Chapter 11Chapter Text
The consequences for my rash actions during Hallowe'en started arriving as soon as I opened my eyes the morning of the following day, because I felt impossibly drained and wanting nothing but to go back to sleep. It seemed all my reckless discharging of magic all over the place was catching up with me.
I laid there on my bed as my housemates rose and began their morning routines —loudly opening and closing their trunks and talking and making other unwelcome noises— my eyes half open and my body feeling disjointed, each limb weighting twice as much as it usually did. Eventually I resigned myself to the reality of a new day, and with a deep groan I sat on the bed, blinking like an owl at the clarity of the light coming from the magical sconces.
It took me much longer to get ready for the day than usual, even if I skipped brushing my hair entirely; my every movement lethargic due to the sudden scarcity of shits to give I found myself with. And by the time I was finally done and as ready as I was capable of being, all the other girls were long gone.
All except for Daphne Greengrass, that is. The heiress stood in the dorm as a contrast to me, her eyes wide awake and her blond hair immaculately styled —which mine would be too, of course, if I also had a bloody enchanted hairbrush.
It was clear she wanted to talk to me away from the others' ears, so I acknowledged her with an interrogative grunt; which was the most complex vocalisation I currently felt capable of.
"Sarramond," she said, "I find you agreeable, and a good addition to the Slytherin house."
Oh, hell no.
I slumped back onto my bed, sitting down, took a deep breath, and then asked: "But?"
"But I'm not happy with how you used me yesterday," she continued, in a stern tone; I guessed this would be how Daphne's own mother sounded when she was scolding her or something. "It wasn't respectful of you to put me on the spot in front of everybody else."
I sighed, not sure of what to say. This was very much not the right time for such a discussion, it feeling like my brain was on critical life support. It took me a few moments to put it into gear, but in the end I managed to piece together a more or less coherent sentence: "I... Parkinson stole my stuff, I deserved... had the right to duel her; but I needed someone with more... otherwise Selwyn... ah... you know."
Daphne sat primly on my bed next to me, her hands resting atop her knees, her back ramrod straight and her robes not even crumpling with the motion the way mine had. She said: "That's not the problem. I would have backed your challenge anyway, but you should have asked me first in private."
"Uhm? You would have?"
"Yes. Parkinson acted against my wishes, so it wasn't the challenge itself that I minded, just the way you went about it."
"Your wishes?"
She turned her eyes towards my trunk. "I told all the girls not to touch your bed, or your belongings."
Wait, what? "You did that?!"
"Is it that surprising? It's as you said the first night: I don't want for sudden noises waking me up at night, or for any of you to turn our dormitory into a battleground. I wish to relax in here without having to worry about jinxes flying off and hitting me by accident. I made myself very clear to her that the dormitory should be a neutral place, so I'm very cross at Parkinson for not respecting that."
I gave her a puzzled look. "But Parkinson is also a pure-blood? I mean, I'm sure the Greengrasses have more... clout or whatever, but that doesn't make you a Prefect, no? It's not like when Farley told them not to bully me in public."
She returned my look with a curious expression of her own. "Sometimes I forget that you weren't raised in the magical world; you seem to know much about many of the spells, creatures, enchantments, and some of our customs... but then you say things like that and I remember there are many things that you simply don't know about. They just aren't always what I'd expect them to be."
"I read a lot, but still have gaps in my knowledge, sure." I shrugged, rolling my eyes. "You know, don't really need to rub it in that I'm the ignorant mud–"
She tutted. "We don't say that word in polite company."
Really? The pure-blood was censuring me for using that word?
"Well I'm reclaiming it," I snapped back, with maybe a bit too much bite. "But yeah, I don't know why Parkinson would have to obey your wishes; if not because some families are better than others, like Malfoy says."
"It's quite simple, really: the Greengrasses don't have more clout than the Parkinsons," she explained. "Both our families are similarly considered. But I myself have a higher status than Pansy because I am my family's heiress, and she is not hers."
I nodded, opening my mouth to interrupt, but she wasn't done: "It's not that she has to obey all my wishes, mind you. But it was an old tradition at Hogwarts that the students with the highest... social status were responsible of ensuring a peaceful living in their dormitories, help their housemates, solve conflicts, that sort of thing. This was long before Prefects existed, of course, and I believe our house is the only one to keep with this tradition in some form."
"Yeah, Slytherins do like their traditions," I commented.
"Our traditions. Yours too. You are a Slytherin."
I paused for a beat, eyeing her. She seemed to be going out of her way to make me feel... well, included, in her own way. And I appreciated it, of course, but I also had to wonder what her angle was.
Still, if she wanted to act friendly, I would certainly accept any offers made my way. I said with a grin: "So who would win in a fight, a Prefect or a... whatever you are?"
"I believe Selwyn and Prefect Farley are working together at answering that very question."
I whipped my head to stare at her. Did Daphne just make a joke? Yeah, she was sporting a delicate smile of her own. Oh wow, the princess was indeed capable of humour!
"But in fact," she continued, "someone in my position doesn't have any true authority, just the respect of their housemates. That is why it's important that you don't give everyone else the impression that you can simply... make use of me like that. It makes–"
"It makes you look weak."
She nodded. "Yes."
I shrugged, looking at my hands. There were little cuts on my fingers from the day before, but I couldn't remember when I got them.
I said: "I was furious, you know, and also very tired and... I don't know. She just made me so f–... so bloody angry that I had to do something right then. But I'm sorry I used you; I'll try to keep that in mind."
"Thank you. Maybe try not to rush ahead so blindly, too; it's not something that Slytherin values, and other people might use it against you if they realise you are easy to anger."
I looked at Daphne, at her perfect posture, the way she spoke. She'd probably been training for this since she was an infant, since she could stand on her own feet. Parents and tutors morphing her into the perfect little damsel, into the best approximation of a child politician I'd ever met.
"I'm realising," I said absent-mindedly, "that I can't for the life of me imagine how your childhood has been like so far. As a pure-blood heiress, I mean."
If she was surprised at my comment, she didn't show it. She just said: "I also feel the same for your own life. A Muggle orphanage... that sounds so... sordid."
"Yeah. There was this time when they served us spinaches for dinner. I still get nightmares about it," I said, pantomiming a shudder.
She let out a polite chuckle and stood up. "Speaking of, it's time to think of breakfast."
I moved to follow her, but she paused and said, her voice a little less self-assured: "It might be better if you wait here for three of four minutes before leaving."
I paused at that, my eyebrows rising. She bit her lower lip in a self-conscious gesture that I was sure her tutors had probably tried and failed to train her out of. A gesture that made her look vaguely guilty.
Ah.
I made an assenting noise and let my body fall backwards fully, laying down on my bed. "Sure," I said. "Don't worry about it."
