Miranda feels happier for the rest of the weekend than she has done all term. The knowledge that they are doing something to resist Umbridge and the Ministry, and that she is a key part of the rebellion, gives her a feeling of immense satisfaction. She and Hermione headed downstairs from their dormitory together, discussing the rather lengthy essay Snape had set them, and not until they are halfway across the sunlit common room do they notice the addition to the room that has already attracted the attention of a small group of people.

    A large sign has been affixed to the Gryffindor notice board, so large that it covers everything else on there. The new sign is printed in large black letters and there is a highly official-looking seal at the bottom beside a neat and curly signature.

    Miranda and Hermione read the notice over the heads of some second years. Hermione frowns anxiously, lips moving as her eyes scan the loopy cursive, "She didn't."

    Miranda reads the notice through again. The happiness that had filled her since Saturday is gone. Her insides are pulsing with rage. "This isn't a coincidence,"  she shakes her head. "She knows."

    "She can't,"  Hermione insists, disbelieving.

    "Oi!" Miranda beckons over the two boys, who have just come down from their own room. "Have you seen this?"

    "What?" Harry's eyes slide rapidly down the notice. His expression becomes stony.

    "Someone must have blabbed to her!" Ron says angrily.
     "They can't have done," Hermione insists again, in a low voice.
     "You're so naive," Ron scoffs, "you think just because you're all honorable and trustworthy —"

    Hermione sucks in her cheeks. "No, they can't have done because I put a jinx on that piece of parchment we all signed," Hermione tells them grimly. "Believe me, if anyone's run off and told Umbridge, we'll know exactly who they are and they will really regret it."

    "What'll happen to them?" Ron leans in eagerly.

    "Well, put it this way," Hermione hints, "it'll make Eloise Midgen's acne look like a couple of cute freckles. Come on, let's get down to breakfast and see what the others think. . . . I wonder whether this has been put up in all the Houses?"

    It is immediately apparent on entering the Great Hall that Umbridge's sign had not only appeared in Gryffindor Tower. There is a peculiar intensity about the chatter and an extra measure of movement in the Hall as people scurry up and down their tables conferring on what they had read. Harry, Ron, Miranda, and Hermione have barely taken their seats when Neville, Dean, Fred, George, and Ginny descend upon them.

    "Did you see it?"
     "D'you reckon she knows?"
     "What are we going to do?"
     They are all looking to Harry. Hoping for some sort of direction. An answer Miranda knew he could not give. She wonders if it's too much. The pressure. She longs to ask, but doesn't want to set him off.
     "We're going to do it anyway, of course," Harry answers determinedly
     "Knew you'd say that," George beams and thumps Harry on the back.
     "Here comes Ernie and Hannah Abbott," Ron glances over his shoulder. "And those Ravenclaw blokes and Smith . . . and no one looks very spotty."

    Hermione looks vaguely alarmed. "Never mind spots, the idiots can't come over here now, it'll look really suspicious — sit down!" she mouths to Ernie and Hannah, gesturing frantically to them to rejoin the Hufflepuff table. "Later! We'll — talk — to — you — later!"

    The day continues on in a dreary fashion, Miranda watching the minutes in each of her classes tick down at a sloth like pace. They still are unaware of the full extent of Umbridge's power, the effects of her so called decree. These unknowns make Miranda wary. Wary of what is to come. She looks forward to the meeting all day. Finally, the time arrives.

    "Okay," Harry mutters quietly to the three of them, creeping through the corridors. "Dobby said to walk past this bit of wall three times, concentrating hard on what we need."

    Currently, they are trying to get into the Room of Requirement. Miranda has never come across it. Never needed it. They follow Harry's direction, turning sharply at the window just beyond the blank stretch of wall, then at the man-size vase on its other side. 

    "Harry," Hermione says sharply, as they wheel around after their third walk past. A highly polished door has appeared in the wall. Harry reaches out, seizing the brass handle, and pulls open the door, leading the way into a spacious room lit with flickering torches like those that illuminate the dungeons eight floors below.

    The walls are lined with wooden bookcases, and instead of chairs there are large silk cushions on the floor. A set of shelves at the far end of the room carry a range of instruments such as Sneakoscopes, Secrecy Sensors, and a large, cracked Foe-Glass.

    "These will be good when we're practicing Stunning," Miranda exclaims, prodding one of the cushions with her foot.

    "And just look at these books!" Hermione breathes excitedly, running a finger along the spines of the large leather-bound tomes. "A Compendium of Common Curses and Their Counter-Actions . . . The Dark Arts Outsmarted . . . Self-Defensive Spellwork . . . wow . . .Harry, this is wonderful, there's everything we need here!" And without further ado she slides Jinxes for the Jinxed from its shelf, sinks onto the nearest cushion, and begins to read. There is a gentle knock on the door. Ginny, Neville, Lavender, Parvati, and Dean have arrived.

    "Wicked," Ginny says, impressed. By the time eight o'clock arrives, every cushion is occupied. Miranda turns the key in the lock, securing the door with a satisfying click. It was time. They all look to Harry. Even Hermione, who had been deeply engrossed in her book, closes it.

    "Well," Harry dusts his hands, slightly nervous. "This is the place we've found for practices, and you've — er — obviously found it okay — and — what, Hermione?" Hermione's hand is raised very high in the air, and Harry looks rather embarrassed about it. Miranda stares at her friend with a bemused expression.

    "I think we ought to have a name," she explains brightly, her hand still in the air. "It would promote a feeling of team spirit and unity, don't you think?"

    "Can we be the Anti-Umbridge League?" says Angelina hopefully.

    "Or the Ministry of Magic Are Morons Group?" suggests Fred.

    "I was thinking," Hermione interjects, shooting a reprimanding look at Fred, "more of a name that didn't tell everyone what we were up to, so we can refer to it safely outside meetings."

    "The Defense Association?" offers Cho. "The D.A. for short, so no- body knows what we're talking about?"

    "Yeah, the D.A.'s good," Ginny agrees, and Miranda smarts a little. Ugh, why is she so jealous? It's awful. "Only let's make it stand for Dumbledore's Army because that's the Ministry's worst fear, isn't it?" There is a good deal of appreciative murmuring and laughter at this.
     "All in favor of the D.A.?" Hermione asks bossily, kneeling up on her cushion to count. "That's a majority — motion passed!" She pins the piece of paper with all of their names on it on the wall and writes DUMBLEDORE'S ARMY across the top in large letters.
     "Right," Harry clears his throat, when she had sat down again, "shall we get practicing then? I was thinking, the first thing we should do is Expelliarmus, you know, the Disarming Charm. I know it's pretty basic but I've found it really useful —"

    "Oh please," Zacharias Smith rolls his eyes, folding his arms. "I don't think Expelliarmus is exactly going to help us against You-Know-Who, do you?" Miranda finds that she'd wrote like to punch the smarmy blond in the nose right about now. And it seems her sentiment is shared by many others, as Fred and George l0ok like they want to shove their wands down his throat.

