With a Little Help from My Friends

Dearest Ronnie, the letter read, I am totally tripping here. For the sake of what is left of my already dubious level of personality sanity, you have to figure out a way to get Arthur Weasley off my case. When will these bloody men ever learn to take a hint?

Seventh year Veronica Vector grinned and burrowed deeper into the armchair that nestled in the corner of her family's living room. The Arthur Weasley in question was not, as the tone of her fellow Gryffindorian Lucille Black's letter would have her believe, a stalker or an unwanted admirer (he was certainly "unwanted," but not in the romantic sense), but an adorable gangling redhead who perhaps needed a few more social graces. Veronica took a sip of her cup of tea and read on.

Ever since Da got permission from the Ministry to make Muggle electrical appliances compatible with Hogsmeade's magic pocket in our house, he's been hanging around like a bad case of Trollpox. "Lucille, let's go watch Top of the Pops," "Lucille, when are you going to buy the new Beatles single?" "Lucille, can I take apart the radio to see how it works? I promise I'll put it back together properly this time." He's listened to my copy of "A Hard Days Night" so often that the record no longer has grooves on it (Ronnie, a record is a flat, circular object Muggles put music on and the grooves are what they use to separate each song). If I go on I'd be forced to self-administer the memory alteration charm. And DON'T even ask me about his "summer project." Although I have to say, Ma has had more fun cleaning up the place since he successfully charmed the Hoover (a large rectangular rubber and metal object that Muggles use for sweeping) to fly like a broom so she can ride around on top of it. But that's the only silver lining in a very bleak and stormy-looking cloud.

Veronica chuckled at the mental picture of bumbling Arthur poking cheerfully around the Black's Hogsmeade cottage, with Lucille standing by in her customary pose of arms folded across her chest, lips pursed in poorly concealed exasperation and foot tapping impatiently. Lucille was her best friend at Hogwarts, along with Arthur, and definitely a "goblet half-empty" person. Although to be fair to Lucille, Veronica reflected, having six year old Sirius Black as a younger brother and James Potter as his best friend could do that to a girl. And whatever Arthur's "summer project" turned out to be, Veronica was sure that it would result in the deduction of many points from Gryffindor house once he took to parading it around the school.

He's just obsessed with Muggles, Ronnie! Lucille's letter continued in frustration. He'd adopt one and keep it in a cage if he could. I mean, at least I'm only obsessed with four of them, and when I bring their records in to Hogwarts next week you'll see (and hear) why. Next Sunday can't come soon enough. It's a good thing that Minerva McGonagall is Head Girl this year; she'll at least keep him in check. I wonder who the new Head Boy is?

Ronnie, I have to go now. I took the precaution of attaching another hand to the family clock for Arthur, and it says that he's on his way over here now. I never thought I'd say this, but it's a good thing Ma forced me at wandpoint to clean up my wardrobe last Friday, because that's where I'm going to hide for a while. No, Ronnie, I'm not just being negative, it really IS that bad. He really needs a woman.

Counting down the days to term (never thought I'd say that either),

Lucille Black

Veronica started to laugh so hard that she had to put her cup down on the coffee table for fear of spilling tea over Lucille's and the other two letters that had arrived today. The mental picture of her crossed-armed friend suffering in silence as Arthur ransacked her house had been replaced by one of Lucille crouching down in the bottom of her wardrobe, gritting her teeth as outside Arthur made himself comfortable on her bed and started flipping through her Beatles records. And how ironic that Lucille, whose signature phrase was "A woman without a man is like a fish without a broomstick," recommended a girlfriend as the solution to all of Arthur's problems.

Eventually she calmed down enough to begin reading the second letter. It turned out to be from Thierry Delacour, Arthur's closest (and only) male friend.

Chere Veronica,

J'espere that cette letter finds you well. (Thierry's native tongue was French, and he had a habit of slipping into it without thinking). I am very eager for the start of term. Molly complains about "her" sisters. At least elles ne sont pas part-Veela. Ce bon news is that nous avez just finished moving into our new house just outside of London, and mon pere has decided that since I will be turning eighteen cette annee, I can have the old servants' cottage down the bottom of le jardin - far away from mes soeurs Veela! Arthur may have mentioned that I am to be ce Quidditch captain nouveau this season.

