𝐆 𝐑 𝐘 𝐅 𝐅 𝐈 𝐍 𝐃 𝐎 𝐑   𝐕. 𝐒.   𝐑 𝐀 𝐕 𝐄 𝐍 𝐂 𝐋 𝐀 𝐖

        𝐉𝐀𝐍𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐘 descended upon Hogwarts like a wilting rose; the thorns and the petals alike.

Harry saw less of Melody during the week following Christmas, owing to her constant station atop the Astronomy Tower. The sky was brilliantly clear, but it was still bitterly frigid — after several days, she developed a nasty head cold, and resorted to living off of a couch in the common room.

He found himself bringing her herbal tea and chicken soup every few hours, and she always met him with a twinkling grin from beneath her blanket.

"I've contracted the Black Death," she'd joked one evening, giggling as she took a mug from his hand. "Get it?"

"Great historical joke, Mel," he'd responded, not as amused as she'd probably hoped. "Why did you go up to the Tower so often in these mind-numbing temperatures, anyway?"

Her grin faded, but that look colored her face — she was thinking of the stars, and of how they'd always been ready to listen. Law number three. "Who else am I going to confide in about my many pressing issues?" she had said simply. "Now begone! I wish to recover in solitude. Thank you for the tea."

Harry had obeyed, of course he had. As he climbed the staircase to his dormitory, however, he couldn't help but understand her reasoning: the pair of them did have many pressing issues, each more concerning than the last.

There was Black, Buckbeak, and now, the Firebolts — they'd been the owners of the best brooms in the world for a few short hours, and now, because of Hermione's interference, Harry didn't know if they would ever see them again. She must have meant well, but that didn't stop the anger: it had spiked and subsided within Harry and Melody, but Ron's temper had yet to flare out.

He was furious with Hermione — as far as he was concerned, the stripping-down of a brand-new Firebolt was nothing less than criminal damage. This led to Hermione's avoidance of the common room, despite Melody's pleas for her company.

"You'll have to settle for me," Harry told her when Hermione swept away to the library on yet another chilly morning.

Melody sighed, her voice scratchy with sickness. "Don't worry, you're secretly my favorite."

Although he enjoyed every minute with her, Melody's cold ran its course, and before long, she was clambering after Hermione through the portrait hole. All in all, Harry was glad when the rest of the school returned, and Gryffindor Tower became crowded and noisy again.

It was good to see Neville, Dean, and Seamus again, as well as the rest of the Weasleys, but it was Oliver Wood who sought Harry out on the night before term started.

"Had a good Christmas?" he asked, and then, without waiting for an answer, he sat down, lowered his voice, and said, "I've been doing some thinking over Christmas, Harry. After the last match, you know. If the dementors come to the next one . . . I mean . . . we can't afford you to — well —"

He broke off, looking awkward.

"I'm working on it," said Harry quickly. "Professor Lupin said he'd train me to ward off the dementors. We should be starting this week. He said he'd have time after Christmas."

"Ah," sighed Oliver, his expression clearing. "Well, in that case — I really didn't want to lose you as Seeker, Harry. And have you ordered a new broom yet?"

"Melody and I got Firebolts for Christmas," said Harry, but he didn't smile at Oliver's reaction.

"Firebolts? No! Seriously? Are — are you sure? Real Firebolts?"

"Don't get excited," he murmured gloomily. "We haven't got them anymore. They were confiscated." He reluctantly struck up an explanation all about how the Firebolts was now being checked for jinxes, probably thrown into some lousy broom cupboard in an obscure corridor.

"But how could they be jinxed?"

"Sirius Black," Harry responded wearily. "He's supposed to be after me, and he's got some ties to Melody's family. So McGonagall reckons he might have sent them."

Waving aside the information that a famous murderer was greatly intertwined with his Seeker and Chaser, Oliver said, "But Black couldn't have bought a pair of Firebolts! He's on the run! The whole country's on the lookout for him! How could he just walk into Quality Quidditch Supplies and buy two wildly expensive broomsticks?"

"I know," placated Harry, "but McGonagall still wants to strip them down —"

Oliver went pale.

"I'll go and talk to her, Harry," he promised. "I'll make her see reason . . . Two Firebolts . . . Two real Firebolts, on our team . . . She wants Gryffindor to win as much as we do . . . I'll make her see sense. Two Firebolts . . ."

        𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐃𝐀𝐘 evening came along quickly, despite countless death omens in Divination and Ron's continued refusal to speak to Hermione — Harry was glad to leave Gryffindor Tower behind for his first anti-dementor lesson, set in the History of Magic classroom.

