a/n: Wanted to explore the dynamics of the Slytherin house (circa sixth/seventh year); take from it what you will.
sown in seeds of discontent
i.
monarchy
The Slytherin House reeks of monarchial rule, astoundingly fitting for those claiming ancestry of the ancient, noble, pure blood. There's the self-assured prince, the uncontested queen and all the- debatably- pretty princesses. And everyone else? Well, titles of lesser rank ought to be enough for them.
(but still, they're the dukes and the earls and the duchesses because the common people don't (can't, won't) exist in this house)
A day in the common in room may as well be a day in the court, with its false smiles, calculated politeness and formalities all for show in the quest for power. Because, deny it or not, isn't that the ultimate goal?
(that dusty old hat told you that you have the skills, now use them)
Yet it doesn't take much for monarchy to dissolve into anarchy and this marble palace to collapse like a matchstick house. Just one person, one move into the 'unaccepted' and a slight nudge from the ever encompassing outside world.
(And isn't this just a tale for the times? Royalty and anarchy- all lies and secrets and false motives?)
...
It's starting, with a breakaway from normal and love (the grand catalyst) and a shift too fast for anyone to control.
Now keep your heads held high, hands firmly on the throne and feign perfection while you still can.
(Because the seeds have been sown and sure as hell, it's coming)
ii.
shift
Draco Malfoy was undoubtedly the Slytherin prince: rich, proud, arrogant and seemingly too charismatic for his own good. And since every prince needs his own guard, Crabbe and Goyle were more than happy to fill that role.
Blaise and Theo found this highly amusing, the blond boy flashing his left forearm at whomever disagreed with him. That is, except for Daphne Greengrass- he wasn't a fool. Besides, it was the younger Greengrass who was beginning to catch his eye and pissing off the queen would ultimately fail him in the long run.
Theo often wondered whether Pansy realized she was far from in charge of the girls in their year, for though she sucked up to Draco excessively, she was nothing more than a pug-faced princess pretending. Exhibit A: Breakfast in the Great Hall nearly every morning.
"Draco, why don't you eat something? You look horribly pale, you know." Draco grunted in response, turning his attention back to a book on vanishing spells.
"Salazar, Parkinson. He may just die of annoyance if you keep hanging around." Blaise chipped in, resulting in a snort from Daphne and Theo. Draco glanced up briefly to glare at the lot of them.
"Aw, what's the matter Malfoy? Is your 'special task' too much? I mean, you're practically turning into Granger the way you've been studying." Daphne taunted, eagerly looking over her food as she waited for his response.
"Don't," Draco spat, "Compare me to a filthy mudblood like her. And does it matter? At least I am doing something for the Dark Lord's cause. I'm helping my father, which is more than Nott can say." he finished, gathering his book and a piece of toast before storming out of the Great Hall, Pansy hot on his heels.
Blaise shrugged, turning his attention back to his breakfast. This bickering was all too familiar by now. Daphne however, turned to Theo next to her, giving him a questioning look.
Theo shrugged, "Contrary to what Malfoy thinks, I'm knocking two chasers with one bludger. By not helping my father, I'm not helping a-" he paused, his voice dropping an octave, "madman. And vice versa."
He held his breath a moment, waiting to see what kind of response his comment would generate. However, the queen simply looked him over, shrugged and gathered her things for class.
"Well, see you two later."
...
Draco was, by Blaise's definition, falling apart. He'd missed several classes and even more Quidditch practices. He spent his time pacing the astronomy tower or off- somewhere. No one was really sure where he went to be honest.
Not to say this didn't have its benefits; Crabbe and Goyle were rarely around for example.
It seemed however, that Pansy was lost without her idol around as often and thus, made many attempts to piss off everyone else. Blaise tried to ignore her, while Theo rarely would engage in conversation except to take a crack at her. And well, Daphne-
"For fuck's sake Parkinson, sit down," she yelled irritably, brushing her dark hair back and out of her face. Pansy looked indignant.
"Down girl, down. C'mon there's a good puppy," Theo mocked in a high-pitched voice, winning a smirk from Daphne. Blaise sighed loudly, receiving looks but giving less than a damn. His house thinks him blind sometimes- Nott's rearing for the spot as prince that Malfoy's so conveniently abandoned; yet Blaise finds him a bit uncouth for the position.
