Matchmaker (or, Something in the Pumpkin Juice) #2
I edited/added/whatevered.
Matchmaker
“Winky, you is being very bad! You is being very, very bad! You is going to be getting you fired!” exclaimed Dobby, his voice echoing in the near-deserted kitchen.
Winky the House Elf just cackled. Well, she tried to, but alas, House Elves aren't very good at the whole malicious thing.
“You is having to stop, NOW!” Dobby whined to Winky. He was getting worried. “Winky, you isn't thinking! Dobby will think for Winky, and Dobby thinks that Dobby should take that from Winky,” he said as he made a move to gently grab the vial out of Winky's hand and away from the vat of orange goo, but Winky rapped him smartly on the head with a ladle. Dobby recoiled and quickly moved out of the crazed elf's reach, rubbing the top of his head, which hurt rather a lot.
“Winky is not crazy, Dobby,” claimed Winky, swaying on her feet and smiling like a deranged lunatic on crazy pills. “Oh, no, no, no, no, Winky is very clever - Winky is making the most permanantest love potion ever, and Winky is a genius! Winky shall rule Hogwarts!” She tossed the ladle haphazardly over her shoulder before she tipsily stumbled over to her stash of butterbeer, opened a bottle, and chugged it as she staggered back to the vat of pumpkin juice. “Winky ish a fabuloush House Elf; Winky ish never wearing clothesh again; Mashter will love Winky sho mucsh that he will be taking Winky back home yeshterday!” mumbled Winky, drunkenly slurring her words as she tottered ever closer to her target.
“Oh, Winky,” moaned Dobby as began to rush towards her, “Mister Crouch is dead, Winky, and you is desperately needing therapy, because you is not moving on! Now you is needing to give Dobby the potion, Winky, or Dobby is going to have to make Winky let go of it!” Winky had halted when Dobby had mentioned Barty Crouch, and now she turned toward him, her protuberant eyes glinting psychotically.
“Dobby?” she asked in a small voice.
“Yes, Winky?” replied Dobby, trying unsuccessfully to hide his attempts to remove the vial from her tightly-clutched fist.
“You ish shadly mishtaken,” Winky said. “Mashter ish jusht on vacashtion.” Her eyes suddenly narrowed. “You should not be shpreading rumorsh about Mashter! You ish needing to be punished for shpreading nashty liesh! BAD DOBBY!” she shrieked, and Dobby suddenly went flying backward, hitting the wall and staying there, about five feet above the floor, sticking to the wall like a fly on flypaper.
“AAAAAAH!” screamed Dobby, “WINKY! YOU IS NEEDING TO LET DOBBY DOWN RIGHT NOW! YOU KNOWS THAT DOBBY IS BEING TERRIBLY AFRAID OF HEIGHTS!” He shuddered and whimpered, “O-oh, Dobby is being so very high up, Dobby is going to die if Dobby falls, oh, Dobby is not wanting to die, and oh, Winky is very naughty, Winky is being horribly crazy and Dobby is going to DIE!” With that, he fainted, slumped over and still dangling as if glued to the wall.
Winky, however, was paying no attention to Dobby's hysterics, as she was having a rather difficult time navigating her way across the kitchen to the pumpkin juice. When she finally got there, she dizzily gazed at the juice. The massive orange bubbles rose to the surface popped with a gurgling and a splatter of pumpkin-y goodness. It was quite mesmerizing, and Winky found herself swaying, mumbling a little lullaby for the “bitty bitsy bubbles blopping to and fro-o-o...”
She reached out to prod one particularly persistent bubble with a long, bony finger, and realized that there was something odd in her hand. She stared at the vial solemnly for at least twenty minutes, still swaying and mumbling, before remembering her mission. Then, with a cross-eyed, flickering grin, she tipped the contents of the vial into the juice. Immediately afterwards, her eyes rolled back into her head and she fell backwards, crapulent to the point of unconsciousness.
