Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the next generation. The incredibly beautiful JKR owns everything.

Author Note: I'm assuming that Slughorn is still the professor for potions, considering he had stayed on after Harry's sixth year. Wizards are said to live a very long time, and it seems that Sluggy's number just isn't up, yet. He may have decided to stay on for… you know, another 20 years. It's possible! As for DADA and Transfiguration, I may have to just make them up. I loathe making up characters.

Part Nargle

Chapter Two

By: Kitzaku

Fred Weasley hadn't realized just how hard it was to get in contact with a Ravenclaw during their fifth year. When Fred had taken his O.W.L.S., he certainly didn't study with as much gusto as the Ravenclaws. In fact, Fred couldn't remember if he had even studied at all. He remembered vaguely having his cousin Rose try to tutor him. He wasn't even embarrassed at all that Rose was a year younger than he. In fact, he found it downright hilarious and was, at the very least, a little proud that his little cousin could be so inhumanly intelligent. Of course, her tutoring was useless because by the time he had taken his O.W.L.S., his brain had already been emptied.

But Ravenclaws, on the other hand, appeared to be quite diligent in their studies. Fred would have hated to see the Ravenclaw tower. They all probably had study sessions and book clubs and the like.

It was because of this that the only time Fred managed to even stop Lysander Scamander in the hall was just after lunch when the fifth year was scurrying off to some class or another. Fred had been waiting for him just outside the Great Hall, arms crossed and leaning nonchalantly on a conveniently placed pillar. The moment the blonde haired Ravenclaw took a step out the door, Fred's dark arm reached out to stop him.

"Oy," he called, flashing Lysander a grin. This had more of an effect when Fred did it, mostly because his skin tone greatly contrasted his pearly whites. Lysander paused a moment, offered a weak smile, and then began to continue on down the hall. Fred pushed himself off the wall and began to give chase. "Where're you goin' in such a hurry, eh?" He skipped a little in his step, to keep up with Lysander's long strides.

"I've got double potions today," Lysander said briskly. "I can't be late."

"You know, it's very nice to talk to you again, too," Fred muttered. "Old Sluggy won't mind if you're late, you know, so long as you slip in through the back. I've done it loads of times."

"Your father owns the largest joke shop franchise in the wizarding world." Lysander pointed out.

Fred smirked, "And, well, yes, there is that. I was thinking it was because I'm every so clever and incredibly sneaky."

Lysander paused long enough to give Fred a look. "Did you need something?"

"We just haven't spoken in such a long time, Lyssie!" Fred said with as much endearment in his voice as he could muster. He had never called the Ravenclaw that nickname before and wondered if he should stick with it.

Either Lysander hadn't heard the nickname, or he had tried desperately to ignore it, because his expression didn't change. "Look, I'm awful busy with my O.W.L.S. this year, so if you needed tutoring—"

"I don't need a tutor, Lyssie." Fred cut him off. "I just wanted to know if you would want to just… hang… later…" He trailed off. Suddenly he sounded and felt very awkward. Lysander was smiling at him.

And then the Ravenclaw was laughing. "Fred, you stupid git." He had stopped his running and was doubling over now, tears almost in his eyes. "I'm Lorcan. I had no idea you fancied my brother like that. He's got a free hour. I suggest you bring flowers."

Fred froze solid. He could have sworn this was Lysander. His hair was parted in the right place and everything! But, now that he thought of it, Lysander wasn't so snappy. That was Lorcan's area of expertise—which was probably why Fred wasn't friends with that twin. He narrowed his eyes, "I don't fancy him. And why are you prancing about looking like your brother?"

"I'm his twin. We were sort of born like that," Lorcan's tone was dry.

Frustrated and annoyed, Fred opened and closed his mouth much like a fish before gathering his wits and straightening himself out. He made a mental note to put Lorcan on his list-of-people-to-make-wet-the-bed the next time he and James planned a midnight excursion. "Good day, then, Lorcan. I bid you adieu." He tipped an imaginary hat and turned tail.