She nodded and left the dorm on her own, closing the door after her.
Of course.
Of course she didn't want any of our housemates to see us walk into the Great Hall together. As much as she was making me an offer, I was still toxic, and she valued her reputation. So all this joking and... well, friendly overtures between us would have to remain private. Like it was some dirty secret of hers.
Because I was still someone she'd be ashamed to be seen next to. She might not like the sound of the word, but in her eyes I had no doubt I still was pretty much a mudblood.
In the end it was the promise of a croissant what got me up again and into the Great Hall. That and the fact today we didn't have any classes during the morning's first period, so I wouldn't need to worry about falling asleep at Transfiguration or something.
I was met with some staring and whispers when I arrived for breakfast, but they only came from the Slytherin table; most of the other students were too busy gossiping about Harry Potter instead. The moment I sat down, Draco said: "You didn't tell us you were with Potter! What were you doing together?"
I sighed, grabbed a cup filled with black tea, and then replied: "Why do you care that much, Malfoy; jealous I'll steal his attentions?"
He gave me a narrow look, but I did get some laughs out of Zabini and a couple of nearby second years that were eavesdropping on us. Malfoy mumbled something disparaging, but I ignored him in favour of focusing on my own breakfast when the rest of it appeared in front of me. Plixiette had come through for me, in the end, and the croissant was another of her masterworks: with a perfect golden shine, a dazzling smooth but also crunching texture... I could feel my drained energy come back with each new bite.
I took notice of the Gryffindor table as I ate. It seemed like Hermione had been accepted as part of the wider group, sitting next to Ron and Harry and confidently talking to them. And when they left a few minutes later, they did so together. So I let out a relieved breath; at least the Trio was a thing now, no matter what happened with Quirrell and the rest of the first book's plot. Which meant I could take a rest from worrying about them, focus back on my own personal stuff for a while.
Many other students were leaving too, in fact, not just the Gryffindors. I had arrived late, and pretty soon it was just me, Tracey, and a couple other stragglers at our table; and Tracey was only nibbling on some of the leftover Hallowe'en sweets while clearly waiting for me.
"I owe you an apology, you know," I told her, taking the last bite out of my croissant. "For yesterday."
"Oh?"
"Greengrass told me I was... hmm... a bit forceful on how I went about calling for that duel," I admitted. "I shouldn't have assumed you'd be my second without asking you first."
She paused for a moment, then said: "Thanks. It was all... so fast. But I don't get it. Why would you do it?"
"The duel? Well, Parkinson had–"
"No, not the duel. But running off after Potter and Weasley like that? That was stupid."
Oh, that. I shrugged. "I figured they'd get hurt without some extra help, and I also wanted to see Granger safe."
She shook her head slowly. "But why do you care about them? Is it because it's Harry Potter?"
I let out a laugh, because she sounded just like Dumbledore the day before. "Why is it so hard to believe I just did something good for its own sake? Didn't I tell you I asked the hat–"
"To sort you into Gryffindor, yes," she said crossing her arms. "And of course it put you into Slytherin; where else would you be?!"
I blinked. "Did you get hit in the noggin or something? I was raised by Muggles, probably a Muggleborn myself, remember? In what world does that fit in with the pure-blood house?"
"I don't mean about your bloody... blood!" she countered. "Just that you are always... machinating something, aren't you? Nothing you do is ever straightforward. It's always a trade or a scheme or some angle that you're working. Like with the kitchens yesterday: I thought you just wanted to show them to me and get ourselves some food ahead of the feast, but of course not: you only wanted to interrogate the house-elves!"
I stood silent for a beat. It seemed I had underestimated Tracey's observation skills. Note to self: just because she didn't comment on something, that didn't mean she hadn't noticed.
I winked at her. "Fair. But I can work more than one scheme at the same time, you know, so yeah... it was also about showing the kitchens to you."
"And the thing with the Gryffindors?"
"Well... Hermione is my Potions partner, you know."
"Please, you can get a new partner!" she snapped back. "And I was at that stupid book club too, so I know you two aren't friends. Try again."
I sighed, frustrated. I couldn't simply reveal the whole reasons for my acts the day before, no matter how out of character they seemed to her. Surprisingly, it was easier to come up with a suitable explanation that Dumbledore would believe than one for Tracey Davis. She just knew me that much better.
In the end, I had to resort to some honesty. Not all of it, of course. Sanitized honesty, if you will:
"Fine. Yeah, you're right; it was about Potter too. Same thing with the Read-Ahead Club, which is not stupid at all by the way. I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not very popular in Slytherin–" she scoffed, "–so I'm trying to reach out to other people outside our own house, make acquittances and such; people who can help me now and then.
"In my defence, I didn't really expect to actually run into any acromantulas. But at least now the Boy Who Lived will see me in a positive light. So that's worth something, no?"
She shook her head. "Not if you are dead! It still was very stupid, you should have gone to tell a Professor with me instead."
I... didn't disagree on that. Nothing like a close encounter with giant murderous spiders to bring to the fore your own mortality. I was now very aware of the risks I was truly facing; but despite that, having survived those monsters also made me feel like there was nothing the Wizarding World could throw at me I couldn't deal with.
And which was insane, to be clear. Because I hadn't so much 'survived the monsters' as 'been rescued from them'. And I wondered if this was merely caused by the relief I felt somehow twisting into a false sense of security; or if perhaps it was some deeper thing. Some sort of unintended consequence of Hogwarts itself, of receiving an education in the Wizarding World.
Because this was my life now, apparently, the life of someone who could bend the laws of reality with magic and who existed in a world of fantasy with monsters and creatures of legend, evil wizards and all the rest... and well, at what point do you start believing yourself untouchable, develop a certain sense of invincibility? There were only so many loops around the Training Grounds you could make atop a broom, so many things you could make fly through the air with a flick of your wrist before it all started messing up with your perception of risk. Which perhaps had been the true reason behind my acts the day before, all along.
Was this why magical society was so... well, off their rocker, so to speak? I could see how it would be even worse had you not known anything but all this... craziness. How it would seem normal, feed an appetite for the bombastic, for the daring. Up until you went against something that outclassed you entirely, of course.
Then you just died.
There was a part of me that didn't want to care for that sort of hair-splitting, though; and so I was in a good mood when Tracey and I left to the lake, to spend the sunny morning free period lazing around. We used the excuse of practising our banishing charms to throw flat stones into the water with our wands, competing to get the highest number of bounces.
We were still there when Susan Bones found us, approaching me to deliver what I immediately realized would be bad news —just from her stance: hands clasped together over a crumpled piece of parchment and gaze slightly down. She said: "I'm really sorry; I tried owling my aunt Amelia, but she says she can't just disclose the obliviation records... she says 'willy-nilly'?... to anyone who asks. She also wrote the word 'nepotism'... two or three times."
