I'm back sort of after a very long hiatus... I've decided to update this story with better versions of the existing chapters, but the story line will be more or less the same. Hopefully I'll get back to Interception at some point. I just need to get this out of my system first!
December 23rd, 1973
"STUDENTS IN THE LIBRARY! STUDENTS IN THE LIBRARY!"
Peeves the Poltergeists' shriek was an interminable ear-piercing alarm, perfectly pitched to alert anybody within a hundred yards that some form of mischief was going on. Under normal circumstances, Florence Kim would have had her hands clapped over her head to protect herself from the horrendous noise, but as it so happened, these were decidedly not normal circumstances. In fact, were it not for Peeves' cackling cries, she probably would have still been quite unconscious indeed.
As she gasped for air, winded from the impact of having been so unceremoniously thrust into the air and dropped onto the ancient floors of Hogwarts Library's Restricted Section, Florence vaguely wondered just who it was she had run into. The thought didn't stay long in her mind. Despite the fact that she couldn't see anything, the dark world around her still managed to seem like it was somehow spinning. Peeves' voice was like a distant shout, muffled compared to the ringing in her ears. Fighting the urge to vomit occupied most of her thoughts.
A few feet away from Florence's own sprawled out body, a crumpled figure began to stir in the darkness. When books began to rain down upon them, courtesy of Peeves, a few choice swear words joined the cacophony of ringing, cackling, and thumping of books. Luckily - or unluckily - the madness came to a sudden halt when another voice (or roar, rather) joined the chorus of cries.
"Ickle beastie's come to play!" Peeves howled in delight, breaking the sudden silence.
"GET OUT OF HERE, YOU SONOFA -
"Now, now, mustn't curse in front of the students, Beastie," Peeves tutted as an enormous shadow somehow made itself visible despite the darkness of the library.
"GET. OUT. NOW!"
Peeves laughed hysterically but he must have swooped off, for his voice faded off into the distance. Undoubtedly he'd gone off to cause chaos elsewhere for the Beast to deal with after he handled the present situation.
Florence screwed her eyes shut as light suddenly flooded the library.
"You and you," the Beast snarled, his voice terrifyingly quiet. It was a deep rumbling voice that echoed in the now silent library. "Get up," he barked.
Florence gingerly opened her eyes to face the light and shakily stood onto her feet. She'd been crouched down to protect herself from the volley of books Peeves had been gleefully chucking away. The Beast stared down at her with his foggy, unfeeling blue eyes before shifting his gaze. His thin chapped lips were twisted into a sneer.
"Accio! Accio!"
Two wands shot into the air and landed in the Beast's open palm. He caught them with the practiced ease of a man who'd spend a lifetime chasing after errant schoolchildren - and punishing them. Florence looked away from him and her eyes fell upon her interloper for the first time that night. She grimaced in dismay. A pair of mocha-coloured eyes stared unflinchingly back at her. The boy's expression was both cold and furious, quite at odds with the warm shade of his eyes and the youthful tousle of his dark wavy hair.
His name was Evan Rosier, a Slytherin in her year.
"Well now," the Beast hissed maliciously. "Having a midnight rendezvous, were we? A bit young for that, aren't you?" He laughed sardonically at this while the children flushed in anger and embarrassment. "Madame Pince will have your hide to rebind some of these books when she gets back from the holidays, no doubt. But not until I've finished with you myself."
Florence shuddered inwardly. The old caretaker had been nicknamed the Beast for a reason, aside from his hulking form. It was said that his paddle could bring even boys like Ross Baker to tears with a single stroke... a muggle-style beating was considered the most shameful form of discipline among old wizarding families. Only muggles and mudbloods turned to physical violence. A beating meant you weren't even worthy of a punishment by magic.
Though the school governors had officially rescinded corporal punishment only a year ago, memory of the Beast's mythical paddle still lived strong throughout the student body and many an alumnus - it was practically a right of passage if one wanted to be considered "hard". It had taken Dumbledore himself years to get the awful punishment banned for good.
"You can't to do anything, old man," said Rosier scornfully, though the effect was somewhat lost by the crack at the end of his statement. The Beast snickered, and Florence chanced a glance at the Slytherin, whose olive face now featured the faintest slash of pink, though his expression remained blank. His eyes, however, somehow grew colder and she could sense him daring her to laugh.
