Saturday, February 27.

Earlier that day, Gertie dashed out of the kitchens  hands filled with her pilfered treasure. She'd missed brunch again and had decided to beg food off the house elves. Some of them were very kind to give food to hungry, growing students. Others abide by the rules as if they'd vowed to follow them by swearing an unbreakable bond. Biting into a blueberry muffin eager to take her contraband off to a quiet corner to enjoy, she hadn't noticed the paper on the floor.

Suddenly, Gertie's worn out tennis shoes lost their purchase and her feet slipped out from under her. Awkwardly, she tried to twist in the air to prevent herself from falling, arms windmilling out to the sides, but it was no use. Her ungainly limbs didn't obey her, and she dropped her food.  She ended up landing on her stomach, her chin landing in a meat pie.

"Ewww, gross," She said as she struggled up on her knees. Careless of her clothes, she wiped the gravy off her chin on the arm of her sweater. Curiously as to what caused her fall, Gertie glanced around, spotting the offending paper. Picking it up, she noticed it was part of a newspaper. The title of an article caught her eye.


Sour Lemon,
 an in-depth profile of child killer Arthur Lemon

A coldness swiftly chilled Gertie's hunger as her stomach knotted. The blank face of her uncle stared up at her. She'd loved that face once. Despite his surly attitude and odd ways. Gertie thought she could save him. She'd tried to be his friend, had even encouraged him to go out and meet new people. Make friends. Instead he killed a girl. The sister of one of her brother's friends.

Gertie hadn't really seen Raine Almasy after the incident. While she didn't necessarily avoid the girl, even Gertie felt the tension that had formed between the two families. Suddenly, Gertie shoved the letter into her pocket and scrambled off the floor. Chin set firm, teeth clinched slightly, blue eyes narrowed, Gertie marched down the hallway and outside.

A few snow flakes landed on her skin, but she ignored them. Her resolve kept her warm as she braved the outdoors without a cloak over her sensible triple layered wool sweater her mother had knitted for her. It didn't take Gertie long to reach the qudditch pitch, she'd grown another inch. At five foot six she was nearly all legs for her age.

When she got to the pitch, Gertie paused for a second, her eyebrows knitted together in slight worry. What if Raine didn't want to talk to her? What if she hated her? With a frown, Gertie put those doubts aside. It didn't matter. She needed to do the right thing. The only way to do that was to attempt to speak with Raine. So, Gertie waited by the exit of the qudditch locker rooms. She knew that the Raine would be practicing because she was a qudditch fiend like her sister and they were always on the pitch. Or that was how she saw it anyways.

The locker room, although well maintained by her team, was musty.

Underneath the smell of dust- of stale sweat and bloodied spit, Raine detected softer scents. Leather creams and healing ointment. Body powder, sticky sweet wrappers. It was a heady perfume. Robes folded aside and dress shoes hidden, she was almost dressed for the pitch.

Her breeches and boots were stiff. Breaking in new equipment and attire was a given for any team- for the most part, it gave her an excuse to vent practice without the team. The witch pulled on her sports sweater in one quick motion and gracefully tied back her blonde locks- the comforts of routine made her smile.

"Come on then-" Raine glanced at her cat, already at the stairwell with a broom. "- just watch for the bludger." Maurice mewled in a kind of passive protest as he followed on  her heels.

When she emerged on to the pitch, a frigid gale was blustering and snowflakes caught themselves in her eyelashes. Raine blinked several times. It took her a moment to notice the Hufflepuff.

"Gertrude?" she recognized the youngest Lemon sister. These were difficult times to be reminded of the Lemons but she had rarely associated the girls with their uncle. At once, Roger came to mind- his face and hapless ways - but with it, concern. "Is something the matter? Is your brother alright?"

For a second, Gertie thought Raine would just ignore her. After all they weren't close. The Almasy twins had always been Roger's friends. Gertie would just spy or follow them around at a distance. Too afraid to venture too close when they were doing "big kid" things. Sometimes they'd even invite her along but that hadn't been for a while now.

This was stupid. She should have never come out onto the pitch. She didn't know what to say. This was one thing that she couldn't fix but she wanted to try. Gertie almost left but Raine called out her name.

Eagerly, the little girl shuffled forward. Her slight welcoming smile turned to a puzzled frown when Raine asked about her brother.

"Yes and ummm no. Roger's fine. At least he was the last time he wrote. He's a too busy to write much. Not that he ignores me, but he's just got a lot to do." Gertie said in a rush. She hadn't meant to worry Raine.

"I didn't mean to cause you worry...I just wanted to say I was sorry. I should have come sooner but I was scared and  well you needed space and were in pain and well. I didn't think you'd want to see me. I didn't mean to get Sanya killed."

Raine leaned her broomstick against the pitch walls and resisted the urge to get a word in. It wasn't a big secret that she held a sort of disdain for the younger years. Presumably because they were a chatty bunch but really because they only reminded her of better times.

"I didn't think you'd want to see me." Gertrude continued. "I didn't mean to get Sanya killed."

If this had taken place in the Great Hall, the Gryffindor would have performed a marvelous spit-take. As it was: she only stared at the Hufflepuff with a bewildered frown. Salazar's socks! What was running through that little blonde head? Maurice made a mewling sound to echo the confusion though it was lost in the winter gale.

"Get Sanya ki--?" Raine broke off with an imperious hand on her hip. "Gertie, you weren't even eleven when it happened. Please don't tell me you feel responsible for that bast... for your uncle." The apology had come as such a surprise that her general melancholy seemed to evaporate.

It never occurred to her that the death was anyone else's fault other than Arthur Lemon's. And perhaps, by some extension of the imagination, Raine's.

"You have nothing to do with it, alright?" she gave the little Lemon a stern look. "I know I made a proper mess of things with Roger but you and Angie, you're his sisters. I don't hold anything on either of you."

Every family, Raine reasoned, had a bad seed. Nothing to ruin a harvest.