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It only takes one girl to start a shakedown.

We're a society of followers, self-conscious down to the details, no matter how many be-yourselves and you're-beautiful-just-the way-you-ares you hear. We don't seek improvement; we seek acceptance. If Miss Polly's Children's Hour has taught me anything, it's that moral lessons over the wireless are set-ups for a life of disappointment once kiddies realize those heartfelt lessons aren't actually society's rules.

It'd be fine and dandy if everyone believed it, but we're born selfish. Our natural instinct is to survive. Courtesy won't cut it, sugar.

Everyone goes through a bit of teenage peer pressure, some blatant, some not. It's the bits that aren't that stick with you. Like when your bestie jokes about your funny smile, and she doesn't mean anything, but now it's out in the open. You spend too long in front of a mirror quirking your mouth around like a contortionist, all because of a single sentence no one else thought twice about.

But then there are the extreme examples — and like anything extreme, they involve the Quirky girls.

As they walk down the hallways of Hogwarts, they may as well be wearing a sign that says 'LOVE ME' in big, bold desperate letters. Like 'Free Hugs', but you’d probably get crushed to death.

They pack together senselessly like wildebeest, feeding each other sympathy and validation. They want princes and easy ways out. Reassurance that they're a special little snowflake.

But then there is the one who taps into this mentality and corrals it as her own. The trick is to be a little more assertive than the herd. To be a little louder. A little luckier.

Followers are strength. It only takes one girl agreeing to make you sound correct, but you'll need twice as many naysayers to discredit you — our funny flawed sense of credibility at work.

Ideas are powerful. When they catch, they spread. It is in our nature to get other people to believe what we believe. To reassure ourselves that we are correct and, more importantly, that we are not alone.

Add in a little hysteria and before long, everyone gets swept in. They only know how to listen and idolize and they forget how to think. Once you get the crowd behind you, you've won.

You don't have to be like everyone else if everyone else wants to be like you.





The first shirt I see gives me a good laugh.

I just got the dish on the 'Puff prefects selling fairy dust under the table, and I'm heading back to the dungeons, this first year barrels down the hallway out of nowhere. Her robes flap open, revealing the tee underneath and the scarlet letters emblazoned across the front: TEAM ROSE. Cute, if a bit weird.

A bit later, Demmie passes by, having snuck out of the kitchen with an armful of biscuits. She's sporting a similar shirt, but this one is painted with giant purple letters. TEAM DOM.

I remember Rose's warning. New developments in Hogwarts are hardly ever good, and if they are, they turn bad very quickly.

I mention this to Dom in the morning.

"Honestly, even if the Scorpius thing isn't a big deal to you, people are getting caught up in it." I pull my arm through a sleeve. "I think they're making team shirts."

"They're making shirts?!" Dom peers around my mirror with demonic glee, perfect curls bobbing around her face. I swear the bint just wakes up and breathing takes care of her skin and hair for her.

She clears her throat when I don't respond witha similar excitement. "I mean, they're making shirts? Do they have lives?" She mumbles a bit before her delight breaks free again. "So what do they look like? Are mine posher than Rose's?”

I'm in the middle of rolling my eyes when Helen Nott bursts through our dorm's door without the slightest regard for the fact that I'm changing. What is privacy even worth in Hogwarts? She's holding up a tee. "See for yourself!"

Dom practically prances all the way to Helen, her manic thrill bursting out of every pore. "Bloody brilliant! Perfect font choice." Dom runs her hand over the gold embroidery. "I mean, I'd have kerned it a bit better but — no, I definitely love my followers."

"Your follow — " Oh Merlin, it's already beginning. "Dom," I say warningly, "this is what a cult sounds like."

"My cult." She grins, her feet doing a dance. "I mean, yeah, these girls are probably nuts, but look! They've made a shirt after me! A shirt!"

She can't seem to emphasize the point enough. I don't know how I'd respond if it were a Team Clemence shirt in her hand instead (my name's too long to fit nicely anyhow), but Dom's reaction might be a sign that her big blonde head's growing too large to hold up.