"Better an old man than a boy whose balls haven't even dropped," the Beast retorted crudely in a mocking tone, squawking his voice at the end as Rosier's had.
"How dare you -
"Enough! Go back to your dorms immediately," the Beast snarled. "You brats have a nice long holiday of maid-work ahead of you. My office after breakfast tomorrow, and don't you dare be a second late. And you better hope none of these books are destroyed, or it'll be coming out of your pockets."
"Give me my wand -
"But I don't have -
"GET. OUT. NOW!"
Florence paled and immediately scurried past the Beast, who swore none too quietly as he began to examine the books on the floor. She only stopped jogging when the old man's voice could no longer be heard, but the silence didn't last long, for Rosier's acrimonious voice filled the air instead.
"This is all your fucking fault," he hissed, fists clenched by his sides. His jaw was tight, and she was sure that if he had his wand on him, it would have been pointed in her direction.
"My fault?" Florence exclaimed indignantly, turning on her heel to glare at the boy. "You're the one who threw a curse at me," she snapped, without bothering to modulate her tone. "What was I supposed to do, let it hit me?"
His sneer indicated that this was exactly what he'd expected of her.
She scoffed and pushed past him, determined to go back to Ravenclaw Tower before she they got into any worse trouble, but he stepped to the side, blocking her path.
"If you so much as breathe a word of what the old cunt just said, I'll make you regret being born," he said coldly.
"What, you mean about you not having any balls?" she sneered, doing her best imitation of his expressionless face.
Florence knew she shouldn't bait him - Evan Rosier had significant social collateral because he was wealthy, handsome and didn't give a shit about anybody, which made his type of people want to ally themselves with him all the more. Even students from other houses gave him a sort of grudging respect, if only because he didn't engage in the usual inter-house antagonisms. He was apparently above all that. He could, however, effectively ruin what little peace she had in life with a few cruelly placed words.
But alas, it was too late for remorse. His eyes flashed in anger and he raised one of his clenched fists with lightning speed. She flinched instinctively, ducking back sharply and raising her arm before her face to protect herself from a blow.
He dropped his arm and stared, and she hated herself. A flush of humiliation washed over her face. Furious, she looked up at him defiantly. He was small for a third-year, not much taller than herself, she realized in surprise, feeling only a little mollified.
"Go on," she said sharply, crazily. "Hit me."
"I wasn't going to hit you!" he spluttered in outrage, and she could see that he meant it. "Do I look like a fucking muggle to you?"
She'd insulted him, she realized, and shook her head in disbelief. But of course he was insulted. Physical violence was for the lowest of the low. The old name Rosier was synonymous with blood purity. How could she think he would hit her?
"So then why'd you go and raise your fist for?" she demanded.
"Forgot that I didn't have my wand, didn't I?" he retorted slowly and crisply in his posh accent as though she were a dunce.
Florence blinked. She too had forgotten that rather irritating fact. Was the Beast going to wait until the end of the holidays to give them back? She remembered with dismay that he'd said they would be doing "maid-work" for the next while. She groaned inwardly, and then groaned for real when she heard heavy footsteps echoing towards them.
"Shit," she mumbled as the Beast's voice suddenly filled the air for the second time that night.
Without thinking, she shoved past Rosier and sprinted towards the direction of the library doors, and didn't stop running until she'd reached the Ravenclaw common room, exhausted but oddly excited.
December 24, 1973
The next morning Florence awoke to the sounds of blissful nothingness. The dorm was empty, devoid of the chatter that she so dreaded throughout the rest of the year. The other girls had gone to the their respective homes for the holidays like ninety-five percent of the student body.
For a second, she'd forgotten all about the odd events of the previous night, until she reached for her wand and realized with horror that it was not there. She bolted out of bed and wondered if she'd been possessed. She went over the details of the previous night as she changed into civvies, unable to comprehend how her little adventure had blown up in her face.
Florence had wanted to visit the library's Restricted Section ever since she'd discovered there was such a thing way back during her first year tour of Hogwarts. Of course she'd wanted to. Every student wanted to visit the Restricted Section, even the self-avowed book-haters, if only because the word 'restricted' was involved. While most eventually gave up on attempting to cross the velvet rope that separated the Restricted Section from the rest of the library, Florence hadn't the patience to wait until fifth year to be granted official access to those hallowed grounds. Her patience dried up during the Christmas holidays of her first year.
