Having brothers who were well-acquainted with other house by being sorted into them was lonely yet fantastically useful; having one who knew a few dunder-headed older Ravenclaw boys was even more useful.

With a strong jaw, a mat of unevenly combed hair, and a masculine build, Naomi hardly looked the part of a third year Slytherin--definitely not a girl. The form she had taken was that of the more clumsy and naive 7th year Ravenclaw boys, Jared Lynx, who also had a great and obnoxious skill for whistling. Currently, "he" was rummaging through the confines of Demont Foley's leather drawstring bag and weaving a bottle into wicker shell.

The bottle was one of a few alcoholic beverages, obtained with a loud distraction and a skillful slight of hand; and because Naomi was currently a well known and clumsy boy, she was easily excused and unsuspected of anything of consequence. Now, Lynx's copycat was whistling away, (though not as skillfully as Lynx himself,) while leaning over a crate in a more secluded corner of Hogsmeade.

If anyone snuck up on the imitation, he'd be blamed of nothing other than taking advantage of his age and getting some nice drinks, and Naomi could hide behind that visage until she managed to sneak off on her own.

Run or hex, run or hex. . . it was a dilemma, to be sure. Despite all the ease she had with doling out a one-two where others could see, Gracie for one preferred not to be caught at scenes like this—having these kind of row in public struck her as incredibly tacky—but running away rubbed at that strife-loving streak of hers the wrong way. Normally fleeing when it was both the smartest and only option was her favorite go-to plan of action, but when it was personal and she knew she could win, it was another matter entirely.

Still, this time she wasn’t free to think of only herself; Naomi was with her, too. And she liked the third year—not just tolerated or saw as a source of amusement, but actually, honestly liked her. The younger girl possessed an independent streak that she could respect, as well as a sense of humor that easily matched her own. She might still be a work in progress, sure, but she was one that was coming along nicely.

“Run,” Gracie finally replied with a sigh, looking a little regretful about it. “Last time I checked he wasn’t much of a worry with hexes or the like, but when ‘e starts throwing punches, well. . . he gets rather embarrassing, if you get me.” When it was obvious someone was getting the best of him, you couldn’t help but wince—in pity, that is. It wasn’t unlike watching a bull run off a cliff, really. It was things like that that made her wonder why she had even bothered with him at all.

With a sense of resignation—she had been doing fine not having to bother with him, too—green eyes roved over that sputtering, furious form, idly trying to recall just what had made her even bother with him in the first place. He had been loud, and brash, and angry and—

Gracie took in the sun-kissed hair, those cutting cheekbones, and those broad shoulders she’d been rather fond of sinking her nails into.

Oh, right.

“This way,” she beckoned the third year down the street, already just a hair’s breadth away from melting into the crowd. The daily traffic had begun to pick up again, and some of it had drifted over to peer at the boy curiously—effectively getting in his way. Getting away would be easy. “We can’t have you caught with all of that,” she gave the bag a jerk of her chin, “when the ‘juice wears off, don’t we? Best to get going while he’s still down an’ all-”

Cursing exploded from behind her, followed by an unmistakable bellow of rage. Her smile not budging an inch, Gracie shot off like a shark in water, a grin fixed on her face as she cut through the crowd.

Lynx's copycat heard someone calling out for "him," but ignored it until the person finally came up from behind and asserted that he wasn't the 7th year Ravenclaw. The boy's face lazily turned and calmly stared at Gracie Slant for a long and awkward moment.

An eyebrow quirked up, once the witch in wizard's skin decided it was fine to concede to Slant she wasn't who she looked like, "Excellent question," Naomi quietly rolled her voice out in a perfectly British accent, "Do you know that smile looks absolutely ridiculous on you?" An all too cocky Slytherin smile then pulled at the Lynx's lips as his hands continued to pull and weave a wicker coat around the bottles.

Perfectly arched eyebrows shot up straight to her hairline. That voice- “Funny,” said Gracie, her mouth curving into an intrigued (and only slightly disbelieving) grin, “I could ask the same of you.”

And then the disbelief faded into one of complete interest as Gracie gave the younger girl—well, boy, in this case—a onceover, eyes flicking over that decidedly masculine frame with a measuring look. Polyjuice Potions were either a hit or miss, the fifth year knew, and definitely not a part of third year curriculum, so that really left only one thing. . .

“Sick,” came the compliment, that grin of hers growing wider as she watched Naomi weave. “Potions going well for you, then?”

