Chapter 15Chapter Text
Tracey disagreed on the handling it well angle, it seemed, because with every passing day she grew ever more confrontational, ever more direct in her attempts to... talk about it. My hope was that by not encouraging her, by returning to a sense of normality —if only in our actions— she would eventually let it go. Winter break was right there —barely half a week ahead— and perhaps by the time she returned to Hogwarts in January she would have forgotten about it.
Perhaps everybody would have.
But when she floated the last minute idea of staying here herself, I knew I had to give her something.
"Aren't you going to tell anyone?" she asked while we were walking back from Herbology; she'd been asking around the topic for the last couple of days, tentatively edging her way in, but this was her most brazen question yet.
"About this?" I said, showing her the new cut in my index finger, courtesy of a Whisper Thistle. "I should, those plants are a bloody pest. We could ask Snape to burn them all, Greenhouse and Professor Sprout included."
"Not that! You know that I mean."
"I know," I said, trying to leave it at that.
"So?" she asked again after a beat, because Tracey was eleven, and heaven knew how bloody persistent those can be.
"Just let it go already, Tracey!" I snapped back.
She jerked at my harsh tone and went silent, her eyes downcast. It was like I'd just kicked a puppy.
I sighed, shook my head and said: "Sorry. No, I won't... maybe I should, but I worry what they could do next, if I did."
Because Selwyn had been playing with me that day in the common room, but I couldn't discount an actual Cruciatus or something like that hitting me in the back next time they ambushed me in the corridors, if I provoked him. At least it seemed turning me into an insect had left them satisfied for the time being. And I didn't want to poke the sleeping basilisk, so to speak.
"Do you still have any... hmm... lingering effects?" she asked.
"No. It wasn't that bad a spell, all things considered. It's just the..."
I shook my head again and muttered a weak "never-mind," but now that she'd found a crack in my walls she wasn't willing to let it go.
"Just the what?" she asked.
I paused, my hands clenched in my pockets, and took a quick look around. We were already on a narrow dead-end where the second floor corridor ended in a small reading nook, and safe enough from prying ears.
"The... humiliation," I managed to grind out.
And that was all I could say about it without trembling, without my mask coming undone. Because that was the issue, really: how Selwyn and his followers had stolen all agency from me, my very body betraying me, becoming useless and distorted. How all my practising spells, reading Duskhaven's book for Aurors, all my preparation had meant absolutely nothing in the face of that simplest of ambushes. Just a spell to the back and I was paralysed. A spell to the back, and I was no more than a human log, falling to the floor.
And the knowledge that it could happen again, that they could still do anything to me, anything they wished, and all my plans would mean nothing. That despite all my focus, my almost obsession on being independent, on being able to decide over my whole life... at the end of the day it was Selwyn and his court of worshippers who held such power over me.
I didn't know if Tracey understood all that, but at least she understood something of it, because she gave me some breathing room and tried her best to take my mind off it by sharing stories of her previous Christmas with her family: like when her grandfather —a Muggle, apparently— forgot that you were supposed to throw a pinch of powder into the fireplace when using the Floo, and had instead stepped onto the actual flames and caused his trousers to catch fire.
I welcomed the distraction for what it was, and I shared some of my own stories, telling her of when this kid at the Residence decided to remove all the ornamental balls from the Christmas tree and hide them in unsuspecting places; or the 'steal all the socks' game Astrid, a couple of the other youngest kids and I liked to play. I remained the undisputed champion at that.
But overall, my mood was still thunderous when winter break finally arrived and she left to spend it with her family. She wasn't the only one to leave, in fact, and soon I found myself completely alone in our shared dorm, the only first year Slytherin to remain at Hogwarts.
Very few other people remained in our house: only some of the fifth-years —who were so focused on preparing for their O.W.L.s that they didn't pay me an iota of attention, thankfully— and the odd straggler here and there. Selwyn, most importantly, also left.
Which suited me just fine, and for the first time I was allowed to simply... exist in our common room. To sit on a comfortable seat with a book on my knees and my gaze lost into the depths of the Black Lake, watching as the underwater weeds danced in its soft currents, catching a glimpse of a darting fish now and then.
That soon became my favourite activity, in fact. And while I was very aware that starting into water wasn't the most productive use of my time, there was something addictively melancholic about it. The cold didn't help, making me want to remain hidden and warm under my bedspread. Which I might have, if not for bodily needs. Staying at the common room was a compromise of sorts.
But soon I finally tired of whiling my time away in the dungeons, and so I wrapped myself in my winter cloak and went to the grounds outside, walking loops around the lake like I'd done in my very first days at the castle, and listening to the soft crunch, crunch noises my steps made on the newly fallen snow. It was cold as all hell, but by that time I was starting to feel as if the stones were suffocating me, and I simply needed to be... outdoors. Common room fever, I guessed we could call it.
Or maybe it was something else, some deeper need within me. Because on Christmas Eve I found myself on the seventh floor, in front of a tapestry depicting some dancing trolls. And after verifying the coast was clear, I paced angrily back and forth, all the while thinking: 'I need a room where I can let loose', 'I need a room where I can let loose'...
The door manifested itself, and I quickly crossed it to find myself in a large chamber. There were some of those dummies we'd used sometimes in Defence class, and a few pieces of old furniture barely holding together: chairs with uneven legs, tables with wide gaps on their surface... The results of too many botched mending charms, was my guess.
It would do.
I whipped out my wand, pointed at the nearest coffee table, and shouted at the top of my lungs: 'Depulso!'
The table shot into the air, tumbling end on end, and crashed against the room's wall with a loud boom, in an explosion of splintered pieces of rotten wood that flew all over the place.
Good. But not enough.
I followed it with all of my growing offensive repertoire: making a chair float as I put cut after cut into its surface with the severing charm, then launching it at full speed to the face of one of the dummies. I threw shit around, I set shit on fire. And yet...
Not enough.
So eventually I aimed at one of the dummies —already on fire— and slashed with my wand as I spoke: "Sectumsempra!"
I had read the notes on the curse —I had copied them to my own diary, then returned Snape's Potions book back to the classroom's bookshelves, leaving it ready for Potter to find in five years or so, assuming nothing else changed— but I had never attempted to cast it. As such I half expected it to fail, it being my first try.
But instead a deep gorge appeared on the dummy's charred surface. It was soon followed by another long, curved gash, the wood creaking in agony; and a twisted groove as I played with the wand: waving it this and that way, imagining it was Burke's flesh I was carving —or maybe Selwyn's— and not a stupid person-shaped piece of wood. The cuts were deep and wide enough that I knew they'd be lethal, if that were a real person.
But as it wasn't a real person, the dummy simply stood there and took the abuse without complaint, the idiot. I tried a couple more jinxes and hexes on it, but eventually I grew tired and bored of the exercise. In the end I was left panting in magical exhaustion, and surrounded by splintered wood and pieces of broken furniture that was well beyond the capacity of any mending charm I knew to put back together. And while I had expected to feel... somehow lighter... it still wasn't enough. There was still that unresolved clog of emotions within me.
Of course, if I really wanted to get rid of it, there was always the option of repeating this performance in the Slytherin common room.