The thing about the holidays was that security was lax. Half the staff was absent, as was most of the student body. Given that there were no classes, everybody wandered about in a sort of lazy daze, and things like curfew became a hazy sort of rule that was only halfheartedly enforced. Sneaking down to the library during the holidays was therefore something of a joke. After the success of the first night, she did it every night for the rest of the holidays, and was greatly disappointed when term started up again after only a couple short weeks. She didn't dare try it again until the Easter holidays came rolling around.
Three years later, she'd become better and braver about sneaking out. She no longer waited for the holidays to do so, but they were certainly the best times she had. There was little to no risk involved when one could prance in and out of the common room without getting caught by other students, the head of house, prefects or any number of other people. She'd looked forward to the first day of the holidays. And then the fiasco had happened.
As Florence walked into the near-empty Great Hall, it occurred to her that she would have to sit with her new arch-nemesis. There were so few students over the holidays that the school did away with the usual house tables in favour of a single long one to create a more intimate sort of gathering. It was the one thing she hated about the holidays at Hogwarts. Just the thought of having to ask Rosier to pass her the salt made her skin crawl and her face flush.
She hated Evan Rosier. She'd never had reason to give him much thought before, but as his dark, heavily-lidded eyes lazily flickered upwards to see who'd entered the Great Hall, loathing rose like bile from deep within her body. He didn't so much as blink, and turned back to buttering his toast with infuriating calmness. All trace of the furious boy from last night was gone, replaced by the cool, controlled statue she realized was his usual persona.
"Aren't you going to sit down, Miss Kim?" asked Professor Dumbledore, from the head of the table. Florence gaped at him, unable to speak. It seemed that she too had become her usual self overnight. The snappy, sarcastic person she'd been at the library had disappeared under layers of embarrassment and shame.
Somebody snickered, and she felt a flush creep up her face.
Without saying a word, she scurried towards the table and sat down at the edge of the bench, as far away from Rosier - Evan Rosier, that was - as she could manage.
There were five Rosiers as far as Florence knew, though she supposed there were parents and other family members somewhere in the outside world. Evan was the youngest of four brothers. The oldest one, whose name she could not remember, had graduated already. Then there was Roland, a seventh-year prefect who struck fear in the hearts of all younger students, and Felix, a fifth year who played chaser on the Slytherin Quidditch team. There was a sister too - a pretty little first year named Celia or Celeste or something like that. They were French, though she'd once heard they had a gypsy grandmother.
The Rosiers were clustered together at the other end of the table with the one other Slytherin. It was Severus Snape, a greasy-haired sallow-faced thing who was in third year, along with Florence and Evan. He was a loner of sorts who disgusted the Ravenclaws (and everybody else, to be honest) with his prowess in Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts. He was a greater pariah than Florence, but then again he had the advantage of being friends with Lily Evans, a pretty, popular Gryffindor in their year. He was the only other student who'd remained at Hogwarts for the holidays every year without fail. There had been a couple older students in the past - Hufflepuff twins, orphans - who'd always been around as well, but they'd graduated last year.
There were only three other Ravenclaws, two Hufflepuffs, and four Gryffindors who'd stayed behind this year out of the thousand or so students who attended Hogwarts. The Ravenclaws studiously ignored her as they always did, though the Hufflepuffs gave her a sort of awkward nod. Florence spent more time in the Hufflepuff common room than she did with in her own house, because the only two friends she had in the world were 'Puffs. They'd gone home for Christmas as they always did.
The Gryffindors were a sad lot this year. There was Laurie Nuessler, whose father had been killed quite recently in some sort of secretive Ministry affair. Something to do with the Dark Lord, it was whispered, who was a pureblood nut who'd gone from eccentric wizard to fullblown Grindelwald two-point-oh in the years since Florence had started at Hogwarts. Lord Voldemort was apparently the Hitler of the wizarding world, and wanted to do away with anybody who wasn't considered a pureblood witch or wizard. While muggles and muggle-borns were generally considered with some level of condescension by most witches and wizards, if only in the most innocent of ways ("but how do they manage in life?"), the old lunatic's desire to actually kill them off had sparked a sort of political civil war in recent years.
