The Scars to Prove It

Farren bit her lip to hold back a snicker as Fred and George stormed in opposite directions down the street when she was standing a few meters away. Farren was leaning up against the window of the owl office into which Oliver had ducked just moments before the twins arrived.

Of course, it really wasn’t a surprise that neither of them recognized her. She had opted for a warm chestnut color and not her usual multi-colored hair. But it did surprise her that the
boys were trying to spy on her and Carina. Why did they even care?

She thought it was very curious, but was pleased to hear that her best friend was enjoying her date with Cedric.

Farren’s musings were interrupted by the bell chime as Oliver emerged from the building.

“Sorry about that; it’s my cousin’s birthday,” he explained rather sheepishly.

She smiled brightly. “Not a problem.”

Oliver returned the smile and offered his arm. “Ready to go then?”

“Certainly.”

With a smile and a laugh, the couple started down the road toward their destination.



George was stumped. He had searched Hogsmeade in its entirety, without success. He did not even manage to catch a glimpse of Farren and was nowhere closer to discovering the
identity of her companion.

He had hazarded many a guess, each one worse than the last. By the time he circled back to the Three Broomsticks, he was thoroughly disheartened and convinced that Farren was on a date with a complete tosspot, more specifically, a tosspot by the name of Marcus Flint.

Worse of all, he imagined she was enjoying herself.

Frustrated and irritated, George went into the pub without casting a Disillusionment charm.

At that point, he was hardly even paying attention. He collapsed onto a barstool and ordered a Butterbeer from the lovely Madame Rosmerta. While he was waiting, he turned toward the tables and scanned the crowd.

George’s heart nearly leapt out of his chest in relief when he spotted Marcus Flint with some Slytherin floozy. Acknowledging that he was no closer to finding Farren dulled the urge to shout with joy, but still, the fact that she wasn’t out with Flint had raised his spirits visibly. He finished his drink quickly and left the pub with a new spring in his step.



“Oliver,” laughed Farren. “Would you please slow down. My legs aren’t nearly as long as yours.”

Oliver chuckled in response, but stopped and waited for Farren to catch up. He tapped his foot, mocking her. She didn’t quicken her pace, but merely stuck out her tongue. Oliver replied in kind.

“So where are we going?” queried Farren. “The Three Broomsticks?”

“Actually, there’s something I want to show you at the Hog’s Head.” He turned toward her. “If that’s okay?”

“Sounds exciting. I haven’t been yet. We always get distracted in Zonko’s.”

“Bloody hell, Farren! You don’t know what you’ve been missing.”

“An old, dirty, smelly pub?”

“No-- ”

“Oh, sorry, I forgot the roaches.”

“Don’t get cheeky with me.”

“I’ll do whatever I want with you.”

The words were out of Farren’s mouth before she could stop them. She nearly buried her face in her hands with embarrassment, but Oliver didn’t miss a beat.

“You’ll have to buy me dinner first, love.” They both laughed; Farren in relief. When he caught his breath, he continued. “But what I have to show you is a piece of history: a veritable gold mine.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Oliver grinned. “And see it you shall,” he said, quickening his pace down the street, grabbing Farren’s hand and towing her behind him.



George was on his last leg and was running out of time. He had searched every shop and pub –even alley -- in Hogsmeade twice over, except for one. His last stop was the Hog’s Head. The dumpy old bar didn’t top the list of date-worthy places. The establishment was run by a grumpy old wizard whose own looks matched those of his bar; it was a place better suited for illicit activities than a first date. But with Farren, you never did know, so George
charmed himself into invisibility and entered the pub.

As expected, the tables were almost all deserted. There was a slight smattering of shady looking blokes and dames, ranging from the drunk to the positively dangerous.

George had figured as much, and was on his way out the door when he heard something familiar coming from a corner booth: Oliver Wood raving about some obscure Quidditch player. He walked over to say hello, and was just about get his wand out in order to remove the charm when his jaw dropped.

There was Farren, sitting just across from Oliver, their hands clasped together on the table.



The couple had entered the pub and ordered two Butterbeers from the landlord. Then, Farren allowed Oliver to lead her to a table in the far back of the room.

They spent a few moments in silence, each enjoying the sweet, warm drink. Oliver spoke first.

