Gryffindor Colors

Gryffindor Colors

Weasley is our king!

Weasley is our king!

He didn't let the quaffle in!

Weasley is our king!

The windows rattled with the resounding cheer that followed what must be the fiftieth rendition of that song. They were no longer singing it - they were simply yelling it out now at the top of their lungs. The mixture of voices contained no treble, so it was the boys who were still up.

Minerva McGonagall rubbed the grit from her eyes and attempted to find a comfortable spot on the pillow. She never slept well during these late night revelries. The noise was deafening, and by design she could hear everything that went on in the common room from her apartments attached to Gryffindor Tower. She knew she was in for a sleepless night when they'd carried young Weasley off the field. Truth be told, she had been as excited as they were. Her mind drifted back fondly to a time many years ago, when she had been a fresh-faced young woman with a wicked need for speed and an unerring shot. She sighed and turned over again. Let them have their fun - there had been precious little to celebrate this year...

A thunderous crash followed by another tide of raucous laughter made her jump. Alright. That was enough. She rose and threw a robe over her nightgown. She shook her head as she passed a mirror and saw her weary features framed in a frizzy nimbus of graying hair. Oh well - maybe the look would frighten them into submission. She quietly opened her own door and padded over to the portrait hole. She heaved a sigh and rolled her eyes at the latest password.

"Lions Rule."

The fat lady looked decidedly stressed. There were circles under her eyes and she uttered a curt "fine, then" as she allowed Minerva entrance. The students didn't notice her arrival as their backs were all to her. They were gathered around the fireplace, sprawled in varying positions across the furniture and they were focusing on something in their midst. The room positively reeked with the pungent aroma of young males, stale food and the sickly-sweet smell of spilled butterbeer. It looked for all the world like the aftermath of a street riot. Every available surface was littered with butterbeer bottles, empty crisp packets, half-eaten sandwiches and biscuits, various articles of clothing and a scattered deck of Exploding Snap cards. A vaguely obscene caricature of Severus Snape dressed in a way that reminded her weirdly of Evelyn Longbottom and entangled passionately within the tentacles of a giant squid that bore Delores Umbridge's features dangled from a lampshade bearing the legend, "Buy me a drink, sailor?" The handwriting belonged to Dean Thomas.

She grimaced when her next step forward caused the sole of her scuff to stick to the floor.

As she had surmised, there were no girls. Taking a quick headcount, she realized that the group was down to fifth-year boys. An overturned chair pinned a set of long, flailing limbs encased in Gryffindor colors. The boys were laughing uproariously, and Finnigan was yelling, "Weasley, you big wanker - get yer bony arse out from under there and show us again!"

"Shut up, Seamus!" came Ron Weasley's muffled voice from beneath the chair, "or you're damn right I'll show you something." The laughter surged again, and together the bunch of them left their own comfortable spots to lift the heavy chair and help Weasley to his feet.

"If the noise level in here doesn't drop immediately, I will show you a fifty-point reduction, and that's a promise!"

The five of them whirled around as though they'd been shot with a Dervish Hex. It was difficult not to smile at the look of pure horror on all five faces. Predictably, Harry Potter was the first to recover. His hair was always out of control, but right now he looked like he'd had a wolverine on his head.

"S-sorry, Professor."

"You should be." She could feel her lips twitch, but couldn't help it. "What in the name of magic were the five of you doing?"

"Ron was just showing us that last save, Professor." Thomas spoke this time. Longbottom stood mute, looking like he was about to give birth.

"I reckon I got a little carried away, ma'am." Weasley's cheeky grin was nearly irresistible, but she wasn't about to tell him that. "It's not every day you win the Quidditch Cup, y'know."

Sappily, she could feel her features involuntarily softening. "That is indeed true, Mr. Weasley."

Dammit, her lips were twitching again. Oh hang it. She allowed herself a grin as wide as Weasley's.

"Congratulations, Mr. Weasley. Well done."

"Thanks, Professor."

She schooled her face back into sternness. "Just keep it down, boys, alright?"

"Yes, Professor," they chorused sheepishly.

She turned crisply to march from the room, and without really thinking, ripped Thomas's drawing from the lampshade without breaking stride. Let 'em sweat it out, thinking she was going to investigate. In the meantime, Hooch would love it.

But she should have known she couldn't fool this bunch. She opened the portrait hole to muffled giggles and closed it again to an explosion of loud guffaws. For a moment she paused and looked down at the drawing in her hand. She snorted once, then quickly made her way back to her rooms, before her own helpless laughter could echo off the corridor walls and reveal her true colors.