Victoire offered a gracious smile and a 'no problem' as an older student thanked her for the pitcher of pumpkin juice. The first year's eyes remained tactfully upon the Prefect's pretty brown ones, despite a secret desire to sink a little further. Not for naughty reasons (never!), but to catch a lingering glimpse of that coveted, bronzey badge, its blue detailing. The thing she might one day wear, if she kept up her good marks. Her homework, slumbering neatly between two pages of the Charms textbook beside her elbow, suggested she would escape her first year with decent ones, at least. Unscathed by mere Acceptables.

But then it happened, the scathing.

The whisper of wings grew to a familiar pitch. Birdlike gaze turned itself on the ceiling, where an even more birdlike creature-- the family owl-- was somehow immediately discernible amidst the crowd of mail carriers who were preparing to make their descent. He circled spiritedly overhead, obviously recognizing Victoire's sheet of hair. The Ravenclaw felt her heart leap at the promise of praise, treats, or good tidings for the impending summer. But as he swooped and she saw the glint of red, the small witch found herself wishing that he'd stay there, up near the enchanted clouds... or thinking wildly that she'd mistaken him for a feathery twin.

It dropped before her like a marionette on an invisible string, dancing between her book and breakfast plate, causing a ripple effect of heads to turn in her direction. Its pretty coloring was no love note, that shade of scarlet. The Ravenclaw froze. The gooseflesh on her skin gave way to a burning sensation.

What had she done to deserve it?

VICTOIRE WEASLEY,

Only Victoire's mouth moved, crumbling like the scone she'd just abandoned on her plate. That voice--

I BORROWED GRANDMA'S PARCHMENT.

--Louis.

No, no, no, no.

I WANTED TO SEND YOU A SPECIAL LETTER NOT A REGULAR LETTER. DOMINIQUE IS HELPING ME WRITE IT. SHE JUST BORROWED GRANDPA'S WAND. SHE WANTS TO KNOW IF YOU LIKE OUR TEAMWORK. DO YOU?

"Louis!" Victoire squeaked, pleading.

As if the Howler could pause thoughtfully. As if her brother would.

SHE DOESN'T SOUND LIKE SHE MEANS IT, BUT. HEY!

And now there was a pause-- Victoire could envision it, the struggle to continue that booming non-Howler experiment with the cursed parchment they were not supposed to touch as Dominique gave Louis' arm a good shove for spoiling their sincerity. She could also envision the hall, her schoolmates (much closer) taking her own lead and freezing to listen. But that was out of morbid curiosity and pure joy. Victoire, now mobilized, refused to look at any of them. She clutched at her wand, her mind racing to make up for time, to come up with a Charm she might use to destroy the thing. But Silencio was too advanced, their easy-on-the-eyes professor obviously saving it for another day. She breathed heavy, mouthing spells to herself, one, two, three, all of them discarded just as promptly, and panicked. A Levitation charm would only cause an echo in the Great Hall, even if she could get it all the way to the ceiling. And even more students would see it.

GIVE THAT BACK. GIVE ME THE-- LOUIS-- DOMINIQUE-- GOT IT!... HA!

Dominique's cameo came to an end, and Victoire knew they had made up, the elder child miming her brother to continue for the sake embarrassing their sister. Two on one. And silly little Louis, actually believing Victoire would be pleased. Even the thrill in his voice sounded evil as it echoed through the chastising capital letter filter of the red paper. The Softening Charm couldn't soften her brother's excitement, nor Dominique's masterful resolve.

RORY, DID YOU SEE MY SPELLING IS VERY GOOD WHEN THE LETTER IS SHOUTING FOR ME? DOMINIQUE SAYS IT HELPS MY GRAMMAR, TOO.

Merlin, she'd never cared less about Louis' grammar. Could she light it afire? She stopped just short of the words as she pointed her wand threateningly at the letter. What would her professors do if she lit the table on the fire? Surely it would be easy for the Prefect to stop a few flames from licking up the whole place.

ALSO, ALSO, RORY, PLEASE DON'T TELL GRANDMA.

Victoire groaned now, finally chancing a glance at the very same Prefect, who, sure enough had stopped caring about the pumpkin juice and was staring at her with the raised brows.

