◄✩༄*∗"And it's Johnson, Johnson with the Quaffle, what a player that girl is, I've been saying it for years but she still won't go out with me."∗*༄✩►
☼
◄✩༄*∗I, I wonder how many things
you think about before you get to me
I wonder how many things you wanna do,
you think I'm in-between
I feel myself fallin' further down your priorities
And I still make excuses for you constantly
I wonder how many things you think about
Before, before you get to me ∗*༄✩►
— how many things | Sabrina Carpenter
【 ✧ ☾⋆☼⋆☽ ✧ 】
HERMIONE SOON DEVISED A VERY CLEVER METHOD of communicating the time and date of the next meeting to all the members in case they needed to change it at short notice, because it would look so suspicious if people from different Houses were seen crossing the Great Hall to talk to each other too often (and as much as we promote inter-house unity, there were some boundaries that still needed to be drawn). She gave each of the members of the D.A. a fake Galleon (Ron became very excited when he saw the basket at first, convinced that she was actually giving out gold).
"You see the numerals around the edge of the coins?" Hermione said, holding one up for examination at the end of their fourth meeting. The coin gleamed fat and yellow in the light from the torches. "On real Galleons that's just a serial number referring to the goblin who cast the coin. On these fake coins, though, the numbers will change to reflect the time and date of the next meeting. The coins will grow hot when the date changes, so if you're carrying them in a pocket you'll be able to feel them. We take one each, and when Harry sets the date of the next meeting he'll change the numbers on his coin, and because I've put a Protean Charm on them, they'll all change to mimic his."
A blank silence greeted Hermione's words. She looked around at all the faces upturned to her, rather disconcerted.
"Well—I thought it was a good idea," she said uncertainly, "I mean, even if Umbridge asked us to turn out our pockets, there's nothing fishy about carrying a Galleon, is there? But . . . well, if you don't want to use them . . ."
"You can do a Protean Charm?" said Terry Boot.
"Yes," said Hermione.
"But that's . . . that's N.E.W.T. standard, that is," he said weakly.
"So?" said Y/N, her nose scrunched. "You hex like you're still a first-year, what's your point?"
Harry sent her a dangerous look.
"Be nice," he mouthed. She rolled her eyes.
"How come you're not in Ravenclaw?" he demanded, staring at Hermione with something close to wonder. "With brains like yours?"
"Well, the Sorting Hat did seriously consider putting me in Ravenclaw during my Sorting," said Hermione brightly, "but it decided on Gryffindor in the end. So does that mean we're using the Galleons?"
There was a murmur of assent and everybody moved forward to collect one from the basket. Harry looked sideways at Hermione as Y/N held the basket, pocketing one herself.
"You know what these remind me of?"
"No, what's that?"
"The Death Eaters' scars. Voldemort touches one of them, and all their scars burn, and they know they've got to join him."
"Well . . . yes," said Hermione quietly. "That is where I got the idea . . . but you'll notice I decided to engrave the date on bits of metal rather than on our members' skin . . ."
"Yeah . . . I prefer your way," said Harry, grinning, as he slipped his Galleon into his pocket. "I suppose the only danger with these is that we might accidentally spend them."
"Fat chance," said Ron, who was examining his own fake Galleon with a slightly mournful air. "I haven't got any real Galleons to confuse it with."
As the first Quidditch match of the season, Gryffindor versus Slytherin, drew nearer, their D.A. meetings were put on hold because Angelina insisted on almost daily practices. The fact that the Quidditch Cup had not been held for so long added considerably to the interest and excitement surrounding the forthcoming game. The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were taking a lively interest in the outcome, for they, of course, would be playing both teams over the coming year; and the Heads of House of the competing teams, though they attempted to disguise it under a decent pretense of sportsmanship, were determined to see their side's victory. Y/N realized how much Professor McGonagall cared about beating Slytherin when she abstained from giving them homework in the week leading up to the match.
"I think you've got enough to be getting on with at the moment," she said loftily. Nobody could quite believe their ears until she looked directly at Y/N, Harry, and Ron and said grimly, "I've become accustomed to seeing the Quidditch Cup in my study, you three, and I really don't want to have to hand it over to Professor Snape, so use the extra time to practice, won't you?"
