All The Rage.Chapter Three.

[ROSE WEASLEY]

The Daily Prophet
September 1, 2019

Change- a note from the editor
In the midst of the quiet ho-hum this summer started out as, darkness has slowly drifted over the wizarding community that can only bring back memories of a time when fear and death ruled our lives. Parents can sense the change in atmosphere as they send their children off this autumn to Hogwarts, but what can explain it?

“It feels…like the times of my youth, when trips to Hogsmeade were fraught with worry and suspicion of Deatheaters rather than the lively excursions they should be,” expresses the famed Ginny Potter as she kisses fourth year, Lily Luna Potter, farewell.

Auror Hildy Bugsworth was questioned about recent dark magic activity. Her answer- “Only the normal traces of hexes and cursed tokens from Borgin & Burkes have shown up on our radar. There is no report whatsoever of a reformation of Deatheaters or other supporters of the late Lord Voldemort and his values.”

So, no Deatheaters. What else could be the source of our issues? The only other information we have to offer is the number of werewolf-attack victims in the ward’s of St. Mungo’s in this past month alone- more than three times the standard amount.
Hannah Abbott, Editor in Chief
“Oh, mother of Merlin!” gasps Pincey Flabbart in her pig-squeal voice as she catches a glimpse of the gory photograph on the front page of my Prophet. She seems so dim-witted, it’s a sheer wonder she’s even in my NEWT level of potions class. She has a way of making anything and everything into a tea party.

Me? I say it how it is. “Oh, shit.”

Pincey blinks her doe-eyes at me and clucks her tongue. Bothersome girl, she is.

“Oh, Rose! Your name truly does not describe anything about you!” Her voice is full of bee’s honey and lollypops.

From most people, I would take that as a compliment. I am not, if anything, a prim little tulip! But coming from Pincey, that was, indeed, an insult.

“Oh, Pincey,” I sang, mocking her tone, “You really must go jump in the Black Lake sometime. I highly recommend it!”

Pincey humphs and slides down the long wooden bench to join a conversation with Amethyst Evers, that gossiping cat, leaving me on my own at the end of the Gryffindor table. I look up at the rumbling “sky” of the Great Hall, pleading to be out of school and into the world already. But, alas, I am only starting my sixth year, and still have a long while to go.

All across the hall, students are huddled in certain groups at the tables, mixed, as it is only a mingling time. We are waiting for the first years to come in and be sorted, so friends from all houses are greeting each other and enjoying their company. Everyone, that is, except me.

Where was that Albus? I knew he was late because he was welcoming the new students with Professor Flitwick, but according to the giant hour-glass behind Headmaster McGonagall’s chair, he should have been back at least three minutes ago!

I look back at the Daily Prophet, re-scanning the front page article in disbelief. Aunt Ginny had been quoted again. Her wisdom was often occurring in Hannah Abbott’s pieces, for Ginny was known for either thinking up quick, witty retorts or deep, thorough replies to questions from reporters.

As I stare at the moving picture under the article, that an almost-attacked bystander of a werewolf rampage snapped, my lungs are seized by a cold rush. I can almost make out the wolf’s face…was that--

“Rose, Rose, Rose,” a snide voice rings behind me. I grip the bison-boned end of my wand, racking through my index of newly-learned hexes to try out this school year. “All alone…no surprise there!” I swing around, only to find my cousin, James Potter, in the pale, slender face of Scorpios Malfoy.

“Scor, really? Don’t you know that it’s my job to harass dearest Rosie here? Of course, we can always do it together…” James chuckles as he jabs his wand at my newly shortened auburn-red hair. “Rosie, my posy, where has your long, luscious hair run away to?” James’ and Scor’s mocking tones make my blood boil.

“You SWORE not to tell, James!” My face is burning with irritation.

At this time, James knows to back off. He raises his toned arms in surrender. “Don’t worry, Rose, I haven’t repeated a word to a soul!” He turns to go, muttering “Sixth years,” bitterly, as if he wasn’t one just three months before.

“Come along, Scor,” James chided. We can go poke fun at dear Lily now…”

And with that, the two boys are gone, but not without Scor singing, “Good-bye, Rosie-Posy!” I turn away and let him live. For now.

The grand, carved wooden doors swing open, the green-and-silver and blue-and-bronze flags swaying in the draft (the house cup competition last year was a tie-- not that I even pay notion to house points). A sea of black-robed first years stream in, headed towards the opposite end of the hall.

McGonagall waits patiently for them, that old tattered hat of hers in her wrinkled hands.

