The brown liquid in my cup sloshes like it is the ocean in a thunderstorm, and my thoughts are hazy like misty rain. I shouldn't be drinking. A couple of sixth-year Gryffindors decided that there hasn't been enough inter-school socialization in the weeks leading up to the Yule Ball. Their party was supposed to be for students in sixth year and up, with fifth years coming by invitation only. An older boy from Durmstrang asked me to come here, and so I am one of three fourth years in attendance. It made some Gryffindor girl angry because she insisted that young witches cannot hold their alcohol, especially muggle-borns.

She's right. I'm pretty tipsy.

The guy from Durmstrang is whispering something in my ear. He's Russian, I think, and his accent is thick, and his words are slurring from how drunk he is. I'm leaning against the glass wall of the greenhouse, and his hand is across my stomach. Instead, I am watching the crowd.

My eyes are trying to find the two other fourth-year girls who got invited. Pansy Parkinson is sitting on a table surrounded by men from Beauxbatons, with the plants that are usually there shoved aside. Earlier, one of the pots fell. Someone with quicker reflexes than me stopped the pot from shattering. It wouldn't matter if it had, since they've got half a dozen muffling spells on the place, and one of the older Slytherins bribed the fifth-year prefects who are supposed to be patrolling.

Pansy is laughing at something one of the guys said. They are speaking French, a language which I don't know, so I can't tell what the laughter is about. If we were speaking Latin, I'd run circles around them all. I shrug it off, trying to act like I am more interested in the boy from Durmstrang than I am.

None of the other Slytherins got here, neither with bribes nor money.Actually, there isn't a single bloke from fourth year who has made it in. Isuppose that explains the absence of Draco Malfoy. If Slytherins are bribingpeople to get things done, I would be sure he was involved, somehow. Yet, here Pansyis, without any of the boys in her year. Despite her cruel demeanour, she is themost sought-after girl in our year. Sure, there are plenty who are pretty,beautiful even, but there is something shocking in Pansy's sharp jawline, bluntblack bob, and high cheekbones. She's like an ice bath, which is nice in agreenhouse I suppose.

The only other fourth-year girl, Mandy Brocklehurst, is doing a shot, being egged on by Ron Weasley's older brothers. She snaked her way into getting the guy from Durmstang to invite her as well. Honestly, I think he got forced to ask us on a dare, since his friends were sniggering behind him and he seemed rather annoyed with the matter. I wouldn't have come if she weren't so keen to go. After all, the man talking to me wouldn't have his hand halfway up my shirt if I had stayed home.

He seems more interested than he had initially.

Earlier, I was supposed to be studying in the library, a few seats away from Hermione Granger, as always. We are always sent out of the library at the end of the night. The other stragglers change daily, but she and I are the only fourth years that are in there constantly. I would've continued my streak if Mandy hadn't insisted on trying to do our makeup beforehand. She doesn't really take no for an answer, Mandy. Neither can this guy, it seems.

"I'm going to get more to drink," I say, just as the guy's thumb grazes the underwire of my bra. I pull away from him. He stares after me.

Mandy slips away from the Weasley twins to join me at the table with all of the alcohol. While I fill up my cup with some firewhiskey, she rolls her eyes.

"This party is lame," she points out.

I bite my tongue. The party is fine. It's the two of us who are lame. Some of us, namely Mandy, more than others. Besides, it's not like we have much to compare the night against. There are never parties at Hogwarts that either of us has the opportunity to attend. Really, it's shocking that we are here at all, with a bunch of sixth and seventh-years. There are probably only a handful of fifth years who have even made it inside the greenhouse. The bodies are packed so tightly in here that we are practically swimming in them. We move like ripples in a pond.

"Let's go home then," I say, sipping my drink. It's my last, or else I'm going to topple over my feet before we can sneak back into Ravenclaw tower.

"Sure," Mandy says, even if she clearly doesn't want to leave.

I squeeze through the bodies until I'm outside the greenhouse and on the grounds. Mandy follows after me. The air outside is cold and sobering. It's December, two weeks out from the Yule Ball, but we were also just in a packed greenhouse. With the rise in the humidity from all those bodies, there is no way that Professor Sprout doesn't ascertain what happened by tomorrow morning.

"Do you think Terry, Anthony, and Michael are still up?" Mandy says.

I shrug. The cup is still in my hand. I finish the rest of the liquor, crush it, and put it back in my pocket.

"I mean, I've got no idea what time it is," Mandy shrugs. "It's Friday though. I bet Professor Flitwick isn't home to shut them down."

