself blush seven shades of scarlet as she took it. "Eamon Mulroney."

"My sister, Ginny," said Ron, distractedly sniffing the air. "So, Mulroney, where´re you off to?"

The older boy´s cheeks tinted crimson. "Erm... study date."

"Uh-huh." Ron raised a ginger brow, blinking at him dubiously for a moment. "Sure y´are."

Eamon´s lips parted in a rakish grin. Tipping an imaginary cap, he gave a gallant little bow. "Pleasure to meet you, Ginny." Quickly straightening, he said, "Weasley, I´ll see you when I see you," and sprinted down the back stairs.

Ginny turned the corner just as Ron called after the boy on the stairs, "Oy, Mulroney! Where in Merlin´s name are you going? Library´s the other way."

Boys!

With Ron at her heels, Ginny sped ahead down three flights and across two moving foot-bridges to catch up with the others. As they approached, the stone walls of the Entrance Hall reverberated with a cacophony of stage whispers, a few catcalls and the tympanic stirrings of flapping parchment.

From their vantage point high up on the mezzanine, the Gryffindors gaped down into the cavernous Hall where the Slytherin team, still in their grubby Quidditch robes, were gleefully tearing the deep ochre wrapping on an exceptionally large and glutinous parcel. Like green vultures swarming round a carcass, thought Ginny, with a wrinkle of her nose. A thick trail of slime and sludge led from the box out through the main doors.

"What gives with the goo on the floor?" said Ron.

In the distance an odd bump! bump! bump! thundered against the flagstones. Through the open doors they spied the swish of a scaly moss-green tail, as broad as a tree trunk, slithering down the front steps toward the lake.

Fred´s mouth hung open. "Sea Serpent Surface Delivery. Post owls couldn´t have managed this one on their own. Holy Agrippa, that crate´s got to be as tall as Bole and twice as wide as the Bullocks together!"

An anxious hush settled over them as, riveted, they watched a smirking Draco Malfoy peel off the last of the seaweed wrapping. Scattered along the ridge of the box, the words "MoM Testing: High Level Access Only" still flashed red in some places, the result of a botched Erasing Charm. But the black and silver letters boldly emblazoned across the box panels clearly read "Firebolt 220 X-Class Prototype".

Ginny and Ron both gave a little gasp as the Entrance Hall erupted in barbaric whoops and cheers. Harry glared down at the Slytherins with eyes like emerald ice. Even Eveline, leaning against a stone pillar in disbelief, looked startled enough to release Harry´s elbow for a moment.

George shook his head despondently and rested his temple against the banister. "We´re doomed."