    "I've used it against him," Harry replies quietly. "It saved my life last June." Smith opens his mouth stupidly. The rest of the room is silent. Miranda bites back a smile. "But if you think it's beneath you, you can leave," Harry lifts a shoulder, calm, but firm. Smith does not move. Nor does anybody else. "Okay," Harry exhales, and Miranda is certain that his nerves are beginning to dissipate. Miranda gives him an encouraging smile, and across the room, notices Cho doing the same. Miranda's mood sours. "I reckon we should all divide into pairs and practice." Everybody gets to their feet at once and divides up.

    Ron, Hermione, and Miranda share several meaningful looks, each of their eyes bouncing from one to the other, unsure how to split their trio. Obviously, if Harry was here, he'd go with Ron and Hermione would go with Miranda. But Harry, Harry is roaming, teaching by the looks of it. And he looks strangely comfortable in the position, almost like it was meant for him all along.

Miranda decides to grab Ginny's hand, leaving Ron to pair up with Hermione, and saving Ginny from pairing with Zacharias Smith, who is looking aimlessly around for a partner.

    Harry instructs, "Right, on the count of three, then, one, two, three —"

    The room is suddenly full of shouts of "Expelliarmus!" Wands fly in all directions, missed spells hit books on shelves and send them flying into the air. Hermione has already disarmed Ron six times. Miranda and Ginny are extremely well matched, but there is a lot of shoddy spellwork going on; many people are not succeeding in disarming their opponents at all, but merely causing them to jump backward a few paces or wince as the feeble spell whooshes over them. Something very odd is happening to Zacharias Smith; every time he opens his mouth to disarm Anthony Goldstein, his own wand flies out of his hand, yet Anthony does not seem to be making a sound. Miranda quickly solves the mystery. Fred and George are several feet from Smith and taking it in turns to point their wands at his back.

    "What?" George says hastily, when Miranda catches his eye. "Couldn't resist . . ."

    Ernie Macmillan is flourishing his wand unnecessarily, giving his partner time to get in under his guard; the Creevey brothers are enthusiastic but erratic and mainly responsible for all the books leaping off the shelves around them. Luna Lovegood is similarly patchy, occasionally sending Justin Finch-Fletchley's wand spinning out of his hand, at other times merely causing his hair to stand on end.

    "Okay, stop!" Harry shouts. "Stop! STOP!" Everyone lowers their wands. "That wasn't bad," Harry hesitates, eyes darting around the room at everyone's faces, "but there's definite room for improvement. Let's try again. . . ." He moves off around the room again, stopping here and there to make suggestions.

    "Oh no," Miranda brandishes her wand rather wildly as he approaches. "Expelliarmious! I mean, Expellimellius! I — oh, sorry, Ginny!" Ginny's sleeve has caught fire, and she extinguishes it with her own wand, arching a pointed brow at Miranda. Miranda glares at her, but Ginny's knowing smirk prevails. Miranda groans, and Harry looks as thought he is desperately trying not to laugh.

    "Don't look at me like that, Potter!" Miranda wails miserably, burying her face in her hands.

    "That was quite good," Harry lies through his teeth. Miranda folds her arms, giving him a look, and he relents, smiling "Well, no, it was lousy, but I know you can do it properly. I've seen it. . . ."

    "You are the worst," Miranda pouts, scowling. "It's all your fault, you know."

    Harry raises his dark eyebrows at her, "It's my fault Gin nearly went up in smoke?"

    "I was doing alright before you came around!" Miranda protests ruefully. "You made me nervous."

    Harry glances at her, a crooked smile forming on his mouth, "I make you nervous?"

    Miranda presses her lips together, caught, "Made." She narrows her eyes, doing her best not to blush and/or spontaneously combust into flames of embarrassment. "Past tense, Potter."

    Harry only continues to flash that shit eating smile of his at her. "I make you nervous," he repeats, grinning.

    "Oh— shut up, Harry!" Miranda swats him across the chest. "You— go away!"

    "Because I'm making you nervous?" he asks devilishly, cocking his head

    Miranda's mouth falls open, her cheeks bright red, "No— you don't— I'm not—!"

    "I've got you stammering and everything," Harry observes cheekily.

    "I'm not— I— I'm not stammering," she retorts defiantly, and unconvincingly. "You do not make me nervous, Harry Potter!"

    "Can't take it back now, McGonagall," Harry calls as he moves on to another dueling pair, his grin practically splitting his face in two.

    "Hey, Harry," Hermione calls from the other end of the room, "have you checked the time?"

    Miranda looks down her own watch, surprised to find it is nearly half past nine. Harry must have come to the same conclusion because he blows a whistle, which had magically appeared earlier and everybody stops shouting, "Expelliarmus!" and the last couple of wands clatter to the floor.

    Miranda is quite the certain that everyone is a bit peeved that the Room of Requirement gave Harry that whistle, because he's been abusing its power ever since. The shrill sound of it piercing here ears far more than necessary. In fact, she suspects that sometimes he does it just to bother her, because he shoots her a tiny smirk before blowing it. Then again, she could be just imagining things.

    She probably is delusional. With her luck, the smirk is probably meant for Cho Chang.

    "Well, that was pretty good," Harry commends, "Same time, same place next week?"

    "That was really, really good, Harry," Hermione gushes, when it is only the four of them left.

    "Nice work, Potter," Miranda adds with a smile, bumping him lightly with her shoulder. "Or— do we have to call you Professor now?"

    Harry blushes, "Please don't."

    "Or what?" Miranda grins widely, eager to test him. "Going to give me detention, Professor?"

    He groans. "And you say I'm the worst."

    "It really was brilliant," Ron nods enthusiastically, as they slip out of the door and watched it melt back into stone behind them. "Did you see me disarm Hermione, Harry?"

    "Only once,"Hermione retorts, stung. "I got you loads more than you got me —"

    "I did not only get you once, I got you at least three times —"

    "Well, if you're counting the one where you tripped over your own feet and knocked the wand out of my hand —"

    They argue all the way back to the common room, but Harry is not listening to them. He has one eye on the Marauder's Map, but he is also thinking of how Miranda had said he made her nervous. . . .

    Miranda feels as though she is carrying some kind of talisman inside her chest over the following two weeks, a glowing secret that supports him through Umbridge's classes and even makes it possible for her to smile blandly as she stares into her horrible bulging eyes. The D.A. is resisting her under her very nose, doing the very thing that she and the Ministry most feared, and whenever she is supposed to be reading Wilbert Slinkhard's book during her lessons she dwells instead on satisfying memories of their most recent meetings, remembering how Neville had successfully disarmed Zacharias, how Colin Creevey had mastered the Impediment Jinx after three meetings' hard effort, how Parvati Patil had produced such a good Reductor Curse that she had reduced the table carrying all the Sneakoscopes to dust. And of course, how Harry lingered near her every so often, pausing at first to give her a tip, but staying longer to tease her or duel her for fun.