The elves that came to cool the simmering pumpkin juice in the wee hours of the morning found her in exactly the same position four hours later. They rolled their eyes and tutted to one another. Then, shrugging, they tossed her limp body over onto a nearby sack of lima beans. She landed on her side, rolled over and off of the sack, and rolled straight into a knocked over crate of spoiling turnips, where she stayed for the next three weeks as she tried to sleep off her killer hangover.
The next morning was a Monday like any other. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were hunched over at the Gryffindor table, whispering about their next heroic scheme, or some such rot. Dean Thomas was staring at Ginny Weasley's breasts as she surreptitiously eyed Harry while necking with her current beau, Seamus Finnegan. Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil were painting their nails and discussing their latest diets as Colin Creevey took artistic black and white photos of the ceiling in an attempt to express the inner turmoil and woe he felt (very) deep down. Neville Longbottom was deep in discussion with Nearly Headless Nick, who was just about the only person at Gryffindor table who could stand to hear much more about the medical concerns of Neville's gran, who was in hospital with a busted hip. Cormac McLaggen boasted his awesomeness to the room at large, and Demelza Robins and Vicky Frobisher were whispering to each other, glancing pointedly at various boys at the table as they ranked each on shaggability, personal hygiene, and personality, in that order.
Draco Malfoy was majestically dominating the Slytherin table, smirking magnanimously as he graced his obsequious minions with his presence. Even the older students looked abashed and subservient in his presence. Three girls - Pansy Parkinson, Daphne Greengrass, and Tracey Davis - were being given the honor of feeding Draco grapes, and they looked ready to faint with the thrill of it all. Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott sat across from Draco, enjoying the view when Malfoy's girls, who had all undone the top three buttons of their too-tight uniform shirts, leant over to drop grapes in his mouth. Crabbe and Goyle stuffed their faces while keeping eyes out for assassination attempts, and Millicent Bulstrode glared daggers at the other girls - not because they were necessarily doing anything remotely unreasonable, but because she knew that she would never have that privilege.
Over at the Ravenclaw table, Luna Lovegood was sitting cross-legged in the center of the table, munching cheerily on some bacon. Padma Patil was gazing admiringly at Cho Chang, who was talking about a seminar she was going to start giving every Tuesday evening at 7:45 about the various nuances of the schisms and disputations between rectitude and turpitude throughout Wizarding history, from 77,777 BCE to the present, with a special side note on the Arithmantic significance of the dates of each epochal event. Meanwhile, Marietta Edgecomb was checking her thickly-applied makeup in her compact, and Terry Boot was talking seriously to Mandy Brockelhurst and Lisa Turpin about something undoubtedly intellectual. As Madeleine Moon dug through her bag for a quill with which to complete the Daily Prophet's crossword puzzle, Su Li and Michael Corner were loudly quizzing a violently competitive Anthony Goldstein and an equally combative Kevin Entwhistle about Transfiguration trivia. Morag MacDougal was reading a book with her hands over her ears, obviously not pleased with the all the noise.
The Hufflepuffs were as bright and bushy-tailed as always, chattering to each other friendlily. Ernie MacMillan looked particularly pleased as he wrapped one arm around Hannah Abbott's waist. She, in turn, was giggling excitedly to Susan Bones, who did not look quite as pleased as she should have been with her friend's romantic developments. Sally-Anne Perks and Justin Finch-Fletchley were flirting while they discussed the formation of a support group for people with double-barreled names.
Megan Jones and Wayne Hopkins, meanwhile, joked across the table with each other, laughing merrily and smiling at everyone who passed (unless the passersby happened to be in Slytherin house, in which case Megan and Wayne hastily averted their respective gazes and pretended to be devotedly absorbed in their breakfasts).