Or, to be more accurate: trying out Sectumsempra in the actual people who had wronged me, and not just some mannequins. If there was something I should thank them for, it was showing me just how effective a sudden and unexpected spell to your back could be. And I guessed even a seventh year wouldn't be immune to such an attack.
So yeah, I could do that. I could bide my time and wait until winter break was over, trying out the spell in this room time after time, day after day until I had it perfected. Then I would stalk them, learn their movements to figure out when and where I could find one of them alone. I would focus on Burke, probably. I knew Selwyn was behind that attack on me —I wasn't so naive to pretend otherwise— but it had been Burke who carried it out —which meant it was his face the one I saw in my bad dreams— and he seemed like he'd be the easier target.
And I would be there, then, stepping out of the shadows to say...
"Sectumsempra!"
A fragment of sliced wood fell off the mannequin.
The problem would come afterwards, of course. Because I knew half my entire house would band together against me, against the mudblood who had dared to attack one of their precious pure-bloods with a dark curse. How long would I survive for, then, if I escalated like that?
I liked to think I was good at magic, but I wasn't seventh-year good. And that was the problem here, really: those teenagers weren't just physically bigger than me; they also knew more spells, had more practice with their own wands. Plus they were Slytherins, so they probably knew their own little dark spells of their own. The kind of spells which effects don't fade away overnight.
I wouldn't give myself even twenty-four hours.
The only way to do something like that and survive to live another day would be to frame it as a tit for tat, a reckoning for past offences. Which meant Selwyn was already out, because I hadn't actually seen him when I was attacked, and I had no definite proof that he'd been the mastermind.
What about Burke: could I win a duel against him?
It wouldn't be anything like with Parkinson. Tracey had since explained to me that the reason Pansy hadn't got that much backlash for running away from our duel was that I was a presumed Muggleborn. And sure, a witch had the right to issue a challenge when insulted, but Muggleborns barely qualified as witches and wizards in the eyes of many of my housemates. Which wasn't to say she hadn't received any flak over it —because it had been so evident to everyone that she'd just been too scared to fight— but it would have been much worse for her had it been, say, Perks issuing the challenge and not me.
Burke, though, he wouldn't run. He'd just wipe the floor with me.
Telling someone, then? Well, with the distorted way the Wizarding World treated its kids, I wouldn't expect much more than a slap to the wrist. Even less, given that Snape was our Head of House; and if pushed, he'd need to side with the Death Eaters' camp rather than the Muggleborn, if only to protect his cover. That would only succeed at provoking them into bullying me further; and a lack of punishment would also risk them going even further.
So it was back again to shooting a spell to Burke's back. And if I wanted to do that without kicking the vipers' nest, so to speak, I would need some ally. Someone that would be willing to vouch for me and had enough gravitas to prevent people like Flint, or say, the Carrow Twins from joining the party.
That someone was Daphne, of course. But she'd been clear enough —in her own way— that she wasn't willing to go that far. At least, as long as I was the... what had Tracey called it? Presumed Muggleborn?
So it all circled back to my lack of status and the ritual, like a bloody ouroboros or some shit. But if I could complete that —even if that meant I had to cheat— and become non-toxic enough for Greengrass to publicly associate with... Well, then it was open season on Burke, I guessed. And I had some machinations in mind to deal with Selwyn too.
Still, I'd need to wait for quite some time yet. And what would that be like, in the meantime? Would I need to keep fending off attack after attack? Had this been a one-off, or just the opening salvo of what would come next?
I sighed; too many unknowns, I'd need to wait and see. Which was fucking infuriating, and I was tempted to ask the room for more furniture.
But given that I was in the Room of Requirement, I could perhaps tick another checkbox out of my to-do list instead. So I closed my eyes and said "I need a room with things I can gift to other people, and that are... you know, not cursed."
I was welcomed with the sight of endless stacks of assorted items, piles on top of piles as far as I could glimpse. A version of the Room of Hidden Things, possibly.
Not being sure if the room had truly respected the 'not cursed' part of my requirement, I was especially careful as I shopped around for my Christmas gifts, and limited myself only to those things that looked... safe-ish. Books, mostly. Also because many of the other items looked too worn and used to pass muster as a Christmas gift anyway.
But the selection of books in this room differed greatly from that of the Library, with a much deeper focus on fictional stories, comics, and of course trashy romance novels —of which there were plenty. There were also quite a few books of Muggle origins, possibly brought over by other Muggleborn students across the years, which I figured would make great choices as gifts —given that most people I knew here had been raised in the magical world and so wouldn't be too familiar with them.
So I ended up with a few of them that later that day I ran through one of the house-elves to verify were indeed safe before going to the owlery to deliver. To the only actual friend I had —Tracey— I sent a copy of Stevenson's 'Treasure Island', simply because it was my favourite and a classic and about pirates, which always was a plus —let's just say that if I ever reincarnated again, I wouldn't mind being a pirate queen. I wouldn't mind that one bit.
And while I didn't know pure-blood etiquette, I figured that sending a gift to Daphne Greengrass would probably be expected of me, she being the highest status housemate in my same dorm and all that. So I gifted her the copy of 'Bridge to Terabithia' that I found next to a broken flute.
And... that was it, really, wasn't it? I couldn't be expected to send gifts to anyone else. But still, I figured giving books to the members of my Read-Ahead Club was also fair game, even if I doubted any of them would be sending any presents my way. To Hermione went the 'Compendium of Fairy Tales, Fables and Children's Stories' —it contained such classics as 'Little Red Riding Hood' or 'Jack and the Beanstalk', only these were their magical counterparts. I guessed Hermione would have a field day cataloguing all the little differences between these and the Muggle versions of the same tales.
I was less thorough with the others, though, choosing mostly based on how intact or not the books looked: 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory' went to Anthony Goldstein, 'The Hobbit' to Michael Corner, and 'Matilda' to Susan Bones.
Finally, to Astrid at the Residence I sent a handful of Every Flavour Beans that I'd bought from a Ravenclaw, along with a note warning her of what to expect. Yes, I was sending magical food to a Muggle. No, it didn't worry me too much that we'd be caught infringing the Statute of Secrecy. As far as Astrid would know, they were just some odd sweets from Scotland, that's all; and if she suspected anything I could always say they came from the continent or something. I doubted magic of all things would enter her mind. And if it did, well... I'd already warned her on the importance of keeping mum on the nature of my schooling.
So I went to sleep that day back on that empty dorm, the vacant beds making it somehow more imposing. I missed... their company, the other girls'. Odd, that I'd rather have Parkinson in here than sleep on my own, alone in the large circular room. I guessed it was the Christmas' spirits, infecting me or something.
Or maybe it was this new fear of mine rearing its head once more, the same one that hit me whenever I found myself alone in a narrow corridor.
But when I woke up after yet another restless night punctuated by the occasional wand-in-toilet dream, there were three packages on my trunk, next to my bed.
One, the only one I'd half-expected, was from Tracey. It contained a set of thick wool gloves along with a scarf, all in a matching deep blue and with subtle stamped snowflakes —not animated, sadly, but that was fine. The included parchment note was in my friend's handwriting and said: 'Now you won't have to steal my scarf anymore. Happy Yule!'