Veronica bit back a grin. Thierry himself had been mentioning - boasting would be more accurate - that he was to be the Gryffindor team's captain whenever an opportunity presented itself for such an announcement. And when opportunities did not present themselves, he made them.

After the Sorting Feast when we arrive next week, I have an important announcement to make dans le common room. Je desire especialment pour you and Molly to be there. It concerns you two and the rest of the Gryffindor girls.

A bientot,

Ton ami Thierry

For the first time that morning, Veronica frowned. Even this frown was one of concentration rather than annoyance. Since only boys could and had ever been able to play Quidditch for their house teams, she had no idea why Thierry's announcement (most probably about team tryouts) would be relevant to the female half of the scarlet house. She shrugged this query aside and turned to her final letter, which had the address made out in Molly's scrawled handwriting.

My dearest Veronica,

Thanks for your offer of the lift to Kings Cross, but since Lucille is picking me up on the way, I don't need it. She says she knows how to use the Muggle transportation system. We'll see about that. I feel very grown-up, finding my own way to the station without the rest of the Morag clan! Rhiannon will be a third year this year, and Elspeth will be the final Morag to study at Hogwarts, at least until the next generation. We're hoping she's sorted into Gryffindor, but honestly anything other than Slytherin is fine with me.

I visited Lucille in Hogsmeade last week. Sirius has been flooing her around the bend. When I was there he and James Potter somehow charmed the covers of those strange circular things she owns to give the four dudes on them acne and make them look like they were wearing straightjackets instead of slacks and turtlenecks. Poor Lucille screamed at them for about ten minutes. She says your friend Arthur Weasley also doesn't need a ride since he is finding his own way to Kings Cross, but got touchy (no surprise there) when I asked for details. She doesn't seem to like talking about him anymore. Do you think she fancies him? Now "that" would be funny.

As far as the lift thing goes, Thierry is fine, too. Knowing him, he probably learnt how to Apparate when he was seven or is an Animagus on the sly. I imagine he'd make a fetching rat. Only joking, you know I love him.

Speaking of rats, I've been something of a Minerva (a bookworm) over this summer trying to avoid a certain Slytherin snake whose name will not be mentioned least it traumatises my quill for life. I know I don't have it as bad as Thierry since mine are not part-Veela, just real witches, but since staying at home means I have to put up with being the middle child of four sisters, it certainly shows what I think of him! On a more positive note (that part will tell you this letter isn't from Lucille, if nothing else will) I'm really excited about this year. Only two more left me and one for you, and we'll have joint electives this time around! Muggle Studies should be a blast. Let's just hope Arthur isn't in it, Lucille's been telling me all about what he's like with them. Joking again, I'm sure he'd be rather sweet if I only knew him a little better.

Love ya,

Molly Morag

Carefully folding up Molly's letter and placing it next to those from Lucille and Thierry, Veronica sat quietly. To find Veronica still was very rare, but even in such a miraculous moment, her mind was speeding away like a Nimbus broomstick. This state of apparent stillness lasted only a minute or two, then her eyes lit up and with quick, resolute movements, she took up a quill and parchment and started scribbling out a reply to one of the letters, all the while grinning from ear to ear.

Dear Lucille,

In regards to your suggested solution for the problem that is our dear, single friend Arthur Weasley, I think I know just the Gryffindor...

* * * * *

One week later Thierry Delacour was loitering at the gateway of his family's new country estate, his cases and owl, Emmanuel, stacked precariously to the mailbox. Thierry and his father, Philippe, were absolutely fascinated by the mailbox. To their knowledge, Muggles had never used owls as a means of correspondence, yet once every once in a while, mysterious slips of paper would appear in the tiny tin rectangle, displaying such things as "Mary Quant Sale, 50 % OFF!" or "Brycleam Special: Buy one, get one free."