"Yeah," I agree, not really caring or paying attention much at all.

"Do you think that people will think it's weird if I make the Yule Ball some sort of Sadie Hawkins dance?" Mandy asks. She scrunches her nose. It's red from the cold.

We've finally made it just outside the building.

"I don't know what you even mean," I say, stopping for a second to keep our voices out of the building. We don't know what portraits are awake inside. "Just because I'm a muggle-born, doesn't mean I know everything about their culture."

"They're quite popular in muggle America," Mandy shrugs. "I get a bunch of muggle magazines in the mail from my Mum. She hates it, but I think she just wants to pretend to support me, so that I stop my teenage rebellion or whatever."

I won't dignify that with an answer. I hate tabloids and magazines, and I don't like Mandy, let alone care to hear anything about her blood-supremacist mother. So, I walk into the building. We continue down the halls and then up six flights of stairs. Doing the stairs makes me realize exactly how drunk I am. All of this is ridiculous.

Just when we get outside the door, Mandy stops me.

"A Sadie Hawkins is when muggle girls ask boys to the dance instead of the other way around," Mandy says.

It sounds like social suicide to me, but it also sounds like the only way Mandy Brocklehurst is going to get a date, "whatever."

"You wouldn't mind if I asked Terry?" Mandy cocks an eyebrow.

"Do as you please, Mandy," I do my best to make the response curt, finally getting close enough to the door that I am able to grab the knocker. Hopefully, this will get her away from me.

"What time is it when a hippogriff wanders into danger?" the knocker asks.

"It's time to run, because whatever is dangerous to a hippogriff is certainly more dangerous to me," I roll my eyes.

The door opens and the knocker continues speaking, "touchy."

"I don't know how you got into Ravenclaw," Mandy whispers. She thinks she's joking but I'm not smiling, "you never try at the riddles."

"I don't need to try," I tell her, even though it's a lie. I try too hard everywhere else. When I drag myself here, I just want to sleep.

We enter the Ravenclaw tower, and I am rather surprised to find that it is still buzzing with activity. It is late enough into the term that the first years are mostly quiet. They all stay up late for the first weeks and cause more trouble than anyone else because of their newfound freedom. Here they are tonight, however, along with students in every year below fifth year.

Mandy points out the students in our year that are socializing. Anthony Goldstein, Terry Boot, and Michael Corner are all gathered around a table chatting. None of the girls are here, but that doesn't surprise me. The Ravenclaws in our year mostly keep to themselves. Those three are inseparable, however.

Mandy heads over. I walk after her. Being here is always a marvel, even when drunk. A group of students, ranging across all of the years, are painting yellow swirls on the walls. They'll be absorbed into the stone by morning. Beauty is temporary, I guess. The walls feel the same as I do.

We make it to the table. Mandy sits down next to Terry Boot. The table sits eight, with three chairs on the sides and one on either end. I chose to lean against the end of the table, my elbows on it. The boys barely seem to pay Mandy or me any attention. I don't seem to mind, but Mandy's cheeks turn red.

"I'm telling you; I think I could get my Mum to send a muggle tape recorder, and we could certainly figure out how to get it to run on magic," Anthony offers.

Michael smiles a bit but ultimately fails at convincing me he is happy.

"Not this again," Mandy groans.

I've got no idea what they are talking about. It is rare that I ever really listen in on their conversations. Anthony, Terry, and Michael are thick as thieves. They are so close, actually, that it's easy to forget the two other boys that are in Ravenclaw in their year. Stephen Cornfoot keeps to himself, and Cleve Lace is always with his girlfriend.

Actually, I bet that he's in his dorm room with her now, if Anthony, Terry, and Michael are down here. Usually people are very private about letting other houses enter their rooms. If Sally-Anne was ever caught by Flitwick, we'd all have Hell to pay.

"What's going on?" I ask. "If you need a muggle tape recorder, my Mum can send me one. We've got one at home."

It's in my brother Alfred's room, along with all of the other crap he's left at the house since leaving for uni. He graduated two years ago and he still hasn't picked any of it up.

"It's not going to work," Terry shakes his head.

"Don't crush his spirits," Anthony cuts in, looking at Michael. "He's already having a hard time finding a date to the Yule Ball."

Terry shrugs. He turns his attention back to the book he is reading. He's been going through it for the last week, pulling it out in classes when he should be listening to the professor. Out of all the Ravenclaws in our year, I'm only second to Anthony. If any of them tried, they could do better, but they all seem to think they have better things to do with their time. Fuck, even Anthony never tries. He's just naturally talented. I chalk up their disinterest in the curriculum to growing up in magical households.