The second package was from Daphne Greengrass, and it contained a robe brooch, like the ones some of our older housemates liked to wear to signify their wealthy status, only this one was smaller and more elegant and less... flaunty. It was in the shape of a slender silver snake, and the girl's note explained that she had purchased identical ones for each one of us girls at our dorm.
It was nice, and I could read between the lines as for what she was really saying with it: that I was one of them, that I too was included in the group. I only wished the group didn't have to include Parkinson and Bulstrode too.
The third package didn't have a sender's note. It was just a thin book titled 'The Other Healing', by one Celestina Dervish, and I could tell by the worn corners that it had already seen some use. I figured the mysterious gift-giver was another member of my school of solving your Christmas needs without spending a single Galleon.
I opened it to the inside cover and read: 'A great number of tomes have been written on the topic of fixing the damages caused by offensive magic, but not everything a healer does is mending wounds and growing bones back. Sometimes it's our minds that need care, not our bodies. In this book, St. Mungo's renowned Celestina Dervish shares a plethora of meditations, rituals and other techniques to soothe–'
I promptly closed it again with a snap and banished it to the depths of my trunk. And if my hands trembled while pinning the brooch to my robes, there was nobody there to comment on it.
Christmas was a strange day, all things considered. I'd never found the Holidays to be a happy time for me, not even before I was seven and I became cognizant of all I had lost. Perhaps because the festivities at the foster homes I'd been in had always seemed as poor imitations of the real thing, matching the looks and noises but never the spirit of it. Like the fake smile you put on for the camera, only there for the brief moment of taking the picture.
Then at the Residence, it seemed like the staff didn't even care. Or maybe they knew better, they were aware that these weren't exactly the happiest days for most of the... problematic kids in there. Too many bad memories for some, too many good memories now turned bittersweet for others. In the end I wouldn't be surprised if it turned out they had decided to walk the Holidays as if on eggshells, doing the bare minimum of gestures that they could get away with —a tree, yes, and a more elaborate dinner, and a couple presents per kid that mostly were new pieces of clothing to replace the ones we'd outgrown already. There was no expectations of anything else, and no attempts at imposing a festive mood that most in the building weren't feeling anyway.
Which I appreciated, to be fair. Five points to the Giraffe, I guessed. If you can't give love to the kids, at least don't rub it in their faces.
But Hogwarts did rub it. Exceedingly. With its Christmas feast and its dozens upon dozens of platters, its fully decorated Great Hall —complete with illusionary snow falling on us— a Dumbledore dressed in festive robes that put my animated faeries to shame, students pulling on crackers that went 'boom' and disgorged all manner of magical items and effects across the tables, and even one of my older housemates greeting me with a 'Happy Yule!' that for once didn't sound malicious or backhanded.
It was too much, and it made me feel out of place. An intruder.
So I defaulted to my new normal, and went through the motions. I ate roast turkey, and drank butterbeer, and pulled a cracker that gave me a toy salamander —I managed to catch it by the tail before it scampered away— and pretended to ignore the Headmaster's occasional gazes my way —did he know something? Or was he simply keeping an eye on the new Tom Riddle?— and made the appropriate sounds at the appropriate times when listening to Terence Higgs' tale about that one time his aunt had invited his entire family to celebrate Yule, but when the day came she had completely forgotten about it, and had to improvise food for more than a dozen people, which somehow resulted in a couple of them ending the day at St. Mungo's.
I ended my own day back at my solitary dorm, climbing in bed with my belly full, but only to toss around still under that strange malaise; and also because I knew that somewhere above me Harry would be going on a night stroll to find a very particular mirror.
One that I wouldn't mind taking my own look at.
But I had to bid my time. I didn't want to interfere in Harry's discovery of his parents; that seemed important, plot-wise. Except that I couldn't wait for too long either, since the mirror would only be there for two or three nights at most, if my fore-memories didn't fail me.
I decided to make my visit the day after Christmas, the 26th. And so I spent that afternoon casing the joint, so to speak; taking a long walk along the corridors near the Library, taking good note of the closed doors that could possibly lead to unused classrooms. I didn't try to enter during the day, though; the castle was much quieter during the winter break, true, but that didn't mean it was empty. And I pretty much didn't want to call any unwanted attention towards me or the mirror ahead of time. Especially because I heavily suspected that the mirror's surprisingly unguarded presence during the few nights right after Harry Potter had received his invisibility cloak wasn't exactly a coincidence. And if I was interfering into a Dumbledore plot, I better tread carefully.
But that night I was ready: equipped with my wand, a couple of my last remaining prank items —mostly in case I ran into Filch again— and with a destination in mind. I opted to leave the dungeons as soon as possible, taking advantage of the lack of students to slip out unnoticed. The plan was simple: get there, take a quick look, and leave well before Harry arrived.
Of course, since I didn't happen to be the lucky inheritor of an invisibility cloak, getting to the classroom unnoticed was easier said than done. I took advantage of all my experience sneaking around and... well... thieving... to move smoothly and yet without a sound, making sure to keep my balance low, always stepping with my little toes first then rolling the feet down like Colin at the Residence had taught me —ninja walking, he'd called it. I had to stop at times, make sure there were no other noises, that nobody was getting nearer. And it took time to check door after door, a quiet 'Alohomora' here and there to open my way through.
But eventually I found it. The classroom's door was unlocked, and after a quick check to verify I was indeed the first to arrive, I slipped inside and softly closed the door again behind me.
The Mirror of Erised stood proud, golden and menacing in the middle of the room, contrasting with the dusty desks and chairs and glinting under the light of my wand. I double checked once more that I was alone, then approached the imposing mirror with some trepidation.
This, of course, was stupid.
It was stepping right into the plot, standing right in the middle of Harry and Dumbledore's path for no real gain at all. There was no angle, no advantage I would get here, no danger I was foolhardy enough to think I could prevent. This wouldn't help me get Selwyn out of my hair, or give me a clue as to Quirrell's next move.
No. This was just for me. Because this, this was my chance to see my family for what could very possibly be the last time ever.
So I looked into the mirror. After all, this world owed me at least this.
The reflection that met my eyes was that of a young woman in her late twenties: Sophie, the old me, with her golden hair styled into a messy bob —trendy, yet casual— and sporting some sunglasses that I knew extremely well. She wore some fashionable robes that looked like they belonged on the cover of that 'Chic-Witch' magazine some of the teenage girls at Hogwarts liked, and held her wand —my wand— with a nonchalant, almost je-ne-sais-quoi self-assurance.
It was the perfect meld: the me that I'd been before, but also a witch, but also better than I'd ever been before or now. That girl would never be left crawling on the floor like a bug. Nobody would ever steal her wand and try flushing it down the toilet; no, that girl was above any of that.
Only she was a lie, of course.
But my eyes were drawn by the other figures next to her: my parents, just as I remembered them; starting to get old, yes, but still with many years ahead —many years to share with them that I'd been just robbed out of. And my younger brother, who winked at me when our eyes met and gave me his easy smile, the only Christmas present I really, truly wished for.