The Mary Quant slip of paper in particular was extraordinary. It featured three Muggle women (all of who were thin and very attractive) wearing skirts that ended a good half foot above their knees and smiling daintily for the camera. Thierry had no idea which of these women was Mary Quant, and why anyone would want to sell someone who was such a fox. He had tried asking the women in the photo which of them was Mary, and had also tried moving the paper from side to side to see if they would move, but they stayed as still as - not statues, since the ones in his hall moved around from time to time - but as someone who had been hit by the Impedimus curse. Muggle women had incredible willpower, Thierry reflected pensively. The picture had been his for three months now, and they hadn't moved once. Or perhaps they "really" had an Impedimus curse on them? Perhaps that's why whoever owned them wanted to sell them; they were less valuable now that they couldn't move around anymore. Thierry's nose wrinkled in disgust. He didn't agree with people owning other people, particularly women, in the first place. Women weren't like house elves that liked to be owned. Lack of freedom crushed their spirit. Nothing earned respect towards the fairer sex like having a Veela mother and two part-Veela sisters, he reflected with no small amount of irony. And he really should talk to his father, who was the ambassador for the French Ministry of Magic, about doing something to stop the cruelty some wizards showed towards Muggles.

The shrilling of a bird brought him out of his reverie. Thierry glanced around, realising that he had been standing at the foot of this strange pathway leading up to his home for almost half an hour and Arthur still hadn't shown up. He had expected his fellow seventh year to arrive by the Floo network, but for some reason Arthur had insisted on meeting him outside his front gate. Thierry wasn't overly concerned. Much to the punctual Lucille's annoyance, Arthur ran on Arthur time. This meant that according to his schedule, if Arthur arrived this very second, he would be ten minutes early.

Lucille Black. Thierry's brown eyes, which normally showed an expression of polite interest and a sort of intellectual compassion, darkened in bemusement, even resentment. On paper, out of all his Hogwarts friends, she should have been the one that he got on with the best. She was part French on her mother's side and while not competent to the point of fluency, spoke enough of the language to make herself understood. But relationships did not occur on paper.

He and Lucille had been on friendly terms until his fourth year, when suddenly she had changed on him. At times her behaviour towards him could be nice, almost kind, but then she would act as though being nice was all wrong and revert back to her usual congeniality. And he could not figure out what he had done to cause this. Had his friendships towards Veronica Vector and sixth year Molly Morag changed in the same manner, he may have pondered if it was down to him, but they were still just as easy-going and sociable around him as they were with Arthur Weasley, or for that matter, Lucille herself. His conclusion was then, that there was something about him and only him that Lucille found distasteful. At first this had hurt him, but as time went on and he could not induce her to change her behaviour, he resolved to ignore it and get along with her for the sake of their mutual friends. It was true that he still considered her his friend, but only because he was friends with Veronica, Arthur and Molly, and that invariably meant being friends with Lucille. She was not a friend by choice, but rather by circumstance or default.

As he eventually did when he was thinking of Lucille, Thierry both physically and mentally shrugged off his pondering. He had not made the Quidditch team captaincy by being negative or dwelling on things, and he was a cheerful boy that was both liked and respected by his peers. Arthur was now late, even by his standards. Oh well. If his classmate didn't show up soon, Thierry could always Apparate to Kings Cross and appear discretely in a cubicle somewhere in the men's toilets. Arthur would figure it out. It was illegal for wizards to do this self-teleportation trick prior to their eighteenth birthdays and completely outlawed for pregnant witches of any age, but Arthur, along with Veronica, was half of the pair of people that knew that Thierry had mastered Apparation sometime in his fifth year. Yes, Arthur would be fine...

BANG!

"Zut alors!" He fell back into his pile of possessions from the sudden impact, causing Emmanuel to squawk in frightened indignation. The strangest thing he had ever seen had appeared in front of him. It was about the size of two ponies put together and was pale blue in colour, with two heavy-looking black circles embedded in each side. And seated through a glass window in the front of the object was Arthur Weasley. His glasses had been knocked askew and he was waving cheerfully.