By the time Professor Lupin had established Harry would be fighting another boggart and explained the usage of the Patronus Charm, however, he was feeling much more apprehensive.

"What does a Patronus look like?" said Harry, trying to conceal his concern as curiosity.

"Each one is unique to the wizard who conjures it," answered Professor Lupin.

"And how do you conjure it?"

"With an incantation, which will work only if you are concentrating, with all your might, on a single, very happy memory."

A very happy memory.

Harry cast his mind about — nothing that had happened to him at the Dursleys' would do, and none of his near-death experiences facing Voldemort either. He thought of all his time at Hogwarts, all the joys that had come with it, and finally settled on the moment when he had first ridden a broomstick. He remembered a first-year Melody standing beside him, telling stories about her Comet and her adventures with the Quidditch Team . . . things had felt so simple, so flawless.

"Right," he said, trying to recreate as exactly as possible the wonderful, soaring sensation that had once made his stomach its home.

"The incantation is this—" Lupin cleared his throat. "Expecto Patronum! Concentrating hard on your happy memory?"

"Oh — yeah —" said Harry, quickly forcing his thoughts back to that first broom ride. "Expecto Patrono — no, Patronum — sorry — Expecto Patronum, Expecto Patronum —"

Something whooshed suddenly out of the end of his wand; it looked like a wisp of silvery gas.

"Very good," gushed Lupin, smiling. "Right, then — ready to try it on a dementor?"

"Yes," Harry said, gripping his wand very tightly, and moving into the middle of the deserted classroom. He tried to keep his mind on the memory, but something else kept intruding . . . Any second now, he might hear his mother again . . . but he shouldn't think that, or he would hear her again, and he didn't want to . . . or did he?

Lupin grasped the lid of the packing case and pulled.

A dementor rose slowly from the box, its hooded face turned toward Harry, one glistening, scabbed hand gripping its cloak. The lamps around the classroom flickered and went out. The dementor stepped from the box and started to sweep silently toward Harry, drawing a deep, rattling breath. A wave of piercing cold broke over him —

"Expecto Patronum!" Harry yelled. "Expecto Patronum! Expecto —"

But the classroom and the dementor were dissolving . . . white fog obscured Harry's senses, and big, blurred shapes were moving around him . . . then came a new voice, a man's voice, shouting, panicking —

"Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off —"

The sounds of someone stumbling from a room — a door bursting open — a cackle of high-pitched laughter — then his mother's voice was louder than ever, echoing inside his head — "Not Harry! Not Harry! Please — I'll do anything —"

"Stand aside. Stand aside, girl —"

"Harry! Harry . . . wake up. . . ."

Harry jerked back to life — he was lying flat on his back on the classroom floor. The lamps were alight again, flickering with warmth.

He didn't have to ask what had happened. "Sorry," he muttered, sitting up. He felt a cold sweat stream of sweat trickle down behind his glasses, and he hastened to wipe it away

"Are you all right?" said Lupin. His brows were creased with worry, and he offered a hand.

"Yes," Harry said. He accepted Lupin's hand, pulling himself up and then leaning against a spare desk.

"Here—" Professor Lupin drew a spare Chocolate Frog from his cardigan, and handed it to him. "Eat this before we try again. I didn't expect you to do it your first time; in fact, I would have been astounded if you had."

"I heard my dad," Harry mumbled, taking the Frog. "That's the first time I've ever heard him — he tried to take on Voldemort himself, to give my mum time to run for it. . . ."

Harry suddenly realized that there were tears on his face mingling with the sweat. He bent his face as low as possible, wiping them off on his robes, pretending to tie his shoelace, so that Lupin wouldn't see.

When he spoke, Lupin's voice was strange; reminiscent and soft. "You heard James?"

"Yeah . . ." His face now dry, Harry paused, and looked up. He met Lupin's caramel gaze hesitantly, as though the incoming question would realign their relationship and resound for years to come. "Why — you weren't close with my dad, were you?"

Lupin looked at the ground, opened his mouth, closed it again. He squeezed his eyes shut, those windows to the soul — they'd tell tales of boyhood and sorrow; stories that he wasn't quite ready for Harry to feel.

But despite, he blinked his eyes open, took a breath, and said, "I was, as a matter of fact. We were very close friends at Hogwarts. Regardless, Harry — perhaps we should leave it there for tonight. This charm is ridiculously advanced . . . I shouldn't have suggested putting you through this . . ."

"No!" exclaimed Harry. He'd heard Lupin's answer, and he had indeed felt it, like a pair of warm arms wrapping tightly around his torso. For some reason, though, he'd expected such comfort: Lupin had been caring towards him since their earliest hours, whether friends with his father or not. He found himself standing up again before a moment's pass. "What if the dementors turn up at our match against Ravenclaw? I'll have one more go! I'm not thinking of a happy enough thing, that's what it is. . . . Hang on . . ."

