Star Crossed
5th Year, Start of Term
"Trust me."
"Hmm," Daphne Greengrass fussed with her hair, trying to get it just so. "It just seems… weird."
"No. This is definitely the way to go." Aziza Bahur stood behind Daphne and with a few flicks of her fingers and a dab of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion, produced a becoming blonde chignon.
"Still?!" Tracey Davis squeezed her way toward the mirror Zizi and Daphne were sharing. "I've been ready for 20 minutes." She pouted and applied a sweep of lip gloss.
The second floor girls lav was packed elbow-to-elbow with fifth year girls jockeying for space in front of the few mirrors that weren't cracked.
"None of you care! I never got asked to a dance and now I can't dance because I'M DEA-"
"Shut it Myrtle!"
This inconsiderate outburst from Lavender Brown elicited a fresh round of ear-splitting wails from Moaning Myrtle who, despite her misery, refused to tear herself away from the action.
Tracey snapped her Drooble's gum and seeing that neither of her friends were quite ready to go, took the opportunity to put a little more work into her eyeliner. She'd thought Aziza's suggestion weird at first as well, but the more she thought about it, the more it made sense.
"I'm ready," Daphne nodded at her reflection. "Let's-"
Zizi shook her head. "Last girls in. Trust me. Let the rest of them go first," she instructed, passing the bottle of Sleekeazy's to Pansy Parkinson.
"But we don't have dates, if we're the last ones in, we won't find anyone to dance with. It'll be so awkward," Daphne protested, but didn't move.
Tracey snorted. "Are you kidding? Have you looked in the mirror? We'll have our pick of the lot." She glanced at the door as the chattering girls trickled out in a murmuring swish of gowns. "Gryffindors out first. Typical."
"Stay put," Zizi admonished. "We're saving the best for last. Trace is right. By going solo and making an entrance - we'll have our pick of the lot. Have I ever steered you wrong?"
Daphne and Tracey exchanged looks. 'Have I ever steered you wrong' often presaged disaster.
The ceiling of the Great Hall sparked with a thousand stars, reflecting the majestic expanse of the September sky outside. The house tables had been pushed to the walls and were bursting with sweets and savories, punchbowls glittering like jewels in the candlelight. The floor had been cleared for dancing and revelry but true to form, the students resigned themselves to milling awkwardly at first. Teachers patrolled watchfully - both inside and out on the portico, a favorite escape route to the rose garden which has silently observed many a budding romance over the years.
Seamus Finnegan shifted a bit uncomfortably in his suit. Despite careful attention, his hair still looked woefully neglected and he absolutely refused to stoop to using Sleekeazy's like some girl. He glanced over at Roger Davies. Davies, as ever, looked as cool as you please in his well-tailored suit, the rich chestnut of his hair never out of place. Girls, from fourth year to seventh, rippled around him in a small pool of femininity. It'd been Davies idea to go stag, have the pick of the girls. It might've suited Rog fine, but Seamus had it in his mind to ask one or two in particular - a chance long gone. His hazel eyes flicked over the crowd, smiling and nodding at friends.
"It's all clear. McGonagall's got her back turned. Now! Go!" Lee Jordan whispered harshly.
Indeed, Professor McGonagall was in deep conversation with Professor Vector over some minor detail of chaperoning, leaving Fred Weasley ample time to heavily spike the punchbowls with Firewhiskey. Angelina Johnson, resplendent in a white sparkly gown, clung tenaciously to George Weasley's arm and looked on, shaking her head in disapproval.
Lee made a little face at Angelina, who was attractive enough, and a great Quidditch player - but somewhat of a priss. He ran a hand over his hair, neatly braided in tight cornrows and picked a stray thread from the deep purple of his suit jacket. He'd meant to ask someone to the dance, but had been so preoccupied with serving extra detentions left over from last year - he'd rolled into the day of the dance with no date. George seemed fairly proud of himself for having secured Angelina and Fred Weasley was meant to be escorting Katie Bell, though she was currently part of the growing crowd surrounding Roger Davies. (The preening git.)
Either way, Lee figured on getting a turn around the floor with pretty much any girl he asked. As Fred emptied the last drop of Firewhiskey into the last punchbowl, Lee's dark eyes darted from face to face, hoping to see one more than any other.