I sighed and muttered: "God save us from the lawful good people. Thanks anyway, Bones; it was worth a try."
She nodded and started walking away, but stopped to look back at the parchment and added: "Oh, my aunt also says there are... hmm... proper ways to learn this? Something to do with an official inquiry made by an attorney, but that's as much as it says here. I think she was a bit... angry when she wrote this."
I thanked her again. It was an option, at least, but one that would take time and knowledge. The first item in the list of bullet points being: 'how to find a wizarding attorney in the first place'. As always, I felt the familiar bite of those ropes that had been constraining me for years: not being an adult anymore meant I couldn't simply walk into a lawyer's office and hire someone. No, my guardian would have to do it. And being a ward of the state, my guardian was probably none other than the Giraffe herself.
Which was a Muggle and unaware of the existence of magic, so that was that. It was so unfair, and it made feel so disadvantaged that I wondered if there would be some sort of provisions for people like me, people who were trapped between the two worlds, in a sense. Some sort of wizarding guardian I could maybe ask to be assigned to me.
But maybe that would be for the worse, if I got assigned someone like Mrs. Coverdale: someone who would feel entitled to own my life, to direct what I could and could not do. Better to have at least some leeway than none, even if it came at the cost of certain rights. I mean, for all I knew I could end up being Umbridge's ward or something equally terrifying.
"Hmm... none of your parents happen to be an attorney, right Tracey?" I asked.
"No. Depulso! But maybe they know of one? I could owl them."
"I don't think I can pay for it... at least not yet. And it would take them time to go through the Ministry's bureaucracy anyway... also... it's probably not going to be enough on its own. Just lead me to yet another question."
"Do you want me to owl them or not? Depulso!... That's seven again!"
"Hmm... you know what? Fine, owl them, but just to test the waters... Depulso!... Bugger! How do you do that?"
"You're putting too much force. Try giving it a little upward swish..."
All in all it could've been a good day, despite the news about the Ministry. I'd managed to navigate two pretty thorny conversations with style and walk away not the worse for wear, which was a pretty solid achievement in my books. Getting in contact with an attorney could also help, if Tracey's parents could simply ask around without invoking the wrath of the wizarding bureaucracy on me. It wouldn't come in time to save me from Selwyn, but I could at least start to get a feel for what an official inquiry would cost, and the hazards I'd need to navigate.
So yeah, not a bad day. Except that Parkinson had to ruin it in the end.
Apparently she was a tad sharper than I'd given her credit for, because she pretty much turned my previous night's display against me. It started that very day, when we entered the Great Hall for dinner and I overheard her muttering something to Bulstrode about a '... violent mudblood thug...' Bulstrode's not so subtle glances my way made it obvious who exactly they were talking about.
I ignored it then, but it was merely the herald of what was to come, because over the following days the both of them launched a campaign of light harassment designed to egg me on relentlessly. The concept was simple: I was an uncivilized brute who couldn't control herself and would easily resort to violence. And to prove it, they tried to provoke me into reacting. It was all petty shit, Elliot-and-Miles type of stuff like bumping my books off the table during Charms, hiding my matchboxes away in Transfiguration, or dripping pumpkin juice all over my tartiflette.
It took them a week to succeed, until one of them shot me a stinging jinx from the back while we were walking towards Herbology. It was a weak one, sure, but still strong enough to produce a red welt all over my left forearm, itching like crazy. So I pivoted on the spot, and didn't have to look for long to find the culprit: Bulstrode was trying to hide her wand from sight while sniggering to Crabbe.
It might've been because I was already tired of all the stupid bullying, or perhaps because of the looming threat that was Herbology, the most frustrating class in the entire schedule, but I was already miffed well enough that I simply aimed my own wand back at her and intoned: "Locomotor Mortis!"
Her legs bounded together, and she tilted forwards like an unbalanced plank. And because her hands had been otherwise occupied with hiding her wand, she simply face-planted into the floor with a loud 'SPLAT!' that attracted the attention of everyone around us. Including the Ravenclaws we shared the class with, who all erupted into wild laughter.
I mean, it was a lovely sound. The way it rebounded across the corridor... just... lovely.
I enjoyed the outcome for some hours, thinking me victorious. But Prefect Farley seemed to be of a different opinion, because she grabbed me by the scruff of my robes the moment I entered the common room, later that day, and scolded me in front of everyone else: five minutes of berating about house unity and not showing our disagreements in public. I argued back that Bulstrode had started it, but to no avail. Apparently it didn't matter who started what, only what students in the other houses would see.
After that my reputation as the 'thug' became entrenched and well established, reminding me of the kind of stuff that had landed me at the Residence. And it was a prickly one to fight, because no matter how strong or apt at magic I was, it wasn't my abilities that they were putting into question, but my very character. My belonging into polite society. And my typical approach of responding in kind, with copious amount of escalating simply... backfired here. It didn't matter if you had the strongest hammer when there were no nails to hit.
Fine, then. Petty shit it was. If that's how Parkinson and Bulstrode wanted to play it, I would gladly step onto that stage. And I'd bring lorryloads of petty shit with me. So much petty shit that by the time the dust settled they'd have to crown me the undisputed Queen of Pettyshitland; in a parade with trombones and bloody jugglers.
I went to the Weasley twins for supplies —some of them being the very same stuff we'd sold them before, and that they returned to me at a higher price, traitorous boogers that they were— and dove into my revenge with gusto, bringing back and updating my old classic tactics from my early foster days.
I coated the lenses of their telescopes in an eye irritant. I used the cutting charm on their scarves. I learnt how to cast the knockback jinx with a mere whisper, and I used it liberally to bump any and all objects around them to the floor, make them look like they were some clumsy fools. I convinced the kitchen elves that Parkinson loved her food spicy. 'No, no, real spicy, like coated in chili powder. Yes, yes, I'm sure she'll love it.' Some days I levitated their inkwells and flipped them over their heads, other days I replaced their contents with invisible ink. I was savage, my density of pranks through the roof. I sacrificed some of my studying and reading time in the all-out assault, with the hope that they'd tire soon of living in a state of perpetual anxiety, always waiting for the next attack; that they'd be forced to negotiate a cease-fire.
It all came to a head one day in Potions. I was enjoying that class more than ever on account of Hermione being more positive towards me since the episode with the acromantulas —Ron apparently still mistrusted me, but that was okay, as thankfully I didn't have to spend any minute of my time with him.
But having this sort of... friendly relationship, along with her presence at the Read-Ahead Club, was exactly what I'd aimed for all this time. The attack on Hallowe'en had given me hope that, even if some of the specifics had changed, the main line of events still held true. Voldemort wanted the stone, and he'd most likely try to get it when Dumbledore left by the end of the year.