He racked his brains. A really, really happy memory . . . one that he could turn into a good, strong Patronus . . . The moment he'd seen Melody make the Quidditch team, the day he'd first boarded the Hogwarts Express?

And then it came to him, sparkling with nostalgia — when he'd first found out he was a wizard, and would be leaving the Dursleys for Hogwarts! If that wasn't a happy memory, he didn't know what was.

Concentrating very hard on how he had felt —invincible, hopeful, and floating— Harry got to his feet and faced the packing case once more.

"Ready?" said Lupin, whose eyes were quite dark. He looked as though he were doing this against his better judgment, but that something deep within him couldn't say no. "Concentrating hard? All right — go!"

He pulled off the lid of the case for the third time, and the dementor rose out of it; the room fell cold and dark—

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!" Harry bellowed. "EXPECTO PATRONUM! EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

The screaming inside Harry's head had started again — except this time, it sounded as though it were coming from a badly tuned radio — softer and louder and softer again — and he could still see the dementor — it had halted — and then a huge, silver shadow came bursting out of the end of Harry's wand, to hover between him and the dementor, and though Harry's legs felt like water, he was still on his feet — though for how much longer, he wasn't sure —

"Riddikulus!" roared Lupin, springing forward.

There was a loud crack, and Harry's cloudy Patronus vanished along with the dementor; he sank into a chair, feeling as exhausted as if he'd just run a mile, and felt his legs shaking. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Professor Lupin forcing the boggart back into the packing case with his wand; it had turned into a silvery orb again.

"Excellent!" Lupin praised, striding over to where Harry sat. "Excellent, Harry! That was definitely a start!"

"Can we have another go? Just one more go?"

"Not now," he said firmly. "You've had enough for one night. Here—" He handed Harry a large bar of Honeydukes's best chocolate.

"Eat the lot, or Madam Pomfrey will be after my blood, and Lord knows, I've caused her more than enough trouble. Same time next week?"

"Okay," said Harry. He took a bite of the chocolate and watched Lupin extinguishing the lamps that had rekindled with the disappearance of the dementor. While watching the lights turn to dark, a thought appeared in his mind, intrusive and somewhat dangerous —

"If you knew my dad, you must've known Sirius Black as well."

Lupin turned very quickly.

"What gives you that idea?" he said sharply, something shifting behind his gaze.

Harry mentally cursed his impulsive tongue, but now that the question was hanging low in the air, he couldn't help but try to align the constellations of Black's history. "Nothing — I mean, I just knew they were friends at Hogwarts too . . ."

Lupin's face relaxed, reminded of a simpler time. Friends at Hogwarts.

"Yes, I knew him," he said, with the smallest of smiles. But, like the full moon slowly diminishing into absence, the smile faded away into naught. "Or . . . I thought I did. You'd better be off, Harry, it's getting late."

And so, with his chocolate in hand, and an odd feeling of incompleteness in heart, Harry left.

        𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 Slytherin beat Ravenclaw the next weekend, Melody came down for Sunday brunch in robes of shocking emerald, accompanied by Oliver Wood and the Weasley Twins.

"Great news for Gryffindor fans!" she crowed, strutting to Harry's end of the table. "We beat Ravenclaw, and we're in second!"

"And great news for our team," added Oliver, who patted Harry's shoulder rather forcefully. "I've increased our training to five practices a week!"

Melody's expression soured, and she yanked a bright green ribbon from her hair. "That is significantly less great news."

And although she adored Quidditch nearly as much as astronomical patterns and their movements, this sentiment proved correct. She was completely on top of her workload, but Harry, who was also meeting with Professor Lupin for anti-dementor lessons once a week, had only one night to get all his assignments done. This meant Melody would spend that night working on his Transfiguration and Astronomy — all whilst bemoaning how much he was overworking her, of course.

Even so, nobody was nearly as overworked as Hermione, whose immense workload finally seemed to be getting to her. Every night, without fail, Hermione was to be seen in a corner of the common room, several tables spread with books, Arithmancy charts, rune dictionaries, diagrams of Muggles lifting heavy objects, and file upon file of extensive notes; she barely spoke to anybody and snapped when she was interrupted.

"How's she doing it?" Ron muttered to Melody one evening as she sat in the common room, writing a letter to Petar about everything new. She looked up — Hermione was barely visible behind a tottering pile of books.

Harry, who was proof-reading an essay of his, scooted closer. "Doing what?"