From the darkened corner of the portico, the tall windows of the Great Hall never seemed more warm and inviting as they glowed in the deepening dark. The air was sharp for early September, and Theodore Nott slipped his hands into the pockets of his jeans. His cashmere Slytherin sweater kept the cool air at bay, even as a chill settled around his heart. They were all pathetic. Dressing up and playing a part. Laughing over nonsense. Talking about meaningless things. Nott was not a joiner. Not a follower. He found these mindless teenage rituals pointless and allowed no part of him to want to participate. He allowed himself no envy of the boys who meandered about with girls on their arms. Instead, he lit a tiny flame of contempt within him, and fed it as he watched their smiling faces through the windows.
Blaise Zabini, whom he thought to be somewhat less of a sheep than was typical, waited with cool indifference, leaning against the wall. He sipped punch, which was undoubtedly half alcohol at this point, and seemed to be pretending not to be looking for someone. Several girls passed him by, taking him in with interest, moving on when he ignored them. Such favorable looks, even from girls in his own house, had never been bestowed on Theodore Nott. He shut out their big eyes, their soft skin, and their shiny hair with books. Even Millicent Bulstrode, who seemed to have been singled out for some kind of genetic punishment, regarded him with complete indifference. At a very noticeable 6'1", he seemed to have somehow achieved a form of invisibility to the fairer sex - and so Nott hated them all with perfect equity.
All but one. And that, despite years of futile struggle, he could not help.
It seemed to hit Seamus all at once: The tropical blue of her gown, the way it swished and rippled like a gentle sea as she walked, the neat twist of her blonde hair, the tiny buckles that clasped her high-heeled sandals around her perfect ankles. Who knew she had such perfect ankles?! She looked much like a mermaid from a Muggle picture book - shapely, graceful, beckoning. Her big blue eyes glittered in the candlelight as she leaned in to whisper something to Tracey Davis. He was glad to see her arrive with her girlfriends, rather than hand in hand with some boy. Some boy he'd have to beat the crap out of later.
Seamus straightened his tie and glanced over at Davies, who was still holding court. It wasn't as though Rog would move in on Daphne or Tracey. Even though he'd never put words to the way the two Slytherin beauties distracted him, there was an understanding. Davies could have them all. All of them but this those two. If he was lucky, he might get to choose between the two, and his nerves jangled. He took a step toward the three girls who just arrived more than fashionably late, arm in arm. He'd try Daphne first, overwhelmed by her golden beauty. Yes. Daphne Greengrass of Slytherin would be for him tonight.
…Or for Michael Corner. Seamus frowned as the handsome, dark haired Ravenclaw arrived to greet them first. Smiles and conversation passed between the three girls and brave Michael. Maybe he was there for Tracey? Why wasn't he chasing Ginny Weasley about? Seamus scowled as Daphne nodded and accepted Michael's hand. He silently willed Michael to tread on her foot as they joined the small crowd brave enough to start the dance. No such luck. Seamus watched Daphne smile politely at Corner as they sailed along.
His stomach lurched. Now what?
There was just something about her. Fred and George repeatedly dismissed her as "too skinny" - but the way she darted around the Quidditch pitch, the sharp swing of her bat, the sight of her body in motion, was pure beauty to Lee Jordan. Fred called her "noisy", Lee called her "sociable". George called her "pushy", Lee called her "confident". And here she was - her pale skin glowing against the electric blue and black of her short dress. She stood in stark contrast to Daphne Greengrass, who floated away in swirl of blue skirts with Michael Corner. Her hair was jet black. Her dress was punky, edgy, daring. Her black heels accentuated her long legs, lean from hours and hours of Quidditch. Her eyes crackled beneath her choppy bangs. Lee Jordan, who'd never been afraid of much, had been terrified to ask her out. He caught the pink flash of her gum and smiled to himself.
His smile quickly faded.
Seamus Finnegan, though he seemed a bit uncomfortable in his suit, seemed a bit disappointed, seemed more than comfortable approaching Tracey. She favored him with small grin. Aziza Bahur rolled her eyes slightly as the two chatted. Bahur and Finnegan were like oil and water - not that it mattered. Behind him, George made a sympathetic noise as Finnegan gave a small bow and took Tracey's arm. Tracey, for her part, seemed to accept this arrangement. Lee's eyes narrowed as he watched his younger housemate lead her, albeit somewhat clumsily, in a dance.
He remembered the Sorting. The stupid hat had merely hovered over her head before it bellowed "SLYTHERIN". She'd jumped off the stool and strode over to the house table with such confidence, as though she already belonged. And she did.
There wasn't much difference in her stride now. Good breeding and etiquette had graced her with the walk of a lady. She was simply and tastefully attired in a floor length, strapless purple gown made of some gossamer material that swirled as she walked. Her thick hair was swept up and secured with little star-shaped pins. She looked as if she knew the world would come to her if she beckoned it. Nott moved, quite unconsciously, closer to the window.