The teachers, meanwhile, quietly talked amongst themselves, most keeping at least one eye on the students to make sure nothing and nobody was about to explode. Professor Babbling, the Ancient Runes teacher, was discussing translation errors with Firenze as Professor Trelawney glared at them both disdainfully from a few seats to the left. Professor Sinistra, who was closer than Trelawney, was listening interestedly to the conversation, eagerly trying (and failing) to involve astronomy in the conversation. Professor Snape glared wearily at his eggs, wishing the House Elves liked him enough to bring him breakfast in bed. Professor Flitwick also stared at his plate, though not quite as viciously, as he wished that the healthy, well-balanced breakfast would turn into a bowl of Lucky Charms. No matter how often he had tried to convince them, the House Elves remained adamant that while magically delicious they may be, magically nutritious they were not. (Everyone knew that the real reason for the lack of marshmallow-y goodness was the House Elves' ongoing feud with the Leprechauns, though.) Professors Sprout and Vector were having an energetic gossip-session with Madam Hooch about various students' love lives, reminiscing all the while (“Why, when I was a young girl...”) about the golden olden days, and way back when and such.
Regardless of house or status, however, every person in the hall had a great big goblet of pumpkin juice in front of him or her, and, just like every other morning, everybody drank his and her fill of this traditional Wizarding beverage. This morning it tasted a little sweeter than normal, but few people noticed, and not even Luna Lovegood, self-proclaimed Queen of the Conspiracy Theory, suspected anything. But down in the kitchens, Winky peeked out from between turnips and watched the clock on the wall above Dobby, trying to cackle.
The morning progressed uneventfully - almost abnormally so. Usually there was at least one explosion each morning, be it of the hormonal or the Filibuster variety. The awareness of this fact sent chills down spines as students and teachers alike reflected on the comparative silence of just chattering, gossiping, and shrieking students, howling cats, croaking toads, hooting owls, admonishing teachers, and the odd shout from Hagrid outside when his latest project - a flock of last-mended toots (the general consensus, after this most recent naming, was that Hagrid had indulged in one too many drinks-on-me from suspicious persons in clad in balaclavas down at the Hog's Head) - “accidentally” ate their leashes and “nibbled affectionately” at Hagrid's flesh. Again.
It was with this instinctual sense of apprehension that the first classes of the day began.
For the Sixth-Year Gryffindors and Slytherins, this meant an hour of leaning over boiling substances that emitted usually-noxious fumes that, in the best cases, caused limp and greasy hair, and, in the worst cases, resulted in full-blown asthma attacks (and a subsequent trip to the Hospital Wing for at least two more students as they half-carried, half-hauled poor Neville to Madam Pomfrey).
The Sixth-Year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were slightly more fortunate, as they had History of Magic, which allowed them to go back to sleep for a bit. After all, any osmosis, unlikely as it may be, that occurred as the students drooled on their textbooks would be more effective than listening to Professor Binns all morning long.
The Fifth-Years, meanwhile, had their elective classes, and so trooped off to care for some of Hagrid's magical “creatures”, drink cup after cup of tea and then dash en masse to the lavatories, or scribble down notes in the other, somewhat less interesting and exponentially more educational classes.
The goings-on of the rest of the school were... going on. Nobody particularly cared.
The inhabitants of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry continued to go about their various businesses - teaching, learning, sleeping, endangering lives, and what-have-you - unaware that their lives had become little more than ticking time bombs, getting closer and closer to apocalyptic detonation with each passing second. Only two beings knew of the horror to come, and since one continually fainted each time he awoke, only one being in Hogwarts watched the hands of the clock as they inched ever closer to the moment when everything would change. Winky snorted and chortled evilly (or so she liked to think).
And finally, with one last, almost-silent 'tick!' at 9:00 A.M precisely, Hogwarts School erupted into chaos.
