A purply sky washes the ceiling of the Great Hall, tinged pink around the edges. A sliver of moon has just appeared overhead. Miranda has massive eye bags that match ceiling, hoping she's managed to conceal them with her Glamour Charm. Hermione is much better at Charms than she, but asking her would involve telling her why she has the eye bags in the first place.

Nightmares. Well— not really nightmares, but whispers, visions of things that could be. She hasn't told anyone. Not Ron, not Ginny, not Hermione. Not Matt, who would just worry and run to tell Dumbledore and Snape. Not even Harry. Especially not Harry. He has enough on his plate already without her adding to it with her own stupid Voldemort shit.

He's got his own Voldemort shit to worry about.

The five of them are all eating dessert in the Great Hall, sans Ginny, who is presumably out and about with Dean Thomas. Four of them are discussing their dinner with Slughorn the previous night.

"I still can't believe we got to meet the Gwenog Jones," exclaims Mateo reverently, sucking the remaining dregs of ice cream off of his spoon.

"She was quite impressive," Hermione agrees thoughtfully, turning the page of the book she just got from the library. Her lips are pursed as she remarks, "Though perhaps a bit full of herself."

Ron scowls very ferociously into his bowl of ice cream. It's an expression he's been sporting quite often lately. Miranda suspects he's feeling bit left out, and from what Harry's told her about Quidditch practices, he's not performing well in other areas of his life either.

Right now, she actually feels slightly sorry for laughing yesterday when Ginny called him a prat after he'd elbowed Demelza Robins in the nose. Though, not too bad. He had been acting like quite apart lately, and his surly mood had a nasty habit of popping up at the worst times and bringing everyone else down along with him.

"What day is our next meeting?" asks Miranda, rummaging through her cluttered school bag. She sifts through loose parchment and broken quills, a half empty box of chocolate frogs, and a wilted daisy Harry had tucked behind her ear this morning during their free, but has no luck. Where is that schedule?

"It's right before break," Harry tells her with a smile, handing her the schedule that has been sitting on the bench beside her all along. "Remember? He told us last night. He's having a Christmas party."

Miranda palms her forehead, kissing Harry on the cheek, "What would I do without you?" This sort of occurrence is much too common for her liking.

"Lose your head," he teases. A spoonful of ice cream leaves a few drops on the corner of Harry's mouth, but his thumb swipes up the extra bit of vanilla and lands between his lips as he licks the rest clean off his finger. Miranda can see his tongue drag over his lips before taking another bite—

"Drool much?" Ron cocks his head, breaking Miranda from her reverie. his ice cream spoon is pointed at her like a dagger, his eyebrows raised.

Miranda flips him off, cheeks very warm. She can feel Harry's smirk burning a hole into her. "Shut up, Weasley," she mumbles.

Harry takes a bit of melted ice cream on his finger and taps the tip of her nose with it, eyes bright and mischievous. "You have a little something on your face," he gestures, "just there."

Miranda wrinkles her nose at him, swiping the sticky spot away with her index finger and sucking the remnants off. She prefers chocolate, but ice cream is ice cream. "I can't believe I love you."

Harry grins, "Neither can I."

"Do you think I need to get new dress robes for Slughorn's?" Hermione mulls to herself. Miranda has been wondering the same thing.

"Oh great," Ron interjects sullenly. "And this is another party just for Slughorn's favorites, is it?"

"Just for the Slug Club, yes," says Hermione. Miranda internally cringes at the name. It is one of hr least favorite parts of the group. Hermione catches sight of Ron's fuming and adds, "Look, I didn't make up the name—"

" 'Slug Club,' " repeats Ron, placing special, scathing emphasis on the name. He sneers, "It's pathetic. Well, I hope you enjoy your party. Why don't you try hooking up with McLaggen, then Slughorn can make you King and Queen Slug —"

"We're allowed to bring guests," interrupts Hermione, who has turned a bright, boiling scarlet. She jabs her spoon into her ice cream bowl with such force that some of it splatters on Miranda's elbow. "And I was going to ask you to come, but if you think it's that stupid then I won't bother!"