"Sacred Bleu!" Thierry recovered from his shock and began to laugh. "Oo 'ave surprised me, man, and considerin' zat I did not bat one eyeleed when yer curse backfired on Lucius Malfoy last year an' oo were vomiting slugs pour un hour, zat ees quite an accomplishment."

"Yes, the Sacred Blue," Arthur agreed. During their six years of friendship (and perhaps because he "was" friends with Arthur Weasley) Thierry had uttered this phrase so much that he had eventually translated it to Arthur. "That's what I've decided to name her. It's a type of car Muggles call a Beetle. Isn't she beautiful?"

"Kar?" Thierry repeated, blinking in the bright sunlight. "Bee-tel?"

"I've been working on her all summer. She can fly and, Thierry, watch this - or don't watch, because if it works properly you won't be able to see anything." Comprehension suddenly dawned upon Thierry, who had been smiling politely in bemusement during the last part of Arthur's ramble, as the car disappeared, then reappeared a second later. "Zat was amaseeing! Ow did oo do zat?" he asked.

"Invisibility button," Arthur said, tapping the dashboard proudly. "Installed it myself." Then, as if it was something that needed to be said, he added, wide-eyed. "Muggle cars don't have them, you know."

"Exactement?" Thierry said, feigning surprise. "Bien sur, but 'ow-"

"Ah, now that would be telling," the redhead said, playfully wagging a finger from side-to-side like Minerva McGonagall was wont to do. "Now watch this. It's as close to magic as Muggles get." He eased his lanky form out of the automobile, then put an object that Thierry recognised as a key in its front. There was a small "pop," and a wide, empty space appeared where the lid of the car had been. "Amazing how they figure out how to get around without magic. Genius, really."

"Arthur," Thierry began, shaking his head, "ow on earth do oo get avay weeth charming all zese Muggelle objets without landeeng yerself in front of de Ministairee?"

"Connections, my dear friend, connections," Arthur beamed as he began to load Thierry's luggage into the compartment. "Befriending a Black can come in handy sometimes." Lucille's father, Hector Black, was quite high up in the Ministry of Magic and the family itself had a lot of prestige. Arthur saw the brief look that passed across the French boy's face and added gently, "Admittedly, she doesn't show the same side around me that she does around you."

"Zat ees jost as well," Thierry added darkly. "Eef she did, oo would die of shock."

* * * * *

"Molly, we need to get a move on," Lucille Black puffed as she heaved her last suitcase onto her trolley. Sweat had appeared at her hairline. "It's twenty-to already, we're too young to Apparate and the train doesn't wait, you know. And do you know what the truly crazy thing is? Arthur Weasley and I both live in Hogsmeade, which is only an hour away from school, yet we're still required to travel by train from LONDON with everyone else. That's bureaucracies for you."

"Well, we would have arrived in plenty of time if we hadn't needed to wait for a cab large enough to hold our luggage and that thing you insist on carting around with you," Molly shot back. Lucille was in rant mode and normally she'd know better than to argue with her, but it was a hot, frustrating day. "What the hell is it, anyway?"

"A record player," Lucille said with the manner of a proud parent. "It plays all my records. My Beatles records."

Behind her Molly rolled sea green eyes. The last part of the sentence explained everything insane the other girl had been doing over the summer. "Lucille, you can't use Muggle appliances in Hogwarts. The magic makes them work all wonky. Arthur Weasley has explained that to you a number of times."

"It's funny you should mention him." An obsessive gleam had come into Lucille's eyes. "He's going to be the one to make it work. If he can take care of his "summer project" - which only I'm allowed to mention, understand - he can certainly deal with a little thing like this." Molly looked dubiously down at the steel piece of equipment and the two massive brown boxes, which were covered with a sort of fabric at the front. They didn't look like "little things" to her. "And then he'll get it to go, and then we'll be able to play all my records, and then, maybe then, you'll finally be able to understand me."

