Al Potter and the Plague of Frogs

Rose was already standing by the front door when Al arrived in the Entrance that afternoon, a few minutes past their agreed meeting time.

"Heya," he panted, a bit breathless from hurrying up the last flight of stairs. "Sorry I'm late--Argil got to telling one of his stories..."

"It's all right," said Rose, pulling open the door. The hinges groaned and she sent a quick smile over her shoulder before stepping out--the same smile she had given him before Defense.

Its reappearance gave Al pause. That morning it was just a smile, but seeing it again, duplicated so exactly, it seemed forced. Was Rose uncomfortable? Did she secretly not want to have tea with Hagrid? Or did she secretly not want to have tea with him?

"Coming?" she said, halfway down the steps.

"Sorry--yeah," he said, and darted forward, dragging on the iron ring to close the door behind him.

They did not speak as they trudged down the lawn to Hagrid's hut, situated by the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Rose's knock was met with a loud, deep bark, and the door flew open to reveal Hagrid, one hand gripping the collar of a massive bloodhound, the other motioning them inside.

"Come in, come in! Don' mind this feller--back, Chopper! Back!"

Cautiously, Rose edged through the door, her back against the wall so as to keep out of range of the dog's slobbering mouth. Al followed, holding out a hand for Chopper to sniff.

Hagrid chuckled. "Now you've done it! Give 'im an inch--" And he released the collar.

Chopper bounded forward, bypassing Al's hand to go straight for his face. Al knew a split second of paralyzing fear before a great, lolling tongue swiped his cheek and he was treated to a burst of dog breath.

"Argh!" He angled his mouth away from Chopper's wet nose, hands flying up to shield himself from the snout.

Hagrid found it all immensely amusing. "All right, all right," he said, his gray beard twitching. He hauled off the dog, herding it to the basket in the corner. "Please, come an' sit--might need ta boost yerselves up..."

Might need a stepladder, is more like it, Al thought, hoisting himself onto one of the huge chairs set around the scrubbed wooden table. It took Rose two tries, but she managed with the help of Al's hand. Hagrid bustled about by the stove, removing a whistling kettle from the hob.

"I tell ya, this brings me back, it does," he said, pouring their tea into bowl-like pewter cups. "I remember the last time yer father was here, Al--sat in the same seat ya are now. And yer parents, too, Rose."

He set a large plate of what looked like fossilized cakes in the center of the table, quite out of reach, but Hagrid took care of this by providing them with two each.

"Thanks very much for inviting us, Hagrid," said Al loudly and clearly. Rose frowned.

Hagrid waved his mitt of a hand. "Aw, yer like yer mother--she was always so polite t'me, sending me tickets to her Quidditch matches. Never forgot to send me two, so I'd fit in the stand!"

Al wondered at Hagrid's constant use of the past tense. When was the last time he had seen their parents? He spoke as though of a distant memory...

"You saw Aunt Ginny play?" said Rose.

"Was a nice way to catch up with 'em--Harry was busy trainin' to be an Auror, o'course. Didn' have any time to make it up to Hogwarts anymore."

Al grinned. "Mum probably just wanted to make you into a Harpies fan," he shouted, enunciating each word.

Hagrid laughed, saying something about the year Al's mother's team won the League Cup, but Al was distracted by Rose's indignant glare.

"What?" he said at normal volume.

"He's not stupid!" she whispered furiously. "Why are talking to him like he's--"

"Deaf?" Al suggested.

"What?" said Rose, glancing from him to Hagrid, who was still talking above them, obliviously stirring sugar into his cup.

"He's gone deaf," said Al. "He could hardly hear me shouting down at the platform."

"Oh," said Rose, looking away.

"But enough o'that," said Hagrid, shaking his head fondly at whatever he had been recalling. "I want ta know about yer first week! Tell me about yer classes and yer teachers--I only know half of 'em at all, lotsa foreigners, ya know. They got a French bloke in for Ancient Runes, can' understand a word he says, but he's a decent feller. And a new Potions Master, suppose ya met him--"

"Professor Kalna?" said Rose.

"What's his name? Branko somethin', can' remember. Gives me the shivers, he does. Dunno why... maybe the eyes. What'd ya think o'him?"

"He's very..." Al began. What could he say that would not have him feeling guilty around Danica later? "Thin," he said, raising his voice above the clatter of Hagrid grabbing another rock cake.

"Well, he is that," Hagrid agreed. Remembering his own cake, Al cracked a piece in two against the edge of the table, popping a bit in his mouth to suck on.