What had been purely political until maybe last year had become somewhat more real this past summer, according to the rumours that had flown since Florence had come back to school in September. She tried to keep up with the news, but the Daily Prophet and the Ministry seemed determined to speak in riddles. When the papers had announced Alfred Nuessler's mysterious death on Halloween night, the wizarding world had been stunned. His body had been marked by a giant floating symbol in the sky - the Dark Mark, they called it.
There hadn't been so much as a peep from Lord Voldemort since. The papers called it a one-off. Others weren't so certain.
The three other Gryffindors who'd stayed behind were friends of Laurie Nuessler, who were there for solidarity's sake it seemed. It was no secret that Laurie was now an orphan. The girl looked morose despite her friends' attempts at lively chatter. She'd quit the Quidditch team, and had lost a frightening amount of weight. It was said that she saw Madame Pomfrey on a regular basis. Rumour had it that she was doped up on potions to keep her sane.
Florence tried not to listen to the three sixth years chatter away while their friend smiled in a falsely brave sort of way. Quite frankly, it was depressing. When the plates began to clear themselves off, signalling the end of breakfast, she was almost glad to have somewhere to be, even if it was the first detention of her life. It seemed the Beast had not said a word about this punishment to any of the professors, for nobody had grilled her about being in the Restricted Section last night. That said, even the professors seemed to steer clear of the Beast, leaving him to his own business when it came to the world of dealing with student misdemeanors.
As Florence made her way towards the doors, she overheard Rosier the Younger making excuses to his older brother Felix, who'd demanded why he was being "such a fucking nancy". But if Younger was going to say anything about detention with the Beast, he lost his chance. The fifth-year Slytherin snickered and strode away, calling over his shoulder, "Don't blame me if you stay scrawny forever. I'll be on the Pitch if you decide to pull your head out of your books - or your arse!"
She watched the altercation with mild curiosity, and felt the briefest smattering of pity for Rosier the Younger. It withered away when he caught her staring.
The walk towards the Beast's office had been terribly awkward. They'd shuffled down the empty corridors in stubborn silence, refusing to even glance each other's way. The Beast was angry when he saw them because they were, according to some mythical clock, late. But that awkwardness was nothing compared to what the children felt now, standing silently next to each other as they gaped at the vast room before them.
"You'll have the entire holidays to get through this," the Beast had said with grim satisfaction before leaving them to their task. "I want it dusted and organized before term starts, and if you so much as think about pilfering anything, I'll blister your hides, and I don't give two shites what Dumbledore has to say about it." He'd paused his monologue then to spit a disgusting wad of brown spit into a glass bottle. "And if you find anything rare or valuable, you're to leave it right here in this corner. Nobody leaves this room without my say so."
"What if we need to piss, sir?" Evan sneered with false deference. 'Sir' might as well have been replaced with 'asshole'.
The Beast shrugged.
"There's a pile of chamber pots over in that corner," he said. "Thousands of em. Pick any one you like. Hell, you can take one with you as a souvenir! Just one, mind you," he guffawed.
Florence nearly screamed then. It was unbelievable that this crude, animal of a man could be in charge of children in any way whatsoever. How in the hell had he not been fired? Dumbledore was supposed to be a wise man! Was this even legal?
The Beast seemed to have read her thoughts, for his cracked old lips turned up and twisted themselves into a smirk.
"Got any complaints, you little brat? Go on and see Dumbledore, I dare you. As it is I'll be spending the next damn week repairing the books you've damaged. Scorched the titles clean off some of them, might I add. What? Nothing to say? I didn't think so. And this room stays a little secret between the three of us, hmm?" he said, tapping his crooked nose.
"Why should we keep anything a secret for you?" Rosier scoffed.
"Because if you do," said the Beast in an oily voice, "You'll get your pick of whatever you want from this room when I'm done with it. And if you don't, I'll add some extra damage to those books myself and inform Dumbledore and the rest of them that you've irreparably destroyed some rare, even one-of-a-kind books with your little midnight escapade. Now get to cleaning. As far as anybody's aware, I've got you lot scraping piss off the toilets. Of course, you could be doing that if you'd rather."
And with that, he left, slamming the portrait door behind him and sending a cloud of dust into the air.
"But we don't have anything to clean with," Florence called out after him, but it was too late.
Next to her, Rosier simply swore.
Then, they stood and stared. And stared. And stared. Neither of them were ready to start.