Snape was no less obviously partisan: He had booked the Quidditch pitch for Slytherin practice so often that the Gryffindors had difficulty getting on it to play. He was also turning a deaf ear to the many reports of Slytherin attempts to hex Gryffindor players in the corridors. When Katie Bell turned up in the hospital wing with her eyebrows growing so thick and fast that they obscured her vision and obstructed her mouth, Snape insisted that she must have attempted a Hair-Thickening Charm on herself and refused to listen to the fourteen eyewitnesses who insisted that they had seen the Slytherin Keeper, Miles Bletchley, hit her from behind with a jinx while she worked in the library.
Y/N felt optimistic about Gryffindor's chances; she had been working well with Katie and Angelina in going through several different plays, including the Hawkshead Attacking Formation and the Porskoff Ploy. Admittedly Ron was still not performing to Wood's standard, but he was working extremely hard to improve. His greatest weakness was a tendency to lose confidence when he made a blunder; if he let in one goal he became flustered and was therefore likely to miss more.
On the other hand, Y/N had seen Ron make some truly spectacular saves when he was on form: During one memorable practice, he had hung one-handed from his broom and kicked her Quaffle so hard away from the goal hoop that it soared the length of the pitch and through the center hoop at the other end. The rest of the team felt this save compared favorably with one made recently by Barry Ryan, the Irish International Keeper, against Poland's top Chaser, Ladislaw Zamojski. Even Fred had said that Ron might yet make him and George proud, and that they were seriously considering admitting that he was related to them, something he assured Ron they had been trying to deny for four years.
The only thing really worrying was how much Ron was allowing the tactics of the Slytherin team to upset him before they even got onto the pitch. Harry, of course, had endured their snide comments for more than four years, so whispers of, "Hey, Potty, I heard Warrington's sworn to knock you off your broom on Saturday," far made him laugh. "Warrington's aim's so pathetic I'd be more worried if he was aiming for the person next to me," he'd retorted, which made Y/N, Ron, and Hermione laugh and wiped the smirk off Pansy Parkinson's face.
But Ron had never endured a relentless campaign of insults, jeers, and intimidation. When Slytherins, some of them seventh years and considerably larger than he was, muttered as they passed in the corridors, "Got your bed booked in the hospital wing, Weasley?" he did not laugh, but turned a delicate shade of green. When Draco Malfoy imitated Ron dropping the Quaffle (which he did whenever they were within sight of each other), Ron's ears glowed red and his hands shook so badly that he was likely to drop whatever he was holding at the time too.
Y/N had received her fair share of it, too, but she handled it much like Harry, where she would retort something witty back or threaten someone with a calculative hex. She was uncomfortable, however, when many of the boys were saying gross things like, "You can use my bed when you pass out on the field!" or the girls were making comments about how her face wouldn't be so pretty after being hit by a bludger ("My face'll still be a right sight better than the Puking Pastille look you have going on," she'd said in turn).
October extinguished itself in a rush of howling winds and driving rain and November arrived, cold as frozen iron, with hard frosts every morning and icy drafts that bit at exposed hands and faces. The skies and the ceiling of the Great Hall turned a pale, pearly gray, the mountains around Hogwarts became snowcapped, and the temperature in the castle dropped so far that many students wore their thick protective dragon skin gloves in the corridors between lessons.
The morning of the match dawned bright and cold. Y/N, who'd woken up earlier than usual, stared out of the window with a bloodless face, her stomach bubbling in anxiety as Parvati plaited her hair. Maybe she shouldn't have tried out . . .
"You all right?" said Hermione, dressing in a Gryffindor jumper, jeans, and a thick red-and-gold scarf.
"Peachy," Y/N croaked as Parvati finished. "Thanks, Parvati . . ."
"Thank me by winning," she said and winked, leaving the dormitory.
"You just need some breakfast," Hermione said promptly and Y/N nodded unsurely. "C'mon."