"I think he's CREEPY," said Rose, finally increasing the volume of her voice. Hagrid nodded. "Reminds me of a SPIDER."

"He's a good teacher," said Al. Tilting his cup on the saucer, he decided against attempting to lift it, and lowered his head to sip his tea.

"An' what about friends?" asked Hagrid, crunching noising on his cake. "I'd ask about how yer likin' the common room, but I expect yer parents had already told ya all about it. No surprises there, eh?"

Al stared. Hagrid raised his cup for a long gulp, unaware of his mistake. Was it possible he had forgotten? Was Hagrid's mind going the way of his hearing?

"But Al's not--" He kicked Rose under the table. "Ow!" she exclaimed.

"Sorry," Al mumbled.

"Whassat?" said Hagrid.

"Nothing," said Rose, rubbing her shin.

"Yeah, yer parents were sure lucky, makin' fast friends so early," mused Hagrid.

"Oh, Al's made plenty of friends," muttered Rose, looking mutinous. "Enemies, too." She glanced at Al challengingly, who stared back, bewildered. "Depends on who you talk to--he's either a riddle-solving mastermind or an anti-Muggleborn know-it-all."

"Says who?" said Al, recoiling at the last.

"Ah, that's good ta hear," said Hagrid, tossing Chopper a rock cake. The bloodhound yipped happily, gnawing on the treat gripped between his front paws. Al watched, pathetically grateful their host had no idea what Rose had said.

"Who's been calling me anti-Muggleborn?" he heard himself ask.

"...The Ravenclaws," said Rose quietly, a bit abashed. "The Hufflepuffs think you're a gift from Merlin, but all the first year Ravenclaws can talk about is how mean you were to Richard Pluza, who'd never even held a wand 'til this week..."

Al shook his head, opening his mouth to explain, then closed it. He felt a bit sick.

"You didn't!" said Rose, sounding weak with relief. "Oh, Al--I know it couldn't be true, but every Ravenclaw I asked said you made fun of him for never seeing magic before, and James has been saying such awful things--"

She broke off. Al was shaking his head again, back and forth, willing her to stop talking; he did not want to know what James had been saying.

"All right, Al?" said Hagrid, leaning forward with concern. "Yer white as a bone!"

"He's fine, Hagrid," said Rose. She seemed to be breathing easier, at least.

Al stared blankly at his tea as Rose commenced a loud, detailed description of her first week in Gryffindor Tower. He only realized how cold he had gone when Chopper's warm, heavy head appeared in his lap, the dog gazing up at him with drooping eyes.

"Heya boy," he said, draping an arm over Chopper's wide neck. Chopper sat by Al's chair, consenting to have his ears scratched, until finally Rose made their excuses and Hagrid walked them to the door, bidding they come visit again soon.

As they trudged back up to the castle, older students came streaming out of a greenhouse in the distance, having just been released from their last period class. Al spotted a few through the glass, hanging behind to chat with Professor Longbottom. All girls, he noted.

"You mad?" asked Rose, casting him a sidelong glance.

"No," he muttered, glaring at his shoes. Rose stifled a laugh, nudging his side.

"Liar, liar, broom on fire."

"Just--since when do you listen to James?" he demanded.

"I don't," said Rose immediately. "I mean, I won't anymore--I promise." Al said nothing. "He was lying, you know," she continued. "About Teddy snogging Victoire. Vee was telling me--Teddy walked by as she was about to get on the train--probably coming to say good-bye to us, she said, and she waved so he came over and they were talking, she said, when James ran past them." She paused, waiting until Al glanced up, interest piqued. "And now everyone thinks they're getting married or something," she finished, smiling triumphantly.

Al raised his eyebrows, trying for Supremely Unsurprised. It was a look he had picked up from Argil over the past week--it was the boy's default classroom face. Rose mimicked his expression, which was her default reaction whenever she had trouble reading him.

"Vee does fancy Teddy, though," he said finally. Rose giggled.

"I didn't say she was upset by what James said."

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

Though Rose had been quick to accept the concept of his innocence in regards to the Pluza debacle, Al doubted the Ravenclaws would be so easily swayed. From what Rose said, only the first years of the House were united in their dislike--Ignatius, as his cousin and a fifth year Prefect, would never stand to have Al labeled a racist, so the rumor had probably not spread to the upper years...