    Hermione soon devises a very clever method of communicating the time and date of the next meeting to all the members in case they need to change it at short notice, because it would look so suspicious if people from different Houses are seen crossing the Great Hall to talk to each other too often. She gives each of the members of the D.A. a fake Galleon.

    As the first Quidditch match of the season, Gryffindor versus Slytherin, draws nearer, their D.A. meetings are put on hold because Angelina insists on almost daily practices. The fact that the Quidditch Cup had not occurred last year only increases the interest and excitement surrounding the forthcoming game. The Heads of House of the competing teams, though they attemptto disguise it under a decent pretense of sportsman- ship, are determined to see their side's victory.

    Miranda had nearly laughed in class the other day when she realized exactly how much her aunt cared about the outcome of the match when she refrained from giving them homework the week leading up to it.  "I think you've got enough to be getting on with at the moment," she had said loftily. Nobody could quite believe their ears until she looked directly at Harry and Ron, "I've become accustomed to seeing the Quidditch Cup in my study, boys, 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?"

    Miranda, who knows and cares very little about Quidditch, though more so than Hermione has no idea what to hope for. She knows that Harry feels optimistic about their chances, while Ron is decidedly less inclined. She also knows that Draco wants to win as desperately as Harry does. Needless to say, it has been a daunting task trying to remain an impartial party in the manner. Especially as she watches Ron's confidence falter, allowing the tactics of the Slytherin team to upset him before they even get onto the pitch. Harry, of course, who Miranda assumes is used to such abuse, always returns their snide comments with a quick witted jab of his own, full of tat trademark Potter sass and snark. Miranda hates to admit that it is undeniably attractive.

    October extinguishes itself in a rush of howling winds and driving rain and November arrives, cold as frozen iron, with hard frosts every morning and icy drafts that bite at exposed hands and faces. The skies and the ceiling of the Great Hall turn a pale, pearly gray, the mountains around Hogwarts become snowcapped, and the temperature in the castle drops so far that Miranda and Hermione often sleep in the same bed at night to keep warm, bundling themselves tight with their combined comforters.

    The morning of the match dawns bright and cold. The Great Hall is filling up fast when her and Hermione arrive, the talk louder and the mood more exuberant than usual. As they pass the Slytherin table there is an upsurge of noise; Miranda catches Draco's eye, offering him a small smile, but he shifts away from her, almost guilty. Miranda frowns, seeing that each one of them is wearing silver badges in the shape of what seemed to be crowns. She can't make out what is written on them, but notices them all jeering and waving at the Gryffindor table, particularly at Ron, who looks as though he has swallowed a cat.

    Oh no. Hermione and her share an equal look of worry, quickly hurrying over to the red and gold adorned table. They receive a rousing welcome at the Gryffindor table, but Ron is slumped at the table, eyes blank with terror.  Harry is busy trying to cajole him into eating something. Never in her life has she seen Ron unable to eat. This cannot be good.

    "Is he okay?" Miranda asks, as her and Hermione take their seats.

    "Oh— he's great!" Harry bellows loudly, gingerly patting Ron on the back in encouragement. "Isn't that right, mate?" As he says it, he vehemently shakes his head no at the girls, eyes wide and frantic.

    "I must've been mental to do this," Ron responds, talking more to himself than anyone else. "Mental."

    "Don't be thick," Harry says firmly, passing him a glass of water. "You're going to be fine. It's normal to be nervous."

    "I'm rubbish," croaks Ron. "I'm lousy. I can't play to save my life. What was I thinking?" He is 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.

    "Yup," Miranda blinks, raising an eyebrow, "he seems great."

    "He's just nervous," Harry insists, practically shoving a spoonful of cereal down Ron's throat.

    "Well, that's a good sign," Hermione encourages helpfully "I never feel you perform as well in exams if you're not a bit nervous."

    It becomes clear after ten minutes, however, that Ron is not capable of eating anything more and Harry thinks it best to get him down to the changing rooms. Miranda has finally managed to spy what is on the Slytherin robes, and her own face pales too, matching Ron's pallor. As the boys rise from the table, Miranda gets up with them. She takes Harry's arm, drawing him to one side. "Don't let Ron see what's on those Slytherins' badges," she whispers urgently. Harry's brow furrows questioningly at her, but she shakes her head warningly; Ron has just ambled over to them, looking lost and desperate.

    "You'll be fine, Ron," Miranda hugs him, squeezing his shoulder. "I know it. Don't worry." She pulls away, turning to a waiting Harry, "What?"

    Harry folds his arms, "What about me?"

    Miranda rolls her eyes, "You'll do fine too, Harry."

    "Where's my hug?"

    "Insufferable boy," Miranda sighs, briefly embracing him.

    "Good luck, Ron," Hermione stands on tiptoe and kisses him on the cheek. "And you, Harry —" Ron seems to come to himself slightly as they walk back across the Great Hall. Miranda sees him touch the spot on his face where Hermione had kissed him, looking puzzled, as though he is not quite sure what had just happened. He seemed too distracted to notice much around him, which was preferable due to the fact that Miranda had deduced the words etched onto the badges were: Weasley is Our King. Under normal circumstances, Miranda would immediately interrogate Hermione, who is currently very red in the face, about this interaction, but that can wait. Right now, she has something more pressing to attend to. She has a distinctly unpleasant feeling that those badges can mean nothing good, particularly in regards to Ron, who is hanging on by a thread as is.

    Miranda marches over to the Slytherin table, ignoring the side eye from Pansy Parkinson and shoving past Crabbe and Goyle. Briskly, she grabs Draco by the sleeve and yanks him to standing, dragging him to a corner.

    "Oi!" Draco exclaims. "Geroff! Miranda— what—?" He is baffled by her stony glare.

    Miranda cross her arms tightly over her chest, "What are you planning?"

    "What— what are you even—?"

    "What are you planning?" Miranda repeats, unrelenting, gritting her teeth together. "Tell me right now, Draco Malfoy, or I swear to god—"

    Draco wavers, looking away from her. "I don't know what you're talking about," he mumbles. "I have to go get changed, I—"

    "Bullshit, Draco," Miranda hisses, fisting his robes in her hands. To her dismay, he is also sporting a silver, crown shaped badge. "What are these things? Why do they say this? Ron doesn't deserve—"

    "Look," Draco's mouth flattens, "it wasn't my idea— "

    "I don't care if it was your idea or not!" she retorts hotly. "Just stop it! Stop whatever it is. Don't let them go through with it."

    "I can't—"

    Miranda scoffs, "Don't give me that, Draco. I know they answer to you. Just tell them not to. You're better than this, D." She implores, "Do the right thing." And with that parting blow, she spins on her heel and stalks down to the icy cold pitch.

    "Captains shake hands," orders the umpire, Madam Hooch. "Mount your brooms. . . ." Madam Hooch places her whistle in her mouth and blew.