“Ulric the Unprepared was a man of few words,” Professor Binns was droning at 8:59 A.M. “He somehow overcame his limited vocabulary in 1537, however, when he spoke stirringly at a rally for centaur rights and incited the crowd to such an extent that he soon found himself dumped in the middle of a forest, surrounded by rather displeased centaurs. The centaurs promptly kicked Ulric to -” Binns paused slightly before continuing on in the same monotone. “- death, which did not managed to destroy Ulric's handsome figure and glorious countenance. No, even a hoof or two to the cranium couldn't rid Ulric of his rakish good looks, his gently waving hair, which glowed the colour of chestnuts on a winter night, his firm, but passionate lips...” Binns trailed off and licked his own spectral lips before continuing. “Ulric was not known for any further activism, most likely due to the fact that he did not survive that encounter with the centaurs, but it is,” and a gleam entered Binns' ectoplasmic eye, “very possible that Ulric lives on, so to speak, in ghostly form, to this day... Indeed, if this is the case, he surely still captures the eye of every passing... history teacher... In fact, I'm sure he'd be glad to come give a talk to the class, since everyone is so drawn by his... historical importance. I'd gladly offer him my rooms as lodging while he... visits...” Professor Binns trailed off, gazing into the air hungrily. Without another word to the class, which was, for perhaps the only time in Binns' life (and afterlife) shocked into silence rather than bored into it, Binns turned and floated distractedly through the blackboard. The class glanced around, grinned as a whole, and left the room, all with the sudden urge to go see whomever they had been thinking about when the clock struck nine.
Meanwhile, Professor Slughorn was sighing and instructing Parvati and Lavender, who had opted to fail the participation aspect of potions class rather than ruin their coiffures and had, after a great deal of crystalized pineapple had changed hands, made an arrangement with 'dear old Sluggy' that allowed them to make up for the lost credit by acting as T.A.s, to take Neville to the Hospital Wing once more. “Neville will surely need to take some more medication. Tell Madam...” he paused slightly, “Pomfrey that I will need to speak to her urgently as soon as - actually, never mind that, ladies. I'll just go see her myself.” And he strode off, through the door, leaving an asphyxiating Neville behind.
Neville was beyond caring, however, for he was too busy staring at a certain fellow classmate. He felt as if his eyes had never seen until this moment; his lungs had never breathed; his heart had never beat - but suddenly it was as if his entire body had been struck by lightning, and he knew. He knew that he was in love.
There was perhaps a half-second of silence after Slughorn left the room before the students erupted into a cacophony of bad pick-up lines and outrageous flirting. A few students dashed out of the classroom in a love-struck daze.
Matchmaker
“Winky, you is being very bad! You is being very, very bad! You is going to be getting you fired!” exclaimed Dobby, his voice echoing in the near-deserted kitchen.
Winky the House Elf just cackled. Well, she tried to, but alas, House Elves aren't very good at the whole malicious thing.
“You is having to stop, NOW!” Dobby whined to Winky. He was getting worried. “Winky, you isn't thinking! Dobby will think for Winky, and Dobby thinks that Dobby should take that from Winky,” he said as he made a move to gently grab the vial out of Winky's hand and away from the vat of orange goo, but Winky rapped him smartly on the head with a ladle. Dobby recoiled and quickly moved out of the crazed elf's reach, rubbing the top of his head, which hurt rather a lot.
“Winky is not crazy, Dobby,” claimed Winky, swaying on her feet and smiling like a deranged lunatic on crazy pills. “Oh, no, no, no, no, Winky is very clever - Winky is making the most permanantest love potion ever, and Winky is a genius! Winky shall rule Hogwarts!” She tossed the ladle haphazardly over her shoulder before she tipsily stumbled over to her stash of butterbeer, opened a bottle, and chugged it as she staggered back to the vat of pumpkin juice. “Winky ish a fabuloush House Elf; Winky ish never wearing clothesh again; Mashter will love Winky sho mucsh that he will be taking Winky back home yeshterday!” mumbled Winky, drunkenly slurring her words as she tottered ever closer to her target.
“Oh, Winky,” moaned Dobby as began to rush towards her, “Mister Crouch is dead, Winky, and you is desperately needing therapy, because you is not moving on! Now you is needing to give Dobby the potion, Winky, or Dobby is going to have to make Winky let go of it!” Winky had halted when Dobby had mentioned Barty Crouch, and now she turned toward him, her protuberant eyes glinting psychotically.
“Dobby?” she asked in a small voice.
“Yes, Winky?” replied Dobby, trying unsuccessfully to hide his attempts to remove the vial from her tightly-clutched fist.