"Lucille," Molly shook her head ruefully, "I will never understand you, and I'm not entirely sure that's a bad thing."

"Philistine," Lucille huffed, but a smile was cracking at the corner of her mouth. In appearance, the two sixth years were like spring and autumn versions of each other. Both had red hair, but Molly's was the typical carrot shade and thick and curly, whereas Lucille's was more auburn than red and closer to the colour of brown sugar. People on the street often stopped Lucille and told her how beautiful it was. Molly knew which shade she preferred. Molly was just over five feet tall, and plump but not obese by any means. She was also extremely pretty, with a pert little nose and lightly freckled skin that currently sported a summer tan and made her green eyes all the more striking.

Lucille was an inch or so taller than Molly but much thinner, and without her friend's curves. Their slight height difference was accentuated by the butterscotch leather boots Lucille insisted on wearing, much to her mother's annoyance. She had the same fiery reddish-brown eyes as the rest of the Black clan and skin that would tan easily if the time she spent outdoors annually was not insufficient to fill an hourglass. Instead she sported an alabaster hue that set off her eyes and hair strikingly. Having ventured outdoors as seldom as possible, in contrast to Molly she had virtually no freckles.

"So, let me get this right," Molly backtracked. "You've been owling me all summer complaining about the amount of time Arthur's been spending at your place, pouring through all your Muggle artifacts-"

"Artifacts?" Lucille looked mortally offended.

"-You've taken to hiding in the bottom of your wardrobe when he comes by," Molly continued unfazed. "You've forbidden me on pain of the Cruciatus curse to mention the dreaded "summer project," yet now you're going to ask him to make one of your Muggle things work at Hogwarts? Lucille, darling, if you want to keep the stray cat away, why do you leave a saucer of milk outside your front door?"

"Yeah...well..." Lucille gave a pained, sheepish smile. "Look, I know I'm kind of stupid about these guys," she gestured to the box of records in front of her, "but you haven't heard them play."

Molly gave a cursory look down at the four smiling young men on the top of a stack of incredibly thin, square packages on Lucille's trolley. She thought it wasn't so much as "hearing" them as "seeing" them that had her friend in such a lather. If you can't beat them, join them, she decided. "The one in the bottom right corner's kind of cute."

"Paul McCartney?" Lucille glanced at the record cover. "Nah, man, it's all about John Lennon. He's the intellectual and the visionary. Paul's just the face."

"But what a face it is," Molly quipped.

They had reached the doors that led out to the platforms. When the two girls approached a teenager was lounging nearby, but quickly got up to pull the door open for them. Molly cringed inwardly, knowing what was to follow.

Sure enough, Lucille was on her game. "What are you doing?" she challenged the poor boy. "Do you think women are idiots, then? We may not be as big and strong as you are, but we can bloody well open the stupid doors by ourselves!"

"Just chill out, baby," the youth said with a just-trying-to-help shrug.

"Don't call me baby!" Lucille cried shrilly after him.

"What did you do that for?" Molly asked her. "He was only offering us some help, and we could have done with it, to be honest." They now had to go onto the platform by backing out of the door, thus using their bulk to hold it open, and pull their trolleys in after them. Molly's only consolation was that the other girl, being much lighter, would find this much harder than she was presently.

"Bloody men," Lucille muttered. "They think we're beneath us, and it's up to us to bend over backwards to try and prove otherwise! We have to work twice as hard to be thought of as being half as good as they are, you know."

"Which is why you went crazy at the Mary Quant sale and bought three minis that barely go down over your hips," Molly replied, grinning. Through trial and error she and Veronica had learnt that the best way to deal with Lucille's mood swings was through humour, rather than babying her like Arthur or being drawn into a debate like Thierry. Which wasn't to say that she didn't agree with a lot of what Lucille said, especially about the role of women in the world. She just thought her friend sometimes went the wrong way about things.

"Yeah, well, you have to agree it's pretty stupid not to let us do things like play Quidditch," Lucille insisted, but appeared slightly mollified. "I mean, if anything we should be better on a broom then they are. Because we carry our weight around our hips and they have it around their shoulders, we have a lower centre of gravity than they do, so we should have an easier time keeping our balance."

