Pureblood. Half-blood. Muggleborn. In seventeen years of her existence, those were the most lasting words with the exception of her name. In those seventeen year, those words played different roles in her life. In those years, their meanings had had changed from whatever angle you see. In those seventeen years, she had learned how different those words truly were- that was, they're not different at all.
The rhythmic clicking of soles of shoes of every student from the Slytherin house echoed through the otherwise silent corridors down to the Slytherin dungeons. Argus Filch, the caretaker, sneered as he glanced every once in a while to the huge group as he led them all to the proverbial snake pit. His footsteps were the only mismatch from the rhythm.
The Slytherins were in different states of emotions from the moment they were ordered to stay in the dungeons. But something was common. Every Slytherin held no outward showcase of emotion. No one twitched a lip, an eyebrow or eye. They were trained like a barren army, bare of emotions. They walked with hands clasped on their backs, chins high, and noses up in the air. This irritated the old Squib more.
The wall that was the entrance of the Slytherin dungeons was simply that. It was a wall, soon to be broken, or maybe not from the full out war that was to happen. The old man stopped and sneered at the students. The seventh years showed no emotion nor sign of acknowledgement to the man. They ignored him as Mr. Filch all but shout his loath to them. They didn't grace him with a glance. Only, they stared at the wall and said the password.
The man left, his footfalls were mismatched, clanking like he was heaving a fake leg. Sooner than later, he was forgotten; his noise were inconsequential. The wall before the students was gone, revealing a doorway for them to enter. He entered first, and she followed. Soon, every single student of the Slytherin house filled the common room and the dormitories. The wall was back when the last student entered and that was that. They were locked up. Left alone to fend for themselves. It was starting.
She sat down on one of the black arm chairs in front of the fireplace by the common room. The Slytherin communal area was never crowded until now. Slytherins tend to stay by themselves and to never trust anyone. But this was a different case, this was a war.
She ignored the strands of hair that had escaped her bun. She maintained her chilled emotionless face and stared at the fire. It didn't give any warmth to any occupants of the room. It was a decoration, nothing more. The snakes were not allowed to feel warmth after all.
She was out of the loop. They all knew that. She just stared, with a very far off look in her eyes. No one dared to talk, to reach for her. She was untouchable, she was high up there. Besides, no one cared. They had themselves to preserve. Self-preservation was after the first and foremost thoughts of Slytherins.
Huddled in corners were the younger students. First and second years were the only ones allowed to show their emotions openly. They murmured to each other, trembled in fear and some in anticipation. They were too young to know what's going on. It was not like anyone know what will happen, but they were allowed to imagine. No one stopped them. Everyone had other business to attend to.
The third and fourth years were different matter. They still show their emotions, but it was only in their eyes, and their hands. No words passed through them. They simply looked at each other, held conversations through stares, held each others hands, but nothing extreme comfort that a Gryffindor would do. None of that.
The fifth and sixth years had dominated the dormitories. It was an unspoken rule that as you grow older, you should know how to stop showing emotions, even in private. But those fifteen and sixteen years old were hormonal teenagers. They were unsure of what would happen, they simply didn't understand yet. So they chose to spend their time with something they did understand. Somehow, no one really cared. Not when they're in various state of uncertainty.
The seventh years, the group who had lesser number, had claimed the main area of the common room. They were the most silent. They were the untouchables. Most of them were part of the upper echelon of the wizarding society. They were the ones present since the beginning of the events leading to the war that was to happen sooner than later. They were the children who were forced to grow up quicker. They were the young adults who had matured more than necessary in a short span of time. They were the ones who were present in all the horrors, and they chose to be alone. She was part of them.
Orange flames were reflected in her glossy black eyes as she continued her silent stares. Her mind had tuned out everything after McGonagall ordered them to go back where they belong, away from the war, away from their families. She supposed she was relieved, but it was quick and soon her heart- which was almost nonexistent until now- was filled with every emotion imaginable. She blamed her breeding and the numerous etiquette lessons for her expressionless face. It was something she was always proud of.
In less than twenty four hours, their lives would be changed indefinitely. No matter what side won, it would change. There was no saying who would come out alive, or dead. There was no saying who would come out with complete families, or who would be orphans and alone. There was simply no saying who were purebloods, half-bloods, and muggleborns anymore. Every one, in less than twenty four hours, would be the same- all of them would be pawns, fighting in a war. Except the Slytherin house of course.
They were always excluded.
