Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

[A/N]: Written for QLFC Round 2.

Team: Ballycastle Bats

Position: Beater 2

Prompt: Write about a character's hate for HoM.

Optional prompts:

(dialogue) 'It happened again, what do I do?"

(quote) 'The starting point of all achievement is desire'.

(word) throw

Enjoy!


It's all the same. It's comforting, but at the same time, irritating.

The grounds look the same, the few sections of the castle that was rendered into dust look untouched by the Final Battle.

It's clear to see the amount of resources the Ministry pooled into restoring the ancient school back to its former glory.

You're surrounded by laughter. It's all a joke on you. It's all whispered, mocking words at your expense. You remember when you were the one pointing. You remember when you were the one who was laughing.

You wonder why you even bothered coming back.

It's easy to find the answer, when the sound of all these imbeciles' laughter makes you nostalgic, bitter, happy, depressed, angry and relieved all at the same time. The dominant emotion, however, is relief.

You're relieved you aren't sitting at home, listening to silence. You're relieved you are away from that too-large manor, where your mother drinks herself to oblivion and sleeps in the guest bedroom, and your father's absence is felt as suffocatingly as the cold of Azkaban. It makes sense – it's where he is, after all.

You're relieved you hear something other than sobbing and screaming and hysterical giggling that hints at a weakening grasp on sanity.

Thank Merlin, you think, when one of your schoolmates says something particularly nasty about you, and the rest of them laugh in delight. Hatred bubbles in you; you bask in the feeling of it. You haven't felt so alive since the end of the war. Thank Merlin.


You sit at the Slytherin table. The whole House is silent. Everyone looks sombre, as though this is a funeral march, especially the seventh and eighth years – the ones most involved in the war.

The only exceptions are the Greengrass sisters. They look calm, at ease. You always thought that they were idiotic, Mudblood-loving bints.

You're only half-right.

They have friends, after all, in Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff; even a few in Gryffindor. They're the only Slytherins not universally reviled. You're treated as though you've caught Spattergroit.

The Headmistress stands to give her speech, after the first-years are sorted. You watch the new DADA teacher stand and give a shy nod. You forget her name almost instantly, because all you can think of when you see her is Professor Snape and how she isn't him.

The only real surprise is the new History of Magic teacher. For a moment, you feel a twinge of anticipation; you have always wondered what history taught by a semi-interesting – and most importantly – alive person would be like. But his eyes land on the Slytherin table and harden. Just like that, that spark of hope is snuffed out of existence.

It's always the same thing. It's the only thing their society has ever known.

Prejudice. Discrimination. Hatred.

You feel stupid for expecting anything different.

Again, you wonder if you made the right choice to come back here.

A hand slips into yours. You glance down and see Draco's pale digits gripping you tightly. He gives you a weak smile, full of false reassurance and faltering bravado.

You smile back. "No weaknesses," you whisper to him.

"No weaknesses," he agrees.

You tilt your chin up and push your spine straight and stiff and proud.


You can't sleep at night, so you slip out of bed to sit in the common room. You head for the warm seat by the fireplace, only to be distracted by a whispered conversation, punctuated with choked sobs.

The source of the sound, you discover, are the new first-years. Five of them.

"I'm scared," one of them says. "Mum's going to kill me for getting into Slytherin. She'll call me a Dark Wizard. She'll hate me."

"Two of the older Gryffindors have already come up to me and shot spells at me," says another, looking down at his hands. "I don't know how to stop it. I… I only found out about magic two months ago."

You draw in a sharp breath, because you never thought you would see the day when a Mudblood was Sorted into Slytherin. Unfortunately, they hear the sound, and all five heads snap up to stare at you.

There is a tense silence, where they look at you as though you are about to Crucio them.

"You want some advice," you say, finally. You look each of them in the eye, even the Mudblood. "You're stuck here. And if you don't get your shit together, you'll be eaten alive. Either by the other Houses or by us. So throw it all away – your innocence, your naiveté, your foolish hopes and your silly dreams. Throw it all away, and do what you need to for survival. Otherwise, you're fucked."

To their credit, they don't even flinch when you swear. Just give you wide-eyed looks. You don't say anything more, only sweep away back to your bed.

You lie awake the whole night.


History of Magic quickly becomes your most hated class. Professor Fogger – or Professor Fucker, as Draco likes to call him – does little more than glare at Slytherins and praise Gryffindors.

But it's more than that. You flip through the textbook in one of your first classes. After a while, you begin to realise it's all the same. Substitute the names, the dates and the reasons, and you see that all those goblin rebellions and wizarding wars are just repetitions.

Twenty-three Dark Lords in the past century. All of them dead. You wonder why the most recent Dark Lord even tried.