The Great Hall was filling up fast when they arrived, the talk louder and the mood more exuberant than usual. As they passed the Slytherin table there was an upsurge of noise; Y/N looked around and saw that nearly everyone there was wearing, in addition to the usual green-and-silver scarves and hats, silver badges in the shape of what seemed to be crowns. Harry and Ron (who looked pale and sickly) joined them; for some reason many of the Slytherins waved at Ron, laughing uproariously.
They received a rousing welcome at the Gryffindor table, where everyone was wearing red and gold, but far from raising Ron's spirits the cheers seemed to sap the last of his morale; he collapsed onto the nearest bench looking as though he were facing his final meal.
"I must've been mental to do this," he said in a croaky whisper. "Mental."
"Don't be thick," said Harry firmly, passing him a choice of cereals.
"You're going to be fine. It's normal to be nervous," Y/N said, though her brows were furrowed as she over-jellied her toast with shaky hands.
"I'm rubbish," croaked Ron. "I'm lousy. I can't play to save my life. What was I thinking?"
"Get a grip," said Harry sternly. "Look at that save you made with your foot the other day, even Fred and George said it was brilliant—"
Ron turned a tortured face to Harry.
"That was an accident," he whispered miserably. "I didn't mean to do it—I slipped off my broom when none of you were looking and I was trying to get back on and I kicked the Quaffle by accident."
Y/N's stomach dropped in disappointment.
"Well," said Harry, "a few more accidents like that and the game's in the bag, isn't it?"
Hermione and Ginny sat down opposite them wearing red-and-gold scarves, gloves, and rosettes.
"How're you feeling?" Ginny asked Ron, who was now staring into the dregs of milk at the bottom of his empty cereal bowl as though seriously considering attempting to drown himself in them.
"He's just nervous," said Harry.
"Well, that's a good sign, I never feel you perform as well in exams if you're not a bit nervous," said Hermione heartily.
"Hello," said a vague and dreamy voice from behind them. Y/N looked up: Luna Lovegood had drifted over from the Ravenclaw table. Many people were staring at her and a few openly laughing and pointing; she had managed to procure a hat shaped like a life-size lion's head, which was perched precariously on her head.
"I'm supporting Gryffindor," said Luna, pointing unnecessarily at her hat. "Look what it does . . ."
She reached up and tapped the hat with her wand. It opened its mouth wide and gave an extremely realistic roar that made everyone in the vicinity jump.
"It's good, isn't it?" said Luna happily. "I wanted to have it chewing up a serpent to represent Slytherin, you know, but there wasn't time. Anyway . . . good luck, Ronald!"
She drifted away. They had not quite recovered from the shock of Luna's hat before Angelina came hurrying toward them, accompanied by Katie, whose eyebrows had mercifully been returned to normal by Madam Pomfrey.
"When you're ready," she said, "we're going to go straight down to the pitch, check out conditions and change."
"We'll be there in a bit," Harry assured her. "Ron and Y/N's just got to have some breakfast."
It became clear after ten minutes, however, that Ron was not capable of eating anything more. As they rose from the table, Hermione got up too, and taking Harry's arm, she drew him to one side. Y/N was mumbling words of support to Ron, though more than herself to him. Ron had just ambled over to Harry and Hermione, looking lost and desperate as Y/N followed.
"Good luck, Ron," said Hermione, standing on tiptoe and kissing him on the cheek. "And you, Y/N, Harry—"
Ron seemed to come to himself slightly as they walked back across the Great Hall. He touched the spot on his face where Hermione had kissed him, looking puzzled, as though he was not quite sure what had just happened. He seemed too distracted to notice much around him, but Y/N cast a curious glance at the crown-shaped badges as they passed the Slytherin table, and this time she made out the words etched onto them:
WEASLEY
IS OUR KING
With an unpleasant feeling that this could mean nothing good, she and Harry hurried Ron across the entrance hall, down the stone steps, and out into the icy air.
The frosty grass crunched under their feet as they hurried down the sloping lawns toward the stadium. There was no wind at all and the sky was a uniform pearly white, which meant that visibility would be good without the drawback of direct sunlight in the eyes. Harry pointed out these encouraging factors to Y/N and Ron as they walked, but Y/N was not sure that Ron was listening.