    The balls are released and the fourteen players shoot upward

    Lee Jordan's familiar voice rings through the loudspeakers, "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!" yells 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 Alicia Spinnet and Spinnet's away —"

Lee Jordan's commentary echoes through the stadium, while Miranda keeps a keen eye on the Slytherin cheering section They're chanting something— no, singing something. Miranda and Hermione both try in vain to hear what it is.

    "— dodges Warrington, avoids a Bludger — close call, Alicia — and the crowd are loving this, just listen to them, what's that they're singing?" And as Lee pauses to listen, the song rises 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 Alicia passes back to Angelina!" Lee shouts, Miranda knows 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 Alicia 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.

    Her insides boil with pure rage. How could Draco do this? How could he? Above her, Harry's hands are clenched around his broom, furious, and Ron wobbles midair, confidence waning with each verse. Miranda and Hermione look to eat other helplessly, as she has half a mind to hex the Slytherins.

    "— 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, and a promising new talent on the team c'mon, Ron!" But the scream of delight comes from the Slytherin end: Ron has dived wildly, his arms wide, and the Quaffle soars between them, straight through Ron's central hoop.

    "Slytherin score!" comes Lee's voice amid the cheering and booing from the crowds below. "So that's ten-nil to Slytherin — bad luck, Ron . . ."

    The Slytherins sing 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 —" cries Lee valiantly, though the singing is now so deafening that he can hardly make himself heard above it.

WEASLEY WILL MAKE SURE WE WIN, WEASLEY IS OUR KING !

    Harry has been stationary in midair for more than a minute, watching the progress of the match without sparing a thought for the whereabouts of the Snitch. Miranda can tell he is trying to ig- nore the chorus now thundering through the stadium:

WEASLEY IS OUR KING, WEASLEY IS OUR KING . . .

    Draco is circling the stadium just like Harry. When he passes Miranda, she realizes his lips are moving. Her heart drops. He's singing along, with glee.

WEASLEY WAS BORN IN A BIN . . .

    "— and it's Warrington again," bellows Lee, "who passes to Pucey, Pucey's off past Spinnet, 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 . . .

    "— and Pucey's dodged Alicia again, and he's heading straight for goal, stop it, Ron!"

    Miranda cannot bear to watch any longer, but she doesn't have to to know what's happening. There are fresh screams and applause from the Slytherins. Looking across, Miranda views Pansy Parkinson right at the front of the stands, her back to the pitch as she conducts the Slytherin supporters who were roaring:

THAT'S WHY SLYTHERINS ALL SING: WEASLEY IS OUR KING.

    Ron lets in two more goals; Harry's flying seems to take on an edge of panic as both he and Malfoy soar over the pitch, searching for the glint of gold.

    "— 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. . . .Pucey throws to Warrington, Warrington to Montague, Mon- tague 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 —

    It is a massacre. The only thing that can save them now if is Harry finds— suddenly Miranda witnesses Harry dive straight down. He's spotted something. In a matter of seconds, Draco is streaking out of the sky on Harry's left, a green-and-silver blur lying flat on his broom. Harry and Draco are now neck and neck, and Miranda holds her breath. Who would get there first? Feet from the ground, Harry lifts his right hand from his broom, stretching toward the Snitch. To his right, Draco's arm extends too, reaching, groping. It is over in two seconds — Harry's fingers close around the tiny, struggling ball and he pulls his broom upward, holding the struggling ball in his hand. The Gryffindor spectators, Miranda and Hermione included, scream in approval. They are saved, it did not matter that Ron had let in those goals, nobody would remember as long as Gryffindor had won —

WHAM !

    A Bludger hits Harry squarely in the small of the back and he flies forward off his broom. Miranda leaps to her feet, followed closely by Hermione as she hears Madam Hooch's shrill whistle. There is an uproar in the stands compounded of catcalls, angry yells and jeering as Miranda tears down to the field. She stands over Harry, concerned and breathless, "Are you all right?" Miranda holds out her hand.

    " 'Course I am," Harry reassures her grimly, taking her hand and allowing her to pull him to his feet.

    "It was Crabbe," Angelina says from behind them angrily. "He whacked the Bludger at you the moment he saw you'd got the Snitch — but we won, Harry, we won!"

    Miranda throws her arms around Harry, hugging him tightly. Harry, surprised, but grateful, presses her close to his chest. "Are you sure you're okay?" she murmurs into him quietly.

    Calmingly, Harry strokes her hair, "I'm sure. Barely touched me."

    "Can you stop nearly killing yourself for sport?" Miranda asks wryly, as Harry squeezes her hand. "For all of our sakes." She hears a snort from behind them and whirls around to find a sneering Draco Malfoy who has landed close by and seen the entire interaction between Miranda and Harry. His face is white with fury and jealousy, and he has no qualms about his next words. Despite the fact that he's right in front of Miranda. He is all consumed with envy, his gaze zeroed in on Harry's lingering touch around Miranda's waist. The way Miranda had smiled at him.

    "Saved Weasley's neck, haven't you?" he mocks to Harry. "I've never seen a worse Keeper . . . but then he was born in a bin. . . . Did you like my lyrics, Potter?" Miranda's face falls. It had been his idea all along. He didn't stop it. He didn't even try. She grips Harry's arm, willing him not to engage. Harry does  not answer, and Miranda's pride for him swells as he turns away to meet the rest of the team. Ron, defeated, is disappearing into the locker rooms alone.

    Draco, further angered by Harry's indifference, continues to poke and prod. "We wanted to write another couple of verses!" Malfoy calls, as Katie and Alicia hugged Harry too. "But we couldn't find rhymes for fat and ugly — we wanted to sing about his mother, see —"

    "Don't, Draco," Miranda warns under her breath, begging him to let it go. It was one loss. And after what he'd done—

    "— we couldn't fit in useless loser either — for his father, you know —" Fred and George have realized what Draco is talking about. Halfway through shaking Harry's hand they stiffen, looking around at Draco.

    "Leave it," Miranda says at once, taking Fred by the arm. "Leave it, Fred, let him yell, he's just sore he lost. D, stop it! Walk away." Her pleas fall on deaf ears

    "— but you like the Weasleys, don't you, Potter?" Draco cackles, unable to help himself. "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 grabs hold of George; meanwhile it is taking the combined efforts of her, Angelina, Alicia, and Katie to stop Fred leaping on Malfoy, who is laughing openly. Miranda's eyes dart around, looking for a professor to help, but finds none. "Or perhaps," Draco sneers, "you can remember what your mother's house stank like, Potter, and Weasley's pigsty reminds you of it —"

    Miranda releases Fred as fast as she can, reaching out to restrain Harry, but she reaches a second too late. Both Harry and George are sprinting at Malfoy, murderous expression on their faces. Miranda watches in horror as Harry drives the fist clutching the Snitch into Draco's stomach —

    "Harry, don't!" she cries out desperately. "Harry!" The girls' voices scream. HARRY! GEORGE! NO!"