"Getting to all her classes!" Ron said. "I heard her talking to Professor Vector, that Arithmancy professor, this morning. They were going on about yesterday's lesson, but Hermione can't've been there, because she was with us in Care of Magical Creatures! And Ernie Macmillan told me she's never missed a Muggle Studies class, but half of them are at the same time as Divination, and she's never missed one of them either!"

Melody wrapped up her final sentences — Someday, there'll be time for us to meet properly. I wish I could fast forward to it now.

She signed it, and began to fathom the mystery of Hermione's impossible schedule instead — time was certainly working in her favor, in some way or another. Two seconds later, however, she was interrupted by none other than Oliver Wood.

"Bad news, Harry, Melody. I've just been to see Professor McGonagall about the Firebolts. She — er — got a bit shirty with me. Told me I'd got my priorities wrong. Seemed to think I cared more about winning the Cup than I do about you staying alive. Just because I told her I didn't care if they threw you off, as long as you scored a dozen goals and caught the Snitch first." Wood shook his head in disbelief. "Honestly, the way she was yelling at me . . . you'd think I'd said something terrible . . . Then I asked her how much longer she was going to keep it . . ." He screwed up his face and imitated Melody's grandmother's severe voice. "'As long as necessary, Wood' . . . I reckon it's time you ordered new brooms, both of you. There's an order form at the back of Which Broomstick . . . you could get a couple of Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones, like Malfoy's got."

"I'm not buying anything Malfoy thinks is good," said Melody flatly. "Besides, I'm headed to the Owlery. Want to come, Ree?"

"Sure, I've just finished," Harry answered, packing his parchment away. She watched his gaze linger over the letter in her hand, some sort of silent accusation, but he didn't falter. "We'll see you for practice, Oliver."

And they went.

February followed them, misty and bitterly cold, and as the match against Ravenclaw drew nearer, neither of them conceded to buying new brooms.

Instead, Melody had settled upon asking her grandmother for news of the Firebolts after each and every Transfiguration lesson, Harry and Ron standing hopefully at her shoulder. Hermione tended to rush past with her face averted, as any mention of the broomsticks seemed to trigger her into flight — it was odd, given that she and Melody had been discussing Animagi theories mere seconds earlier.

"No, Melody, you can't have them back yet," her grandmother said, the twelfth time she'd asked. "We've checked for most of the usual curses, but Professor Flitwick believes the brooms might be carrying Hurling Hexes. I will tell you once we've finished checking them. Now, please stop badgering me."

With her hopes regarding the broomsticks severely dashed, Melody's plan to cheer herself up involved convincing Harry to let her attend his next anti-dementor lesson. Harry didn't quite seem enthusiastic about the ordeal —his eyes widened to the size of Jupiter when she suggested it— but when she told Lupin, it was a different story.

"Of course you can join us!" he'd exclaimed, packing up his briefcase at the end of Defense Against the Dark Arts. Then he lowered his voice, leaned down to her, and said, "Just between us, Harry could use some motivation from someone other than me."

After watching Harry produce an indistinct, silvery shadow every time the boggart approached him, Melody was inclined to agree. All the Patronus did was hover, like a semi-transparent cloud.

When Harry lowered his wand, Melody felt his anger; a solar system of guilt and desire all by itself. Without having to look at Lupin for encouragement, she slid off of the desk she'd been seated on, and placed a hand on Harry's shoulder.

"I think you're expecting too much of yourself, Ree," she placated. "For being our age, an indistinct Patronus is still a huge achievement — and you aren't passing out anymore, right?"

Harry's entire body sighed, from the ends of his hair to the tips of his fingers. "I thought a Patronus would — charge the dementors down or something," he told her. "Make them disappear."

He looked up, his dispirited eyes meeting hers. She took a breath, faltering before she could help herself — those eyes still brimmed with secrets, with truths, with everything important to her in the world and beyond.

"A true Patronus does that, doesn't it?" she murmured. "But if the dementors make a guest appearance at the Ravenclaw match, I think you'll be able to keep them at bay long enough to get back to the ground." She tried to smile, but her lips barely moved, caught on the authenticity of the conversation.

"But Lupin said it's harder if there are loads of them."

Melody had forgotten Lupin was there, he'd been so silent in the corner, but now he made his way over to them, and placed his hand on Harry's other shoulder. "I have complete confidence in you."

Harry grimaced, looking between the pair of them, then said, "Why doesn't Melody try?"

Melody spared a glance at the nearby boggart. "Because my boggart is a lovely piece of emotional trauma from the night my parents were killed," she responded, "not a dementor."

Now, Lupin turned to her, his gaze turning curious. "So you've given some thought to it? Your boggart, I mean."