“Are you prepared to hear something fantastic?”

“Oh, yes, impress me.”

“The greatest seeker in Gryffindor history sat here, right here at this table! Finley Bainbridge played from 1941 until 1946 and never missed a Snitch. Of course, the rest of the team was so bloody pathetic that they never won a match, but Bainbridge is still one of the greats.”

“That’s really interesting, Oliver,” said Farren, not having to feign sincerity.

“But you haven’t even heard the best part yet! He sat here in 1946 after the last match of his career, and they haven’t washed it since!”

“Is that so?”

Oliver nodded eagerly.

Farren swallowed a gag and resisted the urge to lift her hands from the table. “You were right, this is a great piece of history.”



George could not believe what he was seeing: Farren, on a date with Oliver Wood. It was absurd. He was two years older than her, for Christ’s sake!

He found himself hoping that Farren would bolt when Oliver told her the table hadn’t been washed in fifty-some years, but she did not. Her hands didn’t even twitch. That was when his day really began to go downhill.

Farren laughed at all of his jokes, seemed interested in all of his stories, and never moved her hands off the filthy table. He began to think that she might actually like Oliver.

His suspicion was confirmed as Farren was leaving. She mentioned something about meeting Carina, and before she got up, Oliver kissed her on the cheek. And she didn’t hex his lips off! She almost seemed pleased.

George watched, dumbstruck, as Farren left the pub, a faint blush tinting her face.



Farren met Carina outside of the tea shop and they skipped out of the village. Both the girls had thoroughly enjoyed their respective dates, and they spent the entire walk back to the castle describing their outings in detail. The pair was in extremely good spirits when they reached the castle, both girls giggling like maniacs.

When they entered the portrait hole, Farren and Carina made their way to their customary armchairs, only to find them occupied by the slumped figures of the twins.

“Hello you two,” greeted Carina, “how was your trip to the village?”

“Oh, our day was brilliant,” said Fred with thinly veiled sarcasm. Farren’s quirked eyebrow went unnoticed.

George, at least feigned sincerity. “How about you lot?”

Carina gave a little sigh of pleasure. “Brilliant, absolutely brilliant.”

Farren smiled. “Anyway, where’s Lee?”

Fred shrugged, and George echoed the same sentiment. “Haven’t seen him.”

“And neither of you find that the least bit odd?” asked Carina.

The twins shook their heads and Farren frowned.

“You haven’t seen him at all today? Maybe he’s ill.”

“Come to think of it,” began Fred, “I saw him this morning, and he looked a bit peaky.”

“Let’s check the hospital wing, then. Maybe he went for some Pepperup potion.” Carina finished speaking and turned to leave. The others quickly followed.

They made it to the hospital wing without incident, thankfully managing to avoid Filch and his customary post-Hogsmeade searches. Carina was the first to reach the door, and the first to see Lee, bruised and bleeding.

“Lee, what the hell did you do?!?!”

Fred, George and Farren were close behind. They ran into the hospital and skidded to a stop behind Carina next to Lee’s bed. Lee was trying to avoid the question, but Madame Pomfrey had chosen that moment to come out of her office with a bottle of dittany

“Mr. Jordan was trying to fly when a gust of wind plucked him right off of his broomstick. The poor boy was lucky that I was going to visit Pomona, or he would have hit the ground and broken his neck. It was a miracle that he managed only a broken arm, a concussion and some scrapes. He’ll be fixed up in a moment, but he’ll need to stay overnight,” she explained as she dropped dittany on his wounds. Lee winced as they as the skin grew back.

The quartet stood there next to Lee’s bed, all gaping and one another, then at the boy in question. George was the first one to speak.

“Were you trying to get yourself killed, mate?”

Fred followed. “Yeah, because there are easier ways to do it.”

Carina smacked Fred. “Be nice. He could have been seriously hurt.”

Farren opened her mouth to speak, but Lee cut her off.

“I’m fine, really. And I was trying to get a little practice flying, so I could maybe try out for the team next year with you lot, but I only managed to dislike heights more.”

Farren smiled at him. “It was because of that round of truth or dare, wasn’t it?”

Carina shook her head and spoke resolutely. “We are never playing that game again.”