The book, as Terry has explained to me, is a comparative analysis of women's suffrage in Muggle England and Magical England. He seems to like it. Really, anything that has to do with history, he devours. Unless it's about wars, which he says are boring displays of misogynistic chauvinism. I try to pretend that I don't find him as interesting as he finds the books that he reads.

"Any luck tonight?" Michael asks Mandy, probably to turn our attention away from his problems.

"Only time will tell for me," Mandy smiles. "I'm sure Marty is luckier. Some Durmstrang bloke had his hands up her skirt for half the evening."

I stare at her blankly. He did not have his hands up my skirt at all. I feel my throat frozen inside me. Mandy Brocklehurst is my enemy.

"Are you all right?" Terry asks, looking at me. "I thought that bloke was eighteen, wasn't he?"

I've been fifteen for a few weeks now. The age gap does not escape me. I find my eyes flittering over Terry's face. I straighten myself, no longer leaning onto the table and instead upright next to it. My blouse suddenly feels too low, and it's untucked from my skirt. The boys could have been peering down it if they wanted. I'm too drunk to notice that kind of thing.

"Fine," I tell him because I am fine. Not spectacular, not devastated, but fine. "Promise."

"Well, I'm not fine," Michael cuts in. He nods a bit at me, and I am so thankful that he is willing to take back the eyes and ears of the others. "If I don't get this recording done, I'm not going to be able to get a copy of my piece to the Ackerley Orchestra."

Michael is what muggles would call a protégé. He plays all sorts of instruments, from the piano to the bells, to a variety of strings and woodwinds. While he is not a master at any of them, he knows how they all work. He's often using them in the choir room, composing spells. It's impossible to not hear if I'm quite honest. Every year he offers a constructive critique of the melody that springs from the sorting hat.

"Muggle electronics don't work at Hogwarts," Terry says. He flips a page in his book. "You need to find some other way to record your composition."

"Well, the wireless works, and it's a modified muggle radio," Anthony says. "Colin Creevey has a camera that flashes everywhere, which is also modified muggle technology. We can modify a recording device, surely."

"Wizards do that, but it takes a whole studio with proper acoustics to get the sounds right," Michael says. "I haven't got the money for an actual modified recording device that will actually demonstrate the quality of the piece."

"It would be easier to enchant a music box to echo the music," I say. "I mean... if you treat the music box like a room, you could cast an intruder charm on it, and make it so that the alarm will sound like your piece. It would take at least three hours to prepare the charm, but it would certainly be easier than trying to reinvent muggle technology to run without electricity."

"Merlin, Marty strikes again!" Anthony leaps out of his seat.

He darts past Michael and puts his hands on my shoulders from behind, squeezing them gently and shaking me back and forth. I try not to smile. Michael begins to write down his ideas with his quill on the music sheets stacked in front of him. Anthony lets go but hovers just beside me.

Terry glances from Anthony to me, narrowing his brow. Mandy stands up.

"I think I'm heading to bed now," she says. "I'll need to tell Padma about everything because Parvati and Lavender are certainly going to bother her for all the details tomorrow morning. I'll see you lot tomorrow for Hogsmeade."

She heads upstairs. I would follow after her, because I'm tired too, but the more time I can avoid being with her, the better. At least these boys don't seem to bother me for details.

"How do you come up with this stuff, Marty?" Anthony asks.

I shrug, "dunno."

However, I do know. Whenever I'm in the library, I spend hours reading magical theory. Last year, I had thought about being a curse breaker, because I wanted to solve puzzles, but I think it is more fun to create things that haven't been done than take apart things that have. My practical magic skills are lacklustre; while Michael could make an enchanted music box in three hours, it would take me twice as long. However, I could come up with the idea that he couldn't because all I spend my time doing is thinking about how magic makes things happen.

"You're full of surprises, it seems," Anthony says. "You should hang around more."

"You'd like that wouldn't you," I say, and then I wink. "Unfortunately, I should go to bed before Flitwick shows up and realizes I smell flammable. Enjoy your evening."

They all mumble goodnight, and I head upstairs. I'll shower to avoid Mandy if I can. It might help clear up the fog in my head.

~~~~~

Welcome! I hope you enjoy this silly little thing I've done! It's a bit longer than most of my chapters will be, but you've got to set the stakes! Remember, if you haven't read Banality, I do recommend you check it out first!