Melody stared back at him, the irises of her eyes locking together into a pair of glistening meteorites, graver than the asteroid belt itself. "I've given it far too much thought, actually."

Lupin nodded slowly, as though dipping his toes into her ocean, then turned back around to his briefcase.

"Here — you've earned a drink — something from the Three Broomsticks." He produced three bottles and carried them back over. "Harry, you won't have tried this before —"

"Butterbeer!" exclaimed Harry. "Yeah, I like that stuff!"

As Lupin raised an eyebrow, Melody took another seat on a nearby desk, and crossed her arms in would-be nonchalance. "Oh, I brought him some back from Hogsmeade."

"I see," said Lupin, though he still looked slightly suspicious. As Harry sent Melody a look of utter gratitude, he went on, "Well — let's drink to a Gryffindor victory against Ravenclaw! Not that I ever take sides, of course, as a teacher . . ." he added hastily.

They drank their butterbeer in silence, and Melody was forced towards introspection. She had, in fact, given far too much thought to her boggart, to the true meaning of it — fear may surge and swallow, but the thunderstorm was never fickle. She took a sip of Butterbeer, and thought of Harry's boggart, a dementor . . . the perfect embodiment of fear itself.

She didn't mean to say it, not really, but it simply came out: "What's under a dementor's hood?"

Professor Lupin lowered his bottle thoughtfully, and looked at her. "Well, the only people who really know are in no condition to tell us. You see, the dementor lowers its hood only to use its last and worst weapon."

It was Harry who spoke next, his voice surprisingly gentle: "What's that?"

"They call it the Dementor's Kiss," he answered, and his caramel gaze gained a twisted sort of edge. "It's what dementors do to those they wish to destroy utterly. I suppose there must be some kind of mouth under there, because they clamp their jaws upon the mouth of the victim and — and suck out their soul."

Melody drew in a breath — that was darker than the sun's final ray of life-giving light, crueler than the fate-sealed tale of Orpheus and Eurydice. To live without living, feel without truly feeling, with no viable escape but death itself.

Harry had spat out a bit of butterbeer, choking for words — "What? They kill — ?"

"Oh no," said Lupin. "Much worse than that. You can exist without your soul, you know, as long as your brain and heart are still working. But you'll have no sense of self anymore, no memory, no . . . anything. There's no chance at all of recovery. You'll just — exist. As an empty shell. And your soul is gone forever . . . lost."

Melody cast her gaze downwards, to the bottle in her hands, and she didn't look back up as she murmured, "It's the fate that awaits Sirius Black. It was in the Daily Prophet this morning. If the dementors find him, they're allowed to perform it immediately."

She felt Harry's eyes, inquisitive but still certain, somehow. Then he said, "He deserves it."

"You think so?" said Lupin at once, though lightly. "Do you really think anyone deserves that?"

"Yes," replied Harry defiantly. "For . . . for some things . . ."

Melody's eyes still didn't leave her bottle. She knew better than to tell Lupin everything she knew about Black's legendary betrayal, about her mother's previous heartaches, about James Potter's questionable choice in friends. Instead, she brooded — did Black deserve it?

Maybe he'd had love, once. Maybe he'd been full of it, even — wrapping his arms around Cocoa, a handsome smile on his face, parallel to the glistening Dog star itself. Melody frowned: perhaps he'd even been like her, traipsing about with a Potter in tow, not a care in the world besides his next big prank.

But he'd thrown it all away, sinking down beneath the horizon as quickly as he'd risen above it. Did that mean he deserved a bitter and emotionless rest of his existence, a star that had simply ceased to exist, as opposed to a beautiful supernova?

Melody couldn't decide.

So she finished her butterbeer, thanked Lupin, and led Harry out of the History of Magic classroom.

Melody half wished that she hadn't asked what was under a dementor's hood. She sped ahead of Harry, so lost in unpleasant thoughts of what it would feel like to have one's soul sucked out that she walked headlong into her grandmother halfway up the stairs.

"Do watch where you're going, Melody!"

"Sorry, grandma —"

"I was just looking for you in the Gryffindor common room. Well, here they are, we've done everything we could think of, and there doesn't seem to be anything wrong with them at all. You must have a good friend somewhere . . ."

Melody's jaw dropped. She was holding out their Firebolts, and they looked as magnificent as ever.

And then, of course, Harry was at her side, his emerald eyes wider than ever before. "We can have them back?" he said weakly. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," nodded Melody's grandma, and she was actually smiling; an exceptionally rare occasion. "I daresay you'll need to get the feel of them before Saturday's match. And do try to win, won't you? Or we'll be out of the running for the eighth year in a row, as Professor Snape was kind enough to remind me only last night . . ."