And in reality, he himself would do much better than Nott ever could, even if he's fucking the damn queen.
And Parkinson? Well she's just a fly buzzing in his ear now and there's a quick fix for that, isn't there?
Swat.
...
Tracey has always prided herself in being the perfect Slytherin- and to be such, one must observe. And over six years she's seen a lot.
But this, this is something new and unexpected and she's starting to wonder if the grand palace of Slytherin will hold. Two camps seem planted and it's not much longer, she thinks, for the spark to hit the tinder and the whole place to go up in flames.
She was always quieter than the others, even more than Millicent, who for all her bulk (and that one fight with Granger second year) was quite a quiet and gentle person.
She found people often talked in front of her as if she wasn't there and she's decided, six years later, that that is the most brilliant form of power she could have in the House. After all, if Slytherin is a bone-dry forest, she could be that spark-
because she's the silent one, the slightly introverted girl from an only slightly prosperous pureblooded (?) family. She doesn't have a grand name and perhaps the shortest reputation in their year, even more so than Abbot from Hufflepuff. When she suddenly decides to build one, however, well, that might just create a bit too much friction for comfort.
iii.
burn
Pansy is quite certain, among many other things, that Tracey is a good for nothing slut. Sidling up to Draco all the time, when he clearly doesn't want to be bothered. As if he would even look at her anyway. He has much more important things to worry about, like his work for the Dark Lord. Besides, while he worries about that, she can worry about him. And the slut.
Now, not all Slytherins cheat and not all cheaters are Slytherins. It just happens that the best cheaters are, in fact, Slytherins.
And as a seventh year, well, Pansy may just be the most adept of them all.
...
The boiling liquid burns as it hits her skin. She bites her tongue to quell her initial reaction and then puts forth a delightful shriek.
Professor Slughorn waddles down the rows to the back of the dungeon where Pansy has set up her cauldron next to Tracey. Her ingredients are layed out carefully before her, decidedly separate from Tracey's. So why then, she asks Professor Slughorn, did shrivelfig find it's way into her pot?
"Miss Davis!" Professor Slughorn admonishes, vanishing the ruined potion in Pansy's cauldron. "I warned you all to be very careful of each other's ingredients, this could have been far worse!"
"Oh, Professor! May I please go see Madame Pompfry? It hurts so bad!" Pansy whines, eyes leaking forced tears. Tracey turns, glaring furiously at her.
"Yes of course, Miss Parkinson," Slughorn says. Not quite good enough, Pansy thinks. She gives another little cry and clutches her arm tightly to her chest.
"Ow, ow, ow."
Slughorn sighs, "Miss Davis, please accompany Miss Parkinson to the hospital wing. And you'll have detention on Thursday here with me."
"But Professor," Pansy says, acting surprised. "I thought detentions were conducted exclusively by the Carrows?"
She's put him on the spot and he knows. If it had been any other year, Tracey would be given a tongue-lashing and a bit of cleaning. But this year, this brilliant, brilliant year, Slughorn wouldn't even imagine giving detention for something simple like this. But a slip of the tongue was all that Pansy needed.
"Yes, I-I suppose you're right Miss Parkinson. I'm sorry Miss Davis, but you'll have your detention with Professor Carrow then. I'll let you know the time."
Sauntering out of the room, Pansy grinned in victory. But Tracey zoned out the girl's gloating and hid her frown and anger. Her head was already spinning with ideas and she had three days to put them into practice.
...
Pansy's arm, miraculously, took very little time to heal. But a healed arm didn't mean Tracey was out of detention. And by the time Pansy returned to the common room, the entire year seemed to realize this.
"Hi, Draco," she said, nearly sitting on his lap as he bent over his Dark Arts essay due the following class. He elbowed her out of his space, not looking up from his paper. He'd been sitting in front of the fire and had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing long pale arms. She could just make out the Dark Mark on his inner left forearm before he caught the glance and shifted his arm.
"Whatcha doing?" she questions, unperturbed by his evident disgruntled attitude.
"M'essay for Dark Arts," he mumbled, "It's due before detentions next class."