So now, I could relax and focus on my own stuff; let the plot follow through while just keeping an eye on the Gryffindors through Hermione. And if needed, our improved relationship gave me enough access that I could easily put some book on Alchemy or Nicolas Flamel in her path, if they hadn't figured it out by the time Quirrellmort would make his move.
We were deep into brewing our hair-rising potion, me distracted in slicing the rat tails for a more even diffusion, when Parkinson just happened to walk by our table on her way back from the ingredients' shelves. I didn't see her do it, but I clearly heard the telltale 'plop!' of something falling into our cauldron; the solution inside promptly losing its even green moss tone in favour of turning into an inky, lumpy soup.
"Oh, no, no," said Hermione, flipping one way and the other through the class coursebook. "We can still fix it! Do you think she put in something acidic? It would have to be, wouldn't it?"
She started grabbing more ingredients, pouring leech juice and fly wings into the cauldron in a desperate race against time. But no matter how valiant her efforts, I knew a lost cause when I saw one.
I instead started working on our revenge. Snape was distracted looming over Neville and Seamus Finnigan, his back facing me; so I produced my wand out of one pocket and one of my last remaining stink pellets out of another. I whispered 'Wingardium Leviosa' and levitated the little pellet towards the shadowed ceiling of the classroom. Then, I slowly floated it until it was right above Parkinson and Malfoy's boiling cauldron, keeping an eye out for anyone who could see me doing it. Fortunately, Hermione was too focused to notice.
Then, I simply cancelled the spell, quickly putting my wand back into its pocket and my gaze back to our own cauldron.
I heard Malfoy mutter a 'What...?' followed by what I could only describe as the sound of a giant toad endlessly belching and throwing up, a mix of deep gurgles and hissing and thick liquid sloshing on its own. Everyone in the class halted what they were doing and turned their heads to see the two pure-bloods jump back just as a column of dark smoke —as wide as the cauldron's mouth— poured out of it, rising upwards to pool under the ceiling.
Then, some sort of malformed tentacles dripping in a dark thick substance rose out of its lip. They flailed around in wild spasms, crashing against the furniture and launching ingredients and vials through the air; one of them hitting Parkinson's body with a wet slap that dropped her to the floor. Meanwhile Draco crawled on all fours, hiding under Zabini's table as the tentacles proceeded to drop down and lift the cauldron itself as if they were legs, turning the whole thing into some sort of unholy, nightmarish parody of a hermit crab.
"Wicked," I muttered. Hermione's jaw was dropped open.
Snape didn't seem to share my enthusiasm, because he started to shout for us to "Stand back! Move over there! You too, Potter, you dimwit!" as he whipped out his wand and approached the cauldron, which was now using its three tentacles to climb up the wall towards one of the open windows above, used for ventilation.
It was like a scene out of one of the movies: Snape waving his wand in the air, his robes billowing dramatically among all our yelling and racket. He didn't even mutter an incantation, but the tentacles nevertheless lost their grip on the bricks of the wall, the cauldron dropping back to the floor with a clang and crawling to hide under a table.
He didn't let it get away, severing the tentacles with what I recognised as some sort of modified cutting charm, the severed parts turning instantly back into a liquid and splashing on the flagstones. A third spell caused the cauldron itself to contract into a ball of metal the size of a fist, which then simply disappeared with a flash, taking the... entity, whatever it was with it. Another flick cleaned the spilled puddles, a twirl created a wind that pushed the condensed fumes out of the room through the open window, and a final swish repaired the damaged table and put all the furniture back into order.
For a few seconds, there was a deafening silence. Then, he slowly turned to face us all, his gaze burning with the intensity of a newborn star. It was the angriest I'd ever seen him.
I never knew if it was because of the furious glare Parkinson —her robes caked in the black substance— sent my way, or because of the grin splitting my face from ear to ear that I couldn't hide in time, but Snape strode straight up to me like an arrow, wand still in hand.
He snarled: "Detention, Sarramond."
Chapter 12Chapter Text
Snape set my detention for the afternoon of the next Saturday, the very same day that the first Quidditch match of the season was meant to take place: Gryffindor versus Slytherin. I figured he wanted me to miss whatever celebrations took place in the common room after what everyone in my house was certain would be an easy victory.
Joke was on him though, I happened to know the Gryffindors would win that match thanks to the ace up their sleeve that McGonagall's bending of the rules would grant them. And even if that weren't the case in this brand new timeline, I wasn't planning on taking part in anything at all that happened in our common room. I wasn't that suicidal.
The days leading up to it I felt uncharacteristically morose, in fact. Perhaps because of the changing weather, a deep cold having taken command of the castle —the winter cloak and my robes' hood helped, but they still left too much of my body exposed to the icy world to my liking. Or perhaps because it heralded the arrival of winter break, which pretty much everyone but me was looking forward to.
The Friday before the weekend of my detention we had Defence Against the Dark Arts, where we kept practising the boring Verdimillious charm and its different colour variations. I'd been having trouble with that one, oddly enough: I could cast the sparks with ease, but I couldn't keep them going for more than a few seconds; I was only getting some pretty but quite short bursts. I knew enough fundamentals of magic theory at this point that it was easy to diagnose the cause: a lack of focus. But it was hard to concentrate on the spells when I could feel the pressure mounting with every day that passed, every hour we got closer to my deadline.
I was quickly running out of time, and I didn't see much of an exit anymore. The Ministry angle would simply take too long: Tracey had indeed owled her parents, who said they'd rather meet me in person and discuss the matter with me —she hadn't told them about Selwyn's threats, of course, so they didn't seem in a hurry. They offered to meet over the Holidays, but in a bout of optimism I'd decided I would stay at Hogwarts rather than spending those days at the Residence. There were... a couple of reasons for that: one of them was that it would be time I could use to keep practising spells and reading the books in the Library, both of which I wouldn't have access to back in the Muggle world. The other one was that opening a Ministerial inquiry wouldn't help much in the little time I had left; if I didn't have a satisfying answer for Selwyn come winter break, it would already be too late.
So now I depended entirely on Theodore Nott coming through for me. I hadn't interacted with him ever since the Hallowe'en Feast, and I was still anxiously awaiting his response; with the hope that he wouldn't have forgotten about it, or worse, simply lied to me, to get me out of his hair.
If worse came to worst, I figured I still had the Snape option, asking him for help and taking whatever repercussions came along with my chin up. And then... then there was the nuclear option too: telling Dumbledore and hoping he'd figure out some way to get me out of the predicament —maybe by switching me to a different house. Which perhaps he'd actually do, if I told him what I knew about what the future held.