Speechless, the pair carried the Firebolts back upstairs toward Gryffindor Tower. Melody suddenly felt happier than she had in weeks, all deliberations of soul-sucking and betrayals vanquished.

As they turned a corner, she saw Ron dashing toward them, grinning from ear to ear. "She gave them to you? Excellent! Listen, can I still have a go on one? Tomorrow?"

"Yeah . . . anything . . ." said Harry. "You know what — you should make up with Hermione . . .

"Right, Ron, you've carried this on for too long," Melody continued, firmer than her still-dazed counterpart. "She was only trying to help, and we've gotten them back now."

"Yeah, all right," agreed Ron. "She's in the common room now."

They turned into the corridor to Gryffindor Tower and were met with the sight of one Neville Longbottom, pleading with Sir Cadogan, who seemed to be refusing him entrance.

"I'm sorry!" Neville was saying tearfully. "I forgot it, but I knew it a few minutes ago!"

"A likely tale!" roared Sir Cadogan. Then, he noticed Melody, Harry, and Ron. "Good evening, my fine young adolescents! Come clap this loon in irons. He is trying to force entry to the chambers within!"

"Oh, shut up," said Ron as they all drew level with Neville.

"I've lost the passwords!" Neville told them miserably. "I made him tell me what passwords he was going to use this week, because he keeps changing them, and now I don't know what I've done with them!"

"Oddsbodikins," said Melody to Sir Cadogan, who looked extremely disappointed and reluctantly swung forward to let them into the common room. There was a sudden, excited murmur as every head turned and the next moment, she and Harry were surrounded by people exclaiming over their Firebolts.

"Where'd you get it, Melody?"

"Will you let me have a go?"

"Have you ridden it yet, Harry?"

"Ravenclaw'll have no chance, they're all on Cleansweep Sevens!"

"Can I just hold one, please?"

After ten minutes or so, during which the Firebolt was passed around and admired from every angle, the crowd dispersed and they had a clear view of Hermione, bent over her work and carefully avoiding their eyes. Melody led the way to her table and at last, she looked up.

"We got them back," she said, beaming at Hermione and holding up her Firebolt.

"See, Hermione? There wasn't anything wrong with them!" insisted Ron.

"Well — there might have been!" Hermione countered. "I mean, at least you know now that they're safe!"

"Yeah, I guess so," said Melody. "I do appreciate your concern, 'Mione, really. I'd better put mine upstairs—"

"I'll take Harry's!" shouted Ron eagerly. "I've got to give Scabbers his rat tonic."

He took Harry's Firebolt and, holding it as if it were made of glass, carried it away up the boys' staircase.

Melody leapt up the staircase to her own dormitory, placed her Firebolt on her bed, and hastened back down to the common room, recalling that Hermione had wanted a proof-reader for her Muggle Studies essay — but why Muggles needed electricity, she never found out.

At the precise moment she joined Harry and Hermione at their table, a strangled yell echoed down the boys' staircase. The whole common room fell silent, staring, petrified, at the entrance. Then came hurried footsteps, growing louder and louder — and then Ron came leaping into view, dragging with him a bedsheet.

"LOOK!" he bellowed, striding over to the table. "LOOK!" he yelled, shaking the sheets in Hermione's face.

"Ron, what — ?"

"SCABBERS!" Ron screamed. "LOOK! SCABBERS!"

Hermione was leaning away from Ron, looking utterly bewildered. Melody squinted down at the sheet Ron was holding. There was something red on it. Something that looked horribly like —

"BLOOD!" Ron yelled into the stunned silence. "HE'S GONE! AND YOU KNOW WHAT WAS ON THE FLOOR?"

"N-no," said Hermione in a trembling voice.

Ron threw something down onto Hermione's essay. All four of them at the table leaned over to look — lying on top of the weird, spiky shapes were several long, ginger cat hairs.

        𝐑𝐎𝐍 and Hermione's friendship was over.

Or at least, that's the way it seemed — each was so angry with the other that Melody couldn't see how they'd ever make up.

Ron was enraged that Hermione had never taken Crookshanks's attempts to eat Scabbers seriously, hadn't bothered to keep a close enough watch on him, and was still trying to pretend that Crookshanks was innocent by suggesting that Ron look for Scabbers under all the boys' beds. Hermione, meanwhile, maintained fiercely that Ron had no proof that Crookshanks had eaten Scabbers, that the ginger hairs might have been there since Christmas, and that Ron had been prejudiced against her cat ever since Crookshanks had landed on Ron's head in the Magical Menagerie.

Despite all distractions, Ron had taken the loss of his rat very hard indeed.