"Oh right, I forgot we have those next time, " she said, far too cheerily. Draco glanced up.
"Pansy, why does Davis have detention next class? Hmm?"
"How'd you find out?" she questioned instantly, pursing her lips together, glaring at the girl's back across the room. Draco shrugged.
"She told Zabini and I heard it from him," he said.
"Wait- her and Zabini are together?" Pansy asked, confused. She thought Davis was still pining after Draco.
"They're not together," Draco drawled, annoyed, "Why do you think people always have to be together to talk? Salazar, learn how normal people interact, Parkinson," he said, abruptly standing up and retreating to the boys' dormitory. Pansy sat there, mouth agape like some sort of fish.
The little-
Turning Draco against her? Well then!
iv.
schism
Daphne takes a deep breath before whispering "Crucio!". The Gryffindor fourth year flinches, waiting for the pain that doesn't come, betraying his "tough guy" attitude with a simple human emotion. Fear.
"Greengrass!" Carrow squaks, wadling across the room and pushing through the Ravenclaws who seem relieved that Daphne has garnered his attention. Luna Lovegood sits ramrod straight in the uncomfortable wooden chairs lined up for the students in detention, watching Daphne and the other Slytherins with careful consideration.
He raps the back of her dark-haired head with his wand and then points imperiously at the fourth year, who raises an eyebrow in defiance. Carrows sneers, "Again, Greengrass."
"Crucio," she whispers again, sending the Gryffindor into a spasm of pain greater than before, but nothing, nothing, like the way Crabbe made the Longbottom boy collapse five minutes before. Carrow narrows his eyes, ushering Tracey forward from her seat next to Luna. Her eyes previously wide with anticipation, relax as he turns Daphne sharp by the shoulder and points at her. Daphne shakes her head vehemently.
"But, Professor!"
"Greengrass!" He roars. Tracey sends her a pleading look, giving a discreet glance to Crabbe's and Salazar forbid, Parkinson. Gulping, she acquiesces: "Crucio!"
But the word is choked out and Tracey barely flinches, perhaps as if she were shocked. Carrow tsks and calls Pansy over who grins viciously.
"Crucio!" she shrieks, pointing her wand imperiously with a once burnt arm. Tracey falls to a heap on the classroom floor, writhing. Crabbe looks over, impressed and Carrow beams at his star student.
"Very good Miss Parkinson! That's the spirit-" he stops as Daphne empties her lunch onto the floor at the hem of his robes. "Which is more than I can say for others," he says disdainfully. "Mr. Nott! Take Miss Greengrass to the Hospital Wing. And Miss Goodlove-"
"Lovegood, Professor," Luna corrects in her airy way, enthralled it would appear by the the Queen's disgrace, her eyes wider than normal as Daphne continues retching.
"Whichever. Clean this, without magic."
It seems like a punishment to the squat Death Eater but Luna accepts the task gladly and sends out a silent thank you to Daphne Greengrass for keeping her away from unforgivable curses (although, they wouldn't be her first). When class ends she glides out of the door, transfiguring a quill into a blooming dandelion. She stops Blaise in his path, handing it to him.
"Give this to Daphne, will you? Tell her to wait and make a wish. Good karma and all."
Blaise looks curiously after the bruised Ravenclaw with her long, tangled blonde hair running down the back of patched robes and wonders if there are, just simply, the truly innocent in this world.
And if there are, he concludes, they sure as hell aren't from his house.
...
Theo's father always spoke of how much Hogwarts would be improved under Snape's control, especially now that the Carrows had taken up teaching positions. Theo was inclined to disagree. Snape was a sour, stale man, both as Head of the Slytherin house and as the Potions master. Every once and a while, Theo could see why the Gryffindors hated the man so much- he could barely stand him sometimes.
And the Carrows! They were rodents from the start. Defense Against the Dark Arts (excuse him, Dark Arts) had become increasingly boring, despite the inherent danger of the class, with lethal curses flying around the room.
Muggle Studies was a subject he'd never planned on taking and when he was forced to, the information was nothing new. He'd already heard the same old shit from his father's dirty mouth. As had Malfoy. And Crabbe. And Goyle. And Parkinson.