She hated him, of this he was fairly certain. Though he never really intended to, he'd spent nearly every moment since he joined her at their house table for the first time making sure she knew just how much he held her in contempt. Only he didn't. Now, at the start of their fifth year, she merely hissed at him when she saw him. He supposed he deserved it.
On the other side of the glass, she extended a slender hand to Fred Weasley, who winked at her.
It took every ounce of will Nott possessed to keep from hexing that smug bastard on the spot.
His hair was so dark, it gleamed blue beneath the glowing candles. The hand folded over hers was pale, but tinged with a dusky pink, as were his cheeks. Michael Corner was inexplicably handsome for a fifteen-year-old boy, clever, agile and a good Quidditch player – even if he was only a reserve. Dancing with a Ravenclaw wouldn't draw the usual disdainful lecture from Draco Malfoy, and Michael was difficult to deny. Daphne had seen him sending looks Ginny Weasley's way the first day of term, so why wasn't he asking her to dance? Did it really matter?
No. No it didn't. He had a slow, easy smile and he twirled her gracefully in time to the music. Corner possessed none of the typical awkwardness of a fifth year boy at a dance, and seemed to transmit his mellowness through the hand that warmed the center of her back. He was a boy with whom a comfortable silence was possible.
Daphne raised her eyes to meet his, icy blue beneath thin dark brows. There it was. That slow smile, the white even teeth, and the rosy blush dusting his cheekbones. Her head swam as he dipped her slowly beneath the star-decked ceiling.
"Nuh-uh"
"Yeeeah"
"I dunno. I heard, and -" Tracey held up a finger as they danced along "- I just *happened* to be there when Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley were whispering in the corner of the Transfiguration classroom-" She placed her hand back in his. "That it's all legit."
"Me ma swears it's not so," Seamus Finnigan shrugged, crinkling his freckled nose. "I reckon me ma knows a thing or two, so she does." He paused. "I'm nearly sorry about the yellin' at Harry," He twirled her a bit inexpertly under his arm.
Tracey ducked to compensate for his overzealous dancing. Together they'd survived various mishaps in Transfiguration and Charms alike. He was almost a friend. Seamus looked as though he'd been storing his dark brown suit jacket at the bottom of his school trunk all summer long. His tie was askew and one shirttail flapped beneath the hem of his coat. He was hyper, he was chatty, he was Seamus. His voice had changed at some point in the last year, deepening the gorgeous lilt of his voice. He winked at her, his hazel eyes sparking as she navigated her way back into his arms. She pointedly ignored the looks of disapproval broadcast by Draco Malfoy, every time he went swirling past with Pansy Parkinson.
"Anyway," Seamus said conversationally. "I've just about had it with all this You-Know-Who bollix."
"Bahur."
"Fredrick"
"I'm George."
"You're not."
"How do you always know?"
"I'll never tell." Zizi followed Fred Weasley's brisk lead as he romped his way through a lively foxtrot. "That's an obnoxious jacket, by the way."
Fred grinned expansively and flipped his long bangs out of his eyes. The strange maroon checked suit coat clashed riotously with his sleek red hair.
"And where's the lovely Katie?"
"Haha," he tapped her nose. "She's with Roger Davies - one of his many suppliants. You all set to ruin another year of Hermione Granger's academic life?"
"You know it." Zizi hesitated slightly as he pulled her a bit closer for a waltz.
"My mother," Fred said with uncharacteristic gravity "would rage if she saw us dancing together."
"Is that so?"
"I like it."
Daphne leaned against the wall, fanning her flushed cheeks with her hands. Michael Corner had melted into the throngs surrounding the punchbowls in search of a cool drink for her. Over the last hour or so, he'd talked a bit more, his smooth quiet voice settling around her like a shawl. Although she'd only shared classes with him up until this point, Daphne found herself warming to the quiet, clever boy. Her eyes slipped closed and she let the deliciously slow music lull her.
A gentle nudge snapped her out of a light doze, and a hand cradling a large cup of punch appeared in front of her bleary eyes. She took the cup and smiled shyly up at not Michael Corner, but Blaise Zabini.
"Hi?" she said uncertainly. Blaise was standing rather stiffly, looking unamused. "Having a good time?" she asked timidly.
Blaise waved one long arm in the direction opposite from where she'd been dancing. A large crowd of girls milled around Roger Davies, who somehow appeared to be holding a conversation with all of them simultaneously.
