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Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry, Scotland Dining Hall Thursday, June 11, 1998 (evening)
Daphne was squeezed between her best girlfriend, Pansy, on one side of the dining table, and her younger sister, Astoria, on the other, pretending to be engrossed in eating her cheese, onion, and leek quiche while drowning out the gossip and prattle amongst her female Housemates. She was, instead, fine-tuning her ability to eavesdrop on the conversation happening a little further down the table, where her Theo sat next to Mister Zabini and Mister Malfoy.
Shutting out extraneous noise and focusing on a specific voice or series of voices while surrounded by others was a trick she'd learned over the years to survive living in Slytherin House, for the more secrets you knew, the more you were left alone by others who feared your knowledge against them. Daphne had never had cause to use such a weapon to date, as it wasn't in her nature to want to abuse such things, but one never knew what the future might bring, so she kept these confidences locked in her brain for a rainy day. She rarely had much to contribute to idle chit-chat anyway, preferring to be an active listener instead.
As she chewed, she picked up wisps of conversation floating on the air, capturing the essence by filling in the blanks. Theo had just intimated that everyone should dress-up for their game night, and the other two wizards in his accompaniment had readily agreed.
Oh dear, she could just envision what that meant. It was no small stretch to assume that if Theo had his way, all six of the women would be pasted into either tight leather corsets and lacy, barely-there bits of lingerie. Six-inch heels and some sort of restraining device around the neck, wrists, or waist would also, no doubt, be in fashion. She may love the charming, silly Slytherin, but she was also well aware of Nott's sexual depravities from having observed him in secret for years. He was a visual sensualist, stimulated by colours and shapes, more than any other sense. Physically monitoring the reactions he purposefully elicited from others–seeing their eyes flare and their cheeks pink with panic or anger or desire–aroused him more than touching them. Consequently, that also made him a natural voyeur, and a daring and uninhibited exhibitionist.
It would be best to warn her friends of their male Housemate's intentions, so the women would have input into their wardrobe choices.
"It sounds as if our male teammates have determined that we three ladies are to embellish our clothing options this weekend for their amusement," she leaned over and whispered in Pansy's ear.
Immediately, her friend curtailed her unflattering comparison of Professor Snape to Sanguini, the world's most famous 'outed' Vampire with Millicent, turning rounded, surprised eyes on Daphne. "What?" the witch hissed in anger. Clearly, she understood the situation. "We'll have to talk about that after dinner. I don't like things sprung at me at the last minuteespecially costuming."
Daphne did not look up; she merely continued to cut into her meal with genteel precision. "Agreed," she murmured.
"What is?" her little sister chimed in next to her.
"You need not be concerned with our discussion," Daphne coolly replied. She loved Tori, truly, but the girl's curiosity was simply too rambunctious for long-term exposure. She should never have been sorted into Slytherin House; Hufflepuff would have been a far better match for her sister's temperament. Daphne suspected that the only reason her sister had been selected to join her in the Silver and Green was because the girl had wished not to be parted from her older sibling, and everyone knew the Sorting Hat took a person's private wishes into account when making its final decision.
Tori pouted. "You always say that. I'm not a baby anymore, Daph."
Taking a deep, calming breath, Daphne turned to address her sister and tried not to sound like a horrid bitch, keeping her voice even and mild, and her tone low enough so that no one else knew she was gently rebuking the girl. "I have never stated that you were, Tori. I recognize that you are fast maturing at the proper physical rate. However, your mental development must occur at a synonymous rate if you are to survive in this House. That includes making smart decisions and rummaging for social cues before interjecting yourself into a conversation or situation. To speak ahead of considering your questions or imparting information could mete out your downfall. We have discussed this before." Conveying such wisdom was the only way Daphne saw of helping her little sister survive dwelling alongside the other Slytherins once she graduated in a week, for Tori still had two more years until she matriculated from Hogwarts, and unless she appreciated and assimilated these important lessons soon, her final four Terms would be utterly miserable for the girl. Daphne would spare her affable, guileless, gullible sister such pain, if she could. Putting her fork and knife down, Daphne daubed her lips with her napkin, and then put a hand over Tori's as it rested on the bench between them. "In this case, what Pansy and I are discussing is truly nothing of significance, just a bit of tittle-tattle."
Tori's brilliant smile lit up her face and she looked with honest eyes up at the taller Daphne. "Sorry for being so nosy, sis."
Daphne shook her head and smiled back. "Curious, remember? Snape is the only nosy one around here." It was an oft-told joke around their House that their Head's hooked beak was large enough to rival a hippogriff's.
Her sister erupted into peals of laughter once more at the sly innuendo. The sound was merry and frank and artless–a sound not ever heard at a Slytherin gathering. Out of the corner of her eye, Daphne caught sight of Theo as he turned his attention in their direction to investigate the commotion. Her heart beat just a little faster under his scrutiny.
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Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry, Scotland Hallway to Transfiguration Classrooms Friday, June 12, 1998 (morning)
Ron was walking the hallway, his satchel the lightest it had been all term now that exams were over. He slung the bag about in the nearly empty corridor, late for McGonagall's class, but not truly concerned, since he'd already had his final exam interview with her, and was merely required to show up out of a need for the school to 'maintain routine.' He considered whistling low a merry jig taught him by Charlie over the Easter break, but ditched the idea in a heartbeat when he heard the sound of a female in tears coming from a window niche up ahead. Slowing, he stopped swinging his bag and within three steps, had come to a complete halt.
Yes, that was definitely a girl crying. Shite. What should he do? Should he keep walking and pretend he didn't see or hear the girl, who sounded as if she was valiantly trying to stifle heavy sobs against some sort of fabric, or did he run past her at top speed instead? He had to get to class; old McGonagall would notice he was missing and might even use that as the excuse to flunk him, as she'd threatened to do to anyone who skived off her classes this week or next, passing exam scores or not.
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