I walk over and pull Dom away. "Don't encourage her, Helen."

Dom grumbles slightly, a huge smile smeared across her face. Nothing's going to bring her down for awhile.

Helen returns to the common room. I finish buttoning my top, and Dom looks me up and down.

"You look rather nice," she says, grin growing wider. "That thing is this morning, isn't it?" My thing with Albus of course, but she minds her words, knowing Appy is in the loo.

Not that it helps. I don't even know where she came from, but Appy and her trail of glitter suddenly springs into the conversation like she apparated here. "You mean the Quirky Girls First Annual Bash of the Year?" she squeals, hanging off my shoulder. "You're going?"

I wince before I respond. I can't believe I actually have to lie about my answer. "Oh no, sorry, I have to contribute to society today. I won't be able to make it."

Her smile falters slightly, but not entirely. Probably can't process that much sarcasm at once. "It's all right. I'll have the minutes available afterwards, so you won't miss anything important. Well, except the fun!" One of her legs bends backward into a princess pose and I can practically hear a sparkle ding in the air.

I smile until I leave, though I don't have any real reason to smile until I'm finally out of her sight and out of Dom's sphere of happiness and meddling.

I head toward the north staircase, walking up the twenty thousand steps to get anywhere in Hogwarts, smoothing my skirt with my fingers. So I might have saved my better pair of leggings to wear today — not that I want to impress Potter. I just expect him to try to impress me. If he wants to seduce me or whatever this date-or-not-date's for, he's going to dress for it. If I don't dress to match, Merlin forbid, we'd just look silly, won't we?

I wait at our meeting point. It's thankfully deserted up here. Dead silent. Couple months ago, I did a series on the extra-haunted areas of Hogwarts (since technically, the whole castle is haunted); this area was the reign of one of the few pirate wizards Captain Barlingby, affectionately named Barnacles the Barmy. No relation to the other Barmy. This one chopped off a lot of heads.

Potter amended the meet-up time and said he'd be here at half past, but he's got to be bloody late by now. The only clock nearby is a balcony sundial which is lots of help with three days of sun a year.

Something brushes my arm and I spin around, frowning. There's no one there.

A strong grip takes me around the shoulder and my stomach sinks, with my immediate thought being I am being kidnapped by a homicidal pirate. Which somehow probably won't be the most absurd thought I'll have today, if I survive.

A hand presses over my mouth, muffling me before I can yell. Fuck. There is actually a possibility I am actually being kidnapped by a homicidal pirate. Of all the ways to go out. Can't it be during an investigation or some bitter ex-source trying to assassinate me instead? I'd even prefer death by falling printing press.

There's a rustle of fabric and my panic subsides long enough for me to recognize the thread of familiarity in the touch. A split-second later, Potter is before me, inches away and grinning. "Morning."

He releases his hand. "Don't do that," I gasp, ready to shove him, but the tingle of fright slackens my muscles.

He chuckles. "What, thought I was Barmy?"

I'm still trying to catch my breath — and my senses. "That's ridiculous. Ghosts... ghosts are cold."

"Only relatively."

Even with my cursory survey, I can tell he's wearing a nicer shirt than usual and it fits him very well. His mouth is twisted wryly, sporting that touch of boredom I've come to associate with him.

Above our heads is a transparent, shimmering shroud. So that's how he snuck up. "Invisibility cloak? Is that the — "

"Not the famous one. Not since James filched it last year."

Ah yes, James' spree around London with his mates. Nothing too illegal, but Buckingham Palace has never been quite the same since.

"Lils gave this to me for my birthday," Albus says, adjusting the cloak's length so it covers our feet. He beckons me to start walking. "Got a few silencing spells woven into the fabric, too. Not going in that hellish party without that on our side. It's made for one, but I think we fit fine."

That's when I notice how small it is, and there's really no proximity except too close.