So it was a waiting game. And in the meantime I went to class, studied, and pretty much kept to my routine. Parkinson and Bulstrode were starting to falter in their bullying campaign, the cauldron event seemingly leaving a strong impression in them of the lengths I was willing to go —because none of my housemates except for Tracey, and somehow Zabini, realised it had been pretty much a happy accident on my part— and in return I let up on my own reprisals. Which also saved me from spending the last of my diminishing Galleons in stupid prank items.
So yeah, with all of that in my mind of course my results with the Verdimillious spell at class were inconsistent; but it still was odd for me, so I wasn't too surprised when after the class ended and we were packing our things Professor Duskhaven said: "Miss Sarramond. A moment of your time, please."
I nodded to Tracey, signalling her to go ahead, and approached the older witch.
"I know, I know," I said. "Sorry, I just have too much stuff in my head, with the detention tomorrow, and winter break coming and all that."
She tilted her head and said: "If that's the case, why do you insist in making it more difficult for yourself?"
"Uh?"
She produced her wand and demonstrated the spell, casting a burst of red sparks. "This is the wand movement required. But you're adding a backward swish at the end, like this. Why is that?"
"Oh," I said, suddenly feeling self-conscious at being caught as something of a tryhard. "It's a tip I read in a duelling book. It modifies the spells to make them easier to link into a chain, to cast them faster."
She nodded once. "Yes, that was what I was fearing. Tell me, are you reading those books out of a desire to someday become a duellist, or merely to improve your defensive capabilities?"
I frowned. "Those... are the same thing, no? If I'm good at duelling, I'll be good at defence too."
"And therein lies your mistake, Miss Sarramond: duelling is a sport."
That... didn't really track with my experience at Hogwarts so far, the books I'd read, or even what my fore-memories told me of duelling in the Wizarding World.
"I don't know," I challenged her. "I figured they were related. Like when they say Professor Flitwick is a great duellist, doesn't that mean he's good at fighting if needed too? Or with my Head of House? I doubt Professor Snape takes it as a sport."
"Yes, the confusion is not helped by many people using the word 'duel' when they actually mean 'skirmish'. But make no mistake, the books you're probably reading are meant for those trying to participate in duelling championships. And unlike actual fights, tournaments have clear norms and regulations. In those, the opponents always start casting at the same time, and so being able to cast faster is a clear advantage. This is why many so-called duelling books put such a focus on it, and why they developed the chaining technique."
"But isn't being able to cast fast always important, anyway?"
"I'd have figured after your experience with the acromantulas you would know by now that the properly chosen, well invoked spell is worth a dozen rushed ones. Speed has its value, yes, but never at the cost of flexibility, or shoddy wandwork."
I shrugged. "Well, the circumstances–"
"Exactly. The circumstances are always unpredictable, unlike in a tournament duel. Duelling experts can get away with those rigid chains of spells precisely because they know they'll never have to face dangerous beasts when using them, or more than one simultaneous enemy. They can practise their Hinde-Cobris openings with the certainty that they'll never be countered with a Killing Curse.
"But in a real fight, Miss Sarramond, you'll never have such guarantees; which is why flexibility should be a priority, as should be identifying the nature of the threat and the most effective counter. If you're facing an acromantula, perhaps don't use a chain of spells designed to hamper a wizard's mobility. Use fire instead. An acromantula has four times as many legs as a wizard, but its exoskeleton limits how quickly it can cool its body down, making them susceptible to the very same Fire-Making Charm you were taught in Herbology."
I blinked. "Uhm... right. So is there any book I could read, for... you know, actual fighting techniques? I read 'The Definitive Self-Defence', but it's just a list of spells."
She conjured a piece of parchment and a quill, and noted down a few names. "Try any of these. Sadly, the books with the word 'duelling' in their title are always more popular, so you aren't the first student led astray by their appeal. But these ones should help you widen your breadth. In particular, 'A Treatise on Defensive Magic' by Oleander Rook is a required reading for any apprentice curse-breakers or Aurors in North America, although... it might be too dense for your age."
I nodded, accepting the list and looking at her curiously as we left the classroom. Was that how she saw me? As someone with the potential to be an Auror? A curse-breaker? I wasn't sure I wanted to be any of those things, to risk my life on a daily basis. I hadn't given much thought to future professions, in fact, still hoping I could cheat my way into unfathomable richness thanks to my fore-memories.
But it wouldn't be bad to at least have the training of one, in any case, with a war approaching and whatnot. So I pocketed the list, determined to work through it the next time I went into the library.
I had hoped to do that on Saturday, in fact, while the rest of the student body was busy at the Quidditch match. But Daphne Greengrass put a rainy end to my parade the moment I mentioned it to Tracey during breakfast.
"You're going to the match, both of you," she said, surprisingly forceful.
"I was always going to go," clarified Tracey. Unnecessarily, because she had procured herself one of those green Quidditch scarves, with the name of our house along the snake emblem both stamped on it.
"Good," she continued, focusing on me next. "It's a way of showing house unity and support for Slytherin. So everyone must be there."
I looked around for an exit, finding none, only agreement by my traitorous housemates. Even Zabini —who I figured also had better stuff to do than spend his morning watching some kids pirouetting in the air and throwing bludgers around— seemed to agree with the sentiment when my gaze met his. But then he slowly rose some sort of wizarding comic book over the lip of his robes' pocket, giving me a sly grin.
Ugh! I'd left my own books back in the dorm, assuming I'd go back to them later.
"And afterwards I have detention with Snape. This is a nightmare," I declared.
"Don't be so dramatic," said Daphne. "I'm sure the match will be fun."
"I'm not dramatic! This is the worst day of my whole life!"
With no recourse or escape I had no other option but to march along with the rest of my house towards the Quidditch pitch, and slowly we filled out the seats assigned to our house. The stands were high enough to be exposed to the cold breeze, although at least not as high as those in the towers meant mostly for professors, prefects and some of the parents. I tried to keep my heat by stomping on the wooden floor, all the while envying Tracey's scarf. The girl had taken a spot in the front bench and was also bouncing like me, but in nervous impatience. To my right side, I could heard Malfoy whining about Potter being allowed to play:
"It's simply not fair. McGonagall is playing favourites, simple as that! And it's always him, isn't it? Always Potter who gets all the special treatment..."
"She's a hypocrite," I said, in a rare show of agreement with the blonde heir. "She's always going on about following the rules, but then goes behind everyone's back to do this. I bet–"
"Who asked you?" spat Bulstrode.
"No... let her finish, Millicent," said Malfoy. "You bet what, Sarramond?"
"I bet they'll let him have his very own custom broom, better than those of the other players."