Even so, it was unfair to the point of being absurd. Excluding the Muggleborns, he probably had more interaction with Muggles than any other student in the entire school. He had lived with his Aunt Dena and Uncle Dudley, for Merlin's sake, back when James and Lily had come down with dragon pox. It had swept the family the summer of his sixth birthday: all his cousins except Victoire had caught it.

His mother still liked to tell the story about his father's brilliant suggestion--that they purposely let Al catch it from his siblings, like the Muggles sometimes did with chicken pox. She'd called him a nutter and ordered him to ring up the Dursleys. Dragon pox was not contagious to Muggles, and unlike their poultry-equivalent, she explained, was better off never contracted.

Al had vague recollections of the month it had taken for the Den to be declared contagion-free. Mostly, he remembered watching Disney films with his cousin Hector and the two of them searching for places to hide from Lenny, Hector's older brother, who had unpleasant definitions of 'fun.'

Hector would laugh himself silly if he heard about this, thought Al with a rueful grimace. He turned a last corner and began a slow ascent of the stairs to the Entrance Hall, where Filch, no doubt, was waiting for him. Al had no idea what to expect for his detention--Corey and Clay told of horrific punishments dealt by Filch, but most of those had sounded highly illegal.

Glancing up as he cleared the last few steps, Al stopped short. Scor was standing, shoulders miserably hunched, next to Filch in the center of the Hall. The caretaker was hunchbacked as well, though Al suspected this was involuntary--the man was dreadfully stooped with age.

Al had assumed his detention and Scor's would be served separately; they had been received separately, after all. Perhaps they would be given different assignments, though...

"Habben got aw night, Potter," said Filch, his wheezy voice oddly sibilant. He lurched off towards the grand staircase, Al and Scor hurrying to fall in step behind him. As they marched up the stairs, Al felt Scor looking at him, but he kept his gaze firmly forward. Filch led them up to the third floor and past a long gallery of suits of armor, his uneven stride surprisingly rapid.

"You be powishing in da Troby Room tonight," he said, stopping in front of a gilded door. "Wibbout magic," he added. Al tried not to stare as Filch's tongue darted out of the abnormally large gap in his mouth to swipe his upper lip. The man was missing all four of his upper incisors.

"Both of us?" said Scor.

"If you dink you're getting ob easy, den you habben seen da Troby Room." He emitted a stuttering whistle. Al guessed it would have been an evil chuckle, had Filch his front teeth. "Ow be taking your wands, now," he said, holding out a gnarled hand. "Powish and rags are in dere."

Filch opened the Trophy Room door, barely waiting until they were through before slamming it shut. Scor jumped, head whipping around.

"Daft old--" he muttered, turning back. "--Merlin." Eyes wide, he gazed around at the floor to ceiling crystal cabinets lining either side of the room, encasing shelf upon shelf of plaques and trophies. Almost immediately, his awestruck expression gave way to annoyance. "How does this make sense? Why don't students take home the awards they win? Not like anyone's appreciating them here--or is this just to give people with detention something to do?"

Al shrugged, starting toward a bucket and rag sitting by the nearest trophy case. He did not know quite how to react to being trapped with the person he had studiously evaded since Monday morning. He was no longer angry; he was simply not prepared to let slide what had happened, and as Scor had made no move to reconcile, neither had he. It made for a silent sort of stalemate; he was not even sure Scor had noticed Al avoiding him.

He passed a rag to Scor, and they slowly made their way down the room, on opposite sides, scanning the glittering goblets and engraved placards. Across the room, Scor kept up a running commentary on names he recognized, marveling at the remote dates glinting here and there along the shelves.

"This one, too! From 1703, though... guess it could be distant relative of hers..."

Al only half paid attention, absorbed as he was with the awards on his own side. There appeared to be no system dictating where awards went--he passed a Medal for Magical Merit dated 1492, then a Quidditch team plaque from 1960... Glancing ahead, Al saw that the room was actually L-shaped, veering abruptly to the right. For some reason, only one trophy cabinet continued around the bend--the cabinets on Scor's side ended at the corner.

He heard Scor raising his voice, but Al was leaning forward on his toes, craning his neck to see what lay beyond the curve. He thought he glimpsed flitting movement on the wall--

"AL!" shouted Scor.

Startled, Al felt himself losing balance, his torso dipping precariously downward as his arms flailed in an attempt to regain his footing--he would--not fall--in front--of Scor... One foot shot forward, barely saving himself. "What?" he said, twisting to glare over his shoulder.

Scor glared back, throwing down the unused rag. "Are you planning on ignoring me for the rest of the year or the rest of our lives?" He stormed towards Al, fists balled up at his sides, his face flushed. "Figured I'd check, so I know whether I should give up now."