    Malfoy yells, George swears, a whistle blows, but still Harry pounded Malfoy into the ground. Each boy throwing punch after punch.

    IMPEDIMENTA!" Madam Hooch shrieks, and Harry and George finally stop, knocked over backward by the force of the spell. "What do you think you're doing?" screams Madam Hooch, she is holding her whistle in one hand and a wand in the other, her broom lying abandoned several feet away. Draco is curled up on the ground, whimpering and moaning, his nose bloody, and Miranda has to look away, disgusted by the behavior of both him and Harry, whose eye is bruised, blood trickling from a cut just above his eyebrow. George is sporting a swollen lip; Fred is still being forcibly restrained by the three Chasers, and Crabbe is 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!"

    Miranda buries her face in her hands, inhaling deeply as Harry, George, and Fred trudge up the hill, accompanied by Madam Hooch and a gleeful Crabbe. She hopes her aunt will go easy on them, surely once she understands the circumstances she'll be more lenient. No matter what her aunt says, Miranda know she has a soft spot for Harry Potter. And maybe if— an idea strikes Miranda then, and she rushes towards the stands.

    There is a throng of Slytherin students, at the center of which is Pansy Parkinson regaling them with some tale or maybe leading them in another round of Weasley is our King.

    "What do you want?" Pansy says nastily when she spies Miranda out of the corner of her eye. It is no secret that she detests Miranda. Pansy seems to be under the impression that Miranda is trying to "steal" Draco from her. Which is absolutely ridiculous to Miranda because anyone with eyes can see they are just friends.

    "Ease up, Parkinson," Miranda rolls her eyes. "I'm looking for Draco. Is he with you?"

    Pansy curls her lip, "He's been taken to the infirmary, thanks to your little boyfriend."

    Miranda burns, cheeks coloring at Pansy's snide comment "He's not my— it wasn't Harry's fault and you know it." She breathes in and out in an attempt to calm herself, otherwise Pansy might soon join her beloved Draco in the infirmary. "And he's not my boyfriend."

    "But you want him to be," Pansy's lips twist into a cruel smile. Tilting her head, "Don't you?"

    "I—" Miranda stops herself. "Can you tell him to meet me the second he's out? He'll know where."

    "Like I would help you," Pansy laughs derisively. "I'd sooner hex you"

    Miranda steps forward, one hand on her wand, "I'd like to see you try."

    "You little—"

    Blaise Zabini springs between the two of them, "Back off, Pansy. I'll take care of it." 

    "Blaise—!"

    "You know how mad he'll be if you hurt her?" Blaise reminds Pansy harshly. He pulls Miranda away from the horde, but not as roughly as she assumed he would've,  "I'll tell him. Just—I'll tell him."

    "Thanks," Miranda says begrudgingly.

    Blaise is already jogging away from her, "Don't mention it."

    Miranda waits nearly an hour at the tree until Draco finally shows up. After his visit to the infirmary, his nose is no longer gushing with blood and it had been popped back into place, however, the skin around it is swollen slightly.  "There you are," Miranda though still angry with him, is relieved at least to see he's physically fine.

    "Hey," Draco greets sullenly. There is a stony silence. "Look, I know you're not happy with me, but this is the first time I've really seen you in weeks and—"

    "Not happy with you?" Miranda interrupts, temper already beginning to rise. "Not happy with you?! Draco I asked you to stop it! You told me it wasn't your idea!"

    "I—"

    "You lied to me Draco," Miranda states, voice cold. "But there's still a way  you can fix this. There's a way to make it better." She begins to explain to him what had struck her earlier, "You can go to McGonagall, tell her what really happened. I'm sure Professor Snape and Umbridge are involved by now and if you tell them that it was your fault then maybe they won't—"

    Draco's expression darkens with each word that comes out of her mouth.  "Hold on," he seethes, "you want me to tell them it was my fault? He hit me!"

    "Only because you provoked him!" Miranda fires back. "I was there. You said awful things Draco. Not to mention that— that song, and those horrible badges! You were just cruel! He—they don't deserve—"

    "And I do?" Draco cuts her off, snarling. "I can't believe— I thought you called me down here to apologize, and instead you ask me to protect Potter."

    "Apologize?!" Miranda's blood is boiling. "Apologize for what? You're in the wrong here Draco. You are the only one who should be apologizing."

    "I cannot believe you're taking his side," he growls. "How can you choose him over me? Your best friend. I can't believe it."

    Miranda swallows hard, "And I couldn't believe how evil you were today." She shuts her eyes resignedly, voice tight, "Guess we were both surprised." Miranda realizes then that Draco is not going to do the right thing. He is not going to listen to her. Not about this. Not when it involves Harry. No matter how important it is to her. So, she leaves him standing there under the tree, not waiting for an answer. And leaving herself with more doubts than ever.

    After that upsetting interaction with Draco, Miranda wastes no time returning to the common room, hoping to find comfort there. Alas, the atmosphere in Gryffindor tower is no less gloomy or stormy.

    "Banned," says Angelina in a hollow voice, as Miranda creeps in through the portrait hole. "Banned. No Seeker and no Beaters . . . What on earth are we going to do?" It does not feel as though they have won the match at all. Everywhere Miranda looks there are disconsolate and angry faces; the team them- selves are slumped around the fire. Not wanting to disturb them, Miranda hangs back, hoping to glean more information on what had happened.

    "And banning Fred when he didn't even do anything!" Katie pummels her knee with her fist furiously.

    "It's not my fault I didn't," Fred mutters, with a very ugly look on his face. "I would've pounded the little scumbag to a pulp if you hadn't been holding me back."

    "I'm sorry," Ron mumbles, looking at his feet.
     "What for?" Harry asks.
     "For thinking I can play Quidditch," says Ron. "I'm going to resign

first thing tomorrow."
     "If you resign," says Harry testily, "there'll only be three players left

on the team."

    Miranda finally decides to make her present known, "What do you mean?"

    Harry glances up, startled, "I've been given a lifetime ban. So've Fred and George."

    "What?" Miranda cries out. "Are you serious?"

    "Umbridge's doing," Harry explains darkly. Then he frowns, "Where've you been?"

    Miranda rubs her head tiredly, "Oh—um—I was trying to—Draco, he—"

    Harry's eyes flash at the name, "You were with Malfoy?" His eye is still bruised, and Miranda suspects he hasn't visited the infirmary yet. Her heart twinges. "After what he did?"

    "No— I mean, yes, but not like that," Miranda who is drained from the events of the day, tries to make sense of it to Harry, who is looking at her with pure betrayal. Ironically, it is the same expression Draco had worn not minutes before. "I thought that—"

    "Thought what?" Harry snaps, irritation plain in his tone. He shakes his head, "Don't tell me. He didn't mean to humiliate all of us? Is that it? He didn't mean to insult not only Ron's family, but my dead mother—?!" Harry is on the verge of shouting.