Then, right there; that was when I finally fell apart. Reality catching up with me, like the Coyote when he looks down to realise there had been no ground under his feet all along, and only then starts falling down.
That was when the tears came at last, when I sat down on the frigid stone floor among quiet sobs, my muscles suddenly failing me, my breathing coming in pained gasps as I slowly rocked back and forth.
I had always tried to avoid self-pity, never liking it when I found it in others. Despite everything, I knew my rebirth, or whatever it was, was nothing sort of miraculous. I was unfairly ahead of my peers —both at the Muggle schools, and in many subjects here— thanks to my unnatural knowledge. And knowing what the future held made for what could very well become an easy life filled with riches and pleasures beyond belief, if I cared to play my cards right.
Even being here, at Hogwarts, with magic at my fingertips and the ability to say 'no, thank you' to the laws of physics felt like the cherry on top of the cake of impossibly good fortune. I was aware many people would kill for the chance of taking my place.
But glancing back at the mirror stripped all those... those trappings away. All the fashion in the world and the most powerful magic spells seemed empty in comparison to what the girl in the mirror had: the one thing I couldn't ever have myself.
She had a family.
And yes, my family existed here too, in this strange universe. And perhaps one day I'd choose to go visit them. But I doubted it would work out. Because to them, Sylvia would always be a stranger at best, someone with memories from a life none of them had yet lived. Some creepy girl who knew all about them, but who none of them would recognise as their blood. Even their ages wouldn't match with my new birthdate.
And that was if they accepted me. Because perhaps... perhaps they wouldn't. Perhaps it would be better not to visit them, then; rather live with the unknown than risk meeting them and being rejected. Having them think me a freak.
That, I knew it would destroy me. And I even felt an ugly pang of envy directed at Harry Potter of all people, because even when he was an orphan himself, at least he had never known his parents. Which sounded horrible, of course, but then it also meant he didn't have to miss the actual people, just the idea of them. He didn't have to miss my mum's 'Poule au Pot' or her 'Tarte Tatin' —and of course, why the fuck else would I've been so bloody obsessed over Plixiette's food?— and he didn't have to miss the aviator glasses my father gifted me on graduating from university —the ones the witch in the mirror was wearing— and feel that subtle pang of grief every time I wore the ones I had nicked, that poor replacement. And still I always chose to wear them, because the alternative was worse.
He had no memories of them. But me, I had years worth of memories that were now tainted, corrupted with pain. And yet at some level I knew I was also a hypocrite, because I would never have traded our positions if I'd had the chance.
It felt like the mirror was laying me bare, peeling my skin away, and I hated it for that. But at the same time I couldn't stop looking at the image it was presenting back to me. Like running your tongue over and over again over the same toothache, the pain becoming... somehow addicting, familiar.
It was a soft noise behind me that broke me out of my trance. I turned to look with a sudden sense of panic, wand high and tears streaking down my cheeks; but there was nothing, and the door was still closed. I cleaned my face on the sleeve of my robes and climbed back to my feet, my whole body stiff and cold.
'Revelio', I cast. Still nothing.
But I had lost too much time here already, and it was time to go. Harry Potter would be on his way here by now, possibly along with Ron Weasley, and I pretty much had no intention of meeting either of them in this state. So with a quick, last glance at the mirror, I departed the room and made the way back to the dungeons, only having to stop and hide one time to avoid Filch on patrol.
That night, though, when I finally hit my bed... I did sleep better.
Chapter 16Chapter Text
Somehow it got easier, after that day, the knot of tension relaxing and leaving me be. And so I could focus once more on my plans, on my tasks; and I went back to my books and spell practising —I was learning to cast the Full Body-bind curse now, the same spell they'd used on me— and also to finishing up all the winter break homework, because both McGonagall and Snape seemed to be of the opinion that idle hands needed to be savagely stomped on, or something along those lines.
But a couple of days later, something odd happened. I had found a nice reading nook on one of the second floor corridors —a seat under one of those tall windows that let in the morning sun, and that allowed me to bask in its glorious warmth like the cold-blooded reptile I was starting to suspect I was under my skin— and was going through 'A Beginner's Guide to Protective Enchantments', determined at last to learn how to secure my trunk's contents and prevent any repeats of that incident with Parkinson at Hallowe'en.
It was also a nice break from the Slytherin common room, if I was being honest. The underwater chamber was nice and soothing, yes, and I liked that I could enjoy it freely for a couple of weeks at least; but it could also become quite the gloomy and melancholic place; and when you were already in a low mood, it was too easy to get caught in the trap of sitting there and simply watching the water-filtered light cast reflections on its polished marble floor for hours and hours on end.
Besides, that book on mental healing had recommended doing shit like this, purposefully getting away from your usual haunts; so there I was, trying to parse out how the circles directed the flow of magic in an enchantment, and how the accents were key to keeping its balance so that it wouldn't simply peter out —or worse, lose cohesion, which could result in the magic acting up in unpredictable ways— when none other than Harry Potter approached me out of the blue.
"Hi... uhm... want to play chess?" he asked, uncharacteristically shy. He was carrying a wizarding chess set under one of his arms. It was one of those cheap ones that came in crackers and the like, nothing like the one in the Slytherin common room —the board on that one was three hundred years old, apparently, and probably worth more than all the possessions I'd had in my previous life combined. I hadn't tried to even approach it, too scared of suddenly tripping on my own feet and scratching it by accident or something.
But Harry approaching me like this was... unexpected, and I narrowed my eyes as I examined the boy in front of me, trying to figure out his angle. He had never approached me before, not during the normal school days, nor during the first half of our winter break; so what gives?
He fidgeted under my intense gaze. "Ah... if you don't like it..."
"No, it's fine," I said at last, retracting my extended legs over the seat and allowing him some space to sit down and place the board. "I haven't played chess for a while, though, so go easy on me."
I knew the rules —from my fore-memories: my grandfather liked the game and took it upon himself to teach me how to play. But I wasn't a particularly good player, and my last match dated all the way back to my foster days. There had been a chess set at the Residence, but it was missing a rook and a handful of pawns, so most kids simply ignored it in favour of other, less brainy sort of games.
"Don't worry," Harry said, laying out the pieces and speaking with more certainty now that I hadn't rebuked his offer. "I just learnt the rules myself. But it's nice playing someone other than Ron; he always trounces me."
"So, you're playing people from the other houses then?" I asked, trying to eke some information out of the boy.
He nodded with a bit too much enthusiasm for it to be natural. "Yes, exactly!"
Gryffindors were shit at lying, I was starting to realise, as he avoided my gaze and made the first move of the match. Except for Dumbledore, apparently —which I considered an honorary Slytherin anyway, because his level of cunning was simply off the charts.
I didn't call Harry on it, though, instead trying to think of what could have changed for the boy to suddenly become... friendly, to me. There were my acts at Hallowe'en, of course, but those were water under the bridge by now. I had noticed the Trio becoming less hostile towards me afterwards, Hermione especially. But I just didn't interact with the boys often enough for it to become anything significant, and they hadn't made any overtures towards me ever since. I guessed in their eyes I was simply someone from the Slytherin house that at least didn't completely suck, a counterpoint to Malfoy perhaps, but little more than that.