Angelina had changed already and was talking to the rest of the team when they entered. Y/N, Harry, and Ron pulled on their robes and then sat down to listen to the pre-match talk while the babble of voices outside grew steadily louder as the crowd came pouring out of the castle toward the pitch.
"Okay, I've only just found out the final lineup for Slytherin," said Angelina, consulting a piece of parchment. "Last year's Beaters, Derrick and Bole, have left now, but it looks as though Montague's replaced them with the usual gorillas, rather than anyone who can fly particularly well. They're two blokes called Crabbe and Goyle, I don't know much about them—"
"We do," said Y/N, Harry, and Ron together.
"Well, they don't look bright enough to tell one end of a broom from another," said Angelina, pocketing her parchment, "but then I was always surprised Derrick and Bole managed to find their way onto the pitch without signposts."
"Crabbe and Goyle are in the same mold," Harry assured her.
They could hear hundreds of footsteps mounting the banked benches of the spectators' stands now. Some people were singing, though Y/N could not make out the words. She was still nervous, but she knew his butterflies were as nothing to Ron's, who was clutching his stomach and staring straight ahead again, his jaw set and his complexion pale gray.
"It's time," said Angelina in a hushed voice, looking at her watch. "C'mon everyone . . . good luck."
The team rose, shouldered their brooms, and marched in single file out of the changing room and into the dazzling sky. A roar of sound greeted them in which Y/N could still hear singing, though it was muffled by the cheers and whistles.
The Slytherin team was standing waiting for them. They too were wearing those silver crown-shaped badges. The new captain, Montague, was built along the same lines as Dudley, with massive forearms like hairy hams. Behind him lurked Crabbe and Goyle, almost as large, blinking stupidly, swinging their new Beaters' bats. Malfoy stood to one side, the sunlight gleaming on his white-blond head. He smirked, tapping the crown-shaped badge on his chest.
"Captains shake hands," ordered the umpire, Madam Hooch, as Angelina and Montague reached each other. Y/N could tell that Montague was trying to crush Angelina's fingers, though she did not wince. "Mount your brooms . . ."
Madam Hooch placed her whistle in her mouth and blew.
The balls were released and the fourteen players shot upward; Angelina dove forward and seized the Quaffle. With her heart hopeful, Y/N raced down the pitch beside her, Katie behind them.
"And it's Johnson, Johnson with the Quaffle, what a player that girl is, I've been saying it for years but she still won't go out with me—"
"JORDAN!" yelled Professor McGonagall.
"Just a fun fact, Professor, adds a bit of interest—and she's ducked Warrington, she's passed Montague, she's—ouch—been hit from behind by a Bludger from Crabbe. . . . Montague catches the Quaffle, Montague heading back up the pitch and—nice Bludger there from George Weasley, that's a Bludger to the head for Montague, he drops the Quaffle, caught by Katie Bell, Katie Bell of Gryffindor reverse passes to Y/N Andliet and Andilet's away—"
Lee Jordan's commentary rang through the stadium and Y/N barely registered it, listening for any of Katie's or Angelina's calls instead as her heart hammered in her chest. She swerved around Warrington, barely dodging the Bludger that came around him.
"—dodges Warrington, avoids a Bludger—close call, Y/N—and the crowd are loving this, just listen to them, what's that they're singing?"
And as Lee paused to listen the song rose loud and clear from the sea of green and silver in the Slytherin section of the stands:
Weasley cannot save a thing,
He cannot block a single ring,
That's why Slytherins all sing:
Weasley is our King.
Weasley was born in a bin,
He always lets the Quaffle in,
Weasley will make sure we win,
Weasley is our King.
"—and Y/N passes back to Angelina!" Lee shouted, and as Y/N swerved, her insides boiling at what she had just heard, she knew Lee was trying to drown out the sound of the singing. "Come on now, Angelina—looks like she's got just the Keeper to beat!—SHE SHOOTS—SHE—aaaah . . ."