    "I didn't— he—"

    "Don't try and defend him again!" Harry scoffs sourly, "All those Slytherins are the same, and he's the worst of the lot of them. All fall from the same rotting tree."

    "You and I were both nearly in Slytherin, don't you remember?" Miranda protests. "You can't—"

    "That is off the point—!" he blusters hotly.

    Miranda sucks in her cheeks, drawing herself up. Her words are low and angry, "My mother was a Slytherin, I'll remind you."

    "Your mother was in love with Voldemort!" Harry bursts out, regretting his words the second he realizes what he has just done. His eyes widen in horror, a hush falling over the room

    Miranda's heart stops, her mouth parting in pure shock. Her eyes prick with tears and lump begins to form in her throat. She stares at Harry in anguish. Every eye in the common room is on her, and she doesn't want to see the disgust and fear she is sure is on their faces. She can't look at Hermione or Ron. Her lip trembles, and she flees the common room. He will not see her cry. No one will see her cry.

    Harry leaps to his feet, a tortured look on his features, "Miranda— wait! I didn't mean— Miranda!" But she has already disappeared up the stairs.

    "What did you do?" hisses Hermione, shooting Harry a death glare.

    Harry rubs his jaw, "I didn't mean—it just slipped out. I was angry, I-"

    "You're always angry these days, Harry. And I know you are going through a lot, but so are we. There is no excuse to treat us, your friends, like we are your enemies." Hermione just shakes her head, following Miranda's path.

    Miranda is lying facedown on her mattress when Hermione walks in. She sits up when Hermione settles on the bed beside her, cheeks streaked with tears, "I don't want to talk about it, Hermione."

    "I didn't ask—"

    "I understand if you don't want to— if this changes our friendship," Miranda interjects, wanting to rip off the bandaid now. "I get it, it's hard to explain, but there is a good reason, and my mom—"

    "Don't be daft," says Hermione fiercely. "You don't have to explain anything. Whatever happened is in the past. I like your mum, she's a good person. And I know you are too. You're my best friend, Miranda."

    "Really?" Miranda beams, and Hermione nods with a smile. "You're mine," Miranda tells her, hugging Hermione tightly, eyes shining with tears.

    There is a knock on the door. Hermione rises, Miranda in no state to answer it as she hastily scrubs her face of tears.

    Hermione opens the door, scowling when she see the face on the other side, "No!"

    "Hermione, let me through!" Harry implores, but Hermione blocks his way. "I just want to talk to her. I need to apologize."

    "And you will apologize," says Hermione. "Later."

    "But—"

    "No," Hermione is firm. "I can guarantee you'll only make things worse right now Harry. She doesn't want to see you."

    "Did she say that?" Harry says pointedly, desperate to make things right.

    "Goodbye, Harry," Hermione practically shoves him out the door. She returns to Miranda's bed and places a comforting hand on her arm.     "Thanks," Miranda leans her head on Hermione's shoulder, grateful. It would've been really easy for Hermione to take Harry's side. She's known him longer after all. Miranda hopes Ron won't take that option.

    After a beat, Hermione speaks, "He really cares about you, you know."

    "I know."

    December arrives quickly, bringing with it more snow and a positive avalanche of homework for the fifth years. Relations between Harry and Miranda are as icy as the castle spires. With Draco as well. Though, Harry tries to reach  out at least a dozen times a day, apologizing over and over. Miranda isn't ready. She doesn't trust him anymore, and he hurt her. He hurt her in the worst way imaginable. Meanwhile, Draco hasn't spoken to her since that day.

    Life is dreary, much like the weather.  Miranda arrives early in the Room of Requirement for the last D.A. meeting before the holidays and sees that Dobby had taken it upon himself to decorate the place for Christmas. She can tell the elf had done it, because nobody else would have strung a hundred golden baubles from the ceiling, each showing a picture of Harry's face and bearing the legend HAVE A VERY HARRY CHRISTMAS! Miranda conceals a smirk, thanking Dobby for her tiny victory.

    "Well," Angelina says dully when she enters, pulling off her cloak and throwing it into a corner, "we've replaced you."

    "Replaced me?" Harry tilts his head blankly.

    "You and Fred and George," she gestures impatiently. "We've got another Seeker!"

    "Who?"
     "Ginny Weasley," Katie informs them. Harry gapes at her.
     "Yeah, I know," Angelina pulls out her wand and flexes her arm. "But she's pretty good, actually. Nothing on you, of course," she throws Harry a very dirty look, "but as we can't have you . . ." The arrival of Ron, Hermione, and Neville brings this depressing discussion to an end and within five minutes, the room is full enough to begin with the meeting.

    "Okay," Harry calls them all to order. "I thought this evening we should just go over the things we've done so far, because it's the last

meeting before the holidays and there's no point starting anything new right before a three-week break —"

    "We're not doing anything new?" Zacharias Smith pipes up, disgruntled. "If I'd known that, I wouldn't have come. . . ."

    "We're all really sorry Harry didn't tell you, then," Fred says loudly.

Several people snigger. Even Miranda stifles a laugh, earning herself a hopeful glance from Harry that she immediately deflects.

    "We can practice in pairs," Harry instructs. "We'll start with the Im- pediment Jinx, just for ten minutes, then we can get out the cushions and try Stunning again." They all divide up obediently. The room is soon full of intermittent cries of "Impedimenta!" People freeze for a minute or so, during which their partners stare aimlessly around the room watching other pairs at work, then would unfreeze and take their turn at the jinx.

    Miranda, Hermione, and Ron are practicing in a group of three, as Miranda simultaneously attempts to avoid Harry's gaze. Harry is trying to resist the temptation to pass by her as often as possible, in the hopes of getting a chance to see her smile, see her laugh. He hasn't seen her smile in so long. Not anywhere near him, anyways.

    After ten minutes on the Impediment Jinx, they lay out cushions all over the floor and start practicing Stunning again. Space is really too confined to allow them all to work this spell at once; half the group observes the others for a while, then swap over. Harry walks carefully down the line, choosing what pair to go first. Miranda refuses to make eye contact with him, but she can feel those green irises on her.

    "Fred," Harry points, then pauses. He needs her not to ignore him anymore. He can't bear it. "And— er— Miranda?" It is not a command, but a question.

    Miranda and Fred walk to the front, while Miranda steadfastly keeps her eye line ahead as she passes by Harry. She will not give in. She'll show him.

    Back in line, George and Ron bet on which one will win.

    "Five galleons on Fred," George challenges under his breath.

    "You're on," Ron shakes his hand.

    "Okay, on my count," Harry raises his whistle to his lips. He is power mad with that thing, he really is. " 3,2,1, GO."

    "Stupefy!" Miranda quickly slashes her wand, sending Fred flying back. He hits the ground with a resounding thud, and scrambles up to standing.