So why this now?
Well, I had an inkling. And I didn't like where that train of thought was leading me. Because the only recent interaction that came to mind with the potential of having changed how he saw me was... if he'd seen me there. With the mirror.
Which was as discomfiting a thought as there could be, my private moment invaded by a... a voyeur; even if I was willing to grant him that he hadn't done it on purpose. If it had even happened, because I would have noticed the door opening, wouldn't have I? And I had cast that Revelio charm at the end that showed the room was still empty. But was that enough to trump the Cloak of Invisibility? I didn't know.
I tried to tell myself that everything was okay, though, that he hadn't seen me in front of the mirror —nobody had. No, this was simply a delayed reaction to my olive branch at Hallowe'en, Harry just taking the opportunity to return the favour now that he could approach me without the rest of my house interfering. Maybe he had even realised I was the only first year Slytherin staying here and he assumed I would be feeling lonely —which was true, by the by.
Right. No, nothing to do with the bloody mirror.
But the thought of it was enough to make my focus wander off the chessboard, which resulted on a string of blunders and missed opportunities.
"How is this possible?" I muttered when his knight finally captured my queen, shaking my head.
"I told you we were leaving our centre open," grumbled my only surviving bishop.
"And you left me hanging all the way here!" exclaimed that annoying pawn on the right flank.
"Shush, you! We all know you are a lost cause at this point. Now let me think..."
I bit my lip, trying to put my mind into the game at last, as I considered my options —which ranged from the bad to the dismayingly horrible. At least Harry seemed to be enjoying himself, because the little twerp looked positively enthused at the unfolding events.
Four minutes or so of thinking later my position still hadn't magically improved, so I decided to make the only movement I figured could threaten Harry's entrenched troops: I grabbed one of my centre pawns and moved it forward, only to be met with the combined groans of all my surviving pieces on the board.
"The rook, girl! The rook!" protested my king.
But it was too late. The rook in question moved forward now, and Harry announced: "Checkmate!"
"Ugh."
"Wow, you are really, really rubbish at this," he commented, as my king threw away his crown in frustration and walked off the board.
"Oh, am I?" I narrowed my eyes and pantomimed cracking my knuckles. "Set up that board again, Potter; because you're going to regret your words."
We ended up playing a further two other matches, of which I at least won one. And by the end of it Harry looked again somewhat out of place, as he stored all the protesting pieces back in the box one by one.
At last he said: "So... uhm... Hermione told me you were an orphan?"
I nodded.
"I'm... an orphan too," he clarified.
I rose my eyebrows in mock surprise. "No! Really?"
"Right, I forget everybody already knows that," he shook his head. "It's... do you remember your family?"
I paused, eyeing him. This was a surprisingly tricky question, because while I did remember my family from my previous life, I didn't remember who my parents here had been. And if I recalled our conversation back on the train, Hermione knew that. So did Tracey, and possibly a number of my other housemates. So to say yes now would go against that, and he might discover the contradiction later. But if I said no... and he had been there... then he'd have to wonder why the mirror affected me so much.
It seemed my delay did the answering for me, because Harry said: "Sorry. It's... it's fine if you don't want to talk about that."
And that seemed like a perfectly valid excuse for me, but instead I went with the truth for once. Because for some insane reason I didn't feel like I should lie now. Not about this. The crazy notion that if I said I didn't remember them, it would somehow become true. So I said: "Yes, I remember them. But I haven't told anyone."
He went silent at that, nodding softly.
"What about you?" I asked, trying to judo the conversation around. I'd rather he talked about himself than dig into my past. "Do you remember... you know who?"
His hand went to his forehead in a reflective gesture, that he tried to camouflage by repositioning his glasses instead.
He shook his head. Then, a beat later: "So... do you live with any family of your parents, or...?"
What was this? Was he just trying to be friendly, or was there something more going on here that I was missing? Why all this sudden questioning?
"No. I spent some time at foster homes; that's when... they put you with some random family, but without them adopting you, sort of," I clarified at his look of confusion. "But now I'm at a group home, with other kids who are either orphans or... well, whose parents weren't fit."
"Weren't fit how?"
I shrugged. "Well, some cases because they drank too much, and couldn't really take care of even themselves. Others were just... abusive."
But I noticed I'd made a mistake in there, because the moment I said the word 'abusive' he went suddenly stiff.
He tried to pass it off by asking me about how life at the Residence was like, and I felt more comfortable with that topic, speaking vaguely about daily routines and shared rooms and such rather than getting into the specifics of my own past, my own life. He listened enraptured and eventually he asked: "And... hmm... how do you end, in a place like that?"
Shit.
That was my moment to tense up, because I suddenly realised that while the Residence was merely... okay-ish in my mind, to him —who would be forced to spend his next Summer with the Dursleys— it would probably sound like heaven on Earth.
Or maybe not heaven —because that was what Hogwarts itself was— but at least much more acceptable. At least a place where he could be... safe and treated well, if not loved.
But at the same time, accidentally getting Harry Potter interested in changing his Summer accommodations sounded like the kind of plot altering event that could come charged with all kind of unexpected side effects.
And yet... this was actually Dumbledore's problem, not mine, wasn't it? It was the old wizard who had put Harry in that hellhole, so he could deal with the consequences of it. I doubted much would change: Dumbledore wouldn't allow Harry to be outside the magical protection granted by his blood relatives in any case; so if Harry confronted him about it, I figured the most likely result would be Dumbledore simply making a visit in person to coerce the Dursleys into treating the boy better.
It wouldn't be that big a change, in the great scheme of things. Not as large as, say... not having Quirrell as a professor, or the recent attempt at poisoning the boy in front of me.
And it could make Harry's life a tad less... horrid. So I said: "It's the state that puts you in there, if they get wind that your current guardians aren't fit. In my case it was because I set fire to my last foster home. Accidentally, of course."
He nodded, as if cataloguing the information for later use. "That is... uhm, thanks. You're not as bad as Ron says, you know."
I smirked. "Not afraid I'm going to corrupt you, uh?"
"Not really. And... well," he lowered his tone. "The Sorting Hat offered to put me in Slytherin too, so... I guess if everyone who ends up there is evil, that would also make me evil myself, right?"
I shrugged. "There are more prats in my house than in the others, I'll admit to that. But no, I don't think just getting sorted into Slytherin makes you evil, just as getting sorted into Gryffindor doesn't mean you're already a hero, you know. Although in your case... well, you did defeat that one dark wizard, no?"
He fidgeted once more, as if being reminded of his celebrity status had suddenly crushed his self-confidence. He would need to work on that, I guessed. "Yes... well, thanks for playing," he said.
"Sure. See you around, Potter."
He nodded and walked away with a nod. And I remained there, puzzled at the weird interaction.
I wondered if he'd try to approach me again in the future, if he'd be seeing me as a new friend or something. But in the end the days passed and the match didn't repeat itself; it didn't lead to a close friendship with the Boy Who Lived either.