He's still grinning at my expense. A pirate ghost, Clemence. Really, you're losing it. "I liked you better when you were bitter all the time," I mutter.

"I didn't know you liked me at all."

"I — ugh." It's too early in the morning for this. "Can we skip over the next ten back-and-forths where I clarify and you jab back and I give an even snappier reply and you don't have anything clever to say, so you just get in my face and smirk?"

He steps into my path, stopping us both, smirk already in place. "What, you don't enjoy the last part? Because it seems like you do."

"It's predictable and trite."

"Fair enough." The smirk does not waver. We resume walking.

It still bothers me that we are decidedly undefined as we dabble in light conversation. The murky middle ground of not-mates, not-lovers — but not-enemies either. We could almost look back and laugh — 'Hey, remember that time we tried to ruin each other's lives?'

The party’s held in Ballroom A, not that it's difficult to miss the rainbow of balloons decorating the entrance. A banner is draped across the front, declaring in bright pink, F.A.B. for First Annual Bash. If I never see another acronym ever again, it’ll be too soon.

Albus and I slip into the back in time for the end of Appy's welcome speech.

"... then we'll be the honoring some special members. Without them, Q.G.A. would not be what it is today. But enough of my talking. Time to mingle! Remember: quirky today, quirky for life!"

I shake my head as I look on at the rabble standing from their seats. There are maybe sixty or so girls in the audience, not including the staff setting up the refreshments. Unfortunately, it seems that the club has gotten more popular since I last paid attention to it, even taking in account the moochers here for the free food.

Carefully, we walk around the edge of the room. I've got to give Appy credit. Not many can pull off a party this impressive and creepy at the same time.

Everything's got a boy's face on it, from the napkins to the All-Star Quidditch plates to the floating-head balloons. Even the food is themed. There's a meatloaf that appears to be in the shape of Potter's head. Sean McLaggen's posing on a cake. Bicep lollies. Leave it to Q.G.A. to provide girls the opportunity to eat a torso off of the star Keeper's face and wipe their mouth with six different fitty blokes. How can that even feel hygienic?

Unsurprisingly, knowing Appy's bias, most of the decorations are of Potter, who currently looks like he's about to throw up.

"Just... why?" he asks to no one, but I don't like leaving rhetorical questions hanging. I don't like rhetorical questions at all.

"Don't you ever listen to dear old Appy?" My voice rises an octave and I turn off the bulk of my brain cells. "Albus Potter is so perfect, bluebirds weep when he talks. His hair is the eighth wonder of the world." He scoffs, but I have to listen to her every night; I will give a very dedicated performance. "He once saved a family and twelve kittens from a burning barn. Voldemort would — "

I shut up when a giggling group rushes past us toward the fortune-telling booth, barely nicking the edge of the cloak. My words stall. Death by fangirl — a worse fate than Barmy.

Yet when I glance up at Albus, he doesn't seem the least bit perturbed. How he, with all his paranoia, can trust something so flimsy, so easily, is beyond me.

I clear my throat. It's a bit of a challenge to stay calm with the claustrophobia closing me in. Albus is breathing down my neck, and seeing his face floating on the back of every chair doesn't help. "Really though, Potter. Aren't you used to this by now?"

"Unfortunately." He glances around, and his arm slips around my waist, nudging me closer. The slight change in proximity is just enough for the cloak to shield us from head to toe again. "It's not like I asked to be famous," he adds.

I roll my eyes. "Children in Africa don't ask to be starving. Suck it up. Everyone is born into problems."

"Yeah? What's yours?" He glances down at me for the first time in awhile, eyes fixated with an odd fascination.

"I'm an exception, of course."

His arm hasn't left its position. I'd point it out, but then I'd have to bring it out into the open.

Even if I'm conscious what he's doing — I'll call it flirtatious sabotage — it's difficult to counter. He pays attention to the details. Mussed his hair a little bit. Doesn't pull me too close, but just enough. He probably even knows I'm conscious of it, but that only adds to his taunts.