    Miranda grins, pride flooding her, and Hermione and Ginny cheer. Zacharias Smith's mouth hangs open, and Harry stares at her in equal parts awe and terror. Ron flashes a smirk at his brother, holding out his hand.

    At the end of an hour, Harry calls a halt.  "You're getting really good," he says, beaming around at them. "When we get back from the holidays we can start doing some of the big stuff — maybe even Patronuses."

    There is a murmur of excitement. The room begins to clear in the usual twos and threes; most people wish Harry a Happy Christmas as they went. Feeling cheerful, he collects up the cushions with Ron and Hermione and stacked them neatly away. Ron and Hermione leave before he did; he hangs back a little, because Miranda is still there, practicing Shield Charms, and he is desperate to get her alone. To finally talk to her. He has given her time, and he doesn't know how much longer he can stand this.

    Her back is to him, but Miranda knows Harry hasn't left. She can feel him lingering, feel his eyes on her. She swallows. She hasn't been alone with him since the incident in the common room. Hasn't allowed it to occur. It would be too easy to forgive him, if she let herself be alone with him. Too easy to look into those green eyes and remember everything about him that makes her smile, makes her heart beat skyrocket and her pulse race. So she hasn't. She hasn't let herself be alone with him. Ron, or often Hermione is always there as a buffer. If Harry tries to talk to her, which he has, a lot, she either makes up an excuse to leave or flat out ignores him.

    Right now, she could leave. She could leave the Room of Requirement without looking back. It's not as if Harry has barricaded the door. She could avoid this situation altogether. But— Miranda stays. Inexplicably, against all reason, she stays. Something inside her tethers her there.

    Harry approaches the girl cautiously, mentally searching for a topic to discuss with her. He looks haplessly around the room, hoping for inspiration to strike. The picture of the original Order had fallen to the ground during practice, and is now resting just below Miranda's feet.

    He clears his throat, "Er—" There is no response from the girl, as Miranda continues to practice her spellwork in silence. Harry steels himself, coughing with more emphasis, "Er— Miranda— erm..."

    Finally, Miranda whips her head around, voice tight and steely, "What?"

    Harry is so stunned that she's actually spoken to him that he loses his entire train of thought, taking several seconds to gather himself.

    "Did you have something to say or not?" Miranda prompts, impatient. She still won't meet his eye. "Because I was about to go—"

    "No!" Harry blurts, panicking. "No— don't do that— please. I just— er— the picture fell. It's right there." He points to her feet. "I was— erm— going to pin it back up." Carefully, Harry bends down and grasps the yellowed photograph, the people in it jostling around and smiling. A moving moment, captured forever. "Look at how young Sirius and Lupin are," he notes, indicating the two men on the right side. Barely men, really. They don't look more than twenty, with boyish, hopeful grins.

    Between them is a young woman with honey waves and electric blue eyes, freckles across her nose. She is mid laugh, expression bright and alive. Miranda's brow furrows. She's never looked too close at the photo before, mostly just a sideways glance when Harry is droning on about wand placement. She's seen her parents obviously, her father's fair golden curls and easy smile, an arm around her mom. But this woman she could've sworn she'd never noticed, yet there was something so eerily familiar about her...

    "Those are my parents," Harry interrupts her thoughts, tapping the photo. "My dad," he indicates a face that matches his own, then a pretty red head, "and that's my mum, there."

    "I know," Miranda says shortly. "And there's my mother right next to yours." The meaning behind her statement is not missed.

    Harry sighs, "Miranda, I never should've—"

    "Yeah," she clenches her jaw, "you shouldn't have."

    "I know— I know I made a mistake—"

    "A mistake?" Miranda inhales sharply at the insinuation, the invalidation. "Is that what you're calling it now?"

    "I'm so sorry, Miranda," Harry apologizes with the full weight of his heart. Miranda feels herself begin to unthaw. Damn it. "You have no idea how sorry I am. I can't believe I did— I swear I didn't mean to, it just— I'm angry all the time. I— I don't know how to explain it. Every day, I wish I didn't say it. I wish I didn't—" Harry's expression is downright forlorn, all emotions plain on his features.

    "But you did," Miranda says flatly.

    He looks pained. "Please don't be mad at me anymore," Harry whispers, stricken. "I know what I did was wrong, I know that. But I can't— I can't do this anymore. I don't know how to handle you not speaking to me, not looking at me. I hate this. You— you are one of the only ones who knows— who understands—" Harry breaks off. Somewhere during his speech, Miranda has moved closer to him, finally drawing her eyes up to meet his. He gazes at her tenderly, "I miss you. I miss you a lot. So please— please don't be mad at me anymore."

    Miranda gulps, her words are softer this time, no longer holding that harsh edge, "Do you think I want to be mad at you?" She shakes her head, "I miss you too, of course I don't want to be mad at you. It's been hard for me too, Harry, if you couldn't tell." Her breath catches in the back of her throat, "I never thought you would do something like that. Never— I— I don't how to trust you anymore. I care about you so much and then you just—" Miranda, eyes locked with Harry's, places her hands on his chest, "Do you have any idea how much you mean to me?

    There is an electricity between them, a tense, crackling energy. Miranda's heart is pounding in her ears, atmosphere completely altered with emotion as they stare into each other's eyes. Harry lightly touches a piece of her hair.

    "Feather," he murmurs, by way of explanation

    Miranda is so close to him now she can hear each breath he takes, see the shadow of his collarbone above his shirt. "Right," she says softly. She feels lightheaded. Is he leaning in? Is she? Her hands are still on his chest.

    "Oi! Are you coming out of here or—Miranda?" Ron barges through the door, caught off guard when he spies the blonde, who is currently frozen. "What are you doing in— wait— are you two finally talking?!" Ron exclaims excitedly, then finally takes stock of the situation. His eyebrows shoot up so far they nearly disappear in his hairline, "Or doing a little more than talking..."

    Miranda and Harry spring apart, faces beet red.

    "Erm— did I interrupt something?" Ron ventures warily.

    Miranda is a right mess, her emotions scrambled in all sorts of directions. "No— no— I—" she stammers, angry at herself for giving into temptation and more confused than ever. "I should never have—I'm not— we— I should go find Hermione." Miranda hurries out of the room, mentally kicking herself.

    "Wait— Miranda!" Harry calls, but she is gone. Harry groans as he watches her disappear out the door. "Thanks a lot, Ron."

    Ron winces, "I interrupted something didn't I?" He claps Harry on the back consolingly, "Sorry mate, rough timing. Now come on I'm starved."

Harry promptly socks Ron in the arm.

    "Ow," Ron rubs his shoulder, "I said I was sorry. You'll get her next time." Ron says reproachfully.

    If there even is a next time. Harry thinks to himself darkly. The two boys walk out of the room, still shoving each other.

    Harry and Ron return to the common room half an hour later to find Hermione in the best seat by the fire; nearly everybody else has gone to bed. Miranda included. Hermione is writing a very long letter; she has already filled half a roll of parchment, which is dangling from the edge of the table. Ron immediately collapses on the hearthrug, trying to finish his Transfiguration homework.