And yet this was still a complete success in my plan of getting in the Golden Trio's good graces. An accidental one, perhaps, but I liked to think I'd done a good job at seeding the ground ahead of time.
Shame I was going to have to ruin it, though.
But not yet. For the time being things simply... went back to normal. Including my routine, because soon enough the winter break was over, and the rest of my housemates returned, putting an abrupt end to my enjoyment of the Slytherin common room.
But also putting an end to my solitary walks and silent study sessions, now that Tracey was here too. And I appreciated the Great Hall table being full again with people —realizing I'd actually grown somewhat fond of Draco Malfoy's diatribes was quite the shock— and the return to our classes.
Tracey and I also resumed our tradition of flying around the grounds in borrowed brooms —it was still cold, but her gloves and scarf helped in fighting the freezing bite, and I was also slowly getting better at handling my broomstick— and she regaled me with how her winter break had been, and how Diagon Alley had looked lovely under all its Christmas decorations.
I told her of the feast at the Great Hall, and of Dumbledore's robes and the other professors loosening up; but I kept silent about my interaction with Potter... or about the whole deal with the mirror. That felt... oddly personal, in a way I didn't feel ready to share.
Not that she didn't notice that something had changed, though; because my demeanour was back to a semblance of its usual self. And because —as she said— I was starting to scheme again.
Which was true. I'd convinced her to extend our flying lessons to pass over the edge of the Forbidden Forest. It was essentially for scouting purposes, with the vague hope that maybe, just maybe one day I'd be able to see a dead or injured unicorn from the air, swoop in and collect some blood before anyone else noticed.
It was a vane hope, of course, as the forest's dense canopy meant reconnaissance from above was a moot point. The only way to find an injured creature would be to get into the thick of it; on foot.
That left Harry's future detention. Assuming the future hadn't changed too much, that is. But if Hagrid was still meant to have this dragon in his hut, and both Harry and Draco Malfoy were punished over being stupid about it, that should still result in Harry witnessing the wholesome feeding habits of one hungry Quirrell.
The plan was easy, then: I had to get myself some detention alongside them.
It started with gathering intel, for which my Self-Writing Quill proved invaluable. I simply kept an eye on Hagrid and waited for one day when he was distracted —walking towards the Forbidden Forest, Fang in tow— and used my broom to fly to his hut's roof. There I placed the quill and a long piece of parchment next to the open chimney, where I hoped it could still listen to any talking that happened inside. A Sticking Charm to keep the parchment in place, and a well placed Impervious Charm to make sure that it wouldn't be affected by rain or snow; which wasn't a trivial task, as the Impervious also made it so its surface repelled the Quill's own ink. After some unsuccessful trial and error on my own, I'd ended up asking Professor Flitwick how to go about it —covering my tracks with some codswallop about having accidentally spilled some tea on my homework and wanting to prevent repeats.
It was a bit unnecessary, though, as he already thought me some sort of prodigy at charms —thanks in no small part to my drive to learn every single spell I recognised from the Harry Potter books, as soon as humanly possible. In the end he congratulated me for my curiosity, gave a couple of points to Slytherin for good measure, and taught me the modified invocation. And so over the following weeks I simply made periodic visits to collect the notes it wrote and replace the parchment.
My twelfth birthday arrived one day in February, the way it always did: suddenly and without fanfare. It was a date I pretty much stopped celebrating since that horrible time when I turned seven, and for much the same reasons as Christmas: it reminded me too much of what I'd lost; it felt as much an anniversary of the death of the previous me as it did of my birth here.
Birthdays weren't a big deal at the Residence either —let's be frank, nothing was ever a big deal there— but they still involved cake, which I enjoyed when it was some other kid's turn.
And... well, yeah. Mine, too. It was a good consolation prize for being forcefully reminded of my odd nature, if anything.
But I wasn't expecting anything special at Hogwarts, given that I hadn't told anyone about my birthdate. And sure enough, the day passed like any other. Up until Tracey and I went to the abandoned classroom to practise spells before bed, and a two tier cake with twelve candles was waiting for me on top of one of the dusty tables.
"What the hell?"
"Happy Birthday!" shouted Tracey, shooting sparks out of her wand.
I approached the desert. Judging by its over the top look it was probably elf-made; which meant Tracey —because who else?— had gone to the kitchens behind my back or something. But still...
"How did you know?" I asked her after I'd blown out the candles and she was cutting the both of us some generous pieces of cake. "The date, I mean."
"It was in that piano book of yours," she replied easily. To which she meant the one back from my foster days, with the sheet music for my early piano lessons, and that was still inside my trunk.
I'd brought it to Hogwarts in a bout of optimism, because I thought there might just be a grand piano in the Ravenclaw common room, and so it would be a good chance to boast a bit about my skills and what not. At least so that all that time I spent learning Beethoven's Ode to Joy and Vivaldi's Spring would get some valuable use at last.
But of course the Sorting Hat ruined that particular plan, because while there was indeed a piano in the Slytherin common room —a mahogany beast that I suspected was secretly alive and ready to bite off the fingers of anyone who dared approach, like a mimic or something— I couldn't exactly show off by playing Muggle songs, of all things. I'd only lent the book to Tracey when she'd shown some interest in my past, asked for any Muggle items and such.
Which I was realising just now was probably her fishing for info.
"Sneaky," I said, with some honest appreciation.
She shrugged. "Must be rubbing off on me."
I had to share some of my plotting with her after that, because yeah... she wasn't an idiot and she knew I had a plan to deal with the whole Selwyn situation, and we were at this point were it was either letting her in or killing our growing friendship in its crib. I'd already told her about the unicorn blood after... well, after all that happened with Selwyn and Burke. And sure, Nott would have preferred for me to keep that specific part of his ritual secret, but I trusted her not to go telling everyone I was hunting for forbidden substances.
So as we ate the cake I simply told her how I'd overheard over the winter break that there had been some attacks on the unicorns living in the Forbidden Forest —and sure, that wasn't true, but we weren't at the point were I could tell her the full story of my rebirth and the fictional nature of her entire existence, so yeah, baby steps. But I explained how if I could find out where one of those had occurred from Hagrid, I could get the blood I needed. Which was as close enough to the truth as I could reasonably get, while still preventing her from suspecting any unnatural origins to my knowledge.
The Read-Ahead Club was also a nifty tool to keep an eye on the Trio's comings and goings, thanks to Hermione:
"Oh? Is that a new book?" I asked her one day as she joined our usual table at the Library. "The works of Nicolas Flamel? Who's that?"
"Ahm... it's nothing," she replied, promptly placing the offending tome at the bottom of her pile. "I was just doing some reading on famous alchemists. What about your attempts at enchantments?"
I shrugged, smiling internally, because at least I could relax on that particular front, reassured that the plot was on its track. "I got it to work at last. I've put a protective charm on my trunk's latch that will cast both the Furnunculus and Jelly-Fingers Curses at whoever tries to open it with nefarious intentions."
"Two curses? Isn't that... excessive?"