Their section of the table suddenly goes very quiet. Miranda's gaze ping pongs between her two friends, on the edge of her seat. Harry has frozen in place, his spoon midair. His eyes are very very wide.

"You were going to ask me?" asks Ron, in a completely different voice.

"Yes," Hermione sniffs angrily, her jaw very tight. "But obviously if you'd rather I hooked up with McLaggen . . ."

There is another long pause. Miranda can barely take the suspense.

"No, I wouldn't," says Ron quietly, drawing his eyes up to meet Hermione's. Miranda nearly squeals. Meanwhile, Harry has begun to cough very loudly. She is certain he is wishing he is anywhere else.

"Alright then," Hermione folds her hands neatly on the table, smiling slightly. She looks flustered, and stirs her spoon in her liquefied dessert idly, busying herself in her book once more. Her cheeks have taken on a distinctly pink tone, while Ron seems pleased and a bit sheepish, the tips of his ears red.

Miranda, Mateo, and Harry just view the entire scene with light amusement. Rest assured, Miranda will absolutely be having a full debriefing of the events with Hermione in their dorm later that night.

Soon, they all head to bed, the boys have a Quidditch game tomorrow, especially important because it's versus Slytherin. The age old rivalry is alive and well. Thriving, really. Miranda isn't so against it anymore, given the current situation.

Breakfast is the usual excitable affair next morning; the Slytherins hiss and boo loudly as every member of the Gryffindor team enters the Great Hall. The weather was clear, a pale blue sky spelled good things for Quidditch. The Gryffindor table, a solid mass of red and gold, cheer as Harry, Matt, and Ron approach. Harry and Mateo grin and wave; Ron grimaces weakly and shakes his head.

"Cheer up, Ron!" calls Lavender brightly. "I know you'll be brilliant!" Ron ignores her, looking as though he may throw up all over his eggs, and Hermione's lips pinch ever so slightly.
Harry drops a kiss on the top of Miranda's head, settling into the seats opposite her and Hermione with Ron and Matt. "Tea?" Harry offers, nudging Ron. "Coffee? Pumpkin juice?"

"Anything," says Ron glumly, taking a moody bite of toast.

"How are you both feeling?" Miranda inquires tentatively. It's more a rhetorical question than anything else.

"Fine," says Harry, who is concentrating on handing Ron a glass of pumpkin juice. "There you go, Ron. Drink up."

Ron has just raised the glass to his lips when Hermione speaks sharply. "Don't drink that, Ron!"
Miranda turns to her, confused. Mateo and Ron both glance up, but Harry's demeanor is shifty, cagey almost.

"Why not?" Ron frowns, swishing his drink around in the goblet.

Hermione is now staring at Harry as though she can not believe her eyes. "You just put something in that drink."

"Excuse me?" Harry arches an eyebrow, he is far too composed. Miranda immediately knows something is up. What is he playing at?

"You heard me," Hermione accuses. "I saw you. You just tipped something into Ron's drink. You've got the bottle in your hand right now!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," refutes Harry, stowing the little bottle hastily in his pocket. Miranda spies the glint of gold and she gasps, clarity hitting her smack in the face. No wonder Hermione was so enraged.

"Ron, I warn you, don't drink it!" Hermione implores, shooting Harry a withering look.

But Ron picks up the glass, drains it in one gulp, and says, "Stop bossing me around, Hermione." Miranda, Mateo, and Hermione watch Ron as he swallows the last drops of his drink. He rises slowly, "Well come on, mates. We've got a game to win."

Mateo and Harry clap him on the back, "That's the spirit Ron."

The frosty grass crunched underfoot as they strode down to the stadium.  Hermione is still bristling with fury as her and Miranda finds seats in the stands. Miranda can't believe Harry has done such a thing. Like really. She can't believe it. He wouldn't. She knows him. He cares about Quidditch far too much to disrespect the integrity of the game. It's why she' still wearing his number, despite Hermione's death glare. There has to be another explanation.

