My OTHER best friend, Angelina Johnson, is more of a tomboy. She's a Chaser on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, like me, and is one of those lucky ones who can eat all she wants and never gain a bloody pound. Not that she even cares.

"So not the drama, Lene," I declared, admiring her body enviously.

Do you have any idea how small the skirts that she can wear are?

"Oi! Will the two of you hurry up?" Angelina yelled. She was already seated at the long Gryffindor table – trust her to be one of the first. "Coming, Angie!" Lene called back and continued with her "too much fat in the Hogwarts food" speech. Which I had been hearing three times a day for the past five years.

I sighed and pulled on Lene's arm to hurry her up.

I was about to sit down when a small boy (who looked about five, mind you) ran up to me and actually squeaked, "Beggin' your pardon, ma'am, but are you Katie Bell?"

Excuse me??

"Yes, I am," I replied, noticing that Lene had stopped mid-rant and had a very familiar look on her face, that I had grown very accustomed to in all the years that I had known her. Oh, no.

The midget, which is how he shall be known from now on (am I clever or am I clever?), exhaled a long sigh of relief.

"The deputy would like to see you in her office right after the feast, ma'am."

What the...?

"The deputy?" I repeated, frowning. "Oh! You mean McGonagall?"

The midget nodded. "That'd be about right, ma'am," he replied.

"Alright. Thanks," I told Mr Midget Extraordinaire, who immediately ran away to join his friends (all of whom towered over him) gratefully. Right on cue, as I had expected her to, Lene exploded in laughter.

"Ma'am?" she shrieked. "Did he just call you ma'am?"

I rolled my eyes and we sat down on either side of Angelina, who was already halfway through her yearly beginning-of-term ritual which consisted of her chanting, "Feed me feed me feed me," continuously and banging on the table.

"Hullo, ladies," two very familiar voices chimed in unison.

I smiled back at Fred and George, the Weasley twins, as they sat down across from Angelina and I. I mumbled a "Hey" and waited for one of them to inquire about Lene's current table-banging, tear-streaming condition.

I didn't have to wait for very long.

"What's she going on about THIS time?" George asked, jerking his thumb at Lene, who was still finding my encounter with the midget extremely amusing.

"This little git called me ma'am, and Lene seems to find it hilarious," I replied, giving them a "go figure" look.

"Nothing new there," Fred remarked, and I nodded in agreement, while George just smiled fondly at Lene.

I should probably take this opportunity to explain what the hell Fred and I were talking about. Basically, Lene is a famed laugher – if there even is such a word. If there isn't, then Lene created it the second she was born into this world. The slightest little thing sets her off, and once she starts laughing she can't stop. May woe betide anyone who stands in her way. This proved to be very unfortunate once, when we were in our third year and were studying Cheering Charms (it took her seven whole hours to calm down and she hasn't stopped since). It's lucky she has these really cute dimples that are to die for; it draws the boys in like magnets – namely, one Mr George Weasley.

"Hey...I've got an idea," George suddenly said, and he had a very familiar twinkle in his eyes.

Fred grinned. "I'm right behind you, Forge," he laughed.

And then he stopped laughing.

And the both of them stared at Lene straight in the eye, looking very serious indeed.

In fact, the two looked so intensely – morbid, for lack of a better word, that Lene immediately quietened down, mainly because the twins looked dead serious, which happened, like, never.

Lene was now looking at the twins with a slightly perplexed expression, completely attentive to whatever they were about to say.

George cleared his throat and Lene's violet eyes flew to his brown ones. The three were eerily quiet.

Then George broke the silence by simply saying, "Tissue."

That was it.

Tissue.