Suddenly, self-pity and rage began to boil Florence's blood, and just like last night, it was as though she'd become somebody else. With a strength she didn't know she possessed, she aimed a kick at one of the "thousands" of chamber pots in the corner, and sent it flying into the wall. The word 'fuck' and the sound of shattering porcelain echoed throughout the room.
Rosier turned and gave her a cold, unimpressed stare.
"You're an animal," he said in a flat tone, having reverted back to his icy self. It seemed only the Beast could bring out the teenage-brat in him. Otherwise, he was a self-assured adult in the body of a runty adolescent. With the mere raising of one of his straight dark brows, Florence felt all of five-years-old.
"Fuck you," she spat, her old London accent crawling out of her throat, despite having been generally stamped out thanks to the last three years of elocution lessons, courtesy of Professor Dingwald's Theory of Magic classes.
To her surprise, Rosier reached out and grabbed her by the chin. Not forcefully, but the odd gesture made her frighteningly complacent. She flinched as he tilted her head downwards with as little effort as it took for the wind to blow parchment into the sky.
"You're nothing, mudblood," he said coolly. "So keep your eyes on the ground where they belong and your mouth shut."
Then, with great ceremony, he unleashed her and made a great show about wiping his hand onto the front of his trousers as though he'd stuck his fingers in dung. Without a word, he sauntered off into the depths of the dusty room, leaving her to gawk at him in anger, shame and shock.
They spent the first hour exploring the room, mentally taking note of its hidden treasures and junk. The Beast had alluded to allowing them to pick and choose whatever he deemed useless. It was possible that this was a lie, but just in case the Beast was telling the truth, the children made sure to remember what they'd seen and stash it away for later.
The room was large with arched ceilings that gave one the impression of being inside a den of some sort. There were support columns here and there, and everything was covered in a thick layer of dust. Judging by the artifacts in the room, no human or creature had stepped foot into the place since about the early 19th century. It would later strike them as odd that not even the Hogwarts ghosts seemed to know about this place.
It seemed to have been used as a storage room for a couple centuries, for besides the many chamber pots, there were about seven broken up old beds, ancient crates labelled "lost and found" (who knew those existed back then?), busted up chairs and desks and mirrors and other useless things that had been of no use to anybody. It was evident that the Beast had only just discovered the room himself, for his large footsteps had made clear prints in the dust. Some of the shelves and things bore evidence of his fingerprints, and hinted at items that had already been filched by the old man's sticky hands.
The room was hidden behind a landscape painting of some idyllic field, in which of a family of foxes were at play. It was located just off an abandoned corridor on the fifth floor. You had to step with two feet on a trick stair and pull at the banister beam directly opposite the painting. The corridor had not been in use since an influenza had swept though the world less than a century ago, killing off countless muggles and magicians alike. Florence knew this because she'd read it in Hogwarts: A History. This entire wing of the castle had been used as a quarantine of sorts, but students and a couple professors had died anyway. It was strange to think a flu could kill even a witch or a wizard. The muggles had called it the Spanish Influenza. She remembered this from when she was in muggle school back in London. The witches and wizards called it the Sudden Death, because it could hit you and kill you within twenty-four hours. She had no idea how the Beast had found the place, though judging by the lingering smell of rotten eggs in the corridor and a few stray eggshells, she'd had a feeling Peeves had somehow been involved.
As Florence sorted through the lost and found boxes, she wondered what had happened to the owners of all the odd bits and pieces that came out of the seemingly bottomless crate. It seemed some things didn't change - students had apparently always been forever losing things. She pulled out broken quills, half-empty ink pots, parchment that crumbled in her hands, and clothes that looked like something out of a sappy historical film - bonnets and corsets and the like.
An entire section of Hogwarts: A History was dedicated to uniforms and old school traditions and such. In the 19th century, girls had been made to wear corsets in sixth year and each dorm came with a house elf who acted as lady's maid or boy's valet. This was a privilege for all students, whether they came from wealthy backgrounds outside of school or not, which was rather absurd. Skirt lengths depended on your year as well - just below the knee for the younger students, calf-length in fourth year, ankle-length in sixth year, and sweeping floor-length skirts in seventh year. Florence shuddered at the mere thought of being bound in such vast amounts of fabric, though she couldn't help but privately wonder what a corset might do for her shapeless, rectangular figure.