The whistle sounds, then a voice that is jarringly different to the usual commentator's starts up.

"Well, there they go, and I think we're all surprised to see the team that Potter's put together this year. Many thought, given Ronald Weasley's patchy performance as Keeper last year, that he might be off the team, but of course, a close personal friendship with the Captain does help. . . ."

These words are greeted with jeers and applause from the Slytherin end of the pitch. Miranda cranes around to peer at the commentator box. A tall, skinny blond boy with an upturned nose is standing there, talking into the magical megaphone that had once been Lee Jordan's; Miranda recognizes Zacharias Smith, a Hufflepuff who had asked her out more times than she could count, and who she heartily disliked.

"Oh, and here comes Slytherin's first attempt on goal, it's Urquhart streaking down the pitch and —" Miranda clenches the cold metal of the stands, screwing her eyes shut. C'mon Ron. "— Weasley saves it, well, he's bound to get lucky sometimes, I suppose. . . ."

With half an hour of the game gone, Gryffindor is leading sixty points to zero, Ron having made some truly spectacular saves, some by the very tips of his gloves, and Ginny having scored four of Gryffindor's six goals. This effectively stops Zacharias wondering loudly whether the two Weasleys were only there because Harry liked them, and he starts in on Peakes and Coote instead.

"Of course, Coote isn't really the usual build for a Beater," says Zacharias loftily, "they've generally got a bit more muscle —"

"Hit a Bludger at him!" Miranda hears Harry call to Coote. Miranda folds her arms, giving Harry a disapproving look as he zooms past. But her lips twitch with a smile. He soars around the perimeter of the grounds, looking around for the Snitch. He really is attractive when he's playing Quidditch, his hair whipping about in the wind. The sun shines on his flying figure, the muscles in his forearms flexing as Harry urges his broom forward. Miranda feels a bit faint when he grins broadly, throwing a wink her way, and practically melts into puddle of mush in her seat. Hermione narrows her eyes.

Zacharias Smith spots this as well, and snipes into the megaphone, "It's a wonder Gryffindor can perform at all, given the unprofessional nature of their Captain." Apparently, he has decided to set in on Harry now. In response, however, Harry blows Miranda a kiss.

It seems as though Gryffindor can do no wrong. Again and again they score, and again and again, at the other end of the pitch, Ron saves goals with apparent ease. He is actually smiling now, and when the crowd greets a particularly good save with a rousing chorus of the old favorite "Weasley Is Our King," he pretends to conduct them from on high.

"And I think Harper of Slytherin's seen the Snitch!" says Zacharias Smith through his megaphone. "Yes, he's certainly seen something Potter hasn't!  Makes sense, Potter's been rather unfocused this game with all his flirting."

Smith really is an idiot, thinks Miranda, feeling the urge to hex him, and/or kick him very sharply in the shins. She sees Harry shoot up after Harper.

"YES!" Harry yells. Wheeling around, he hurtles back toward the ground, the Snitch held high in his hand. As the crowd realizes what has happened, a great shout goes up that almost drowns the sound of the whistle that signaled the end of the game.

Most of team celebrated midair, brooms stalling. Except for Ginny. Ginny speeds right on past them until, with an almighty crash, she collides with the commentator's podium. Hermione shrieks, adn Miranda roars with laughter, Ginny landing Mirandafully next to the wreckage of wood under which Zacharias is feebly stirring

With a shrug she says to Professor McGonagall, "Forgot to brake, Professor, sorry."

Miranda runs down to the field to embrace Harry, who lifts her up and spins her around, before pulling her in for a kiss. Hermione is glaring up ahead.

Harry winces. "She's livid isn't she," he murmurs into Miranda's hair. He; swing with sweat and smells of dirt and grass, but Miranda does not mind in the slightest.

"Pretty much," she replies, standing on her tiptoes to pick a twig out of his windswept hair. "But Ron looks happy." She lowers her voice to a whisper, tracing her fingertips along his chest, "Plus, we both know you didn't actually give Ron Felix Felicis."

