Chasing Foxtails

All hell broke loose when the lamps went out on the Hogwarts Express.

At least, it did in the compartment I shared with Fred and George Weasley. The trunks over our heads had fallen out of the racks, narrowly avoiding Fred’s feet. The twins had fallen silent, something I knew to be wary of.

“Fred, George? What are you two — ” I was interrupted by a mutter, and before I knew what was even going on, I found myself stretched out on the floor, struggling to get up and unable to separate my legs. The Leg-Locker Curse. “Did — did you just jinx me?” I spluttered at no one in particular. I could hear their snickers a few feet away, and blindly swatted through the darkness.

“Lumos,” said their voices in unison, and the compartment was bathed in light, if somewhat weak. I glared at the twins as they grinned down at me.

“It’s not funny.”

“Oh, it definitely is,” said the one on the right with an evil glint in his eyes.

“I agree, George,” said the one on the left, revealing himself to be Fred. “I don’t think Miss Lennox here appreciates our goodhearted attempt at humour, though. How unfortunate.” He ended his sentence with a bit of a yawn.

I gritted my teeth, trying to locate my pocket for my wand in the semi-darkness. As my hands wrapped around the sturdy handle, I whispered, “Locomotor vito.”

The invisible binding loosened, then vanished altogether as I flourished my wand. Before I could hex the Weasleys, however, the compartment door slid open with the slightest of squeaks. I was opening my mouth to tell them to bugger off, when a tall, dark, cloaked figure stepped into my line of vision, drawing a slow and rattling — almost shaky, really — breath.

Happiness seemed to simply drain out of our compartment, leaving us feeling cold and hollow. Dark memories surfaced at the chill, and tears were streaming down my face before I had even realised what I was remembering.

Just as soon as the dementor had come, it was gone, albeit reluctantly. For a long moment, the twins and I stared at the open door, stripped of our abilities to move or speak. It was a different silence from Fred and George than the one I’d been suspecting only minutes earlier.

“Bloody hell,” was the first thing any of us were able to say. George glanced around weakly. Even the illuminated tips of our wands seemed to have dimmed. “Bloody hell,” he repeated.

A squeak, louder than that of the door sliding open, sounded from the corridor. Draco Malfoy, flanked by his two thick thugs, rushed inside, his pale face, a bit paler than usual, devoid of its signature sneer in favour of panic.

The Slytherin third-year looked like he was about to wet himself. “That — that — ”

“What are you even doing here, you little prick?” I snarled, having regained my composure. He looked down at me, confused; I’d forgotten my awkward position on the floor. I stood while my temper flared, something which had compelled Ollivander to present to me the wand of “red oak, 10 ¼ inches, phoenix feather core — good for duelling,” as he’d told me.

Ollivander mentioned how the ignorant thought it would be a sign of a hot temper, which I would nevertheless have agreed with, but he was quick to correct me, that the owner would be one of adaptability and quick wit. Needless to say, I was flattered.

Malfoy was appearing to recover, made evident when he snidely remarked, “My father won’t be happy to hear they’re letting these things loose with all these students around.”

“If I didn’t know better, Malfoy, I would believe you — ” began George.

“ — weren’t actually trying to save your own arse, for once,” finished Fred. The twins were also glaring at the unwelcome trio, all three of our wands raised at the ready.

I took a couple of short breaths to calm myself down. “Why don’t you do yourself a favour, and get out, you little twat?” With my final word, I raised my arm threateningly, raising myself to my full height — which, mind you, wasn’t too impressive.

The platinum-blonde git and his bodyguards sized me up, eyeing my wand. I could almost hear the rusted gears (if there were any) in Crabbe and Goyle’s heads attempting to turn.

I pointed back at the corridor behind them. “Out.”

It was probably my luck that the third-years left, because when it really came down to strengths, the twins and I were definitely more skilled with wand work, but we were no match for brute strength.

The Hogwarts Express jolted back into motion at that moment, the lamps simultaneously coming back on. I sat next to the window, my irritation with the Weasleys forgotten.

“Didn’t think they’d actually believe Sirius Black would be on the Hogwarts Express,” said Fred after a brief pause.

“Grace, are you alright?” asked his brother.

I waved him off. “Just a bit shaken, is all.” I didn’t want to dwell on my thoughts and memories of the hinkypunk for even a moment. I could hear the chatter outside, even with the door shut.

Oliver Wood, trying to find his copy of Which Broomstick?, which had apparently been stolen while the train was stopped. Percy Weasley, patrolling the corridors for stragglers (he was the new Bighead Boy). My own brother, Victor, doing his duty as prefect and reporting to the former — though we, with the exception of Percy, were all aware he hated his fellow seventh-year, since he fancied Penelope Clearwater.

It wasn’t a very good day at home over the summer when Victor learned they were dating.

When we finally pulled into Hogsmeade Station, having been quiet for the rest of the trip, my troubles were only beginning to resurface.