Chapter 73
"Of all the—not even Fred and George would have—okay, maybe Fred and George—but... how did you discover this alleged plan?"
"Oh," said Ron, "that was me. He just bragged to me about it, right to my face, during... er, just before the match. Can't imagine why."
"He told you?" McGonagall said. "But why... I spoke to Milo earlier, he came up with some preposterous tale about Professor Snape and Polyjuice... why didn't he just tell me the truth?"
"Because he's only eleven and was scared?" Hermione suggested hopefully.
McGonagall sighed.
"Well, I'll have to owl the Ministry immediately and tell them to cancel the hearing... of all the crackpot schemes, this one has to take the cake."
"So..." Hermione said, hope rising on her face like the sun, "so he's cleared? He won't be expelled?"
"No," McGonagall said, "but this was, nonetheless, an underhanded move unworthy of our House. And Mister Potter, I thought better of you. Twenty points from Gryffindor from you and Milo each, and detention every Saturday for the rest of November. And December. At least. And you two—" McGonagall turned to Ron and Hermione "—were you involved in this as well?"
"No, not involved in any way whatsoever, Ma'am." Ron said smoothly, his years of living in the same house as the twins paying off.
"Us? Involved? Hah. He. Hahaha. Nope," Hermione said nervously. McGonagall eyed them suspiciously, but instead of giving them detention, just turned and walked up the stairs to her office, muttering to herself about needing a Firewhiskey.
There were a few blessed seconds of relief for the three friends as they savoured their triumph. It was interrupted, however, by a fell shriek that could have raised the dead (in a manner of speaking, it did—the ghost of Nearly Headless Nick, hovering nearby, was so startled that he (nearly) lost his head).
"What are you doing out of bed, young man?" came the terrible voice of a wrathful Madam Pomfrey. Harry turned around in terror, while Hermione and Ron simply fled.
o—o—o—o
When word got around that Milo's surprise attack on the Boy-Who-Lived was not, as had been generally believed, treachery most foul, but rather a component in a circuitous gambit to sabotage the Slytherin Quidditch team and guarantee a Gryffindor win, there was much shuffling of feet and making of sheepish glances in the Gryffindor Common Room.
"So, really, when it comes down to it, we're sorry, mate," said an NPC (Seamus Finnigan, not that Milo knew or particularly cared).
"Why the sudden reversal of opinion?" Milo asked.
"Well, you see, Hermione came into the Common Room about an hour ago," said Fred.
"—And she stood up on the table, right in the centre of the room—"continued George.
"It was horrible," said another NPC (Dean Thomas). "like a banshee of wrath..."
"—And she started speaking, and the walls shook—"
"—Only, see, nobody saw her cast Sonorus, so it was all her—"
"—And she calmly told us about judging people before fully understanding the situation—"
"—Oh, yes, definitely calm. Level-headed, she was. The windows shattered of their own accord—"
"—And, if she asks, we didn't even hint otherwise—"
"—And thus, we were enlightened to the errors of our ways," finished George.
"Frankly, I'm surprised you didn't hear it, mate," said Dean. Milo noticed that they were calling him 'mate' a lot.
"Hermione must have put up some kinda Charm to keep teachers in the halls from storming in to see what all the screaming was about," Milo shrugged. "She's careful like that." In truth, he'd heard every word, but wanted to hear them explain it anyways. It was more fun that way.
"I thought you were innocent the whole time," said Hannah.
"Isn't this the boys' dorm?" asked Dean. Hannah coloured slightly.
"So," Seamus said, somewhat nervously. "Want to come down and have some butterbeer? There's not much left, but it's really good. How Fred and George get this stuff, I'll never know."
"And we'll never tell," Fred winked.
"Yeah," said Milo. "I think I'd like that."
The whole room gave a collective sigh of relief.
"So," he said on the way down the stairs into the Common Room, "what's your excuse going to be next week?"
"Sorry, mate?" asked George.
"For a party. Seems like a weekly tradition 'round here."
"It isn't," said Fred slowly.
"But it should be," said George, whose forehead wrinkled in thought for a moment. "We'll think of something," he said finally. "Trust us."
"And drink this," Fred said, pushing a heavy tankard of butterbeer into Milo's hands. Milo sipped it cautiously, and suddenly grinned. The stuff wasn't ale (the preferred method of hydration for adventurers everywhere), but it was pretty fantastic. And before you cry, "But he's only eleven! He's far too young for ale!" you should be advised that there are, in fact, no rules for intoxication from alcohol anywhere to be found. It can therefore be concluded, via strict interpretation of the holy Rules-As-Written, that one can drink gallons of tequila like water.
"Shouldn't we have waited for Harry to get out of the hospital?" Milo asked suddenly.
"That's what we thought," said Fred (maybe), "but he gave us permission to celebrate without him in future events such as this, so long as we save him some of the provender."
"Speaking of which, hands off the last of the Every Flavoured Beans, you greedy git!" George said, glaring at Ron.
The Quidditch victory party concluded a little after midnight when a sleepy McGonagall made them all go to bed.
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