Oh, he's good.

I let my eavesdropping distract me. He's brought me to a zoo, each girl her own spectacle. They're lowering my IQ by the second.

"He going to marry me one day." A gaggle of younger Ravenclaws stream by, and one stops to show her napkin to her friend. She points at Brent's wrinkled face, now dotted with frosting and crumbs. "He doesn't know it, but he will."

A whiny voice cries from the other direction. "Miles Wood?" Gryffindor's reserve chaser, Sandra, is shaking her head at one of the non-Albus balloons. "That fascist face does not deserve to be on here." Does she even know what fascist means?

Albus palms a fortune cookie from the table and breaks it open. He mumbles the fortune to himself, snorting as he hands it to me. "Do they actually believe this?"

'Crushing on a taken guy? It's not cheating if you're his true love.’

I groan, crumpling the scrap of paper. It makes me sick to my stomach, worse than the smell emanating from the meatloaf. The whole idea of Q.G.A. would be cute if they actually gave sensible advice. A support group to hold a girl's hand as she goes through the minefield of hormones.

Instead, they only worsen the worst part of us: that idea that we're entitled to everything. These boys, happily ever afters, et cetera. They teach these girls that if can't get their fairy tale, it's not their fault. It's to be expected, perhaps. They want to believe what they've been told, that they're beautiful just the way they are — talk about perverting Miss Polly's lessons. The slightest bit of criticism becomes an attack, and people are only good or bad: those who cheer for you and those who don't.

Albus' voice suddenly slips into my mind until I realize he is speaking to me. "Don't you just want all this to... go away?"

Well yes, I'd love if everyone grew a brain, but from the tone of his voice, I'd swear he means permanently — in the very most permanent sense of the term. "... okay Potter, I don't know if you've caught up on the latest rule book on socially acceptable behavior, but that was fairly creepy."

He holds back a laugh. "I don't want to kill them — usually."

He pauses, scanning the growing crowds around the food tables; someone just brought out the bendy straws. He leads us to the back of the room, where it's emptier.

"I just don't need them assembling," Albus clarifies as we stand side by side against the wall.

True, the only real threat comes from the fact that these girls are unionized. Not legally, but brute force via mob works just as well.

He looks down at his hands, folded together almost business-like. "Take them down with me."

The words drop from his mouth so casually that I almost don't catch the severity of it, but when I do, my heart thumps louder.

"You and I, we could figure something out," he continues. "We've both got influence. Appy here might have them hanging on her every word, but anything I'd say would win out. She taught them to idolize me, after all. I just need some backup."

I can feel Albus turn and gaze at me. I keep staring forward. Does he even know what he's saying? He talks so calmly about bringing down an empire. Did he — ?

"You planned this from the beginning," I say, whirling to him. "You were baiting me for your side."

The corners of his mouth lift and a derisive edge hones his laugh. "No matter what you say, you still think the world revolves around you. Wake up. You aren't the plan. You got in my way."

My stomach sinks. My theories are paling. "Why'd you plant the girlfriend story?"

"I planted it to get these girls off my back. At least some of them wouldn't go after a taken bloke." He shakes his head. "But then you blew it. Thankfully I can salvage something out, and I'd appreciate your help. Certainly would repay things."

"I'll repay nothing." Are these mind games or am I just wrong? A touch of anger rises in my voice. "Don't blame me for your shit acting. And not being able to keep your hands off me."

"What, like this?" He turns me toward him with one hand on my waist. A respectable gap remains between us, but I swear there was more space underneath this cloak two minutes ago.

The crowd closes in. A circle of girls standing nearby adds in a few members. If they only knew what was going on five feet away.

Albus follows my gaze and his hand slides up my back, pressing me closer. "If you don't want to be paranoid about being seen, you should stop scooting off."

"Do you actually fancy me?" I say, a little more frozen in place than I'd like. "Is that why you're enjoying this so much?"

Another chuckle. "Very forward."