Daphne laughed slightly. The only other boy so capable of so captivating such large portions of the female student body was Blaise himself, and yet he was always so dismissive of them all – even the Slytherin girls. She sipped her punch, eyes widening at the strong taste of Firewhiskey, and looked up at Blaise. His cheeks were faintly pink, accentuating the spectacular architecture of his face.
"Corner!" Blaise blurted.
"Huh?" Daphne's bright blue eyes rounded. "Oh, right. Er-" Her stomach twisted a bit, and she gulped the rest of her punch. "He asked me to dance and - I did." Which should be okay, because she didn't have a date, and nobody really asked her - but somehow, looking at Blaise's disdainful expression, it seemed wrong.
"Why?" he demanded.
Daphne's heart dropped to her stomach as a puzzled Michael Corner returned, punch cups in hand.
Tracey laughed and stepped back from Seamus Finnegan as the orchestra paused before launching into the next song. His freckled cheeks were red from exertion, and his rumpled shirt looked even worse than when he first asked for her hand to dance. It didn't really matter. Seamus was fun and funny, somehow managing to keep a steady stream of chat while dancing nearly non-stop for an hour. The next song, a lovely slow, swingy tune brought him closer to her. She feared he'd find her a bit sweaty, but that didn't really matter either. Seamus wound an arm around her waist.
"Mind if I cut in mate?"
Tracey blinked and looked over to find Lee Jordan looking at Seamus expectantly. She looked to Seamus as well. Seamus looked as though did mind a bit.
"Er - maybe next dance, yeah Lee?" he pulled Tracey a bit closer, almost protectively.
This was not the answer Lee expected, and his hand hung in the air between them half extended to Tracey. He frowned at Seamus.
"You look tired. I'll take over." Lee said, forcing a friendly smile.
Tracey looked back and forth between the two boys. Where there had been a bit of annoyance on Seamus's part, there was now sudden tension. His jaw set, his arm settled at her waist, unmoving.
"You-you guys?" she said, her big blue eyes flicking from one face to another.
"Not tired," Seamus enunciated carefully, his accent thickening with anger "I could go all night."
Lee's spine stiffened and George Weasley suddenly appeared behind him, adding his presence to the already strained situation.
Seamus straightened as well, his hazel eyes narrowing. Dean Thomas joined him on his left, and he stepped in front of Tracey.
Tracey, now looking between Lee, Seamus, George and Dean, sighed and blew her bangs out of her eyes.
"Really?!" She protested, as if they were actually paying attention to a word she said.
Zizi slipped out the side door and stepped into the crisp September night. Her thin brown cheeks were flushed from dancing, and the cool air refreshed her. She leaned against the wide marble balcony and looked out over the rose garden, the moonlight bathing her bare shoulders.
A faint snort drifted from a darkened corner. Zizi peered over her shoulder and saw nothing but shadow. She knew that snort however. She hissed involuntarily.
"What do you want?"
Nott stepped forward and joined her at the edge of the portico. "Look at you," he sneered.
"Oh let me guess. I'm pathetic?" Zizi said blandly, turning towards him. Nott wore his golden, feathery hair long these days and it nearly always obscured the startling violet-blue of his eyes. He glared down his long, thin, nose at her now. His black sweater clung to his thin shoulders.
"You are." Nott nearly spat. He was almost beautiful if you were in to the slender, fragile type.
"Annnnd I'm a poser?" Zizi said, almost as if by rote.
"Fred Weasley, Bahur?"
"Fred is an associate."
"I bet."
"I'm surprised you find all of this worthy of comment Nott. Shouldn't it be beneath you? Just like the world entire is beneath you?"
"It's disgusting"
"Now you sound like Draco." Zizi replied, going for the cheap shot. She knew it would enrage him, and really she just wanted the torment to be over so she could get back to Fred. She could hear the strains of the orchestra ever so faintly. The usual insults didn't follow however, and she looked at him curiously.
"It's not like you to quit Nott," she said. His pointed chin was quivering with rage. "What do you want?" She shrugged. "What are you even doing here? You're better than all of us - but here you are skulking out on the portico, watching us have fun, letting the hate build." She pressed her advantage. "What were you going to do when the dance ended? Go back to the dorm and cut to release the pain?" His lip twitched and a new thought occurred to her.
"Or were you out here watching me, only wishing you had the spine to ask for a dance?" She extended her arm with all the grace of a ballerina and all the imperiousness of a queen. She stuffed down the urge to laugh. Nott had always regarded her with a special loathing.
