“Sixteen is really old,” Emma commented, nibbling on her carrot stick and swinging her leg back and forth under the table.

Tom crinkled his nose up at her, “Compared to your young age of thirteen, I’d say so. Yeah.”

“I’ll be fourteen soon,” she replied haughtily, her nose in the air in a most Hermione-like fashion.

Tom sighed, “Can you believe that I can afford to buy a car and yet my parents will not allow me to?”

“Yes, I can believe it. They’d rather you got a fishing pole.” Emma made a very dirty face. “Fish. Ew.”

“Hey, hey. I like fish. And fishing, for that matter. I want to buy myself a fishing pole…but I really could use a car. Then I wouldn’t have to get them to cart me to the set every day.”

“I bet they like doing that,” Rupert said, plopping down beside Emma and taking a huge bite of his BigMac. “They hate to see their little Tommy all growed up.”

“Oh, shut up,” Tom chuckled.

“When’s the party start?” Rupert asked, bits of food spewing from his mouth as he talked.

“God, Rupert,” Emma whined, scoffing, “Say it, don’t spray it.”

“I detest that expression,” Tom answered; Emma, angry, flipped her hair off her shoulder and stood up without another word. “Party’s at eight. The parental units will be there, so no alcoholic beverages. Unfortunately.”

“Bloody hell,” Rupert replied sadly. “Oh well. What’re they getting you?”

“Dunno. Fishing rod, probably.”

“At least you can do lots of rude sexual jokes with the ladies pertaining to your fishing pole. Or rod.”

Tom rolled his eyes, “Yes. I suppose. Or I could catch fish with it. Another handy use.”

“Yeah, yeah. Hey, aren’t they taking you fishing this weekend? Your whole family?”

“Yeah, you wanna come?”

“Don’t think I can, but I’ll check. Hey Dan.”

Daniel plopped down next to Tom, a tray of random junk foods piled haphazardly together. “Hey. The food cart’s got donuts today.” He bit into a sugarcoated one, sugar falling down his shirt and into his lap. “Annnnnnnnnnnd crisps galore.”

“I noticed,” Tom remarked blandly, indicating Daniel’s tray of foods.

“Well, sorry I don’t eat as healthily as you, Mr. Health Food,” Dan replied, making a face at Tom’s salad.

“I’m on a diet,” Tom answered sounding more like Draco than himself. “Got to watch my figure. Girls don’t like Longbottoms.”

“Some do,” Matthew Lewis, Neville, said as he passed by their table to his own; he had just a sandwich on his tray. “What time is the party tonight, Malfoy?”

“Eight, Longbottom,” Tom said, laughing.

“I’ll make sure to bring my fishing rod.”

Tom shook his head, “You do that.” He scowled at Rupert, who was inhaling his French fries at a remarkable pace. “How do you EAT that everyday?”

“I don’t,” Rupert replied, swigging down some cola. “Some days I eat rabbit food like you and sometimes I have stuff from the cart, like Radcliffe. Other times, I go to McDonalds for sustenance like fatty burgers. You know why? Because I can.”

Tom laughed, “Yeah. Whatever.”

“Do you suppose you’ll get more chicks now that you’re sixteen?” Daniel asked, stuffing some crisps into his mouth.

Shrugging, Tom answered, “Perhaps. You never know.”

“How can he get MORE?” Matthew asked from the other table. “He gets three times as many as we do now! It’s not really that fair. Why do girls like ferrets?”

Tom turned around towards him and grinned manically. “Because, Longbottom. Ferrets have longer rods than toads.”

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