"Oh, stop stalling. Do you fancy me or not?"

His eyes seem to wink. "Why do you want to know? Do you care if I do?"

I'm stuck. If I say that I don't, then he'd say there's no point in responding.

"I don't believe in leaving things ambiguous," I say at last.

"But you don't really want to know." The entrancing lilt of his smile move a little closer. "Most people don't want to know because they're afraid of rejection. But you... prefer the mystery." At the last syllable, I can feel his lips brush mine.

"Don't assume," I utter, barely audible. "It's lethal."

Appy's voice booms over the speakers, jolting me away. Humming from adrenaline, I nearly stumble, but Albus' grip holds me steady and keeps me under the cloak.

I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again. The first thing I see is Appy's laughing friends pushing her toward the podium.

"Now? Really?" Appy giggles, clutching her blushing cheeks. They gesture for her to go on. "Oh, all right. Well, before Cleo comes up to discuss V-Day D-Day, I have a very big personal announcement. I was going to save this for later, but eek I can't hold it in any longer."

She twirls her hair, her bashful grin hiding behind the amplifying horn. "As you all know, I got to meet Fifi LaFolle last summer, and well, we made plans." With a flourish of her arms, she declares, "It's official now: I'll be publishing my debut novel next year."

My reaction is the complete opposite of everyone else's as the audience bursts into cheers and whistles.

"Oh my god, that's brill!" squeals one of the twins standing in front of me.

"Is there anything she can't do?"

"I know! I'm so jealous!"

My mouth has gone dry. The world is spinning. Her? Apostrophe Hyphen Colon, the girl who belongs on daytime wireless with the other batshit frauds — she's getting published before I do?

This is the girl whose laundry comes back sparkly.

I feel the rumble of Albus' chest behind me. "She's everything you hate, isn't she? And everyone fawns over her."

I swallow, shaking my head. No, no, no, Potter. Don't think you understand. "They think she's right because she tells them what they want to hear."

"I told you. We could bring them down." There is something so tempting about his tone and how it slithers in my ear. "So, Clemence?"

We may have common goals, but — "I'm not your pawn."

"No, but you are under my cloak."

My heart constricts. He slides in front of me, one hand by his side, the other gripping the cloak at its apex.

"You know what will happen if the girls see you here with me. They'll get ideas. I don't think you'd like those ideas." His expression is calm. He's maneuvered to the winning position. "If you help me, maybe it doesn't have to end this way."

"You wouldn't."

His fingers curl tighter around the shimmering fabric. "Try me."

"They'll sooner go after you before me." My throat is too dry to utter anything above a hoarse whisper.

"Really? Are you so certain about that?"

He's bluffing. He wouldn't.

"Positive," I breathe.

I hear it before I see it, like the crack of a whip. His green eyes glimmer, so sure, too sure.

And like that, the cloak goes down.

---

A/N I TOTALLY GOT THIS OUT A WEEK BEFORE I THOUGHT I WOULD :D

Ahem. I did promise Twilight-levels of frenzy for the Rose-Dom feud. Also, the long-awaited "date" is here at last. Once again, Mr. Cliffhanger is stepping in and Albus is curling his dastardly evil mustache.

Thank you to the lovely soliloquy for looking this over before I posted. I totally missed a word and it said "We could bring them", and she asked me, "Bring them what? Cake?" That would've been a lovely climax: "I told you. We could bring them cake," Albus says in his best Tom Riddle voice. Also Gubby for filling in all my missing words and grammar derps.

Thoughts? Pitchforks? Cake? ♥ reviews are lovely.

p.s. etc. hits its first year anniversary soon!

Preview:
I spare a few breaths to chuckle. He doesn't have it in him. For all his accusations of me being just talk, so is he. What a Gryffindor. "Playing chivalrous now? That's rich."

He parts his lips as if to laugh along but they pause, open, lingering above mine. "Come on, Fitzgerald. We both know you like me better when I'm bad."