Bletchley, the Slytherin Keeper, had saved the goal; he threw the Quaffle to Warrington who sped off with it, zigzagging in between Y/N and Katie; the singing from below grew louder and louder as he drew nearer and nearer Ron—
Weasley is our King,
Weasley is our King,
He always lets the Quaffle in,
Weasley is our King.
Y/N tried to shoulder Warrington and take the Quaffle, but he was far too big; Ron, a lone figure at the far end of the pitch, hovered before the three goal hoops while the massive Warrington pelted toward him, having fended off both Y/N and Katie . . .
"—and it's Warrington with the Quaffle, Warrington heading for goal, he's out of Bludger range with just the Keeper ahead—"
A great swell of song rose from the Slytherin stands below:
Weasley cannot save a thing,
He cannot block a single ring . . .
"—so it's the first test for new Gryffindor Keeper, Weasley, brother of Beaters, Fred and George, and a promising new talent on the team—come on, Ron!"
But the scream of delight came from the Slytherin end: Ron had dived wildly, his arms wide, and the Quaffle had soared between them, straight through Ron's central hoop.
"Come on, Ron!" Y/N groaned, swerving her Nimbus away to pelt up the field.
"Slytherin score!" came Lee's voice amid the cheering and booing from the crowds below. "So that's ten-nil to Slytherin—bad luck, Ron . . ."
The Slytherins sang even louder:
WEASLEY WAS BORN IN A BIN,
HE ALWAYS LETS THE QUAFFLE IN . . .
"—and Gryffindor back in possession and it's Katie Bell tanking up the pitch—" cried Lee valiantly, though the singing was now so deafening that he could hardly make himself heard above it.
WEASLEY WILL MAKE SURE WE WIN,
WEASLEY IS OUR KING . . .
Y/N, closely following Katie, swerved as she almost hit Harry, who was simply hovering in mid-air; she hit him in the back of the head as she passed and Angelina screamed at him to get moving.
WEASLEY IS OUR KING,
WEASLEY IS OUR KING . . .
Katie passed the Quaffle behind her to Y/N, who whirled out of the way to avoid a Bludger sent by a grinning Goyle; scowling, she sneered at Adrian Pucey, who smirked at her as he dove forward—swerving, she sent the Quaffle down the Angelina, who'd been flying below her, but Warrington roughly flew into her and grabbed the Quaffle from her grasp.
WEASLEY WAS BORN IN A BIN . . .
"—and it's Warrington again," bellowed Lee, "who passes to Pucey, Pucey's dodged Andilet, come on now Angelina, you can take him—turns out you can't—but nice Bludger from Fred Weasley, I mean, George Weasley, oh who cares, one of them anyway, and Warrington drops the Quaffle and Katie Bell—er—drops it too—so that's Montague with the Quaffle, Slytherin Captain Montague takes the Quaffle, and he's off up the pitch, come on now Gryffindor, block him!"
WEASLEY CANNOT SAVE A THING . . .
Montague passed the Quaffle to Pucey and Y/N shoulder Pucey, who swerved out of the way and sped forward, saying to her with a grin, "Catch you later, pretty girl!"
"—and Pucey's dodged Y/N again, and he's heading straight for goal, stop it, Ron!"
There was a terrible groan from the Gryffindor end, coupled with fresh screams and applause from the Slytherins, who were roaring:
THAT'S WHY SLYTHERINS ALL SING:
WEASLEY IS OUR KING.
But twenty–nil was nothing, there was still time for Gryffindor to catch up or catch the Snitch, a few goals and they would be in the lead as usual, Y/N assured herself, bobbing and weaving through the other players in pursuit of the Quaffle.
But Ron let in two more goals. There was an edge of panic in Y/N as she sent the Quaffle to Katie. She found herself egging Harry to find the Snitch quickly, to just get this game over with for Ron's sake . . .
"—and Katie Bell of Gryffindor dodges Pucey, ducks Montague, nice swerve, Katie, and she throws to Johnson, Angelina Johnson takes the Quaffle, she's past Warrington, she's heading for goal, come on now Angelina—GRYFFINDOR SCORE! It's forty–ten, forty–ten to Slytherin and Pucey has the Quaffle . . ."