She must have been staring mindlessly for too long, for Rosier's scoff broke into her daydreams. She dropped the corset in embarrassment, horrified at having been caught with the offending item. He didn't even have to say anything - his raised eyebrow and the quirk of his lips was enough. She swore at him for the second time that day, and was once again surprised by her own outburst. But before Rosier could respond, the portrait-door slammed open behind them, and the Beast barked at them, "It's lunch-time", before leaving without sparing them a second glance.
Lunch time already? Florence stood up and tried to brush the dust off her corduroys before giving up. She glanced at Rosier, who was covered in dust from head to toe. There was no point, she decided. Nothing but a good wash was going to get the filth off her clothes.
Silently, they made their way out of the room. Neither of them spoke as they went their separate ways, off to their dorms to change into another set of clothes.
Lunch was about as exciting as breakfast, in that there was excellent food but not much conversation, which suited Florence just fine. She dreamed about all the curiosities she had yet to explore in the room, and paid little heed to the odd stares she was getting about the dust in her hair. Rosier had showered, it seemed, for his dark curls were clean and damp.
The afternoon passed in the same way as the morning. The children silently explored and organized what they found without exchanging a single word. At some, Florence had to pee, so she left the room to use one of the abandoned but still-functioning toilets down the corridor, the Beast's orders be damned. They laboured away in this quiet manner for hours until the Beast came to fetch them, yelled about the "lack" of progress, and left them to make their way to the dining room in their own time.
Hogwarts' annual Christmas Dinner was always delicious affair. Florence took the time to shower and carefully put on her one nice dress. It was a draping pink affair that had been donated to her by a neighbour whose daughter had run away with a "nasty piece of work". Her mother had been unabashed about taking in these donations, since it meant she didn't need to spend extra money on Florence's wardrobe, or lack thereof.
Most of the clothing the neighbour girl had left behind were relics of her adolescence, things that had not been in fashion in about ten years. This didn't matter to Mrs. Kim, and so the castoffs became a permanent part of Florence's attire, which admittedly wasn't bad considering how limited her wardrobe had been in the first place. Anyway, being fashionable didn't matter when one was the social equivalent of a worm. The dress was nice, and she wore it to please herself, knowing that nobody else would care what she looked like either way.
Ravenous after having spent the better part of the afternoon doing proper cleaning rather than mere perusing, Florence tucked into her meal with relish. Things were a little livelier now than they had been earlier during the day - the professors joked around, drank wine with their dinner, and there were Christmas crackers that went off with a bang. Florence didn't bother with the crackers, since she knew perfectly well that nobody would offer to help her pull one. She was therefore taken aback when Hagrid, the giant groundskeeper, asked her to pull a cracker with him.
Hagrid was friendly, but he'd always intimidated Florence. It was he who had come to inform her that she was destined to attend a wizarding school. She almost giggled when she recalled the horrified expressions on her parents' face when this giant of a man had crowded past them into their small one-room flat. Her life had changed irrevocably after that, in some ways for the better, in other ways for the worse. Though Hagrid had been nothing but kind, she'd been unable to relax around him. Besides being a giant, there was something about the fact that he'd been her first introduction to magic that always made her nervous around him.
As Florence worked her way into dessert, she wondered why the Rosiers had stayed behind for Christmas this year. She hadn't bothered asking Rosier the Younger. It wasn't like she cared, but it certainly was odd. Slytherins always went home for the holidays, with the exception of Severus Snape. Then she wondered for the umpteenth time what Evan Rosier had been doing skulking about the Restricted Section. They'd never run into each other before, and it was by pure chance that Florence had managed to deflect the curse he'd sent her way. She'd always had the reflective instincts of a hunted animal, in that she was extraordinarily quick to react... but the problem was she never reacted in the right way. Duelling was a nightmare because she always used the wrong spells. She simply couldn't think properly when she panicked like that.
But last night had been, well, nothing short of brilliant. In sheer panic, she'd somehow instinctively thrown out a shield charm as opposed a water-jet or a useless lumos as she generally tended to do. She'd even done such a good job of it that Rosier's curse had deflected with fearsome strength. They'd both gone flying, and books had been caught by the reflected spell. If she hadn't been stunned and practically unconscious, she would have done a jig.
