the lucky one

liar, liar

october 5th, 1995

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Miranda is in a distinctly foul mood. Not only does she have mountains of homework to complete, loads of studying for a Potions exam Snape sprung on them yesterday, and Quidditch tryouts that she'd promised Harry she'd attend, but tonight is her detention with the dreaded Dolores Umbridge.

    "You excited?" Harry asks, plopping down beside her on the settee.

    Miranda's brows drew together. Was he mad? "For detention with the toad? Not likely."

    "No, silly," Harry nudges her, "for Quidditch tryouts. Ron's going to do brilliantly, I'm sure of it. And you'll finally get to see me play."

    Miranda rolls her eyes, "God forbid I miss the sight of your Quidditch prowess." She glances at the clock, "But— tryouts are later."

    "No, they're not," Harry shakes his head. "Angelina moved them up, they're in an hour, I thought you— I told Ron to tell you."

    "My detention with Umbridge is at five. I can't," Miranda tells him regretfully.                                     Harry's face falls, "But—" At this moment, Ron and Hermione enter through the portrait hole. "Ron!" Harry exclaims, "I told you to tell Miranda about the time change for tryouts ages ago!"

    "I did!" Ron protests, then pauses. "Oh bollocks, I didn't! Blimey, I completely forgot."

    "I can't go anyways," Miranda explains, "I've got detention with Umbridge." She sighs, apologizing, "Sorry, Ron. Good luck."

    "There's got to be some way to around it," Ron muses. "Maybe if you explain to her—"

    Hermione scoffs, "She doesn't strike me as the understanding sort."

    "You should at least try to ask," says Harry, shrugging. "Can't hurt."

    Miranda wavers. It is very important to them. And Hermione will be devastatingly bored without her there. Plus...she does sort of want to see Harry play. The Quidditch uniform— well, it has a certain effect.

    "Well..."

    "Please," Harry says, looking up at her with big, baleful eyes. Pooching his lower lip out, he rests his chin on her shoulder, "For me?"

    How is she expected to resist that? Miranda bites her lip. He needed to stop being so cute immediately.  "Fine," she relents. "I'll try. No promises!"

    At five to five Miranda bids the three of them good-bye and sets off for

Umbridge's office on the third floor. When she knocks on the door Umbridge beckons, "Come in," in a sugary voice. She enters cautiously, looking around. In Moody— well the imposter Moody's days it had been packed with various instruments and artifacts for the detection of wrongdoing and concealment. Now, however, it is totally unrecognizable. The surfaces have all been draped in lacy covers and cloths. There are several vases full of dried flowers, each residing on its own doily, and on one of the walls is a collection of ornamental plates, each decorated with a large technicolor kitten wearing a different bow around its neck.

    "Good evening, Miss McGonagall."                             Miranda nearly jumps. She had not noticed her at first because she is wearing a luridly flowered set of robes that blend only too well with the tablecloth on the desk behind her.

    "Evening," Miranda replies stiffly.

    "Well, sit down," she points toward a small table draped in lace beside which she had drawn up a straight-backed chair. A piece of blank parchment lay on the table, apparently waiting for him.