Cousin Albus Potter soon brought in the rear, and then ambled over to where I was seated. I slapped the Prophet down in front in front of him, the puff of wind created lowing back his dark-ginger hair. He was the only sibling in his family who had inherited his mum’s reddish locks. Both James and Lily had the trademark raven black hair and green eyes.

“Look at this!” I hiss, the Great Hall growing quiet as the students awaited the customary song of the talking sorting hat.

Albus’s brown eyes scan the article, not saying anything. He doesn’t need to use petty words to describe or show his brilliance. That’s just how swell he and I are.

“Rose,” Albus was now squinting at the photograph, and I sense his thoughts sprinting through his mind.

“What?” I keep one ear focused on Albus, the other listening for the hat’s new melody.

As the Sorting Hat’s lips (at least, that’s what I think they were) open, Albus whispers, “I think this wolf is Teddy. Teddy Lupin.”

I love it!

ooh i like it ! [:

aah, thank you everybody:) This next chapter starts out with the Sorting Hat's song, which I've always been disappointed about how it's not included in the movies. Anyways, it starts out kinda sung to the tune of the spongebob square pants title sequence, and then some. And sorry for this chapters shortness/non-events. Next chapter, I promise:)

---

[Scorpios Malfoy]

Oh, who lives in a castle
North of Surrey?
You wizards! Of course!
No need to worry!
Smart and curious, but very naïve
You wizards! Of course! Oh my, oh me!
If dark, scary magic be something you wish
Then get drop-kicked by Flitwick, turned into a fish!
Oh, young wizards
Not birds with gizzards,
Watch out for lice
And wolves that aren’t nice!
That’s right!
I warn you not of whizzes and bangs,
But of sharp, dangerous fangs!
Study this year,
Drink all the butterbeer!
Oh, young wizards,
How I adore
And fear
For theeeeeeeee!

The Hat’s flummoxing song ended with a quick bum-bump, but it echoed longer throughout the hall. I exchange glances with my fellow Slytherines. What of all this werewolf nonsense? Did the hat know something we didn’t?

But the eerie silence ends as the students burst into applause, smiling at the cleverness of the song. They went back to laughing and talking, as well. As the uncomfortable feeling passed and I went back to pestering Louise Shimward.

“Oh, Shimward,” I stated stiffly, “You really must stop filing your teeth like so; those fangs make me want to ship you off to Forks. Unless you’re in the league with the werewolves…?” I gesture to the gruesome pictures on the front cover of the Prophet she’s reading.

In the background, I hear Professor call out, “Absher, Annette.”

Louise rolls up the Prophet into a thin tube and whacks me with it, then gets up and moves away.

“What are you, the Whomping Willow?!” I shout after her (which earns me a fierce glare from McGonagall).

Was it something I said?

Instead of worrying about it, I lean into Odetta Icksbin and Molland Rowe’s serious-sounding conversation. Molland has a wide, interested look on her face, so I figure they must be discussing something expedient.

“Really, Odetta? Did James really tell you that?”

Oh. James Potter again. Every girl in school is gaga over him, except for the ones related to him. Like Rose Weasley.

Odetta nods like she’s queen of the world, her overly-puffy lips shining. “He said my eyes--”

I interrupt, fluttering my eyelashes and cloned their Gossiping-Gabby tone. “Honestly, Odetta, James told ME he’d never date a sixth year! Haven’t you heard about him and Shannon Wood?

Odetta rolls her eyes and dismisses me. “Like Shannon Wood-- or any other girl, for that matter-- would even CARE for you! At least I have Parkinson…”

“Yes, Scorpios,” Molland spits, “who invited you into this conversation?”

I mimicked her question right back to her, which seemed to only make the duo even more ticky.

“You know, Malfoy, I was hoping you would come back this school year a little mature. But I guess you’ll NEVER grow up!” Molland huffs and turned away.

“Oh, come off it!” I growl, but I am more angry with myself. How do I always manage to scare off anybody that might just be fun to talk to? The only person who got my humor was James Potter, but he is another year, another house.

Not wanting to sit alone, I get up and joined a group of rowdy, various-aged boys, plopping down right in the middle.

I join their conversation, but limit my jokes and pretend to enjoy Harold Mann’s dirty tales.

This year was NOT starting out well.

[OPHELIA PATRICK]

“Dude, I can’t believe you forced me to spend my entire summer at the Hippodrome. Now we’re back to hell and I don’t have anything exciting to include in my summer essay for English!” Gull Fisher is limping two feet behind me as I force my legs to carry me even faster towards the prison-like white block called “The Ridgeford Academy.”

I gasp, “You STILL haven’t done that? Gull, your mom said we’re supposed to focus more on our studies this year--”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Hakuna matata, O. I’ve got this.”

