The Show Must Go On

"What do you mean we have to do another play?!" Pansy shrieked, jerking forward hard enough to yank her sort-of-braided hair out of Crabbe's hands. "We haven't even performed this one!"

The rest of the cast (those who had not vanished to wherever they went when they weren't onstage) either nodded their agreement with Pansy or simply watched. Gilderoy Lockhart, the director, sat on the edge of the impromptu stage, listening carefully, and (for once) not smiling at all.

"Unless you have noticed, Miss Parkinson, there is a marked concentration of only two Houses among the cast," Professor McGonagall answered crisply. "There have been complaints of favoritism."

"Favoritism?" Lockhart asked mildly. "Me? How on earth could I be playing favorites?"

"There's no proof you've really lost your memory, Lockhart," Professor Snape hissed from his position at McGonagall's left side.

"And there"s no proof you're not a chimpanzee who's been stuffed in robes and then strategically shaved," Lockhart returned sweetly. "Except your word, of course." Without waiting to see the response he'd provoked (Snape turned very, very red; if looks could kill, Lockhart would have been flat on the ground, clutching a lily), Lockhart turned his attention to McGonagall. "So what's happening? We drop all our work and start over with new talent?"

McGonagall shook her head. "No, not necessarily. The other two Houses have put together a troupe. Each troupe will perform the same play in front of a panel, and we'll decide whether or not there was cause for the accusation then."

Lockhart rolled his eyes and hopped off the stage. "Wonderful. What is your committee going to inflict upon us poor artists, then, Professor?"

McGonagall flicked her wand, and a pile of books appeared on the ground. "A Midsummer Night's Dream. You have a week. Don't worry about scenery, though costumes would be nice."

"One week?" Lockhart asked, sounding skeptical. "For Shakespeare?"

Snape smiled nastily. "That's not all. I will be observing you throughout rehearsals in an advisory position. If it seems to me that-"

"Excellent, a ready-made peanut gallery," Lockhart interrupted, grinning. "Go take a break while we decide casting, then. Come back in... oh, I'd say half an hour."

After a brief attempt on Snape's part at a staredown (Lockhart ignored him in favor of stacking the pile of scriptbooks neatly), the two professors left. At that point, the Hogwarts actors seemed to come out of the woodwork and converge into a roughly circular glob.

"Favoritism?" Hermione demanded. "Honestly, how can an amnesiac play favorites? I wonder who complained."

"Bet it was Lacy Ayers," Pansy put in lazily, "in Ravenclaw. She was very upset about not being cast for anything."

Lockhart picked up one of the pink scriptbooks and flicked through it. "Never mind. We don't really have time to waste on that little issue." He stopped at the Dramatis Personae page and frowned. "I wonder if I've ever read this before. No matter, I'll just assign at random. Bit players, you're still bit players." Seamus's hand shot up into the air. "Yes, Mr. Finnegan, that means you, too."

"Damn."

"Mr. Thomas, you'll be Lysander. Mr. Weasley, you're Demetrius. Miss Weasley, Hermia. Miss Granger, Helena. Hmmm... Miss Parkinson, your time in the sun has come. You're Titania. Mr. Malfoy, Oberon. Leaving you, Mr. Potter, as Puck."

Hermione leaned over to whisper in Harry's ear, "Have you noticed he hasn't called you Harry; yet today?"

"Yeah. Sort of a relief."

"Everyone, take a script. Mr. Creevey, you included. You need to have one, even if you never use it." Lockhart clapped his hands. "All right. Let's go, first run-through."