From the little cobblestone corner of barrels, Naomi peered out with her man-face towards foot traffic scraping against the stone and dirt and then turned to face Gracie again. She continued weaving and pursing think male lips into a satisfied smile, "S'good as it'll ever be," she said with the natural swing of her voice, "I learn what I want, do what I must, an' then use what I do for what I want." It was neither a lie, but didn't necessarily guide Gracie towards the truth of the matter.

"Want some?" Naomi finally finished weaving with Lynx's awkward hands before tossing the bottle up playfully, "Don't t'ink who'll you'll want it of will taste good though," and then she furrowed and twisted the boy's expression from the thought of thinking about Gracie as someone else--it was a weird thought, but not completely devoid of amusement. And if Gracie really did want some, she could have her brother whip up some later via some sort of persuasion.

Gracie’s eyes lit up at the offer. “Now there’s a thought,” she murmured appreciatively, drawing closer to both girl (boy?) and crate. While she still had yet a ways to go before being a bona fide ‘bottle fairy’—she still wasn’t quite that willing to go far for a mere drink—far be it from her to turn down one so generous.

“Let me worry about that,” she quirked the younger girl a grin. Opportunities were, after all, opportunities. And as long as she chose the right face, it probably wouldn’t be an issue anyway. “I know a few who mos’ likely won’t taste like utter shite.” It was only a matter of who one knew, really.

In a gesture of uncharacteristic (—or not so uncharacteristic, she had a habit of aiding those she liked without being asked) helpfulness, Gracie sidled by over and stood near the crate. Elbows propped against the edge and head tilted ever so slightly towards Mr. Lynx’s face, she was the picture of tease to those who bothered laying an eye on them. Coincidentally, the fifth year was also blocking the view of said bottles, for the most part.

“So,” she drawled, casual-like, although green eyes were dimly lit with curiosity, “what’s this for then? Anything in particular?”

• “I know a few who mos’ likely won’t taste like utter shite.”

"You can sing 'dat to th' stars Gracie--I'll never believe it," Naomi's voice curled playfully as she fiddled with dropping the straw-woven bottles into her brother's bag, "but you can go on drinking th' tune."

Naomi effortlessly kept her 7th year Ravenclaw form, feeling more comfortable in the thought of not looking like herself with such items in a public situation. As such, she felt natural in the bulky and awkward form of another person; she was like a child in the safety under an invisibility cloak, even if she was acting completely out of character. Of course, while her ability to bullshit and act like someone else were skillful, she could not rationalize her own actions the same way. Her response for having the drinks didn't extend beyond a shrug and a sing-song, "Whatever."

The awkward hands of the older student sifted through Demont's[1] sack. Naomi was trying to arrange the bottles in an easy and accessible fashion, but his bag was ridiculously and magically deep, "Seemed like somet'in to filch for th' train ride back... mix it wit' somet'in.. bribe a hippogriff home with it?." she pressed the boy's lips together and smiled wryly at Gracie again, "Jus' wanted some, seemed like a good idea when I got em."

1.	Naomi's brother

“Har,” she grinned. “Shows you how much you know.” Contrary to whatever the younger girl knew about the amount of time she spent with less-than-obviously-nice people, she actually did know one or two who couldn’t possibly taste bad.

Possibly.

A somewhat misty smile passed over Gracie’s face. She remembered what she had been like at that age; it had been all pranks and shoving and finally getting the hang of things, but she hadn’t been that ambitious. “Hippogriffs are overrated,” she smirked, watching Naomi fiddle with bag with interest. Despite the obvious awkwardness in their movements, the younger girl’s hands moved with an experience that was telling. “If there’s any bribing to be done, you’re better off saving it for th’ sixth and seventh years, though you’ll prolly have to be more circumspect about it, come to think of it. . .”

Lazily she glanced across the crowd, and by chance met the eyes of one very unhappy-looking ex. The sixth year’s expression—belonging to one that needn’t be named, he hadn’t been too great of a fling—only soured further when he spotted ‘Jared’ beside her. She bit off a curse when he headed straight for her.

“Really, Foley,” Gracie sighed, keeping her eyes on him. A heartbeat later her wand was in her grasp, her left hand curling tightly around it. Green eyes darted at the boy-girl beside her to give her a wry smile. “You couldn’t have chosen a girl?”