Straightening, Al stumbled back a few steps. "I... what--?"

"It's not like I meant for you to get detention, and I thought you'd let it go once I had detention, too--"

An image of Scor's sap-drenched, satisfied smirk flew up in Al's mind. "You did that on purpose!" he exclaimed.

"I know!" yelled Scor, flinging out his arms as he stopped, not a foot away. "And it wasn't exactly easy--if I knew Longbottom was such a softie I'd've gone for Sinistra, but he was supposed to be this tough war veteran--"

"He is!" protested Al, taking another step backward. Scor seemed to take this as invitation to stomp closer.

"Good for him! Longbottom the Snake Slayer and All-Around Nice Bloke, but they didn't put that last bit in the history books, did they?" Scor had forced Al so far back he was trapped, the cabinets right behind him. They had reached the very end of the long room. "No, they didn't. I had to work for my detention. All you did was walk in--what are you...?"

Al had stopped listening, staring over Scor's shoulder at the wall that had just come into view. Scor turned his head, following Al's eyes.

"...Oh."

Al stepped around Scor, entranced. Floor to ceiling, spanning the entire wall, hung picture frames of all shapes, makes and sizes, sparkling in the guttering candlelight. The frames' occupants were likewise varied: Al saw witches and wizards, centaurs and house-elves--even an old bloodhound drooled from a carved wooden frame near the corner. Old and young, painted and photographed, they blinked out at him, some smiling, some yawning, some scratching their noses. Craning his neck, Al read the words arching over them all, the deep violet letters draped in shadow:

IN MEMORIAM

Fallen Comrades at the Battle of Hogwarts

23 - 24 May 1998

A shoe scuffed on the stone floor as Scor drew up beside him, the sound strangely magnified in the sudden silence.

"Sorry," said Scor. Al glanced at him, but Scor was gazing up at the wall, the apology directed more at the picture frames than at Al. He could see shards of light from the wall reflected in Scor's pale eyes.

They approached the memorial gingerly, as though afraid to disturb the respectful quiet. Most of the non-humans were painted--no photos of them had ever been taken, Al guessed. An engraved nameplate was attached below each frame, stating their date of birth, if known, and in the case of many of the witches and wizards, their Hogwarts House.

"Colin Creevey," murmured Scor, reading a name off the wall. Following Scor's finger, Al saw a scrawny, blond boy grinning out at them, an old-fashioned camera hanging around his neck. He had been sixteen when he died.

"There's a Gryffindor girl named Creevey," said Al. What was her name?

"Colleen," said Scor, nodding.

A few frames away, Al spotted a wizard very much like his Uncle George, only younger--about Teddy's age. He watched as Fred Weasley the First laughed at something off camera, eyes shining, and glanced around to share the joke with his twin. Then he laughed again, the captured moment replaying.

Al wrenched his eyes away, clearing his throat. A house-elf peered concernedly at him from her portrait. He mustered a smile for her and backed away a bit, trying to see the faces further up. His attention was drawn to a bright photo of a witch with a heart-shaped face, eyes playful as the shade of her hair graduated along the color spectrum.

No nameplate was necessary--she had to be Nymphadora Tonks. And if she was Teddy's mother, then the tired-looking man in the frame next to her had to be...

Remus Lupin stared calmly from his chair, his worn, scarred face belying his age. His mouth, though closed, curled at the corners, hinting at a smile Al was certain would have been just as mischievous as his son's.

He wished he had one of Hagrid's chairs, so he could examine their photos properly.

"Al." Scor waved him over to where he stood, near the middle of the wall. "The spy himself," he said, grinning up at a grand portrait that most definitely did not return the favor.

Al had seen photos of Severus Snape before, heard stories of the notorious Potions Master, the quadruple-agent Death Eater, the brief Headmaster, who had risked everything in the name of the woman he loved. Descriptions of the man always differed depending on who was telling the story, but looking at his portrait, Al saw they had gotten the major points right: lank hair that hung to his shoulders, a curving nose that dominated his pallid face, and dark, impenetrable eyes.

Snape was staring off to the side, seemingly lost in thought, his expression slack. Al could not help but think he seemed out of place--a fine portrait, ornately framed--amongst the smaller photos and paintings. He occupied the very center of the wall, prominently displayed at the heart of the memorial.

"My dad says he was one of the bravest wizards he ever knew," said Al, speaking almost unconsciously.