He doubted Blaise had. Maybe Daphne-
He shuttered to think of Daphne spewing off the propaganda (and just because he may or may not agree with any of it, doesn't mean he can't recognize it) from her delicate mouth.
Not that it's usually delicate. Or that Daphne is delicate at all, for that matter.
Except for sometimes, when Malfoy is out doing his latest mission for the Dark Lord; when Crabbe and Goyle are giving detention; when Blaise is hunched over his work in the common room; these are the sometimes she's delicate as she appears, curled up tightly beside him with her long brunette hair falling in curtains over her pale skin, dotted with small bruises of refusal.
And he pretends he won't watch bloodied second-years trudge through the halls, or see Ginny Weasley's robes hang loosely off her frame, or realize that Loony Lovegood never returned from Christmas Hols, or that the Longbottom boy hasn't been seen for weeks.
He pretends he's a normal seventh-year, worrying about N.E.W.T's and not war, sleeping soundly with his beautiful girlfriend next to him-
and well, at least half of that's true.
v.
anarchy
Potter is here, in front of the school and Theo swears everyone in the Great Hall must gaping like him, shell-shocked by the boy's presence. He's fucking indestructible.
But then Parkinson opens her mouth as usual, the rest of the school (as usual) turns their backs to the Slytherins- or rather their wands- and that's when Theo realizes it's over. His illusion is shattered; the Dark Lord is outside the place he thought was an escape and he's following the rest of the Slytherins out, obediently.
Not because he's a coward- Slytherins are not cowards, never that. But they look out for themselves and then for each other and those two things are all that matters.
(But that was before the rift, before the Prince disappeared and the pretty princesses fought and shattered the court in two).
Daphne appears alongside him and her vice-like grip of his elbow pulls him out of the flow of students into Hogsmede. They're all young, the first year to the fifth years, terrified and shaking no matter which house they're from. The reds and blues and yellows and even greens begin to mingle, searching for support and comfort and understanding.
Theo looks around and sees not one seventh year Gryffindor and very few of the Ravenclaws or Hufflepuffs. The Slytherins stand apart from the younger kids, with looks ranging from glee to disgust to fear. He wonders what expression graces his face- maybe a mixture of all three.
Daphne, he soon realizes, has begun dragging him back towards the school and when he notices he stops short, his heels digging into the ground. Daphne whips around, dark hair wild, and levels a glare at him worthy of the Queen of Slytherin. And he drops his shoulders and stops resisting, drawing his wand as a source of comfort before following her back toward the battle raging in the castle. They push against the continual flow of students, Daphne holding her wand above her as a beacon, glowing green.
And perhaps the monarchy has been dissipated, but Theo swears he'll follow her anywhere. And behind him, Blaise and Tracey have appeared, soldiers reporting for duty. Even Millicent. Just an armor guard following their Queen.
Theo looks for the disgraced prince but he's no where to be found. He sneers- coward.
...
When he stands in the middle of what formerly was the Great Hall, Theo feels suddenly young, even childish. A part of his brain, though small, cries out for his mum and later, his dad. The darkness is only broken by flashes of light, the silence by screams and cries and pleading. The smell of blood permeates the air.
Theo feels nauseous.
Daphne disappeared with Blaise and he hasn't seen Tracey or Millicent since they arrived on castle grounds. It takes everything he has to remain calm. Eyes alert and wand up, he edges toward the wall, avoiding crumbling stone and flying words. Daphne, Blaise, Tracey, Millicent. He pauses- he was putting them all before himself, he thinks.
He could have been a Gryffindor. The idea makes him laugh. In the middle of horror that will creep in his nightmares for years, Theo Nott laughs.
Until of course, he hears a familiar voice: "Theodore.." it whispers. Theo's head whips around; only his parents ever use his full name. And laying on the ground, head propped against a fallen pillar, is his father.
"Dad!" he exclaims, willfully ignoring the mask on the ground, fallen from his father's face and marking him a Death Eater. None of that matters now, only the injured man on the ground does who reaches for him like Theo had done years earlier, when he fell out of a tree and broke his leg. His mother had healed it instantly.
Healed...