"So what went wrong with you then?" Molly joked. "Not only do you have the smallest pair of hips I have ever seen, but honey, you're shit on a broom." After their last day of compulsory flight classes in their first year, Lucille had been so relieved that she had chopped up her broomstick and given to the house elves for firewood, much to the ire of her father. "And speaking of Quidditch, Ronnie and I received the strangest owl from Thierry last week."

Molly watched her friend's reaction carefully as she said this. Sure enough, Lucille's chin came up and her lips drew into a taut, defiant line. Nope, she hadn't lost any of her animosity towards the dark-haired French boy over the summer.

"Thierry's letter said that he was planning to make an announcement about Quidditch after dinner - you remember how Alexander Wood made him captain before he graduated - and that he wanted Ronnie and I and the rest of the Gryffindor girls to be there because it concerned us," Molly continued. "What do you make of that?"

"Probably wants us to make a Gryffindor lion banner by needlepoint or something," Lucille shrugged. Molly was not fooled by her attempt at nonchalance. "Nothing doing from my corner."

"Would you want to play Quidditch if you could?" Molly asked her. Lucille shook her head firmly. "So, what's your problem, then?"

That threw Lucille for an instant, but she recovered quickly. "It's just the principle of it, that's all. Sure, nothing short of a Dementor could entice me to get on one of those things again, but to be told we're not allowed to do it, well, I'd like to at least be given the choice, if you see what I mean."

"Yeah, you've got a point there," Molly conceded, then broke into a grin. "Besides, being not only Irish but a redhead, I'm sure I would make one hell of a Beater!"

Lucille laughed along with her, then broke off, her skin turning a Nearly-Headless-Nick shade. "Bloody hell, I can't believe it's happening now. Moll, I have to go to the lavs."

"Now?" Molly hissed. "The train leaves in ten minutes."

"Look, it's," Lucille glanced around then inclined her head closer to Molly's, "really bad timing for me, you know?"

"Oh." Molly's face cleared in understanding. "What a day for it to happen, too, it's so stinking hot. Do you need anything?"

"No, I'll just make do with tissues and toilet paper until we get onto the train," Lucille whispered. "Besides, Minerva's probably got stuff with her. That woman would be prepared for a giant invasion, she's like a fucking girl guide."

"What's a girl guide?" Molly asked.

"Never mind, just ask Arthur when he gets here. Just be a doll and see that my stuff gets onto the train, alright? Thanks, hon." With that she flipped her long, layered hair over her shoulder and ran off.

Molly sighed and began loading things from Lucille's trolley onto her own, taking care to place the girl's precious Beatles records on top of the pile. She would have rather had Lucille explain the term "girl guide" to her than Arthur. Unless people wanted a Binns' length lecture they generally avoided mentioning the M-U-G-G-L-E word around him, but that couldn't be helped. Lucille was a girl with a mission and a half-priced Mary Quant skirt to preserve.

* * * * *

"Molly Morag, what is the meaning of this?"

The crisp voice of the newly-anointed Head Girl, Minerva McGonagall, cut through Veronica's thoughts as she sat curled up next to the window in her compartment, one finger twirling idly with a strand of dark chocolate hair. Outside Molly appeared to be suffering through an Azkaban-worthy interrogation.

"But Minerva, these aren't mine," Molly protested. Across from her towered Minerva. In contrast to Molly's loose, frantic looking curls, her black hair was pulled back in a tight bun. Despite the heat she looked cool and collected. "This is all of Lucille's stuff. She asked me to put it in the holding carriage for her, you see."

"Asked you to put it in the holding carriage?" Minerva repeated. "Molly, are you her slave?"

"Sometimes I wonder," Molly grumbled.

"Well?" Minerva pressed.

"Look, it's..." Molly leaned forward and started whispering to Minerva, who had to buckle at the knees to hear her. Veronica couldn't catch everything, but heard "wrong time of the month" and "lousy weather." When they pulled apart, some of the Head Girl's demeanour had thawed a little, and Molly was looking notably relieved.