"Dearest cousin Ronald, you were always saying how boring Scabbers was," Melody pointed out, trying to console him. "And he's been off-color for ages. He was practically wasting away."

"You're right, Melody," agreed Fred. "It was probably better for him to snuff it quickly. One swallow — he probably didn't feel a thing."

"Fred!" exclaimed Ginny indignantly.

"All he did was eat and sleep, Ron, you said it yourself," George went on.

"He bit Goyle for us once!" Ron insisted miserably. "Remember that?"

"His finest hour," Melody remembered, trying desperately to keep a straight face. "Let the scar on Goyle's finger stand as a lasting tribute to his memory."

Fred heaved a sigh. "Oh, come on, Ron, get yourself down to Hogsmeade and buy a new rat, what's the point of moaning?"

The only thing that seemed to distract Ron was the next Quidditch match — Gryffindor vs Ravenclaw. The entire school was revved up for the game, and Melody had wasted no time informing her international acquaintances about it, either. She was keeping Petar updated on everything going on with Quidditch, and he, too, seemed to be on the edge of his seat, very excited for her match on Saturday.

The team practiced the night before the big game, and quite frankly, Melody couldn't believe how wonderful her new broomstick was. The Firebolt turned with the lightest touch; it seemed to obey her thoughts rather than her grip, and it sped across the field at such speed that the stadium turned into a green-and-gray blur.

It was the best practice ever. The team, inspired by the presence of the Firebolts in their midst, performed their best moves faultlessly, and by the time they hit the ground again, Wood didn't have a single criticism to make, which, as Fred pointed out, was a first.

Melody and Harry went down to breakfast the next morning with the rest of the team, all of whom seemed to think the Firebolts deserved a guard of honor. As they entered the Great Hall, heads turned in the direction of the Firebolts, and there was a good deal of excited muttering.

Melody saw, with enormous satisfaction, that the Slytherin team were all looking thunderstruck. She tried to act normal, filling in her crossword like usual, and to her delight, she solved it in just under five minutes — a close challenge to her personal best of four minutes and sixteen seconds.

At a quarter to eleven, the Gryffindor team set off for the locker rooms. The weather couldn't have been more different from their match against Hufflepuff — it was a clear, cool day with a very light breeze; there would be no visibility problems this time, and Melody, though nervous, was starting to feel the excitement only a Quidditch match could bring.

"You know what we've got to do," said Wood as they prepared to leave the locker rooms. "If we lose this match, we're out of the running. Just — just fly like you did in practice yesterday, and we'll be okay!"

"We'll be more than okay," Melody assured him, taking her place at his side. The Weasley twins joined her, and all three said "Knock on Wood," whilst thumping on Oliver's gear.

With their sacred ritual complete, the team walked out onto the field to tumultuous applause. The Ravenclaws, dressed in blue, were already standing in the middle of the field. Their Seeker, Cho Chang, was the only girl on their team. Cho smiled at Harry as the teams faced each other behind their captains, pretty as a ray of starlight — all at once, Melody felt an asteroid collapse in her stomach that she didn't think had anything to do with nerves.

"Wood, Davies, shake hands," Madam Hooch said briskly, and Wood shook hands with the Ravenclaw Captain.

"Mount your brooms . . . on my whistle . . . three — two — one —"

Melody's asteroid was gone, broken apart as quickly as a racing comet. She kicked off into the air, and her Firebolt zoomed higher and faster than any other broom. She soared around the stadium and looked for a pass while listening to Lee's commentary.

"They're off, and the big excitement of this match is the Firebolts that Harry Potter and Melody Prewett are flying for Gryffindor. According to Which Broomstick, the Firebolt's going to be the broom of choice for the national teams at this year's World Championship—"

Melody burst towards Angelina in a fit of speed, and got a hold of the Quaffle. She raced down the pitch, already feeling immensely confident.

"Jordan, would you mind telling us what's going on in the match?" interrupted Melody's grandma's voice.

"Right you are, Professor — just giving a bit of background information — the Firebolt, incidentally, has a built-in auto-brake and—"

"Jordan!"

"Okay, okay, Gryffindor in possession, Melody Prewett of Gryffindor heading for goal . . ."

Melody streaked ahead, zooming down the field. She reached the goalposts in moments and hurled the Quaffle out of her grasp — to her satisfaction, it sailed into the central goal with ease. The Gryffindor end of the stands went wild.

Melody turned around and began the flight back up the pitch as the Ravenclaw Chasers began their attack. As she did, her gaze singled in on Harry and Cho speeding towards the ground: someone must have seen the Snitch.