Harry is unsurprised. "Figured me out, have you?" his tone has a note of satisfaction.

"You think you're clever?" Miranda challenges, her lips curving into a coy smile. He's so cute when he's smug.

Harry lifts a shoulder, "Well..."

"Shut up," Miranda shakes her head, fisting his robes and pulling him down to her. Kissing that cheeky, crooked mouth of his.

"Anything for you."

"Party up in the common room, Seamus said!" yells Dean exuberantly., beckoning them over. "C'mon!"

Harry has a daring glint in his eye, that Miranda is simultaneously afraid and excited by. She is right to be. Harry promptly scoops her up, and tosses her over her shoulder. Miranda squeals, her head hanging upside down, hair all in her face, "Harry! Put me down!"

The atmosphere in the common room is jubilant, as the pair of them enter, Miranda perched comfortably on Harry's back. There is an uproar of cheers when they clamber through, followed by even more when Ron comes in behind them. Hermione and Mateo are already there, milling about by the fireplace. Hermione's features are stony.

"I want a word with you, Harry," she takes a deep breath, and Mateo makes himself scarce, disappearing up the stairs. "You shouldn't have done it. You heard Slughorn, it's illegal."

"What are you going to do, turn us in?" demands Ron. Miranda looks nervously between the three of them,

"What are you two talking about?" asks Harry, sharing a grin with Miranda that she is too anxious to return.

"You know perfectly well what we're talking about!" Hermione cries, shrilly. "You spiked Ron's juice with lucky potion at breakfast! Felix Felicis!"

"No, I didn't," says Harry, turning back to face them both.

"Yes you did, Harry, and that's why everything went right, there were Slytherin players missing and Ron saved everything!"

Miranda cuts in, trying to diffuse the situation. Prevent any more damage. Her voice is calm as she states, "Hermione, he really didn't—"

"Oh, don't try to defend him," snaps Hermione. "You know I'm surprised at you, Miranda. I thought you—"

"I didn't put it in!" insists Harry. He slips his hand inside his jacket pocket and draws out the tiny bottle that they'd seen in his hand that morning. It is full of golden potion and the cork is still tightly sealed with wax. "I wanted Ron to think I'd done it, so I faked it when I knew you were looking." He smiles encouragingly at Ron, "You saved everything because you felt lucky. You did it all yourself." He pockets the potion again.

"There really wasn't anything in my pumpkin juice?" Ron's mouth hangs open, astounded. "But— I honestly haven't been given lucky potion?"

Harry shakes his head. Ron gapes at him for a moment, then rounds on Hermione, imitating her voice. "You added Felix Felicis to Ron's juice this morning, that's why he saved everything! See! I can save goals without help, Hermione!" This. This is exactly what Miranda had been afraid of. She knows Harry did not foresee his plan backfiring this way, as his smile slips sideways off his face.

"I never said you couldn't — Ron, you thought you'd been given it too!"  But Ron has already stridden past her. Hermione's eyes well with tears, and Harry's pallor has gone a little pale.

From the stairs, her brother calls, "Harry! Miranda!" Once they've made their way over, he mutters, "We've got letters from Dumbledore. Up here." Harry and Miranda leave Hermione to her frustration and follow Mateo up to the dorms.

"Here," Mateo hands Harry his letter, and gestures for Miranda to come over and read theirs.

Unfortunately, I am traveling, and will not be able to attend your lessons. They are canceled until I return. Please talk to Severus about any questions you might have.

Sincerely,

Headmaster A. Dumbledore

"Yours canceled too?" Miranda queries, resting her chin upon Harry's shoulder. His brow is furrowed.

He nods, "Yeah." Harry continues, deep in thought, "I wonder if..."

"What?"

Harry exhales heavily, clearing his face. "Nothing, never mind," he brushes her off airily. He keeps his voice light, shoving his letter into his pocket.  "Should we— er— head back to the party?' Harry holds out his hand in question, palm up.

Miranda take it, swallowing down her fears. She follows him down the stairs, wishing he would just tell her what was going on. She can feel her worries festering in her intestines.