She stared as her mind drifted off, evaluating the knowledge that was fed off to her since she was born. This war had something to do with said knowledge and her mind was telling her to re-evaluate everything, now that she was wiser. She was wise enough to know what's right and what's wrong. She was wise enought to not accept everything that they told her. She was wise enough to make her own inferences, and to keep her mind open.
With this new resolve, she shifted slightly on her seat. She took a moment to glance around. Her eyes shifted to the young kids, barely out of innocence yet had to stay in fright and blind anticipation of what was to come. Maybe they'd be better here, away from the battle. Then again, maybe not. This was still too close, and any moment, the Slytherin dungeons could be attacked. She glanced very quickly to the next group but they were liked the first. Still too young.
Her eyes landed on the rest of the seventh years. Each of them occupied a seat in the plush armchairs. Backs stiff and straight, eyes betraying no emotion, every seventh year Slytherin seemed to be lost in their own thoughts. She stifled a sigh, these were the kids she was practically attached hip to hip since they were in nappies. They were just like her. Maybe they were trying to reevaluate. Maybe they were trying to decide for themselves, once and for all. Maybe...
Black orbs landed back to the fire. It was useless, just like the rest of them, she thought. It gave no warmth nor light in the dark and cold dungeons. It was just like them. While all those kids in other houses were evacuated from the castle, and the others prepared for the fight that was to come, the whole Slytherin house were left to themselves. Left to be insane.
She scoffed to herself. Useless pathetic lot. Those bleeding hearted Gryffindors. The Dark Lord was right, they were weak. Fighting for a cause? Psh. Fools, that was what she liked to call them.
Or at least some part of her called them that. Another part, one that was trying to get out of its barriers, one that's trying to engulf that supremacist part, was screaming for something. It was screaming for the what ifs. What if they didn't leave the dungeons alone? What if they killed them all? What if they didn't care for the pureblood anymore? What if...
Pureblood. Half-blood. Muggleborn. Somehow, they were different. It wasn't the difference that was told to her when she's a kid, fed to her as grew up, forced to her as she entered adulthood. It wasn't that difference.
Granger. She was the freak of the nature of them all. How come a muggleborn would be much more than a pureblood? More powerful? More intellectual? How come she'd proven that she's more of a witch than a muggle? They'd all expected Draco to be on top, but time and time again, Granger bested him. That was the most confusing of it all.
She saw her in the Great Hall, standing by her friend, Wonderboy Potter and the Weasel. She looked stressed and matured, she looked like she'd seen more than enough to last her a lifetime. Everyone who stood by them had that same look in their eyes, something she'd seen before. Something she wished she didn't see.
She saw it in her own eyes when she was alone in her room. She saw it in the mirror as she stared hard trying to make sense of who was the girl in the looking glass. It was her, only with the horrors. Then it clicked.
They're just the same. They were people, fighting for something they believed in, and had seen the horrors they didn't want to see. They were the same people who stood behind a line, only their lines were different. Pureblood. Hallf-blood. Muggleborns. They were the same, except for their heritage, but it didn't mean one was higher than the other, too high that they wouldn't see the same horrors that would haunt them until they've recovered enough. No one was immune.
Suddenly, everything flooded to her. She recalled a rumor she heard that the Dark Lord himself was not a pureblood. He was a hypocrite, but a master manipulator. He wouldn't care if his people died. He wouldn't care if the precious pureblood were spilled. He wouldn't care until he killed Potter and he had the full reigns of the society. He wouldn't care for them.
For the first time since leaving the Great Hall, she showed some emotion in her eyes. Fear. They weren't safe. No one was, until he was killed. Her eyes shifted to the wall that was the entrance to the common room. She hoped no one will come and destroy them all. Her senses heightened at this new realization. The simpers of the first and second years, the fidgetting of the third and fourth years, the clanging and moans up in the dormitories from the fifth and sixth years and the utter silence from the seventh years. They were just kids, and she could only hope that they wouldn't be harmed.
She stood from her seat and walked to the charmed window. It was the only way for them to know what's happening in the outside world. It was surely damp and dark from being submerged in the water, but the series of bright lights of the spells casted from either side of the battle had told her one thing. "It was starting," she said loudly enough for the group to hear. Her eyes stayed focused in the splash of colors above them. She stared with fascination mixed with fear. Any moment now.
BANG!
It echoed through the whole school. She couldn't be sure what happened, but she knew it was not pretty. Another resounding bang echoed. Pansy Parkinson sat back on her seat and stared at the flames in the fireplace. She clenched her hands on the hem of her skirt as she waited for the next event to make its presence known. Another flash or another sound would suffice, because in the dark and cold dungeons, the Slytherins could only wait.