The Founders

Chapter 3

The feast was wonderful, as usual. Blatantly flouting the house mixing rules during the feast, Oscar joined Kyra and Grace at the Slytherin table. The table was bedecked with all kinds of dishes and plates; there were Yorkshire puddings and slices of roast beef and peas, as well as mountains of roast potatoes and boats of gravy, tureens of soup and baskets of bread, next to green beans and parsnips and jugs of pumpkin juice and pots of horseradish sauce.

Kyra saw with amusement that the house elves had also branched out this year to include melon wrapped in parma ham, which sat rather incongruously between the carrots and chipolatas.

The hall was completely packed with students. The sound of loud chattering was overlaid by thunder rumbling throughout the hall, occasionally drowning out all other noise for a moment.

Kyra leaned her hands back on the bench, her head tipped back and her eyes scanning the familiar lines and beams of the great hall. The noise rose around her like smoke and she felt like she was floating up to the rafters filled with purplish thunderclouds, letting the light blind her when it streaked across the ceiling.

After dessert, for which Kyra chose pecan pie and soft ice cream stolen from the Hufflepuff table, Kat Carter wove her way through from the Gryffindor table, her dark red hair swinging like a supermodel.

Grace caught sight of her and knelt up on the bench, waving. She leaned over the table to hug Kat, who grinned widely, her brown eyes warm. A thick smattering of freckles covered her nose and cheeks and her hair was more streaked with strawberry-gold than Kyra remembered it.

Kat had originally been one of Oscar's friends, who he'd met playing quidditch competitively, but she had started spending time with them as a group towards the end of fourth year. Grace and Kyra loved having another girl around with whom to make fun of Oscar and although Kat spent most of her time with her Gryffindor friends, she'd always make an effort to see them at least a few times a week.

She settled herself between Kyra and a boy absorbed in his treacle tart, and Kyra leaned over, raising her voice to ask Kat about her summer.

"Oh, you know, the usual; quidditch with my sister, eating, sleeping," she responded with a laugh, shaking out her hair. The thunder was now becoming deafening, as if the storm were directly above them, so they had to shout to hear each other.

"How are you at quidditch now?" she continued. "Did you practise with these two over the Summer like you promised?" She pointed a finger gun across the table. Oscar, Grace and Kat were all quidditch fanatics, which was an eternal source of exasperation for Kyra.

They each played for their respective quidditch teams, but still played friendly games against each other when they weren't in training. Grace swore that it was a great way to scope out the competition.

Kyra would usually sit in the stands, freezing and trying to do homework propped on her knees, or she would go to her greenhouse and check on her plants. Having a total of three friends did occasionally have its drawbacks.

Making a face, Kyra picked at her tart. "Throwing balls, while on sticks? I mean, given the choice, I'd rather not." Seeing the outrage on her friends' faces, she held up her hands in surrender, saying "But I could be persuaded!"

Kat opened her mouth to respond, but was cut off by one of her friends yelling at her from the Gryffindor table, waving an arm at her and kneeling up expectantly. It was actually quite impressive that the shout had reached them over the hubbub. Kat said that she'd join them later, and was gone.

As she headed back to her table, Grace turned back to face Kyra, an eyebrow raised. "You liar," said Grace. "You'd never let us persuade you into quidditch."

Kyra sighed. "That doesn't stop you trying though, does it? I'm perfectly happy with my plants, thank you."

"You're like a cat lady," Oscar said thickly, around his mouthful of apple crumble, "if instead of cats, cat ladies had plants."

Kyra gave him a straight look. "That's a brilliant analogy, Oscar, really. English literature is suffering a blow."

Grace snorted into her rice pudding and Oscar made a face at her across the table. "English isn't my first language, you trollop."

"I don't think that word means what you think it means," Kyra responded with amusement. "But by all means, feel free to use Danish insults on me."

As Oscar opened his mouth, trying to think one up, Kyra dropped her fork onto her plate with a clatter. "Tell me later- you reminded me, I actually do need to check on my plants." She pushed herself up from the table with both hands, leaving Oscar to try out his insults on Grace and walked quickly down the aisle towards the great doors, one of which was propped open wide. She let the chatter die out behind her as she slipped through.