"He can't. First years aren't allowed to bring our own brooms to Hogwarts; if we were, I wouldn't be using that splintery old thing in our Flying class. But of course you didn't know that; you probably don't own a broom yourself."
"No," I corrected, waving my hand towards Potter and his very obviously different broom as the players finally strode into the pitch. "We aren't allowed our own brooms. But he is."
"It can't be!" shouted Malfoy. "This is outrageous! This match is rigged!"
He went like that for a few minutes, even after the match itself had started. Zabini sent me an annoyed glare for lighting his fuse, but I shrugged. Disparaging Potter was always an easy way to gain some points with Malfoy, and this time I was pretty sure it wouldn't be overheard by anyone in the other houses, or affect the future plot in any relevant ways. I was only pointing the obvious, after all. It also helped that I felt personally wronged by how evidently the older witch was playing favourites.
Not that Snape didn't do it too, but at least he never tried to claim any sort of higher ground.
Besides, at this point everyone in Slytherin were so used to his rants that we could easily tune him out. I did, paying more attention to the few first plays of the match, observing the two teams weave in and around the open space, shooting cannon balls at each other like madmen. But soon enough the novelty of it wore thin —thanks in no small part to the fact that I still didn't fully understand the rules of the game— and I found my eyes drifting towards the other stands, including the professors'. All of the teachers were there... all except for Quirrell, of course.
I narrowed my eyes, trying to see the fine details. This was a good moment to figure out whose side Xenia Duskhaven was in. If there was an attempt on Harry Potter's life, as there had been in the original story, I should be able to see if she was speaking an invocation or something.
But the match continued without incident and started to drag on. Unlike in the movies, this just... kept... going. It was as boring as I'd feared, but at least Tracey seemed to be enjoying herself, shouting arcane things like "Rising below you, Pucey!" and "That's a foul! He's cobbing!"
And she wasn't the only one. Most of my housemates' attention was wrapped in the match, in fact. Most, but not all; Theodore Nott chose that moment to move onto the empty space next to me, and said:
"There is a test."
"Uh? A test?"
"Yes," he whispered. "A blood test, to discover someone's... purity."
My head snapped to him. "They replied, your family? Do you have it with you?"
He nodded, and produced a closed envelope. I went to grab it, but he pulled it back from my reach. "Remember, you said you wouldn't pester me again, and that–"
"Yes, yes. Give me," I grabbed the envelope and opened it. The piece of parchment inside contained a list of ingredients, and instructions for something that resembled a potion or... not really, it actually was...
"A ritual?" I asked.
"Yes. Not so different from brewing a potion; you put the ingredients in their proper places along the runic pattern, and follow the incantation."
I rose my gaze to look at his eyes. "Thanks. I will keep my promise not to drag you into this, but I might need to tell Selwyn where the ritual came from."
"That's not what we agreed," he snapped.
I shrugged. "But how will he know it's a real ritual, and not something I just came up with? Without your family's name backing it up, it's useless."
He seemed to consider that for a moment, then gave me a nod. "Alright. But don't tell anyone else. This ritual is not... it's not something I'd want the Ministry to know about."
"What do you mean?" I asked, eyeing the parchment. "Is it dark magic?"
"No, not quite... just..." he sighed, "just look at the list of ingredients."
I did, scanning the words quickly. It wasn't a long list, and most of it resembled the kind of normal ingredients that we used in Potions. For a magical definition of 'normal' that is: doxy eggs and three types of bones and essence of searoot... things that I was pretty sure you'd be able to find at a Diagon Alley apothecary —or inside the Potions classroom's cupboard of ingredients, for that matter.
And then I saw it.
"Unicorn blood?! You've got to be kidding me!"
"Not so loud!" he grumbled, his eyes looking at the people around us, who were all entranced by some particularly rough spot of play or something, judging by all the sudden booing.
"But where am I going to find that? And isn't it illegal or something?"
"Yes! So keep it secret! Now you know why nobody does this test anymore. The blood is very expensive, but you can find it in Knockturn Alley, of course, if you know where to ask."
I narrowed my eyes at him. "And do you?"
Nott looked confused for a beat, then alarmed. "Don't even try! I'm not going to get the uni— you know what for you! That's your problem, I've already done more than enough!"
With that, he walked away and left me alone with the parchment. I took another glance at it, then sighed and put it folded into my pocket, my eyes going back to the players in the sky.
It was a complication, for sure, but I had a couple ideas of where to find unicorn blood thanks to my fore-memories. I wasn't even going to try with Knockturn Alley, though: I didn't know who to ask, and didn't have money to pay for it —stealing from a store that sold forbidden ingredients to probably dark wizards also sounded a tiny bit too risky even for me.
But I knew Snape had supplies other than those he made available during Potions class, so that was an option. And then... my eyes went to the tree canopy visible beyond the top of the pitch... well, then there was the Forbidden Forest.
So I wasn't feeling that peeved by the time the match concluded, with no attempts on Harry Potter's life and with the expected Gryffindor victory —the boy catching the Snitch with his mouth, just as in the plot I remembered, which prompted another tirade by Malfoy on how that wasn't a legal catch. Whatever, at least we got to finally return to the castle and its somewhat warmer temperature.
After lunch I went to serve my detention. I found the Potions classroom oddly calm: the tables empty and clear of ingredients for once, the stools neatly stored under them. I knocked on the door to the teacher's office, adjacent to the classroom, and entered once Snape replied with a neutral "Come in."
It was my first time in his office, and I found it surprisingly large —much more so than Filch's had been. There was a large central round table that Snape was using as a desk, with plenty of parchments and tomes spread on top of it, but that still barely covered but half of the large surface. He didn't even raise his gaze as I entered, and continued writing something down with his black quill.
I stood there, hands behind my back, patiently waiting for him to finish whatever he was doing and deign to acknowledge my presence. Meanwhile, I took a subreptitious look around the room. The walls were covered in all sorts of bottles and jars containing ingredients and finished potions, apparently sorted in a random order but that I suspected had some logic to it. But none of them looked like they contained illegal unicorn blood —which wasn't that surprising, I guessed, as it wasn't something you'd want to showcase to any and all visitors.
Two minutes later I shifted my weight, and let out a polite cough. He ignored me still.
There was also a fireplace by the side, currently out, and a short door like that of a large cupboard or larder embedded into the wall. Now that, that was promising.
Snape put his quill back into the inkwell, folded the parchment with precise motions and placed it into an envelope, then looked at me at last.
"What was it," he asked me, "that you put into Malfoy and Parkinson's cauldron, Miss Sarramond?"
His voice was calm, but I could sense a hint of threat underneath.
"Uhm... a stink pellet... sir."