"Dad, dad, I'm here. Don't move, I'm going to get help!" he promises, scanning the flashes for a friendly face. Nothing, until he notices a dark braid trailing behind a small woman, a bright red cross adorned on her robes. Theo recalls seeing the symbol on trips to London- muggles used it on medical transports.
"Padma!" he screams, "Padma! Padma, please!"
The Ravenclaw runs toward him, clearly not knowing who lays at his feet. Theo kicks away the mask as he watches Padma's face shift briefly, from concern to disgust, before reverting to a neutral, professional expression.
"Yes?" she asks, calmly as if he were on a walk in the park.
"Just can you please help him? It's my father, I..." he trails off. Padma gives a curt nod of assent, leaning over the elder Nott. The latter's eyes widen, then narrow while his hand scrambles for his wand. Theo notices Padma tighten the grip on her own.
"Dad no! She's here to help, she's here to help, you idiot!" he says, nervous and frightened to the point of tears. Padma makes no other indication she noticed the threat, quickly beginning to dress the wound on the man's arm. Theo takes a deep breath.
"Thank you," he says sincerely. Another curt nod and the girl is gone, disappeared into the darkness. His father gingerly sits up, flexes his fingers and snatches his wand from the floor. With a cursory gaze at his son, he too disappears.
Theo slouches against the wall, ignoring the blood, alone once again.
...
Crabbe is dead.
As is Potter.
Draco feels as though he should be upset by the former and thrilled by the later. He should be exalted by his house and feared by the rest of his peers because they know who he is and this is his proof that he chose the winning side. The youngest Death Eater, glorified when he was but a student. That could only mean good things from here on out.
Yet (not that he will ever tell) he is underwhelmed, and more worrisome, scared. Honest and true fright of the man (?) who has lived in his house, fear for his family, the Dark Lord's greatest failure- his mother not even a Death Eater, his father deemed a disappointment.
Potter's body is hoisted up and screams pierce the air; up front, before the Dark Lord, Potter's friends howl their disbelief.
Suddenly the Longbottom boy has stepped up and before Draco can process the situation, the great snake's head hits the floor and the night once again breaks into chaos.
Until...
Oh bloody hell.
The man won't die.
Fucking Potter.
...
Theo's hands are still jittery, particularly the left one where a burn grazes the outside of his pinkie finger, the aftermath of a flying curse that dumb luck kept from hurting him further. Daphne sits on the bench next him, at a table that used to belong to the Hufflepuff house, clutching her younger sister. Both are sobbing, though whether from happiness or sadness he can't tell. His right hand is resting lightly on her knee, thumb running in circles, but his eyes are focused elsewhere.
The Dark Lord is dead. And Bellatrix Lestrange. And Crabbe.
Potter on the other hand, is decidedly not.
The-Boy-Who-Lived-Twice is walking blearily through the Great Hall receiving people's praise and thanks in addition to their sorrows. Theo doesn't know how to feel about the situation; in fact, he's chosen not to feel much of anything for the moment. His father had disowned him moments ago, on his way out the door and led by a phalanx of Aurors.
"Asking for help?" He'd hissed at Theo, "From a brown, impure piece of filth." This had been followed by the elder Nott spitting at him. "I got her, I'll tell you- I taught her the lesson you were too weak to."
A bout of profanity followed.
Now on his bench, Theo watched as Padma Patil walked around the Great Hall, treating those who needed it succinctly and devoid of emotion, her face drawn and shocked. It was surprisingly clean of blood and dirt, tracked away by tears. When he saw her, with the red cross still on her arm, his stomach sank. Padma Patil was still standing, in as good health as was to be expected.
He didn't see Parvati anywhere.
He briefly made eye contact with the Ravenclaw and for the rest of his days he was sure he would never see any greater fury than he saw in Padma's eyes then. Unadulterated loathing and disgust that made him break eye contact first, turning his attention back to the remnants of his House, chilled to the bone.
Crabbe dead, Draco huddled in the corner with his family, Pansy nowhere to be seen.
Tracey nursing a broken ankle, Millicent snapping her wand in two, Blaise staring unashamed at Daphne.
And Daphne, sobbing. She's no more than a girl really, humanized by something as simple as emotion.
...
The Queen dethroned.
And the court in their scraps of finery, sitting amongst the ruins of their castle.
Fin.