    "What kept you?" she asks, as Harry sinks into an armchair near her.

    Harry does not answer. He is in a state of shock.

    "Are you all right, Harry?" Hermione asks again, peering at him over the tip of her quill. Harry gives a halfhearted shrug. In truth, he doesn't know whether he is all right or not.

    "Well," says Ron, hoisting himself up on his elbow to get a clearer view of Harry. "Go on. Unless you want me to to tell her, and I don't really know much to begin with." Harry doesn't quite know how to set about telling them, and still isn't sure whether he wants to.

    "Is it Miranda?" she asks in a businesslike way. "Did you corner her after the meeting?" Numbly surprised, Harry nodded, mouth agape. "I only ask because when she came back, she was a little out of sorts. I asked her what was the matter but she just said she was tired." Ron sniggers, breaking off when Hermione catches his eye.

    "Did— did she say anything?" Harry questions in a mock casual voice.

    "What did you do?!"  demands Hermione, sniffing him out immediately

    "Nothing!" Harry holds his hands up innocently. Thanks to Ron...

    "Did you kiss?" inquires Hermione briskly.

    Harry blanches, Hermione's sudden request sending him reeling. She really was much too smart for her own good. He wonders what Miranda has already told her, if anything. Is it better or worse if she has shared? He hesitates, and a small frown appears on Hermione's face. "No, but—"

    "But what?"

    "Well, I think we were about to...but then—" at this he shoots Ron a dirty glare.

    "I came in," Ron continues helpfully, sheepish. "Harry looked like he wanted to rip my head off."

    Hermione pointedly ignores him, "What happened then? How—?"

    "After Ron burst in she sort of..." Harry remembers this bit all too vividly, "ran away? She was a little shook up, it seemed. She kept mumbling things — I dunno."

    "It's not my fault she scurried off like that," Ron defends. He laughs, "I would've left you both alone to finish your bit of snogging if she hadn't. She must've been mad."

    "Ron," says Hermione in a dignified voice, dipping the point of her quill into her ink pot, "you are the most insensitive wart I have ever had the misfortune to meet."

    "What's that supposed to mean?" asks Ron indignantly. "What sort of person runs off right before they're about to kiss someone?"

    "Yeah," echoes Harry, slightly desperately, "who does?"

    Hermione view the pair of them with an almost pitying expression on her face.  "Don't you understand how Miranda's feeling at the moment?"

    "No," Harry and Ron  reply in unison.
     Hermione sighs and lays down her quill. "Well, obviously, she's feeling very conflicted. She's rightfully very cross with you Harry, disappointed, hurt. But she also misses you dearly, and well, I would be amiss if I didn't tell you that she does care about you. Then you try and kiss her, and she doesn't know how to feel. She's angry at you on one hand, missing your relationship, scared you might hurt her again, and possibly battling with wanting to kiss you and wanting to stay angry. She's betrayed herself in a way. Meanwhile she's still in a row with Draco, which I know you don't care about, but she does, and it's very stressful for her. Not to mention she keeps getting headaches in class and she's nearly failing Advanced Charms."

    A slightly stunned silence greets the end of this speech, then Ron says, "One person can't feel all that at once, they'd explode."

    "Just because you've got the emotional range of a teaspoon doesn't mean we all have," Hermione snaps nastily, picking up her quill again. She turns to Harry, questioning., "Are you going to see her again?"

    "No, I think I can avoid her," Harry deadpans, words dripping with sarcasm. "It's not like she's our best friend or anything."

    "You know what I mean," Hermione arches an impatient eyebrow.

    Harry stays silent. Hermione's words open up a whole new vista of frightening possibilities. He tries to imagine going somewhere with Miranda — Hogsmeade, perhaps — and being alone with her for hours at a time. Of course, she would have to forgive him first. Which seemed an even farther possibility than it had this morning. What if she never forgave him? His stomach clenches painfully at this thought.

    "Oh well," Hermione's voice is distant, buried in her letter once more, "you'll have plenty of opportunities to ask her. . . ."

    "What if he doesn't want to ask her?" Ron poses, who has been watching Harry with an unusually shrewd expression on his face.

    "Don't be silly," Hermione looks as though she is trying very hard not to roll her eyes. "Harry's liked her for ages, haven't you, Harry?"

    He does not answer. Yes, he has liked Miranda for ages, since he saw her on the train, really. But whenever he had imagined a scene involving the two of them it had always featured a Miranda who was enjoying herself, as opposed to an angry, hurt Miranda who stared at him like he was something poisonous, and regretted even coming near him. None of theses scenes feature Ron either, seeing as they mostly involve actually kissing Miranda.

    "Who're you writing the novel to anyway?" Ron asks Hermione, trying to read the bit of parchment now trailing on the floor. Hermione hitches it up out of sight.

    "Viktor."

    "Krum?"
     "How many other Viktors do we know?"
     They sit in silence for another twenty minutes,  until Hermione, writing steadily to the very end of the parchment, rolls it up carefully and seals it.     "Well, 'night," Hermione yawns widely, setting off for the girls' staircase.

    Miranda is quietly reading from her book on Countercurses and Magical Maladies when the door to her dorm swings open. Hermione bounds in, flopping down on Miranda's mattress with a puff of air. She looks up at Miranda plaintively, chin perched upon her hands, as if waiting for her to say something.

    "What?" says Miranda, in what she hopes is a nonchalant manner.

    Hermione lifts an innocent shoulder, "What?"

    "Hermione," she throws her a look. "I know Harry already told you everything so I don't see the point in—"

    Hermione snorts, "Please. Harry is absolutely useless in matters like this, they both are. Besides, I want to hear your side."

    Miranda shrugs, "There's really nothing to tell."

    "Right," Hermione scrutinizes her closely, Miranda squirming under her gaze. "I thought you were still mad at him."

    "I am!" she insists.

    "But you kissed him?"

    "Almost kissed him," Miranda corrects, and Hermione makes a noise in the back of her throat that suggests she thinks that detail is inconsequential. "Or— he almost kissed me— I don't know— it doesn't matter." She sighs heavily, "What matters is that it's over and done with."

    "What matters is did you want him to kiss you?" Hermione presses.

    "I don't know," Miranda buries her face in the nearest pillow, answer muffled, "maybe? No— yes— no—?"

    "Would you have kissed him back?"

    Miranda bites her lip, "Probably?."

    "But you're mad at him?"

    Miranda chucks a pillow at Hermione's head, "It's confusing for me too, believe it or not."

    In the middle of the night, Miranda is awoken by yet another headache. She tiptoes down to the common room for a glass of water, but stops when she hears something coming from the boys' room.  Harry is thrashing and moaning in his bed, his limbs jerk wildly, and his eyes roll back in his head. He looks almost...unhuman. Any anger or confusion she holds for him is instantly replaced with fear, horror as she rushes in without a second thought.