"Mhmm," Naomi merrily hummed as Gracie continued on about being able to find a polyjuiced person that tasted good. She believed that about as far as she could spit fire.

Then the witch turned the tables to much more interesting topics, "Oh?" she said curiously, "An' what of Gracie," Naomi usually didn't take much time to figure out what she could get from others. She preferred to be independent and completely capable of managing on her own, but she knew some people had their uses, "I can usually  get what I want wit'out so much muckin' around," Naomi let her awkward hands stop digging in the bag to dramatically frame her face with a wry smile, before she tied off the bag and lazily responded to Gracie's concern with, "Too easy."

Then her boyish gaze landed on the approaching guy, "Oh, inn't he 'dat t'ing[1] you got bored with?" Naomi got a strong grip on her wand before she swiped it through the air in a quick blur of the tripping jinx at the boy, then she quickly placed her wand out of sight again,  "Wand gives me away y'know; Run or hex?" she finished before the idiot managed to gather his senses again and get within earshot.

1.	she means "fling"

Run or hex, run or hex. . . it was a dilemma, to be sure. Despite all the ease she had with doling out a one-two where others could see, Gracie for one preferred not to be caught at scenes like this—having these kind of row in public struck her as incredibly tacky—but running away rubbed at that strife-loving streak of hers the wrong way. Normally fleeing when it was both the smartest and only option was her favorite go-to plan of action, but when it was personal and she knew she could win, it was another matter entirely.

Still, this time she wasn’t free to think of only herself; Naomi was with her, too. And she liked the third year—not just tolerated or saw as a source of amusement, but actually, honestly liked her. The younger girl possessed an independent streak that she could respect, as well as a sense of humor that easily matched her own. She might still be a work in progress, sure, but she was one that was coming along nicely.

“Run,” Gracie finally replied with a sigh, looking a little regretful about it. “Last time I checked he wasn’t much of a worry with hexes or the like, but when ‘e starts throwing punches, well. . . he gets rather embarrassing, if you get me.” When it was obvious someone was getting the best of him, you couldn’t help but wince—in pity, that is. It wasn’t unlike watching a bull run off a cliff, really. It was things like that that made her wonder why she had even bothered with him at all.

With a sense of resignation—she had been doing fine not having to bother with him, too—green eyes roved over that sputtering, furious form, trying to recall just what had made her even bother with him in the first place. He had been loud, and brash, and angry and—

Gracie took in the sun-kissed hair, those cutting cheekbones, and those broad shoulders she’d been rather fond of sinking her nails into.

Oh, right.

“This way,” she beckoned the third year down the street, already just a hair’s breadth away from melting into the crowd. The daily traffic had begun to pick up again, and some of it had drifted over to peer at the boy curiously—effectively getting in his way. Getting away would be easy. “We can’t have you caught with all o’ that,” she gave the bag a jerk of her chin, “when the ‘juice wears off, don’t we? Best t’ get going while he’s still down an’ all-”

Cursing exploded from behind her, followed by an unmistakable bellow of rage. Her smile not budging an inch, Gracie shot off like a shark in water, a grin fixed on her face as she cut through the crowd.

Naomi pressed the Ravenclaw's face into an unamused lopsided line, scrutinizing Gracie's sudden fascination with the tripped ex-boyfriend. Maybe it would have been better if they hexed him.

A slew of curses ensued and Gracie took off, Naomi quickly followed with long and useless lanky legs as she tied off her brother's bag and took off ti the crowd after her friend. But the bellow of curses quickly followed them from behind, and without paying much attention to Gracie, Naomi dove and bent down into the crowd.

Now this form was getting cumbersome, and unpractical for her needs. Naomi decided it was time for the potion to start "wearing off," but just a little. She bent down into the crowd then, and she shrunk down to a more average height of 5'7" and shook her hair into a mop of black hair before she stood back up looking more like a normal-sized Englishman, and a stunted 7th year Ravenclaw.

The guy who was running after her seemed momentarily confused and lost in the crowd, and so Naomi leisurely searched her way back to her 5th year counterpart. The sly Slytherin was quickly spotted and Naomi wrapped a smaller hand around Gracie's arm as she pulled with a whisper of laughter in the back of her throat, "'Ey, got him fumbling around over there," Naomi pulled off the flannel shirt to reveal a tighter, more feminine black top as she tied the flannel around her waist, "Let's jet again." She said happily behind the mask of an older boy.