Finally, blessedly, the letter burst into pieces like confetti. It fell upon them, the rare sort of party Victoire Weasley had never expected anyone to throw for her. She took a moment to simply stare at the bits as they covered everything. She was going to murder her little brother before he reached Hogwarts. Forget Prefect. She was going to be the youngest ever Azkaban prisoner.

There was a loud screaming 'Also, also, Rory, please don't tell Grandma.' The voice was shouting. Bella heard a wave of laughs erupting. She sighed, and walked towards the noise which was coming from the Ravenclaw table. There was a first year Ravenclaw with silvery-blonde hair, ears bright red.

"You good, girl?" Bella asked quietly. Bella didn't truly act like one to be what most students call a 'Classic Slytherin'. She had a caring heart, but never expressed it. Bella was fairly ambitious, and naturally, the best. The young Ravenclaw's nerves could be sensed clearly, but this did remind the fifth year girl of her first year. She was a creature of the background back then, and was always made fun of for being smart.

By the time the Slytherin approached her, Victoire’s ears were nearly the color of the Gryffindor students' neckties. Eyes peeled away from a third year’s ruined bacon and eggs and landed on Bella. The Weasley girl’s mouth was still open as she considered the words, realized that the question was one of apparent concern. She promptly closed it.

“I… Yes, I’m fine,” she lied poorly, sitting up as if she had just been asked to demonstrate her broom skills.

Knowing herself too well— from too many nights making faces in a vanity mirror when she thought Dominique was well out of sight— Victoire pressed the tips of her fingers into her silvery crown and briskly raked two handfuls of hair from behind her ears, hoping to hide at least a little of her embarrassment.

“Thank you,” she added, her face softening. She found herself hoping that a casual interaction with a Fifth Year would be enough for others to carry on. Her father had always told her that if she cared less about what others thought, they'd care less, too.

Only, her father had lied. Victoire was going to tell him. In her owl that would not be on foreboding red parchment.

The Ravenclaw somehow seemed to sit even taller, like a peacock stretching its neck. “Do you know any spells?” She asked, and then realized how stupid she sounded. “For cleaning this sort of thing without polishing off everyone’s food?” The clarification was quick, eager, with a gesture toward the table. (She didn’t turn back to it— she wasn’t quite ready to face it again.) “My mum always does it with silent spells or just sort of mutters to herself while she’s cleaning… and when she make us do it, we’re not allowed magic. Obviously.” It wouldn’t stop little Rory from being tempted to break The Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery as soon as she got off the train and saw Louis.

Professor Butler felt sorry for the young student. He had heard far worse ones  in his time but a howler was always mortifying. 

 "Settle down!" he growled to still the general mirth.
 
 He then thought of the howler he had heard for Arthur Gibbons who had a got his muggle girlfriend pregnant in his final year. Now that had been fun...at least for the rest of the school. Still they were married. He hadn't written to Art in a while. He should do so. He got out a quill and parchment while nibbling on a Cornish pastry...Dear Art and Susan, ..."

Victoire was only just beginning to feel her organs return to their normal positions when Professor Butler spoke up. On cue, cheeks blazed anew and her stomach did a fairy dance across her abdomen, nearly worse than that time her uncle had laced a holiday dinner with those spicy Skiving Snacks. Worse, even, than last week, when she'd thought she was dying in the lavatory and Jordyn Dimbleby had had to give her the womanhood pep talk.

“We are settling, sir,” she promised in a squeak, eyes darting up with the brevity of some of her classmates’ attention spans. She watched him reach for a pastry, and was both comforted and wounded by the fact that he moved on from the admonishment so quickly. Was he going to leave her for the wolves?

And…

Thank Merlin if he was, because the last thing Victoire needed was a reputation as a teacher’s pet. It wouldn’t discredit the comparisons to Uncle Percy.

“I wonder if you can ban certain owls from the castle,” she continued, again trying to appear casual for her housemates. Her mum would kill her. Her dad would laugh. She weighed those options as she dragged her fork around her plate in an idle chasers’ formation. But her eyes moved across the table, and then to the side, judging the expression of the students nearest, looking for some sign of camaraderie now that she wasn't afraid to look. Some signal that this was a normal initiation for first years. "Or future students." She let out a sigh of a laugh and set the fork down.