Honestly, Fred had no idea where Lorcan got his temper. Fred knew that Mrs. Scamander was a very nice and soft spoken witch. He didn't know much about Mr. Scamander, but if Mrs. Scamander married him, he couldn't have been a bad person. Perhaps Lorcan simply couldn't take growing up in a household filled with smiling, happy, dreamy-voiced individuals who enjoyed an outing of Crumple-Horned Snorkack-watching, or whatever it was that they did.

Fred was then at a loss as to just where Lysander could be. He didn't want to use up his entire free hour looking for him. He knew that if he were even a tad short on his paper for his Defense Against the Dark Arts N.E.W.T. course, he would fail for sure. After checking the Great Hall and pacing the front of the Ravenclaw tower for some time, Fred gave up and retired to his dormitory where he tried unsuccessfully to finish his essay.

Just as he wrote his last sentence in his largest handwriting possible, an owl began tapping on his window. Confused, Fred opened the latch and pushed the great window panes outward to let the owl inside. It dropped a small letter onto James' bed and left just as sudden as it had arrived.

It was strange, mostly because all owls were strictly to deliver mail in the morning and were most definitely not to come up to the students' windows. James, however, had an internationally acclaimed father, so it was easy for him to bend the rules, but it did catch Fred as quite curious. He made another mental note to tease James incredulously for this.

All thoughts of the strange note aside, the action did give Fred a bit of an idea. Why not just write a letter to Lysander to ask him to meet up after classes today! Why he hadn't thought of that before was beyond him, and Fred suddenly thought himself quite genius.

He pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and dabbed his quill in the open ink bottle again and began to write:

Dear Lysander,

He scratched it out. How dumb is that? Who under the age of 40 wrote 'Dear' on their letters anymore? He began again.

Lysander-

He scratched that out as well. It was too impersonal. He frowned, glaring at the parchment as if it had declared a great challenge.

Fred had no idea why he was making this so hard on himself. Lysander had just re-popped in his head one day and now he was obsessed with getting in contact with the fifth year. Lorcan's words scared Fred a bit, so he decided to put the cap back on his ink bottle and get packed for Defense Against the Dark Arts. If Lysander wasn't going to be his friend, then oh well, boo hoo, Fred would get over it.

He had a best friend, anyway. Potters and Weasleys always stick together. With that thought in mind, Fred made his way down to Defense Against the Dark Arts where James Potter was waiting, smiling.

"Where were you? I found out where Albus has been keeping all of my dung bombs, the little thief. I was looking at the you-know-what," He tapped the blank parchment that was always in his back pocket. He was obsessed with that map. "And saw him in the third corridor hallway with that Longbottom girl. The sneaks have been putting them in a spare broom closet! I swear, the amount of broom closets that are never used in this school are ridiculous."

Fred didn't think they were hiding dung bombs in the broom closet. Rather than let James know this, he, instead, held up his paper. "I was being productive."

James eyed the paper and all the color on his face drained. "Is that due today?"

Fred nodded. James gulped.

As James hurriedly tried to scribble something down on a spare bit of parchment, Fred's eyes wandered to the Marauder's Map in James' back pocket. Oh, if only he had had that map when he needed to find Lysander! It would have saved him a great deal of trouble and embarrassment.

Fred shook his head, mentally. He had promised himself that this silly Lysander business was out of the question. Why, he had lived his whole life being totally fine without the little Scamander. It almost seemed he had woken up one day and decided his life was pain without him. Panicked, Fred began making a mental inventory of everything he had had to eat or drink within the past 24 hours, worried that someone may have slipped him a love potion.

If he had accidentally ingested a love potion--why Lysander Scamander? He did a double-take. Maybe Lysander made him a love potion because he was the one in love with Fred!

Fred stopped thinking for all of two seconds. The rational part of his brain that hadn't been used very much had finally kicked into gear. The very idea of a love potion was utterly ridiculous. He had seen enough of them in his father's shop to know where and when to spot them. The potions didn't even create love, they just created obsession. Besides, he and Lysander were both boys. That was utterly disgusting.