But of course, a Bludger came pelting out of nowhere at Harry — he veered off course, and the Snitch disappeared. Melody grimaced in disappointment before accelerating further down the pitch and doing her best to intercept a pass between the Ravenclaw Chasers.

In no time at all, Gryffindor had a huge lead. Melody had to admit, this was her best match yet — she'd assisted on 2 goals, and scored an impressive 3.

"Gryffindor is up eighty points to zero, and look at those Firebolts go! Potter's really putting his through its paces now, see it turn — Chang's Comet is just no match for it, the Firebolt's precision-balance is really noticeable in these long—"

"JORDAN! ARE YOU BEING PAID TO ADVERTISE FIREBOLTS? GET ON WITH THE COMMENTARY!" shouted Melody's grandma.

Melody chuckled, but before long, Ravenclaw was pulling back; they had now scored three goals, which put Gryffindor only fifty points ahead. She looked beneath her, to where Harry had dropped lower. He was scanning the field frantically. Then, he accelerated, eyes fixed ahead of him . . . Cho appeared out of thin air, blocking him —

"POTTER, THIS IS NO TIME TO BE A GENTLEMAN!" Melody roared as Harry swerved to avoid a collision. "KNOCK HER OFF HER BROOM IF YOU HAVE TO!"

She could feel Harry roll his eyes, even from the other side of the pitch. Despite, her bluntness seemed to have worked — in no time at all, he had broken away from Cho and was speeding towards the Ravenclaw goalposts.

Melody passed the Quaffle off to Katie, then glanced down — and nearly fell off her broom.

At the Ravenclaw end of the pitch, three tall black dementors had emerged, and they were looking up at Harry. Melody sped ahead, with no idea of what she was hoping to do, but suddenly, Harry was aiming his wand at them. Something silver-white, something enormous, erupted from the end of his wand.

A Patronus?

"He did it," Melody whispered into the air, amazed.

But she couldn't ponder it for long — without turning to look back at the dementors, Harry stretched out his hand and just managed to close his fingers over the small, struggling Snitch.

Madam Hooch's whistle sounded. Melody's broom was already hurtling towards Harry. The entire team was hugging. The roars of the Gryffindors in the crowd reigned superior.

"That's my boy!" Wood kept yelling. Angelina and Katie had both kissed Harry; and Melody had nearly vomited at the thought of doing so. Instead, she embraced him in a grip so tight that she was completely shocked his lungs didn't recreate the glorious Big Bang.

Things were in complete and beautiful disarray. Melody looked up to see a gaggle of Gryffindor supporters sprinting onto the field, Ron in the lead. Before she knew it, she had been engulfed by the cheering crowd.

"Yes!" Ron yelled, yanking Harry and Melody's arms into the air. "Yes! Yes!"

"Well done, both of you!" exclaimed Percy, looking delighted. "Ten Galleons to me! Must find Penelope, excuse me—"

"Good for you, Gryffindor!" shouted Seamus Finnigan.

"Ruddy brilliant!" boomed Hagrid over the heads of the milling Gryffindors.

"That was quite some Patronus," said a voice behind them. Harry and Melody both turned — it was Professor Lupin, who looked a mixture of utterly shaken and happily pleased.

"The dementors didn't affect me at all!" Harry exclaimed excitedly, his grin contagious. "I didn't feel a thing!"

"I knew you had it in you," Melody said at once, turning back to him. "It worked great!"

"That would be because they —er— weren't dementors," replied Professor Lupin, who raked a sheepish hand across the back of his neck. "Come and see."

He led Melody and Harry out of the crowd until they were able to see the edge of the field: and it didn't disappoint.

"You gave Mr. Malfoy quite a fright."

Harry and Melody stared. Lying in a crumpled heap on the ground were Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, and Marcus Flint, all struggling to remove themselves from long, black, hooded robes. It looked as though Malfoy had been standing on Goyle's shoulders. Standing over them, with an expression of the utmost fury on her face, was Melody's grandma.

"An unworthy trick!" she was screeching. "A low and cowardly attempt to sabotage the Gryffindor Seeker! Detention for all of you, and fifty points from Slytherin! I shall be speaking to Professor Dumbledore about this, make no mistake! Ah, here he comes now!"

Melody almost cried laughing.

If anything could have set the seal on Gryffindor's victory, it was this. Ron, who had fought his way through to Melody's side, joined her in doubling up with laughter as they watched Malfoy fighting to extricate himself from the robe, Goyle's head still stuck inside it.

"Come on, you three!" shouted George, shoving his way over. "Party! Gryffindor common room, now!"

"Right," gasped Melody, in between chortles. Feeling happier than she had in ages, she and the rest of the team led the way, still in their scarlet robes, out of the stadium and back up to the magnificent castle.