I shrugged. "The book said to use the Jelly-Fingers Curse because you can't steal anything if you can't use your fingers to grab stuff with them. But I figured adding the Furnunculus too would be more effective at teaching the lesson that I'm not someone you want to steal from, no? A little pain goes a long way, I've learnt."
The rest of the table looked at me with wary expressions.
"It's a Slytherin thing," I clarified.
"Right. Maybe you should be careful with those curses," muttered Susan Bones. "You don't want to end up meeting my aunt in person."
Joke was on her, because I had actually given Snape's Sectumsempra curse serious consideration, now that I knew I could cast it. But casting a spell yourself and turning it into a protective enchantment were different things altogether, and that one was complex enough to require the more advanced charms that what my book covered, if I wanted to weave it into my trunk's protections. Besides, I didn't really want to murder Pansy Parkinson; just for her to learn to leave my stuff alone.
And so the weeks went by, and at class I learnt new spells and magic theory, and I fought with new breeds of plants at Herbology, and Professor Duskhaven gave me subtle nods of encouragement as my defensive spellwork improved —focusing on accuracy, versatility and impact, as her book instructed, rather than mere speed. And ever so slowly the weather grew warmer, until one day I entirely forgot the scarf Tracey had gifted me inside my trunk, but I ended up not needing it anyway, and in the valley surrounding the castle blades of grass emerged again out of the melting snow.
I started to worry when we reached Easter break without mentions of any dragons on part of Hagrid —by this time I'd so perfected the flying down to his hut's roof that I could do it fast and silently enough without the need for a distraction. The only caveat was that enormous dog of his, Fang, who somehow smelled me once and started barking, causing me to almost drop the Quill down Hagrid's chimney.
Most of the content in the parchments were so far useless —him talking to Fang; or more like he talking to himself, because the dog always remained silent. A couple of visits by Sprout, and one by Dumbledore in which Hagrid mentioned that 'those centaurs are at it again'; but that was about it.
I was starting to worry by then, figuring out I'd need to make an excursion into the forest entirely on my own to find myself a unicorn. Beltane was the first of May, and it was merely two weeks away at that point. But my stroke of good luck came as soon as the classes resumed. One day I picked up the parchment, my eyes skimming on it when I read:
'Alright there, Norbert, yeh little rascal' said the giant to the mysterious egg in his hut, 'I've been readin' up, all about dragon rearing, and I got everythin' ready for yeh: a nice warm fire, plenty of food...' The monstrous human let out a terrifying laugh. 'I reckon yeh'll be up an' flyin' before too long!'
I shot back to the castle, heart beating fast, but not before replacing the parchment as I always did. Now I would have to be more careful about this not to jinx it, so to speak. The timing of it was critically important, as was Malfoy's participation.
At least that aspect seemed to be taking care of itself. Something had happened at the last Quidditch match —which I hadn't attended, because it wasn't Slytherin playing and so I didn't have to, thank-you-very-much— that had caused Draco to become even more obsessively focused on the three plucky Gryffindors, shadowing them everywhere they went.
I had planned to shadow him in turn, use that as my chance to weave myself into his plot, but it turned out to be unnecessary; because he simply announced his discoveries to all of us one dinner at the Great Hall:
"A dragon?" repeated Zabini, his tone unbelieving. "Are you sure about that?"
"Yes, I'm telling you! That oaf Hagrid is raising a dragon in his hovel, and Potter and his friends know all about it!"
"Mate, it can't be," said third year Cassius Warrington, who was sitting a couple seats away from him. "Hagrid's hut is made out of wood, and with a straw roof. If he had a dragon inside it, it would already be nothing but a pile of ashes."
"You probably saw an Ashwinder," added Greengrass. "I heard Professor Kettleburn is having the fourth years practice with them. They can be very–"
"It wasn't an Ashwinder, it was a dragon! You will all see it too, once I catch them in the act. I will have both Potter and Hagrid expelled!" sentenced Malfoy before leaving the table in a huff.
It was easy, then, to take advantage of the opportunity. I caught up with him later that same day, when he was with Goyle and Crabbe on their way back to the dungeons. I was alone myself, which still made me uneasy when in the dungeons, but Tracey was spending more and more time in the common room these days —dealing with the growing mountains of homework the professors liked to torture us with every day.
I was resting my back on the stone wall, pretty much blocking the narrow passageway. The boys all stopped to look at me —Goyle with a furrowed brow, Malfoy with impatience. Crabbe just... was there, his expression vacant.
"Get out of the way, Sarramond. I don't have time for your little games," said Malfoy.
"Oh? No time for this handy transcript I have here, where Hagrid admits he's actually keeping a dragon?" I replied easily, tempting him with the piece of parchment.
His eyebrows shot up and he moved to take the paper off my hand. I allowed him to grab it.
"Well, would you look at this?... It seems even you can learn how to grow a proper house conscience."
"Not so fast, Malfoy. I want something in return."
He shrugged, tucking the parchment into a pocket and giving me a shit-eating grin. "Why should I give you anything? After all, you just volunteered the proof I needed."
I rolled my eyes. "That's not proof, Malfoy! If you show that to a professor they'll just think you wrote it yourself!"
The idiot crossed his arms, his nose up high in the air. "Well, of course! I didn't mean that; that's obvious! But what are you offering me then?"
Oh my God, did I really have to paint him a picture?
"You're planning to catch them with the dragon and expose them to a professor, right? Right. And I have a way of spying on them, you see. So the plan is easy: I help you catch them, and we both share the glory!"
He seemed unconvinced: "I thought you and that Granger girl were friends. So why do you want to help me do this now?"
I shrugged "I'm opportunistic, you should already know that. You see... it could help me, getting some recognition in our house. I don't mind Granger, but Beltane is approaching fast, you know... and that's... much more important to me."
I felt like shit, using my situation with Selwyn as leverage to convince him. But it had a veneer of truth to it, since that was ultimately the reason I was doing all this for, albeit in a roundabout way. It worked well enough, though, because he had been there to witness the effects of Burke's curse. And he looked a bit sheepish and uncomfortable at the reminder.
"Yes... well, yes, we could do that. Keep me informed of their movements, and I'll tell you what our next step is," he ordered me, before resuming his walk to the Slytherin dungeons, escorted by his two thugs.
I closed my eyes and shook my head at the little prat's retreating back.
I had to swallow my pride during the following days too, as he acted as a complete pompous arse, pretending to order me around and evaluating my usefulness when I reported to him on what the Trio were up to. Not that he didn't know already, as he still stalked them himself, probably not trusting me to be up to the task. Which sure, made me want to slap the Malfoy-ness out of the boy, but it was a safety net of sorts, one that ensured I wouldn't miss a fundamental clue and derail the whole thing.
Not that I did, though, because soon enough I hit gold when checking on the Quill's parchment, ignoring the strange growl-like noises emanating out of Hagrid's cabin:
'–can't wait any longer, Hagrid!' exclaimed the boy in glasses. 'Ron's brother Charlie asked us to bring him to the Astronomy tower this Saturday at midnight.' The swot girl next to him nodded and added: 'It's the best for Norbert, you'll see.'
"Jackpot!"
"Hey! Yeh there, lass, what're yeh doin' up there?"