She must have made a funny face, because Professor Vector, the beautiful young Arithmancy teacher asked her if she was feeling alright.
"Oh, er y-yes," Florence stammered. "Er. It's very delicious. The pudding."
She could have smacked herself in the head, and she smiled weakly at Professor Vector, who gave her a little nod. She turned away, feeling dreadfully stupid, and only straightened her spine when she caught Evan Rosier smirking out of the corner of her eye.
"Bloody twat," she mumbled under her breath.
For three days, the dreary cleaning routine continued as it had on that first day, though the novelty of finding new trinkets had quickly lost its charm. True to his word, the Beast inspected their findings every morning and took what he thought to be of value, before barking at them to get back to work. It was exhausting work, and the children worked in silence, uninterested in anything the other had to say and too tired to argue anyway.
It was on the fourth day, however, that things took an unexpected twist. The Beast had died.
The news was announced over breakfast by a very solemn Professor Dumbledore. It seemed that the old caretaker had fallen victim to what appeared to be a very ordinary heart-attack. Florence and Rosier the Younger instinctively exchanged wide-eyed glances, and then silently berated themselves for doing so.
A Ministry man and a healer came by to deal with the remains, which the students never got to see. Within hours, the Daily Prophet updated itself to announce the sudden death of the Minister of Education's half-brother, one Eleazar St-Clair. That the Beast should be called Eleazar St-Clair was surprising. That he should be related to somebody Important was even more surprising. But then again, Florence thought, as she made her way to the Room, it certainly made a lot of sense as to why the Beast had never been fired.
She was irritated, though not at all astonished, to find Evan Rosier already in the Room. Since their eyes had met across the breakfast table during Dumbledore's announcement, she had known this face-off was to come.
"I want this room," Rosier announced after a terse moment of silence.
"Well so do I," she replied. If he thought she would be bullied into giving up these findings, he'd lost his mind.
They argued for about ten minutes, their voices escalating until it occurred to them at the exact same instant that they had yet to receive their wands back, and thus a duel was out of the question.
"I'm not giving it up," Florence repeated tiredly for the hundredth time in a minute. "You might as well accept that so we can move on and clean up this room properly."
"I could obliviate you the second I get my wand back," Rosier retorted, though even he seemed worn out by the useless row.
"Yeah right. And look how well that turned out for you the other night," Florence snickered. "I'd just reflect it, and you'd be the obliviated one," she bluffed.
His nostrils flared and his eyes flashed angrily, but she swept past him towards the exit with her nose in the air.
"I'm getting my wand, now that this is all settled," she tossed over her shoulder.
"Nothing's been settled, you mudblood bitch!"
She scowled and swiveled around to glare at him.
"Well fuck you too, you cousin-kissing mummy's boy of a neandrathal! I bet you're so inbred you were born with a tail."
This was not the most original of insults, but it apparently did the trick because Rosier's face went suddenly very blank. This was heaps more frightening than when he'd been visibly angry. Florence flinched as he marched towards her in three very stiff, very deliberate steps. She backed away instinctively, and found herself hitting a post.
"Say that again," he said in a very cold, toneless voice as he suddenly reached out and grabbed her by the chin. This was beginning to become a bad habit, and she shook him off with a violent shove. He pushed her back into the post by the shoulders.
"Go on," he goaded her. "I dare you."
"Not like you're going to hit me, are you?" she snapped, sounding much braver than she felt. She had no idea where it came from, all this animosity and vigour. She didn't usually speak this much, except to her friends Neil and Will... but something about Rosier roused her temper unlike anybody else she'd ever met at Hogwarts. Even the girls in her dorm didn't quite do the same thing. They got her angry, but it was a cool, smouldering sort of anger. Rosier made her hot with rage and false bravado.
Realizing how stupid this all was, she pushed past him again and dodged him when he tried to push her back into the post.
"You're mad if you think I'm going to stand around playing stupid games with you all day," she said, determined to get the last word. "Since you bloody want the room just as badly as I do, we'll have to split it. I'm going to go fetch my wand now. You can go fuck yourself."
And with that, she shoved the portrait door open and carefully jumped stepped out onto the stairs, avoiding the trick one directly in front of the entrance. She slammed the portrait behind her to Rosier's cursing and ran down the stairs, laughing to herself as she disappeared into the depths of the school.