“You’ve ‘got this’ ? What the flab is that supposed to mean? And it was for your own good that I made you stay and train with me this summer; just tell about how you ‘worked out’ or something in your essay.” I can feel my itchy wool socks slipping down my calves, but don’t bother yanking them up. This stupid uniform will feel uncomfortable no matter HOW put-together I look.

“Yeah, yeah,” Gull yawns, “And I don’t suppose a good night’s sleep tonight would be for my own good either, right?”

I frown at him. “Gull, we’ve only got a couple years to be in our prime. And when that time comes, we want to be the best possible Resilients as we can. Besides, we don’t sleep.”

“No, but it feels nice.”

“Yeah, because you’re LAZY.” We round a corner and I yank open the front door way, trying to make it to our homerooms before the bell rings. I don’t have any doubt that I could do it-- I’m very fast, you see-- but I also keep in mind that everybody else in the world thinks we’re normal students.

The bell rings.

And ordinary students get tardies.
-
I can feel the teacher’s fury as Gull and I enter her English class, waving the tardy passes we were awarded in the front office. Mrs. Wyckoff, the secretary Gull and I were becoming very familiar with from frequent office trips in previous years, was expecting us, and warmly reprimanded our lateness. I’ m pretty sure it’s impossible for anybody in the universe to hate that lady.

My new, plump and very grumpy-looking English teacher, Ms. Bean, however, seems to be quite the opposite. She sarcastically greets us and sends us to creaky desks on opposite sides of the room. That’s fine by me, but now Gull appears concerned, for who will whisper the answers to him when he gets called on during one of his zone-out moods now?

We drift through English, then part ways as I head to multimedia class and Gull struts away to gym, and the usually hubbub of the school-year begins. It’s maddening to think that for the next nine months, we’ll be stuck here , attempting to live ordinary lives, as Gull’s mom (who is pretty much my guardian), Gentry, decreed last spring that us Resilients should try to transition into the regular world. Her theory is that our skills are no longer needed as much in the world, so it’s best that we learn to lead lives like muggles. I think it’s all a load of shit, but she’s the boss. Previous to this school year, we always spent the summer training and went to school only some months, and trained at the Hippodrome all other times.

Not this year.

Still, my first day wasn’t going as “muggle-like” as I would’ve expected, and things turn weird around lunch time, when I am called back down to the office. As I get to the giant glass doorway, I meet up with Gull, who, like me, has a small mint green slip clasped in his fist.

As soon as she spots us, Mrs. Wyckoff beckons us to follow her into the lost and found closet. I exchange a look of suspicion with Gull, but we both follow her into the cave.

“Here.” A small electric blue bean is slipped into my palm, and I immediately recognize what it is and its purpose.

“Mrs. Wyckoff, how do you have a tele-bean? Do you know what it is?” Even though I have quite the abnormal life, I never expected it to mix with the average half.

“Yes, Ophelia, and the reason for this is an emergency of some sort. I just received a phone call from your mother, Gulliver--” I resist the urge to snicker at his full name, sensing the seriousness in the conversation. “--And I don’t know what’s going on, but you both need to get back to the Hippodrome as fast as possible.”

“Um, okay, Mrs. Wyckoff, but we need more than the beans for the transportation,” Gull steps in, not wanting to be left out.

“I know, I know! Come along,” we exit the closet and head for the door in the back of the office, leading to the school’s front lawn. “Let’s get those seeds in the ground.”

I don’t even bother questioning why Mrs. Wyckoff has a handy little spade in her vest pocket, or how she is even a figure in this situation-- if there’s one thing the Resilience has taught me, it’s that there’s always a bigger picture. I can only assume that one of my elders prepared this all in case of emergencies. Which is entirely logical.

Gull gets the bean into the ground and almost immediately after it’s covered back up with soil, a small metallic tree sprouts up, growing at an unnatural pace, until it’s the same height as myself.

“But what about the lightening? We don’t have a…” I trail off, but Gull completes my statement after a revelation--

“…summoner.” He looks back to Mrs. Wyckoff. “You?”

“Yes,” she smiles, her secret revealed. “That’s why I’ve been working here at Ridgeford. For you two.” And with that she raises her right arm into the sky, her face wrinkling in concentration. Within seconds, I become aware of the change in temperature, gray clouds rolling in over head.

I take hold of the trunk of the skinny tree and smack Gull, who was lost in the visual spectacle above us, signaling him to grab on before the lightening struck and it was too late.

His hand slips just above mine, barely skimming it, when a flash so blindingly bright and a roar take us far away from Mrs. Wyckoff, our school, and any hope of a normal life.

love ittt! PMN!