“You ish shadly mishtaken,” Winky said. “Mashter ish jusht on vacashtion.” Her eyes suddenly narrowed. “You should not be shpreading rumorsh about Mashter! You ish needing to be punished for shpreading nashty liesh! BAD DOBBY!” she shrieked, and Dobby suddenly went flying backward, hitting the wall and staying there, about five feet above the floor, sticking to the wall like a fly on flypaper.
“AAAAAAH!” screamed Dobby, “WINKY! YOU IS NEEDING TO LET DOBBY DOWN RIGHT NOW! YOU KNOWS THAT DOBBY IS BEING TERRIBLY AFRAID OF HEIGHTS!” He shuddered and whimpered, “O-oh, Dobby is being so very high up, Dobby is going to die if Dobby falls, oh, Dobby is not wanting to die, and oh, Winky is very naughty, Winky is being horribly crazy and Dobby is going to DIE!” With that, he fainted, slumped over and still dangling as if glued to the wall.
Winky, however, was paying no attention to Dobby's hysterics, as she was having a rather difficult time navigating her way across the kitchen to the pumpkin juice. When she finally got there, she dizzily gazed at the juice. The massive orange bubbles rose to the surface popped with a gurgling and a splatter of pumpkin-y goodness. It was quite mesmerizing, and Winky found herself swaying, mumbling a little lullaby for the “bitty bitsy bubbles blopping to and fro-o-o...”
She reached out to prod one particularly persistent bubble with a long, bony finger, and realized that there was something odd in her hand. She stared at the vial solemnly for at least twenty minutes, still swaying and mumbling, before remembering her mission. Then, with a cross-eyed, flickering grin, she tipped the contents of the vial into the juice. Immediately afterwards, her eyes rolled back into her head and she fell backwards, crapulent to the point of unconsciousness.
The elves that came to cool the simmering pumpkin juice in the wee hours of the morning found her in exactly the same position four hours later. They rolled their eyes and tutted to one another. Then, shrugging, they tossed her limp body over onto a nearby sack of lima beans. She landed on her side, rolled over and off of the sack, and rolled straight into a knocked over crate of spoiling turnips, where she stayed for the next three weeks as she tried to sleep off her killer hangover.
The next morning was a Monday like any other. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were hunched over at the Gryffindor table, whispering about their next heroic scheme, or some such rot. Dean Thomas was staring at Ginny Weasley's breasts as she surreptitiously eyed Harry while necking with her current beau, Seamus Finnegan. Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil were painting their nails and discussing their latest diets as Colin Creevey took artistic black and white photos of the ceiling in an attempt to express the inner turmoil and woe he felt (very) deep down. Neville Longbottom was deep in discussion with Nearly Headless Nick, who was just about the only person at Gryffindor table who could stand to hear much more about the medical concerns of Neville's gran, who was in hospital with a busted hip. Cormac McLaggen boasted his awesomeness to the room at large, and Demelza Robins and Vicky Frobisher were whispering to each other, glancing pointedly at various boys at the table as they ranked each on shaggability, personal hygiene, and personality, in that order.
Draco Malfoy was majestically dominating the Slytherin table, smirking magnanimously as he graced his obsequious minions with his presence. Even the older students looked abashed and subservient in his presence. Three girls - Pansy Parkinson, Daphne Greengrass, and Tracey Davis - were being given the honor of feeding Draco grapes, and they looked ready to faint with the thrill of it all. Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott sat across from Draco, enjoying the view when Malfoy's girls, who had all undone the top three buttons of their too-tight uniform shirts, leant over to drop grapes in his mouth. Crabbe and Goyle stuffed their faces while keeping eyes out for assassination attempts, and Millicent Bulstrode glared daggers at the other girls - not because they were necessarily doing anything remotely unreasonable, but because she knew that she would never have that privilege.