Y/N could hear Luna's ludicrous lion hat roaring amidst the Gryffindor cheers and felt heartened; only thirty points in it, that was nothing, they could pull back easily.
"—Pucey throws to Warrington, Warrington to Montague, Montague back to Pucey—Johnson intervenes, Johnson takes the Quaffle, Johnson to Bell, this looks good—I mean bad—Bell's hit by a Bludger from Goyle of Slytherin and it's Pucey in possession again . . ."
WEASLEY WAS BORN IN A BIN,
HE ALWAYS LETS THE QUAFFLE IN,
WEASLEY WILL MAKE SURE WE WIN—
Y/N, behind Adrian Pucey, shot forward and seized the Quaffle. With a sharp tug, she'd snatched it from him and swerved away, grinning at his surprised expression as she pelted down the field—
Madam Hooch's shrill whistle commenced the game and Y/N, looking around, found Harry at the floor of the pitch, flat on his back with his hands clutching something glittery. She grinned to herself; he'd caught the Snitch!
"So you finally got me," Adrian Pucey said as he flew over to Y/N, a lazy smirk on his face as they slowly lowered to the field. Y/N glanced at him; he was a sixth-year she'd seen a couple of times around the corridors and on the field, and was also quite attractive: tall with dirty-blonde hair, he had a lot of the Slytherin girls—even girls from other Houses—swooning over him.
"'Course I did," she grinned, holding up the Quaffle in his face. He glanced at it before his hazel eyes trailed over to hers, gleaming with mischief. She noticed that he didn't wear one of those wretched badges. "Third time's the charm, eh?"
"Too right you are," he muttered, turning his broom in the direction of the Slytherin team. "Catch you later?"
Y/N giggled and nodded, landing on the ground a moment later and high-fiving Katie, who was grinning in triumph. Noticing that Ron was missing, she looked around; he had dismounted from his broom over by the goalposts and was making his way slowly back to the changing rooms alone.
"We wanted to write another couple of verses!" Malfoy called, as Y/N and Katie hugged Harry when he walked over. "But we couldn't find rhymes for fat and ugly—we wanted to sing about his mother, see—"
"Talk about sour grapes," said Angelina, casting Malfoy a disgusted look. Y/N glared at him too.
"Rotten ferret," she said, her jaw ticking.
"—we couldn't fit in useless loser either—for his father, you know—"
Fred and George had realized what Malfoy was talking about. Halfway through sandwiching Y/N, they stiffened, looking around at Malfoy.
"Leave it," said Angelina at once, taking Fred by the arm. "Leave it, Fred, let him yell, he's just sore he lost, the jumped-up little—"
"—but you like the Weasleys, don't you, Potter?" said Malfoy, sneering. "Spend holidays there and everything, don't you? Can't see how you stand the stink, but I suppose when you've been dragged up by Muggles even the Weasleys' hovel smells okay—"
Harry grabbed hold of George; meanwhile it was taking the combined efforts of Angelina, Y/N, and Katie to stop Fred leaping on Malfoy, who was laughing openly. Y/N looked around for Madam Hooch, but she was still berating Crabbe for an illegal Bludger attack.
"Or perhaps," said Malfoy, leering as he backed away, "you can remember what your mother's house stank like, Potter, and Weasley's pigsty reminds you of it—"
Harry released George, and the only thing Y/N knew was that both of them were sprinting at Malfoy. She watched, still clutching Fred's robes, as Harry drew back the fist clutching the Snitch and sank it into Malfoy's stomach—
"Harry! HARRY! GEORGE! NO!"
The only sounds around them were Y/N, Angelina, and Alicia all screaming for them to stop, Malfoy yelling, George swearing, a whistle blowing, and then someone yelled "IMPEDIMENTA!" and finally, Harry was shot backward, a dangerous look on his face as he glared at Malfoy.