I'm telling you, we should just read his mind.

Matt, how many times? We are not invading his privacy like that.

You totally want to know.

It doesn't matter.

But—

Enough. Do you want me to probe you for more Ginny thoughts?

Piss off.

Wolf whistles echo as Mateo and Miranda walk back to the common room behind Harry. When they enter, they crane their heads to see what all the ruckus is about, and all three of their mouths drop open when they see the scene before them.

There, in full view of the whole room, stands Ron wrapped so closely around Lavender Brown it is hard to tell whose hands were whose.

"It looks like he's eating her face, doesn't it?" remarks Ginny dispassionately when she sees them. She gestures at the pair, who are still immersed in a passionate, slobbery lip lock. "But I suppose he's got to refine his technique somehow. Good game, Matt." She pats him on the arm; Matt feels a swooping sensation in his stomach as she turns away to get more butterbeer. This feeling does not last long.

Miranda, Mateo, and Harry all have the exact same thought.

Hermione.

The three of them look frantically through the throng, over the tops of students' heads. Finally seeing her bushy brown ponytail duck out of the room. "I'll go," Harry says instantly, starting to run after her.

"No, I should—" Miranda attempts to dash towards the portrait hole as well. The two begin arguing heatedly about who should talk to Hermione.

"I'm going," decides Mateo firmly. His statement cuts through their squabble with unprecedented matter of factness.

"No offense, mate," Harry mumbles, skeptical. "But you haven't known her as long as we have. Shouldn't one of us—"

Mateo holds up a hand, stopping Harry in his tracks. "I know," he acknowledges, inhaling. "But I have to go. It has to be me."

"But—" Both Miranda and Harry are keen to protest. Miranda has no idea why Mateo is being so adamant about this.

"Trust me on this one," beseeches Mateo.  "It'll be better if I go." He offers no explanation for why this is.

Are you sure?

I'm sure. I get it. Remember...?

Understanding washes over Miranda, and she gently tugs at Harry's arm, "Let him do it." She locks eyes with him, "He's right, it has to be him."

"Why?" asks Harry, rightfully stymied.

Mateo sighs very heavily, casting along glance at where Hermione had gone. "Because I know how it feels," he says, pressing his lips together, "and the two of you...don't."And with that, he sets off to find Hermione.

"What the bloody hell is he on about?" Harry watches Mateo go, his reluctance to let him strong. "Hermione's like my sister. I have to be there for her. I feel the same way about her as Mateo does about you. I've known her since we were eleven—"

"I know, Harry." Miranda squeezes his shoulder, heart warmed by his loyalty to his best friends. "I love Hermione like a sister too. And we'll be there for her after, but right now she needs someone who understands what she's going through."

Mateo darts down the stairs, searching for Hermione in every corridor. "Hermione?"

He finds her in the first unlocked classroom he tries. She is sitting on the teacher's desk, alone except for a small ring of twittering yellow birds circling her head, which she has clearly just conjured out of midair. Mateo cannot help but admire her spellwork, even at a time like this.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets, approaching her cautiously. "Hey,"  he says quietly, not quite sure how to start off. He gives her a little wave.

Oh, hello, Matt," she manages in a brittle voice, quickly swiping hr sleeve across her face. "I was just practicing," she gestures to the birds.

"Yeah . . . they're — er — really good. . . ." says Matt, nodding. He sits down next to her, "You're brilliant in every subject, though."

There is a moment of silence.

"So, Hermione..." he ventures, flicking his eyes to her.

Her voice is breathy, unnaturally high pitched, "Hm?" Hermione's bottom lip trembles, a tear sliding down her face.

"Oh—Hermione—" Mateo scoots nearer to her, wrapping his arm around her. She cries quietly into his shoulder. "I can get Harry or Miranda if you want to," he murmurs soothingly. "I know you only met me a year ago, but I thought you might like someone who gets it."

"Stay. Please," she requests, gripping his hand in her own. "You're a good friend, Matt." Hermione scrubs her face hastily, blinking to rid herself of tears. "So this is what it feels like then? For you?"