"Tell me... do you know the alchemical composition of this... stink... pellet? Do you have any idea of its magical attributes; the processes that went into its creation, perhaps?"
"No."
"No. And, did you know exactly how far Mister Malfoy and Miss Parkinson were in their own brewing process? Did you know whether... say, they'd already put the billywig stings into their cauldron or not?"
I shook my head.
"Well?"
"No," I spat out, my eyes narrowing.
"So... you admit to putting an unknown magical substance into a brewing cauldron in an unknown stage, without having any idea of what type of reaction it would cause. Is this what you are... saying?"
I clenched my hands into fists. "Well, it was Parkinson who–"
"Who caused a cauldron to undergo a full runaway metamorphic reaction?" he said, in an icy tone.
I remained silent for a beat, observing him. I noticed there were no 'dunderheads' or 'half-wits' this time. This was the most furious I'd ever seen Snape, even accounting for the cauldron incident, and that gave me pause.
He fixated his eyes on me, and said in a scathing tone: "If you ever put your housemates in danger like this again, Miss Sarramond, that imbecile Selwyn will be the least of your problems. Is that... clear?"
I nodded.
"Is it?" he insisted.
"Like water."
He paused for a moment, grabbed his quill again, and pointed with it to the side of the room. "On the shelf to your right you'll find a jar of water beetles, some bottles and a potioneer knife. Separate the eyes, legs and wings and place each in their respective containers."
With that he pretty much went back to ignoring me. I walked up to the shelves, picked up the tools and the jar —which, to my dismay, was filled to the brim— and took a quick look around in case there was a place where to sit and work on the ingredients that I'd missed.
But no; there were no workbenches in his office. Only the same large central desk that Snape himself was using, which I guessed he expected me to sit at, since that was where the only other available chair was, and it was large enough to accommodate both of us. With a sigh, I sat down facing him, opened the jar and set to work.
Minutes went by, the only sounds in the office the soft scratching of Snape's quill against the parchment and the chopping of my own knife. And despite him acting like I wasn't there —his eyes never leaving the letters and exams and other stuff I didn't recognize— I didn't even for a minute entertain the idea that I might be able to step away from the table, to search for that unicorn blood I had no idea if he even possessed.
Eventually I had to ask: "Why am I doing this... sir? I mean, in class we always have to separate the parts ourselves, no?"
A couple of seconds passed, and I thought that maybe he was going to ignore my question, give me the cold shoulder like the overgrown sulky teenager he was, but then he answered: "They are not for class. Seeing as I had to take the time out of my schedule to replace the cauldron you damaged... the least you could do is help me with my other tasks."
"Separating beetle parts? What for? Is that something you–?"
"Focus... on your work."
I sighed, and remained silent for all of two minutes.
"Uhm... don't you have a Wizarding Wireless set? I bet with some music–"
He hit the table with the parchment in his hands, the sudden 'snap!' sound causing me to jump in my seat. "Silence! Pay more attention to what you're doing, you insufferable fool! Can't you see you're cutting those legs at different sizes?"
I bit my lip, nodded and went back to the stupid beetles, my fingertips now so greasy and slippery it was hard to know where one leg ended and the next started.
Time seemed to freeze to a standstill, minutes moving like molasses as I picked apart insect after insect. There was no clock in my line of sight, no window to tell time by. I wondered how Snape even knew when it was time to leave to class, or to go to the Great Hall for dinner; as I doubted the reclusive professor ever went anywhere else at all.
I mean, it was a Saturday, for God's sake. He should be at Hogsmeade or something, like sane people did. Not cooped in here doing... whatever it was he was doing.
But of course, maybe he had nobody to go to Hogsmeade with. And I could sympathise with that, at least, having suffered it myself during my foster years: the lack of meaningful social relationships —friends, they are called friends— turning into a focus on work instead. A refuge of sorts. So that you could pretend to yourself that it was your choice all along, that you kept reading those advanced school books from the year ahead because of your ambition, your superior discipline; and not because you'd rather waste away in your own room than be forced to watch as everyone else had their fun without you. It was terrible, being the odd one out, sitting in a corner while the other kids played together, never once looking at you.
Yeah, I could understand that.
But now I had friends, didn't I? One, at least, in the form of Tracey Davis. And seeing as there was no chance to get some free unicorn blood out of this detention, I'd rather it ended soon so that I could at least hang out with Tracey for the remainder of the day. So I ignored the brooding bat and focused on the damn beetles. And slowly but surely, the jar's contents started to go down. And maybe an eternity later, I placed the wings of the last of the insects in their respective bottle, and stretched out of the hunched over posture I'd unknowingly adopted for the last hour or so.
"I'm done!" I announced after a few seconds, when Snape didn't react.
He rose his gaze for a moment, then pointed towards the door in the corner. "Put the bottles in there," he ordered.
Yes! Yes-yes-yes!
"Sure!" I said, chipper, and walked up to the short door while trying to contain my enthusiasm, to look like I was merely happy the detention was over. There was a lock, but it was unlocked, and I could simply pull the door open. It led to a small walk-in cupboard, with shelves upon shelves taking up all three walls. There were rows of finished potions of all sorts, already bottled, and loads of ingredients —most the same sort of stuff we used in class, but some that looked more expensive, owing to how small their amounts were.
I took a look at the labels as I slotted my own containers into the few empty spaces I could find, and my shoulders sagged. There was a small silver box with some dusted unicorn horn, a few strands of unicorn hair in a glass vial, but no unicorn blood. In fact, everything looked annoyingly legal, for a former Death Eater.
Although perhaps...
I took a quick look over my shoulder, to double check I was out of Snape's direct line of sight, then pulled my wand out and whispered: "Revelio!"
There. Behind the leaves of peppermint. It was faint, hard to notice, but there was some sort of runes engraved into the wall. Some kind of enchantment. I walked closer to it and narrowed my eyes, trying to work it out... a double kaunan, and an othala with two accents I didn't recognise, one of them leading towards a trailing arithmantic circle of some sort. It was...
It was way above my current knowledge, that's what it was. I knew the runes and basic symbols because some of the equivalences in Transfiguration used them, but we hadn't really dove into arithmancy yet; most of McGonagall's explanations to do with that could be summed up as: 'you'll study it in future years, don't worry for now.'
It was probably some sort of secret compartment, I could guess, judging by the size of the circle. And because it made sense that Snape would want to keep some of his ingredients completely out of sight. But I wasn't going to open it anytime in the–
"Did you get lost, Sarramond?" asked Snape, right behind me.
I jerked, my heart skipping a beat, my wand almost jumping out of my hand. I quickly palmed it into my robe's wide sleeve as I turned around. The Potions Master was looming right over me, having walked up to the cupboard's door without me hearing even a single step.
How the bloody hell does he do that?