Zizi gasped slightly as Theodore Nott closed his thin fingers over hers, gave her a little formal bow and pulled her into an elegant, sweeping waltz.
Severus Snape swept around a tall hedge, wand-tip aglow.
Nothing.
The already loathsome task of teaching hordes of ignorant children Potions and keeping a hand on unruly Slytherin House was exacerbated by these little lighthearted events. Prowling the rose garden, searching for awkward couples fumbling in the bushes. If force-fed Veritaserum, Snape would admit to a certain grudging pleasure at spoiling their fun - it was the only compensation for having to serve as a chaperone.
Tonight he hadn't collared a single miscreant. It was decidedly odd. He drifted up the stairs, dark cloak catching in the faint breeze. It was a strangely cool evening and he intended to go inside, have Sinistra replace him and help himself to a big belt of Firewhiskey. He paused suddenly as he reached the top of the stairs.
The painfully thin Theodore Nott, dressed far too casually to have attended the dance, bowed briefly to a very dressed up Aziza Bahur. Another bit of incongruity. Nott, quite understandably, loathed these sorts of charades. Bahur loathed Nott, but here they were, taking the first hesitant steps of a waltz in the moonlight.
Or not.
Bahur lifted her hand and slapped Nott across the face with a sharp crack, his head rocking back with the force of the strike.
"Don't you ever touch me you skulking little maggot," Bahur snapped. "I'd rather dance with a house-elf!"
Interesting. Snape was tempted to let this play out, but it wouldn't do to let his two top students have at each other. Besides, the momentary look of shock and anguish that pulled at Nott's thin features struck a bit too close to home.
He closed the distance, summoning his most potent look of disgust.
"Bahur. Nott. Come with me." He pressed on, opening the door to the Great Hall with a flick of his wand. He didn't need to look over his shoulder to know Bahur and Nott were following, ashamed. They didn't dare disobey.
Snape expected to have to clear the way so Bahur and Nott could make their walk of shame back to the dormitory, but he was unpleasantly surprised to find a knot of students at the center of the floor, wands drawn. Finnigan, Jordan, some Weasley or another, and Thomas. Tracey Davis seemed to be shouting at each of them in turn, and Professors McGonagall and Flitwick were trying to make their way to the center of a dense clump of onlookers. Snape pinched the bridge of his nose and stepped forward, parting the crowd with the force of his sneer alone.
Professor McGonagall met him in the middle, confiscating wands as she went.
"Jordan! Finnigan! Weasley! Thomas! I'm surprised! Disgusted! Twenty points from Gryffindor! Each!" Sometimes McGonagall was so disgustingly fair.
Snape's lips twitched and threatened to pull into cold smile. He restrained himself just in time. In one night, at the very start of term, Gryffindor was down eighty points in the race for the House Cup. It really was much better to have McGonagall deduct them in one fell swoop than having to slowly chip away at Potter, Granger and Longbottom over the course of the term. Though it was, admittedly, one of his favorite pastimes.
"Trouble, Minerva?" he said silkily. Fortunately only Davies was under his charge, and she looked to be trying to break up the fight. No reason to deduct points there.
McGonagall scowled at him. "I've no idea what happened Severus, but I'll sort it." She rubbed her forehead. "I have the worst sense of forebo-"
"Hem, hem."
Snape turned. Dolores Umbridge was truly the most unattractive woman he'd ever seen. Her dress robes, pink and frothy, settled around her toad-like bulk.
"The party, I think, is over." Umbridge said smugly, and tittered.
McGonagall gave her a scorching glare. "That much, Dolores, is obvious." She turned to the assembled students. "Back to your dormitories, now! Follow your prefects!"
Snape turned and waved Nott and Bahur onward. As he watched the students file out, he too was struck by how strange, how doomed Hogwarts seemed.
AN: I know. It doesn't explain a lot. From here on out, the story develops primarily from Nott's perspective. And yes, I decided to make a few of the Slytherin girls somewhat more personable and popular than JK Rowling writes them. She hasn't much to say about Tracey Davis in particular, so I'm taking liberties. And yes – there are Gryffindors and Ravenclaws crushing on Slytherins a bit. The Horror!
Anyway, first chapters are difficult. Not a mention of Ron, Hermione, or Harry. I should probably be dragged out into the street and shot – but this story is primarily about everyone else who goes to Hogwarts, and how the major and minor plotlines affect them. I also don't use canon hair colors or appearances for minor characters if I don't feel like it. Sorry people.
Next chapter soon.