Mateo leans back on his elbows, pursing his lips wryly. "Blows. Doesn't it?"

"Yeah," Hermione sniffs, a hint of a smile creeping up her cheeks. "It really, really blows."

"And it's even worse when you see Harry and Miranda being all lovey dovey," Mateo adds disgustedly, making a face like he has just smelled something rotten.

Hermione lets out a strangled sort of laugh, "It so is." She knocks her head back, "I love Miranda and Harry to death, but sometimes it's just like we get it, you're in a relationship." Mateo chuckles along with her. Kindred spirits. Shared misery is the best kind. "Thank you, Mateo," Hermione whispers, embracing him tightly.

"Anytime," Mateo grins. "From now on we can be venting buddies about our sad, single lives."

"Deal." Hermione shakes his hand, smiling.  A real smile this time. One that reaches her eyes. 

"I think we should both be more concerned about the fact that we're both pining for gingers," Mateo quips devilishly, waggling his eyebrows. Hermione chokes on a laugh, encouraging Mateo to continue. "Honestly, what power do those Weasley genetics hold over us?" He indicates the two of them cheekily, snickering, "We're both good looking, intelligent people. I mean—"

The door behind them bursts open. To Mateo's horror, Ron comes in, laughing, pulling Lavender by the hand.

"Oh," he says, drawing up short at the sight of Mateo and Hermione.

"Oops!" Lavender's girlish voice fills the classroom, and she backs out of the room, giggling. The door swings shut behind her.

There is a horrible, swelling, billowing silence. Hermione is staring at Ron, who refuses to look at her, but says with an odd mixture of bravado and awkwardness, "Hi,Matt! Wondered where you'd got to!"

Hermione slides off the desk. The little flock of golden birds continues to twitter in circles around her head so that she looks like a strange, feathery angel. "You shouldn't leave Lavender waiting outside," she says tightly. "She'll wonder where you've gone." She walks very slowly to the door, her spine pin straight, like someone had forced a rod through it. Mateo glances at Ron, who is looking relieved that nothing worse had happened.

"Oppugno!" comes a shriek from the doorway.

Mateo spins around to see Hermione pointing her wand at Ron, her expression wild: The little flock of birds is speeding like a hail of fat golden bullets toward Ron, who yelps and covers his face with his hands, but the birds attacked, pecking and clawing at every bit of flesh they can reach.

"Gerremoffme!" he bellows, fleeing from the room in terror.

Once he is gone, Hermione collapses down to the ground, head in her hands. Mateo hears a sob. Yellow feathers float down to the floor slowly, an odd rain. Mateo takes her hand and helps her up, whisking a tear away just before it rolls off her chin and plops to the ground. "You are scary as hell, Hermione Granger," Mateo's eyes are gentle, offering her his arm. "Remind me never to cross you." He gets a weak, tiny laugh out of that one. "Ron's an idiot," he mutters into her ear, just before they cross the threshold of the common room and are immediately accosted by Harry and Miranda.

"Hermione!" Miranda cries, both her and Harry crushing her in a rib cracking hug.

"Oh— stop it," Hermione clucks her tongue, her body smushed between the couple. It's surprisingly comforting. "I'm alright, you two."

"Sure," Harry and Miranda reply absentmindedly, refusing to release her. Miranda notices a feather in her hair and makes a mental note to ask Matt about it later. All she wants to do is protect Hermione.

"That means you can let go now..." she clears her throat pointedly, squirming in their hold.

"Right— right—" Harry scratches his head, stepping back. He peers at her with concern, searching her face for any signs of heartbreak.

Hermione flashes a watery smile, "I'm fine, Harry."

"I'm sure you are," Harry does not sound like he believes her at all.  He nudges her conspiratorially, "But I'll still kick his arse if you want me too. I don't care if he's my best friend."

"I'll bring the bat," Miranda chimes in jokingly, kissing Hermione on the cheek. She drives her fist into the palm of her hand, "And we all know I can pack a punch.

Harry snorts, "No kidding."