Scor chuckled. "And--for him to have been in Slytherin, he was even more cunning than he was brave."

Al had never thought of it that way. "...Yeah," he said. Gazing up at Severus Snape, Al felt his mouth curving in a smile.

"You look daft," said Scor absently, turning away. "We should start on the trophies. Don't want Filch wagging his gums at us."

He need not have worried, as it turned out they had plenty of time. Filch did not reappear until at least eleven, as the clock was just chiming the half hour when they finally stumbled through the sliding wall, exhausted and reeking of Ms. Powell's All-Purpose Polish. The Slytherin common room was packed with students, all staying up late, taking advantage of the Friday night. Scor headed for Paul and Matthias, tucked away in a corner by the tapestry of Paracelsus. Al hesitated, then continued on towards the dormitories.

He and Scor were on speaking terms, he supposed, but once they had got to polishing neither had said much, out of respect for the memorial lying just out of sight. Since Scor apparently had noticed Al staying away from him, and had sort of apologized in his own nonsensical way, Al figured he could relax his evasion tactics a bit.

But he was tired, and a full common room made him slightly nervous. Better to stay out of sight, safe in his bed.

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

On their way to lunch the next day, the first year Slytherins were waylaid by a small crowd gathered in front of the notice board in the Entrance Hall. Abbey squealed and shoved her way to the wall, returning to shout: "Flying Lessons! Thursdays after class, with the Ravenclaws!"

"Hooray," muttered Sarah-May, twirling her finger. Matthias and Argil broke into excited chatter, recounting the last time they flown. Scor, surprisingly, was quiet, contemplating the notice board with a furrowed brow. As they all walked off for the double doors, however, Al noticed Ana lingering behind.

"All right?" he asked, sidestepping a group of upper-years.

Ana nodded, eyeing the Flying schedule. "Fine. It's just..." She looked at Al, embarrassed. "I've never flown before," she admitted quietly.

"Oh," said Al. "Well, that's why we're having lessons, isn't it? We're going to learn..."

"But everyone else already knows how," she said.

"The Muggleborns don't." Al rolled his eyes, remembering. "And I know there's at least one Muggleborn in Ravenclaw."

"Al," said Ana reprovingly, as they started for the Great Hall. Al's hand flew to his mouth, realizing how that must have sounded.

"I didn't mean--" he said. "I just--did something stupid, and the Ravenclaws are angry with me, and it's--annoying."

Ana shot Al a confused glance, but said nothing. Passing through the double doors, Al felt something press briefly against his back, but when he looked at Ana, she was busy staring along the Slytherin table, searching for a place to sit.

"The others are near the end," she said, leading the way.

About halfway along the long table, Al's neck began to prickle. Jerking his head around, he saw most of Ravenclaw and a large portion of Slytherin staring back at him. He quickened his step, face reddening at the sound of muffled laughter, and had almost reached the place where Scor had saved him a seat when something hard collided with his side, sending him stumbling into Ana.

"What the--" He whipped around, glaring at the young Ravenclaw boy whose arm was still extended. The boy's surrounding housemates sniggered into their plates. Behind him, Al heard a gasp and the sound of tearing parchment as Ana ripped something off his back.

"Five points from Ravenclaw!"

Al turned to see Violet Urquhart staring furiously at the Ravenclaw table. Al felt someone tugging on his hand, guiding him to sit. At the teachers' table, Crowburn had looked up at the commotion, but apparently decided his prefect had the situation under control.

"Oi, Weasley!" Violet shouted, standing. Farther down the Hall, Ignatius glanced up, mouth full of meat pie. "I better not catch one of yours attacking one of mine again!"

Righting himself on the bench, Al twisted an arm to feel around on his back, touching bits of parchment where the Sticking Charm still held. Beside him, Ana was crumpling the parchment into a ball, but Al grabbed it from her as she made to hide it in her pocket. Flattening it on his plate, the he saw SWAT ME, I'M A SLYTHERIN printed in thick, red ink.

No sooner had he read the words than Violet, across the table, snatched it away. "Give it here," she growled. At a tap from her wand, the parchment folded itself into a crane. Muttering under her breath, she waved her wand, and it stuttered into motion, flapping its papery wings.

Al watched as the crane launched itself into the air and fluttered over the heads of the Ravenclaws, then the Hufflepuffs. It began its descent over the Gryffindor table, veering left to alight delicately on a familiar shoulder.

"Oh look," said Violet. "It's found its master." She flicked her wand.