"No! Um... sorry, sir, I just..."
He grabbed my arm and pulled hard, physically dragging me out of the cupboard as his eyes scanned the shelves inside. I had to scramble not to lose my footing.
"Please," he drawled, "don't insult my intelligence."
I shut up and waited with my eyes low, adjusting my robes once Snape released his grasp on me at last. He closed the door, waved his wand over it, and I heard the sound of the lock latching closed.
I bit my lip as I observed him going through the process of securing his supplies. The thing was, perhaps I was overthinking this. Because he already knew about my situation within Slytherin, right? So maybe I could just... ask him? And while telling any other professor I needed to put my hands on something illegal was certainly not the best course of action —Duskhaven in particular— this was Snape we were talking about. Maybe his underdeveloped sense of morality could be on my side here for once.
I decided to take the risk, then: "I need unicorn blood," I deadpanned.
He paused for a beat, his eyes betraying nothing. Then, he let out a very faint sigh.
"And why exactly, pray tell, do you need a... non-tradeable substance?"
"There's a ritual," I said, nodding to myself. "It allows one to identify the amount of magical blood in a sample, to check if it's from a half-blood, a pure-blood... you know. So that's my plan for my situation: I will use the ritual to prove my own blood status. The only issue is that it uses unicorn blood as a... a 'standard for magical purity to compare against', or something like that... That's the only material I need help getting, the rest are just normal stuff."
Well, under a certain definition of normal, of course. That of people who thought nothing of drinking a beverage with spider juice in it.
Snape examined me in silence, for long enough to become uncomfortable. At last he said: "And you figured you could... steal it from me? What made you think I'd be in possession of illegal materials?"
I shrugged, was he playing with me? "Well, it's obvious, no?"
He quirked an eyebrow.
"I mean... you're the Slytherin Head of House. Somehow I doubt you got there by following all the rules, and that–"
"Careful... with that cheek, girl. You wouldn't want to spend more weekends in detention, would you?" he warned. Then, he walked slowly back towards his own seat, and picked up his quill again. He said: "To answer your question: No, I don't store unicorn blood in my supplies... among other reasons, because it is almost useless as a potion ingredient, as drinking it will only curse you. So will handling it without the proper care. I suggest you abandon this... harebrained plan of yours. Even if you were to find the blood and perform the ritual, it would be worse than useless."
"Useless? Why is that?"
He paused in his scribing to gaze at me as if I was an idiot. "Well. Should the ritual work, it would of course confirm you to be a Muggleborn."
I snorted. "Right. Of course."
I could have argued my case further, tell him about my findings with the police, but I figured it wouldn't do much to change his mind. So with that, I started walking away, dejected.
Because he was probably right, after all. It simply wouldn't make that much sense for me to be some sort of lost heir to some ancient magical lineage or something. An heir that just... what? Hadn't been there in the story, for whatever reason? It stretched believability, if I was being honest to myself.
And yet, I had hopes; and I still wanted to perform the ritual. For my own sake if not for Selwyn's.
I needed to know who I was. What I was.
Snape wasn't going to help in this front, though. If I wanted unicorn blood, I would need to get it myself. And seeing as it was illegal, and a single vial was probably worth more than all my possessions put together, I couldn't exactly go shopping.
That left the only other, more risky possibility.
"Where are you going?" Snape asked me when he saw me walking towards the office's main door.
I paused. Uh-oh.
"Going... out? Because... I'm done?"
"With the beetles, yes... but you still have to dice the dittany leaves."
What an absolute piece of...
I sighed, my spirits crashing into the ground. "Of... course, sir. Where are the leaves?"
In the end I spent my entire Saturday afternoon in Snape's bloody office, dissecting beetles and cutting plants, and with no unicorn blood to show for it. By the time he let me out it was already dark and so I simply marched towards the Great Hall for dinner, where I finally met with Tracey. She went to ask me how bad it'd been, saw my general look of misery, and made a sympathetic noise.
At least, small mercies, Plixiette gifted me with her interpretation of a Croque Madame, the egg on top of the sandwich extravaganza dripping some of its yolk over the side in the most appetizing way. I was starting to forget about the horrid day, lost among the usual sensations of the Great Hall during dinner —tasty French flavours, inane Slytherin politicking, and all the noise coming out of the Gryffindor table— when I noticed my housemates going suddenly tense, eyes looking past my shoulders. I turned to look and...
"Oh, here she is, George!" said Fred, apparently. "Our best client!"
"A true visionary, Fred! Reckon she might give us a run for our money with stunts like that."
"That cauldron. Genius! That's some Weasley-level mischief right there!"
I smirked, giving them both a subtle nod, then stood up to walk a couple of paces away from the Slytherin table. It wouldn't do me any favours to look too friendly with the pair of them.
"I'm honoured," I said, having to raise my voice above the whisper level I'd aimed for due to the escalating Gryffindor ruckus. Some days even Plixiette's cooking was almost not worth the headaches. "But... uhm, how did you find out?"
"Are you joking? It was everything everyone wanted to talk about in our common room!"
"Dean Thomas made a great re-enactment of Malfoy hiding under that table," said George, twisting his own face in a parody of fear.
"Brilliant, really! Only one question–"
"How did you do it?" they asked at once.
I flashed them a knowing grin: "Oh? A lady never tells!"
"Not even for five Galleons?" asked Fred, almost having to shout to be heard over the Great Hall's noise.
I pretended I hadn't heard him: "Sorry, so noisy! Did I hear ten Galleons?"
"Six Galleons and a bar of Frog Spawn Soap?" said George.
Hmm... six Galleons was on the low side. But a bar of the joke soap could be useful. The bathroom was not inside our dorm, so technically it wasn't part of Daphne's neutral zone.
"We know about the hair-raising potion," said Fred. "We're only missing the secret ingredient!"
"What about this?" I said. "You give me–"
But then the noise from the Gryffindor table built up even higher, and I realised someone was screaming in panic.
A sudden hush dropped on the Great Hall as everyone went silent and we all turned to look at the source of the scream. I couldn't see past the bodies of the many students all gathered around the table of the lions, but I felt a deep shiver when I noticed the place they were all crowding around: it was where the Golden Trio usually seated.
The shiver turned icy when I saw Dumbledore rush down from the High Table and parting the sea of students like an unstoppable Moses on a mission. People around me were all standing up to get a better view, so I took the next logical step and stood on top of the bench, stretching myself up all that my young, short body allowed.
I got a glimpse of an unconscious Harry Potter, his face pallid and blue. Hard to judge from this distance, but he didn't seem to be breathing.
"Severus," called Dumbledore in an urgent tone. He wasn't shouting, but we all heard him clearly in the eerie silence. "Severus, quickly, a bezoar!"