Over at the Ravenclaw table, Luna Lovegood was sitting cross-legged in the center of the table, munching cheerily on some bacon. Padma Patil was gazing admiringly at Cho Chang, who was talking about a seminar she was going to start giving every Tuesday evening at 7:45 about the various nuances of the schisms and disputations between rectitude and turpitude throughout Wizarding history, from 77,777 BCE to the present, with a special side note on the Arithmantic significance of the dates of each epochal event. Meanwhile, Marietta Edgecomb was checking her thickly-applied makeup in her compact, and Terry Boot was talking seriously to Mandy Brockelhurst and Lisa Turpin about something undoubtedly intellectual. As Madeleine Moon dug through her bag for a quill with which to complete the Daily Prophet's crossword puzzle, Su Li and Michael Corner were loudly quizzing a violently competitive Anthony Goldstein and an equally combative Kevin Entwhistle about Transfiguration trivia. Morag MacDougal was reading a book with her hands over her ears, obviously not pleased with the all the noise.
The Hufflepuffs were as bright and bushy-tailed as always, chattering to each other friendlily. Ernie MacMillan looked particularly pleased as he wrapped one arm around Hannah Abbott's waist. She, in turn, was giggling excitedly to Susan Bones, who did not look quite as pleased as she should have been with her friend's romantic developments. Sally-Anne Perks and Justin Finch-Fletchley were flirting while they discussed the formation of a support group for people with double-barreled names.
Megan Jones and Wayne Hopkins, meanwhile, joked across the table with each other, laughing merrily and smiling at everyone who passed (unless the passersby happened to be in Slytherin house, in which case Megan and Wayne hastily averted their respective gazes and pretended to be devotedly absorbed in their breakfasts).
The teachers, meanwhile, quietly talked amongst themselves, most keeping at least one eye on the students to make sure nothing and nobody was about to explode. Professor Babbling, the Ancient Runes teacher, was discussing translation errors with Firenze as Professor Trelawney glared at them both disdainfully from a few seats to the left. Professor Sinistra, who was closer than Trelawney, was listening interestedly to the conversation, eagerly trying (and failing) to involve astronomy in the conversation. Professor Snape glared wearily at his eggs, wishing the House Elves liked him enough to bring him breakfast in bed. Professor Flitwick also stared at his plate, though not quite as viciously, as he wished that the healthy, well-balanced breakfast would turn into a bowl of Lucky Charms. No matter how often he had tried to convince them, the House Elves remained adamant that while magically delicious they may be, magically nutritious they were not. (Everyone knew that the real reason for the lack of marshmallow-y goodness was the House Elves' ongoing feud with the Leprechauns, though.) Professors Sprout and Vector were having an energetic gossip-session with Madam Hooch about various students' love lives, reminiscing all the while (“Why, when I was a young girl...”) about the golden olden days, and way back when and such.
Regardless of house or status, however, every person in the hall had a great big goblet of pumpkin juice in front of him or her, and, just like every other morning, everybody drank his and her fill of this traditional Wizarding beverage. This morning it tasted a little sweeter than normal, but few people noticed, and not even Luna Lovegood, self-proclaimed Queen of the Conspiracy Theory, suspected anything. But down in the kitchens, Winky peeked out from between turnips and watched the clock on the wall above Dobby, trying to cackle.
The morning progressed uneventfully - almost abnormally so. Usually there was at least one explosion each morning, be it of the hormonal or the Filibuster variety. The awareness of this fact sent chills down spines as students and teachers alike reflected on the comparative silence of just chattering, gossiping, and shrieking students, howling cats, croaking toads, hooting owls, admonishing teachers, and the odd shout from Hagrid outside when his latest project - a flock of last-mended toots (the general consensus, after this most recent naming, was that Hagrid had indulged in one too many drinks-on-me from suspicious persons in clad in balaclavas down at the Hog's Head) - “accidentally” ate their leashes and “nibbled affectionately” at Hagrid's flesh. Again.
It was with this instinctual sense of apprehension that the first classes of the day began.