Across the hall, the crane burst into flame. James gave a shrill yelp, pawing at his shoulder as bits of ash fluttered above his head. He turned, eyes raking the Slytherin table, but Violet was casually sipping her soup. Al was hunched, half cowering in front of Ana.

"Is he staring at me?" he asked. "Does he think it was me?"

"If he has half a brain, he'll know it can't have been," said Violet. She cut her eyes to Al, who was still crouched with his head by Ana's plate, and arched her brow. "Unless you are an evil genius, like people are saying."

"Or unless my brother has less than half a brain, like I'm saying!" Al exclaimed, not at all reassured. Ana patted his head, nudging him off her plate.

"It'll be fine, Al," she said, forcing him upright. "You only ever see him at meals, anyway." Glancing at the Gryffindor table, she added: "And look, Rose is already giving him a scolding."

She was right--Rose was leaning out from the bench, barking at his brother, her face scrunched in such a way that she seemed a mini-version of his Aunt Hermione. James did not look very appreciative.

"I used to wish I had a brother," said Scor conversationally. He sat on Al's left, buttering a roll. "Younger, obviously--and he'd do whatever I asked and look up to me and always side with me over our parents."

"You used to wish you had dog, you mean," said Al with a snort.

"And I didn't even get that!" said Scor, aggrieved. "Mother gave me a 'choice' between a ferret and a goldfish--so of course I chose the ferret. This was right after she and father had a massive row, so he only found out when we brought Whiskers home and I'd already 'become attached,' Mother said."

Al laughed. Scor's mouth twitched in a grin, and he went on, telling anyone who cared to listen about the many troubles he had faced training a ferret at the age of eight. Al let Scor's voice carry him away from the Great Hall, grateful for the distraction.

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

That Monday before Astronomy, Rose pulled Al aside.

"I've talked to him, Al," she said. "I saw what he did. Teasing is one thing, but if your Dad heard he was making fun of you for your House--"

"Rose, don't!" said Al, alarmed. "Really, it's not a big deal--"

"It's not fair," said Rose, shaking her head stubbornly. "You don't know what he's been saying, Al--horrible stuff! And you know he's just doing it for attention. You shouldn't put up with it."

"I don't have to put up with it--I'm not there!"

"Well, then I shouldn't put up with it," said Rose, heading back to her desk. "Don't worry. I've taken care of it."

Which is why, Al assumed, James was calling his name in the Entrance Hall as he trailed behind the rest of the Slytherins on their way to supper. He considered pretending not to hear him, maybe hide in front of Matthias...

"Al! ALIE!"

Cringing, Al stopped. He hated being called Alie. He motioned for Ana to go on without him--if James was set on embarrassing him, he did not want witnesses. He stayed where he was, making James walk around to face him. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Rose, watching them with her arms crossed over her chest.

"Had to go running to Rose, did you?" muttered James, avoiding Al's eyes. "She's threatening to write home, you know. Merlin, she's worse than Mum." He glanced off to the side, where Rose was tapping her foot, and sighed with exasperation. "Whatever. I'm sorry I hurt your ickle feelings and stuck a Swat Me sign on your back. I promise not to do it ever again." Head bowed, he peeked up at Al. "C'mon, lighten up on the glare or she won't think I apologized."

Al scoffed. "That was an apology?"

"Yeah... Hey, look!" said James, eyes lighting up. "You got Flying Lessons this week, yeah?" He twisted, squinting at the notice board. "Thursday? How's this--" He turned back to Al. "You stop glaring at me, I'll tell you a secret."

Al held out for about three seconds. "What--what kind of secret?"

"About the brooms they make the first years use. I remember from last year--there's only one they've got that's even close to what we're used to." He lowered his voice, and Al leaned in before he could stop himself. "Personal space, poof-meister!" James crowed, giving Al a slight shove.

Al gritted his teeth, flushing. He always fell for that one. "Tell me the secret or I'm glaring at you forever!"

"Okay, okay," said James, the smirk disappearing from his face. "There's an old German broom, called the Besen. Flies like a dream--and it's the only one that does, so I'd do my best to grab it. Won't respond to voice commands or anything, but that's just 'cause it was made before that was common, so... All right? No more Death Stare?"

Grudgingly, Al forced his face to relax, and nodded.

"Good enough," said James. "Good enough?" he repeated to Rose, raising his voice.

Rose moved her hands to her hips. "Fine."

"Nice talking to you, Alie. Hey, make sure you keep warm in that dungeon--nights are getting colder. Don't want you catching your death, do we?"

And with that, his brother walked away.