"Very well, then," Minerva said, obviously concluded the hushed conversation they had just shared. "I understand these thing happen from time to time. But at her age she really should be more organised. Now do put everything away quickly. The train is due to depart at any moment now."

Molly nodded and scooted off. Veronica's nose wrinkled in amusement. Minerva's personal conduct didn't whisper "Authority," it cast a Sonorous charm and screamed it from the highest Quidditch stadium stand.

Presently footsteps were heard outside her carriage. The door slid open and Minerva's head emerged. "Veronica Vector. Mind if I have a word?"

"Certainly, take a seat," Veronica told her. "Not literally, of course."

Minerva entered and sat down, arranging crisp black robes as she did so. Veronica hadn't seen her with so much as a crease during her entire time at Hogwarts, and as fellow house students in the same year, they had classes together almost all day. Presently the Head Girl gave her a signature searching look. "You know, Veronica, that I only put my name down for Head Girl once I was absolutely sure that the work it entails would not have a negative impact on my NEWT results come end of year. What I cannot understand is why such a resourceful, well-liked young woman such as yourself did not apply for such a position."

"Ah, you know me, Minnie," Veronica shrugged good-naturedly. Minerva visibly flinched at the nickname, but said nothing. "Prefects more my speed. All of the privileges but none of the responsibility." Minerva, who had been the female Gryffindor prefect last year, had a look on her face that suggested she found what Veronica had just said positively blasphemous. The brunette found this amusing. She liked Minerva, but was not immune to the temptation of messing with the new Head Girl's head from time to time.

"Well, with both Professor Dumbledore's and Headmaster Kyte's personal blessing, I am sure you are the right woman for the job," Minerva continued, then, to Veronica's great surprise, allowed herself a small smile. "Bearing in mind the identity of this year's Head Boy, any help would be greatly appreciated."

"Minerva, who is this year's Head Boy?" Veronica inquired politely, trying to keep how much she was dying to know out of her voice.

"That will be revealed after the sorting ceremony," Minerva said primly, then turned on her heel and walked out.

Veronica was sure she heard a chuckle from the corridor.

Seconds later Minerva's footsteps were met by another pair. "Is everything in order, Molly?" Veronica heard her ask.

"Yes, thank you, Minerva," Molly's voice replied. "I won't ever have that much luggage again. This was a one-off, I assure you." Veronica quickly smothered a chuckle. The start of the year was always the same old routine. Every summer Arthur Weasley came back taller, and Molly's suitcases increased in girth.

"Glad to be of assistance. And, Molly, when Lucille does see fit to board the train, do tell her that I have some things that may be useful. I am not due for a couple of weeks myself, but bearing my responsibilities it does pay to have them around, especially with these younger girls that may find themselves unprepared."

"Of course, Minerva. Thank you." Soon Molly was plopping down onto the seat opposite her, wiping stray curls off her forehead. "Do you keep on having to remind yourself not to call her "Madame," or am I just going insane?"

"I have that problem too," Veronica nodded sombrely, "and yes, you are going insane." Both girls laughed. "Commuting to Kings Cross with Lucille can do that to you, though. I forgive you. So, how is your fellow fiery redhead?"

"Still determined to hate Thierry," Molly shrugged. "Call me crazy-"

"I do. On a regular basis," Veronica grinned.

"-But in a parallel universe I think they would make a great couple."

"That could happen," Veronica nodded. "Tragically, though, this is not a parallel universe." Besides, she had enough on her plate trying to find Arthur a woman, and it was always useful to have at least one single male friend in case Balls decided to manifest themselves, she found. Veronica returned to the present where Molly, her face still flushed from having to pile both her and Lucille's belongings into the hold, was launching into an animated tale of her younger sister Rhiannon attempting to charm a pimple off her face and misplacing her own nose.

Yes, Molly Morag could be very good for Arthur Weasley. The question was, though, could Arthur ever be good for Molly?