I cringed at the sound of Hagrid's voice, turning on my broom to find the top of his bearded head rising over the lip of the thatched rood.
"Uhm... sorry, have you seen a quaffle here? We seem to have lost one," I explained, waving in the general direction of Tracey —who was patiently waiting for me to be done atop her own broom, some thirty feet above us.
"A quaffle? No, no, haven't seen one. But yeh better head off now, quick, before he smells... ahem, I mean... before... Hold on, ain't yeh a first year? Where'd yeh get that broom, eh?"
"Okay bye!" I shouted, raising fast in the air, both parchment and quill grabbed tight and pressed against the broomstick. I hadn't had enough time to restock and reset the spying contraption like usual, but then again I already had everything I needed. Now it was just a matter of waiting until the day came, and sticking to Malfoy like Professor Trelawney to her sherry, allowing him to set the pace.
Which was easier said than done, because he met the news I brought with a condescending "I guess you're not completely useless, then," but immediately attempted to weasel out of the deal once he realised he had all he wanted from me.
A quick shrug and a veiled thread —"I sure hope nobody will warn Potter that you know about the meeting's date"— did the trick there, though. And come Saturday I found myself leaving the common room by his side, late enough that everybody else had already gone to bed.
"Follow me, Sarramond; I know the quickest way to the Astronomy tower," he said as he made for the Grand Staircase —which sure, it was probably fast if you were lucky with the stairs; but it also tended to be patrolled by prefects on duty and was hard to find hiding places in, making it possibly the worst option if you were skulking around at night.
To say nothing of Peeves, who was currently hard at work putting some sort of sticking substance on the banisters above us, and who Draco had at least noticed. He froze and all but pushed me down the stairs in his rush not to be discovered by the poltergeist.
"There is another staircase we can use next to the Defence classroom," he said, as if I was new to the castle myself. "Let's go there instead. It's a longer walk, but we won't risk that ghostly pest noticing us."
The entire detour cost us a good ten minutes, and I had to restrain myself not to throttle the pure-blood heir to death when he simply... ambled along the corridors as if he owned the place; with not a thought put to stealth, his steps echoing in the stone floors, the bright light coming from his wand illuminating the walls as we marched.
No wonder he was caught —if my foggy memories from the book I'd read back when I'd been a child in my previous life weren't lying. And I knew that was exactly what I needed to happen, the whole purpose of being by his side; and that I couldn't afford the consequences of taking charge here, to correct him and teach him to be silent, to step just so, to keep away of the lit scones you cretin... but it still offended the thief inside me.
He was at least smart enough to kill the light with a muttered 'Nox' as we approached our destination, and we waited in utter darkness behind a corner by the foot of the Astronomy tower's stairs.
I said: "For future reference... you can lower the intensity of the wand-lighting charm with a down swish. It helps in keeping your eyes adapted to the darkness and so that you don't end... you know, like we are now: blind as bats."
"Shut up! I think I saw something move, over there."
"I can't see where you're pointing at, Malfoy. And herein lies the prob—"
"Shh!"
I narrowed my eyes, trying to see whatever it was the twat had seen, but it was all a wall of deep black in front of me. Hmm... did he perhaps have better eyesight than me? I figured it could be the case. Wouldn't he end up as a Seeker in the Slytherin Quidditch team after all? Sure, he would buy his way in, but I guessed there might be a reason he took the Seeker role rather than, say, that of a Beater.
What, something resembling talent? In Draco Malfoy? It grated, having to recognise it.
Not that it served us well here, because not a minute later a door opened right beside us and I was blinded by a light to my face. I blinked like an owl, trying to see something in the approaching shape.
"What are you two doing out of your beds?" the sudden apparition shrieked, like it was a banshee or something.
"Ah, good night, Professor McGonagall," I replied. "We were just–" but she simply took hold of my clothes and dragged me fully into the light. I tried to shrug her off, but her grasp was an ironclad vice. I gritted my teeth, because I was starting to get tired of adults manhandling me. Treating me as if I was nothing but a small child.
And sure, I was one, I guessed; but it still ruffled my feathers.
"I don't want to hear another word of your lies, Miss Sarramond," she replied. "And you too, Mr. Malfoy! Come here at once!"
"But Professor," he said. "We were trying to stop Harry Potter from bringing a dragon into the castle!"
That seemed like the worst possible thing to say, because her grasp on me turned even more vicious. "Nothing but liars, the both of you! You should be ashamed! Detention, and twenty points from Slytherin for each of you. We shall see what your Head of House has to say about all of this. Now follow me!"
Twenty each?! I sighed. Our older year housemates were going to kill us come morning. Or well, they were going to kill me, and look disapprovingly at Malfoy.
We followed her all the way down to the dungeons, both of us remaining silent not to trigger the older witch into cursing us or removing even more points or something. I wasn't really surprised when we walked straight to the random wall where the entrance to our common room was hidden —of course she would know where it was, she was Dumbledore's second in command after all. But then she stopped and said to us: "Well? Go on, say the password."
"Prestige," muttered Malfoy, his brow furrowed and his arms crossed. He didn't look like he enjoyed revealing the password to a Gryffindor, but he'd probably guessed the alternative —McGonagall actually waking Snape up at midnight and on a weekend— would be much, much... much worse to us.
"This is your fault," he said to me once we were on our own, crossing a deserted common room towards the stairs leading up to the dormitories. "You were too noisy and got us caught. I should never have agreed for you to follow me!"
"Yeah, because I'm sure waking up all the portraits in the second floor's corridor had nothing to do with it. Good night, Malfoy."
It was only the mysterious and massive loss of points on the Gryffindor clock that saved us from a summary execution, when the rest of the house found out what had happened early next morning. Snape, too, was surprisingly understanding when we ended up at his office after breakfast. He didn't spend any energies berating us or telling us how wrong wandering out at night was. No, he simply looked at us with bored disdain as he consulted his schedule to assign us our detention, as if it was the fact that we had been caught that we should be ashamed for, more than anything else.
After a couple of minutes in which I feared the worst —no unicorn blood, and what was arguably worse: another entire afternoon spent cutting up beetles and plants into small pieces in solemn silence— his schedule turned to be mercifully busy during the week to handle our detention personally, so he handed us off to Filch.
Yeah, it was a total success, in the end. A lot of work, but it had paid off: I had managed to position myself in just the right time and place to obtain the forbidden substance.
Well, almost —I thought a couple of days later as the night of our detention came and Malfoy and I went to the Entrance Hall to meet with the grouchy Hogwarts' caretaker— because I still needed to do the deed.
So it was with a mix of optimism and nervousness that I joined the little group. There was Filch, who looked to be enjoying our predicament immensely; Hermione, who didn't even look my way and had also skipped the last meeting of the Read-Ahead Club; Neville Longbottom for some reason; and Harry Potter. The saviour of Wizarding Britain sent me a thunderous look as Malfoy and I entered the hall, one loaded with such betrayal and contempt that it gave me real pause.
It was reinforced a few minutes later, as Filch led us outside, when he approached and muttered to me in an angry tone "Ron was right," before rapidly walking away and towards his housemates.