Suddenly, Fred was painfully aware of James' elbow in his side. "Fred! Pass your essay up!"

Fred did a double take and hastily passed his essay forward to be collected. He made a third mental note to stop getting lost in his head so much.

Why did being sixteen have to be so hard?

--

Dinner that evening consisted mostly of James trying to stick mashed potatoes into Albus' hair without the younger boy noticing. It was a failed attempt, however, because despite the fact that Albus' face was buried into a book on Transfiguration, he seemed to have a sixth sense on what James was doing and would bat his hand away the moment it got close. This amused Fred for some time and he watched it eagerly, glad to get a break from his own internal meanderings.

The worst part of it all, was that if Fred turned his head slightly to the right, ducked down only a tiny bit, squinted his eyes and leaned forward, he could see Lorcan and Lysander talking to each other from across the room. It was easy enough to avoid, but Fred felt as if something inside of him had been set off. No, he reminded himself, it had nothing to do with love potions or obsession. Instead, it was as if Fred had a goal. He convinced himself of that, now.

In fact, the situation was not at all unlike his third year, where he decided he was going to get inside the headmaster's office no matter what. Despite getting himself into countless detentions, he was never able to reach his goal through that route. Exasperated, he had asked James if he wanted to sneak into the office and wipe bogies on the walls. Quite, excited about the offer, the two snuck off, only to be caught by old man Filch—who never seemed to die. It wasn't until he had given up completely and was on his way to a class when the Headmaster had stopped him in the hallway during his daily rounds and asked for some help carrying some supplies up to the office.

Perhaps it was a sign, Fred thought. Perhaps he was to completely give up and ignore trying to talk to Lysander again and then maybe he would get his goal and life would resume as normal.

Satisfied with his decision, Fred turned his attention back to James and Albus. Albus must have been side-tracked by a certain page because he now had mashed potatoes caked on the left side of his head. Unable to restrain himself, Fred burst out laughing at the look of horror that had painted itself on the middle Potter's face.

James was looking quite proud of himself. "This wouldn't have happened it you hadn't hidden my dung bombs," he said matter-of-factly.

Albus nearly pouted. The poor kid always looked as though he were about to cry, and he was awfully fidgety. No one seemed to know where he got those traits. "I told you: I never took your dung bombs!"

"If you didn't take them, then who did?"

"Oh, I don't know, try anyone else other than me!" Albus was furious trying to get the mashed potatoes out of his hair. Sympathetic to his problem, Rose leaned over and muttered a spell under her breath. Her wand began to siphon the potatoes from her cousin's hair.

"Rubbish. I know it was you." James narrowed his eyes at his brother. "I've got a witness."

"Oh?"

"Our darling little sister."

"Lily wouldn't rat me out!"

"A ha! So you do admit it!"

"I never admitted to anything!"

Fred watched the two of them hurl insults back and forth at each other. The Potter brothers were nearly as different as night and day… kind of like the Scamander twins. Fred shook his head incredulously. These similarities weren't going to leave him alone! After much deliberation, Fred finally gave up and said, "I know who stole those dung bombs."

Both Albus and James looked to Fred in astonishment, "Who?" they asked, together.

Fred shrugged. "Nargles."

James rolled his eyes. "There you go with those nargles again."

"Nargles don't exist." Albus said, opening his Transfiguration book again. "Everyone knows that."

"Muggles don't think we exist, do they?" Fred was surprised at his own analogy. He'd have to write that one down, somewhere.

"Touché," said Albus.

Fred smiled in spite of himself, and then turned his head slightly to the right, ducked down only a tiny bit, squinted his eyes and leaned forward to catch a glimpse of Lysander, laughing merrily with some Ravenclaw girl. A sudden twinge of some foreign feeling surged up inside of him and he suddenly grew angry. Nevermind that Lysander had every right to talk to a girl in his own house and year, Fred made his very last mental note of the day: he was going to talk to Lysander Scamander, even if it killed him.