For the Sixth-Year Gryffindors and Slytherins, this meant an hour of leaning over boiling substances that emitted usually-noxious fumes that, in the best cases, caused limp and greasy hair, and, in the worst cases, resulted in full-blown asthma attacks (and a subsequent trip to the Hospital Wing for at least two more students as they half-carried, half-hauled poor Neville to Madam Pomfrey).
The Sixth-Year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were slightly more fortunate, as they had History of Magic, which allowed them to go back to sleep for a bit. After all, any osmosis, unlikely as it may be, that occurred as the students drooled on their textbooks would be more effective than listening to Professor Binns all morning long.
The Fifth-Years, meanwhile, had their elective classes, and so trooped off to care for some of Hagrid's magical “creatures”, drink cup after cup of tea and then dash en masse to the lavatories, or scribble down notes in the other, somewhat less interesting and exponentially more educational classes.
The goings-on of the rest of the school were... going on. Nobody particularly cared.
The inhabitants of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry continued to go about their various businesses - teaching, learning, sleeping, endangering lives, and what-have-you - unaware that their lives had become little more than ticking time bombs, getting closer and closer to apocalyptic detonation with each passing second. Only two beings knew of the horror to come, and since one continually fainted each time he awoke, only one being in Hogwarts watched the hands of the clock as they inched ever closer to the moment when everything would change. Winky snorted and chortled evilly (or so she liked to think).
And finally, with one last, almost-silent 'tick!' at 9:00 A.M precisely, Hogwarts School erupted into chaos.
“Ulric the Unprepared was a man of few words,” Professor Binns was droning at 8:59 A.M. “He somehow overcame his limited vocabulary in 1537, however, when he spoke stirringly at a rally for centaur rights and incited the crowd to such an extent that he soon found himself dumped in the middle of a forest, surrounded by rather displeased centaurs. The centaurs promptly kicked Ulric to -” Binns paused slightly before continuing on in the same monotone. “- death, which did not managed to destroy Ulric's handsome figure and glorious countenance. No, even a hoof or two to the cranium couldn't rid Ulric of his rakish good looks, his gently waving hair, which glowed the colour of chestnuts on a winter night, his firm, but passionate lips...” Binns trailed off and licked his own spectral lips before continuing. “Ulric was not known for any further activism, most likely due to the fact that he did not survive that encounter with the centaurs, but it is,” and a gleam entered Binns' ectoplasmic eye, “very possible that Ulric lives on, so to speak, in ghostly form, to this day... Indeed, if this is the case, he surely still captures the eye of every passing... history teacher... In fact, I'm sure he'd be glad to come give a talk to the class, since everyone is so drawn by his... historical importance. I'd gladly offer him my rooms as lodging while he... visits...” Professor Binns trailed off, gazing into the air hungrily. Without another word to the class, which was, for perhaps the only time in Binns' life (and afterlife) shocked into silence rather than bored into it, Binns turned and floated distractedly through the blackboard. The class glanced around, grinned as a whole, and left the room, all with the sudden urge to go see whomever they had been thinking about when the clock struck nine.
Meanwhile, Professor Slughorn was sighing and instructing Parvati and Lavender, who had opted to fail the participation aspect of potions class rather than ruin their coiffures and had, after a great deal of crystalized pineapple had changed hands, made an arrangement with 'dear old Sluggy' that allowed them to make up for the lost credit by acting as T.A.s, to take Neville to the Hospital Wing once more. “Neville will surely need to take some more medication. Tell Madam...” he paused slightly, “Pomfrey that I will need to speak to her urgently as soon as - actually, never mind that, ladies. I'll just go see her myself.” And he strode off, through the door, leaving an asphyxiating Neville behind.
Neville was beyond caring, however, for he was too busy staring at a certain fellow classmate. He felt as if his eyes had never seen until this moment; his lungs had never breathed; his heart had never beat - but suddenly it was as if his entire body had been struck by lightning, and he knew. He knew that he was in love.
There was perhaps a half-second of silence after Slughorn left the room before the students erupted into a cacophony of bad pick-up lines and outrageous flirting. A few students dashed out of the classroom in a love-struck daze.