"What do you think you're doing?" screamed Madam Hooch, as Harry leapt to his feet again; it was she who had hit him with the Impediment Jinx. She was holding her whistle in one hand and a wand in the other, her broom lay abandoned several feet away. Malfoy was curled up on the ground, whimpering and moaning, his nose bloody; George was sporting a swollen lip; Fred was still being forcibly restrained by Y/N, Angelina, and Katie, and Crabbe was cackling in the background. "I've never seen behavior like it—back up to the castle, both of you, and straight to your Head of House's office! Go! Now!"
【 ✧ ☾⋆☼⋆☽ ✧ 】
"Banned," said Angelina in a hollow voice, late that evening in the common room. "Banned. No Seeker and no Beaters . . . What on earth are we going to do?"
It did not feel as though they had won the match at all. Everywhere Y/N looked there were disconsolate and angry faces; the team themselves were slumped around the fire, all apart from Ron, who had not been seen since the end of the match.
"It's just so unfair," said Y/N numbly; she and Hermione were sitting on either side of Harry. "I mean, what about Crabbe and that Bludger he hit after the whistle had been blown? Has she banned him?"
"No," said Ginny miserably, who was sitting in front of Y/N. "He just got lines, I heard Montague laughing about it at dinner."
"And banning Fred when he didn't even do anything!" said Y/N furiously, pummeling her knee with her fist.
"It's not my fault I didn't," said Fred, with a very ugly look on his face. "I would've pounded the little scumbag to a pulp if you three hadn't been holding me back."
Y/N glanced at the dark window. Snow was falling. The Snitch Harry had caught earlier was now zooming around and around the common room; people were watching its progress as though hypnotized and Crookshanks was leaping from chair to chair, trying to catch it.
"I'm going to bed," said Angelina, getting slowly to her feet. "Maybe this will all turn out to have been a bad dream. . . . Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow and find we haven't played yet . . ."
She was soon followed by Katie. Fred and George sloped off to bed some time later, glowering at everyone they passed, and Ginny went not long after that. Only Y/N, Harry, and Hermione were left beside the fire.
"Have you seen Ron?" Hermione asked in a low voice.
Harry shook his head, Y/N doing the same.
"I think he's avoiding us," said Hermione. "Where do you think he—?"
But at that precise moment, there was a creaking sound behind them as the Fat Lady swung forward and Ron came clambering through the portrait hole. He was very pale indeed and there was snow in his hair. When he saw Y/N, Harry, and Hermione he stopped dead in his tracks.
"Where have you been?" said Hermione anxiously, springing up.
"Walking," Ron mumbled. He was still wearing his Quidditch gear.
"You look frozen," said Hermione. "Come and sit down!"
Ron walked to the fireside and sank into the chair farthest from Harry and Y/N, not looking at them. The stolen Snitch zoomed over their heads.
"I'm sorry," Ron mumbled, looking at his feet.
"What for?" said Harry.
"For thinking I can play Quidditch," said Ron. "I'm going to resign first thing tomorrow."
"If you resign," said Harry testily, "there'll only be three players left on the team." And when Ron looked puzzled, he said, "I've been given a lifetime ban. So've Fred and George."
"What?" Ron yelped.
Hermione told him the full story; when she had finished, Ron looked more anguished than ever.
"This is all my fault—"
"You didn't make me punch Malfoy," said Harry angrily.
"—if I wasn't so lousy at Quidditch—"
"—it's got nothing to do with that—"
"—it was that song that wound me up—"
"—it would've wound anyone up—"
Hermione got up and walked to the window, away from the argument, watching the snow swirling down against the pane.
"Look, drop it, will you!" Harry burst out. "It's bad enough without you blaming yourself for everything!"
Ron said nothing but sat gazing miserably at the damp hem of his robes. After a while he said in a dull voice, "This is the worst I've ever felt in my life."
"Join the club," said Harry bitterly, sitting back. Y/N, who was leaning forward, put her head between her hands and shook it, sighing deeply.
"Well," said Hermione, her voice trembling. "I can think of one thing that might cheer you three up."
"Oh yeah?" said Harry skeptically.
"Yeah," said Hermione, turning away from the pitch-black, snow-flecked window, a broad smile spreading across her face. "Hagrid's back."