How dull.


"Parkinson," sneers the infamous Mudblood of the Golden Trio. You grimace at the sight. It doesn't suit her. She only looks like she is trying too hard.

"Granger," you return. She looks surprised, as though she half-expects you to call her Mudblood to her face. You roll your eyes, marvelling at the utter stupidity of the side that managed to win the war.

"Let's get started, shall we?" says Granger, sniffing as she slams a massive tome down onto the library table. Dust flies up in a cloud. You wrinkle your nose, but say nothing.

It's been two months since the start of the school year. Fogger assigned the whole class a group project, with partners picked out of a hat. At least, you reflect, you get Granger. Draco got Longbottom. Though, you suppose, he isn't the same, snivelling mess he has been for the past years anymore. "Goblin Rebellion of 1824," you drawl as she takes a seat.

"Yes." She pauses. "You do know what happened, right?"

You fight the urge to sneer at her. "They got upset, they fought, they lost. Now, they're still guarding banks. Easy enough."

Granger pinches the bridge of her nose and, you smirk. "This is ridiculous. I swear to Merlin, Parkinson, if you try to slack off and make me do all the work…" she trails off threateningly.

"Yes?" you ask innocently. "What will you do?"

Her eyes flash, and she purses her lips. She says nothing.

"I'm terrified," you say. In truth, you are a little frightened. You have heard stories about Granger's role in the war. Dragons and goblins and bank robberies. She opens her mouth to retort, but you cut her off. "Let's just do the research, then we can both go our separate ways. Everyone is happy, yes?"

Granger nods stiffly and pulls out a piece of parchment.

Distantly, you wonder if she will ever pull the stick out of her arse. You doubt it, since even Bellatrix Lestrange didn't manage it.


You stiffen when Weasley comes up to Granger in the library and smiles at her. When he looks up and sees you, his lips immediately twist into a scowl.

"What's she doing here?" he demands.

Granger shrugs. "Assignment for Professor Fogger."

"And you picked her to partner with?" He sounds incredulous. You grit your teeth, but you don't say anything.

"It was random," she replies, glancing at you.

"Bloody hell," mutters Weasley. "I'm sorry, 'Mione."

He sounds so pitying that you snap. "I know that you are more on the dim side, but you do realise that I'm sitting right here?"

He sneers back in response. "Of course I realise. Doesn't mean I care – especially about coward Death Eaters like you."

You stiffen at the accusation. "I never took the Mark."

"So?" he scoffs. "Only difference is that at least your father had the decency to go to Azkaban."

You don't show how much the comment actually hurt. Instead, you put a familiar, well-practiced sneer on your face. "Witty, scathing and hurtful. Bravo, Weasley, there's a Slytherin in you yet. I do wonder how many brain cells that used up, though. Shocking, really, I didn't think you had more than two." You stand and shove your books into your bag.

To Granger, you say coolly, "I'll write up a list about the implications and effects of the Goblin War on the magical and Muggle world. We can discuss it more next time, preferably when I'm not at risk of catching incompetence and idiocy from your pet weasel."

As you walk away, Weasley calls after you, "You don't have to worry about that, Parkinson – nobody can catch what they've already got."


One of the first year Slytherins come up to you when you're alone in the Common Room at night. They've been doing it ever since that first night months ago, somehow deciding you are the best person to go to for advice.

You fight a laugh at the thought.

You recall the time when you thought it was a good idea to try and offer up Potter in front of all his supporters.

But you don't turn them away when they come.

"It happened again," says Pascal, the first year boy. "What do I do?"

"Where?" you ask.

"Third floor corridor."

"Did anyone see?"

He pauses. "Er, Professor Fogger, I think."

You scowl. "Professor Fucker won't lift a finger to help. He won't back you up if you complain, either. Do you need healing?"

"It's just a small burn," he says. You beckon him anyway. He obediently holds his arm out. Ugly red boils stretch across the skin. You wince at the sight of it. Small burn?

"Salutem," you whisper. He relaxes in your grip as the healing spell washes over him. The boils fade away until all that is left is a faint shade of pink.

"Thanks, Pans," says Pascal, pulling away.

You glare at him. "Don't call me that, Mudblood."

He only laughs. "Whatever, Pans."

You wave him away and sink back into your armchair. "Brat."


"You could be nicer, you know," says Granger, glaring. You almost start laughing.

"Why the fuck should I be nicer?" you ask, giving her a pointed look. "I'm surrounded by idiotic Mudbloods, after all."

She swells up with indignant fury. She reminds you disturbingly of Umbridge. "You know, Parkinson," she bites out. "Your side lost the war, if you remember. You lost to a bunch of half-bloods and Mudbloods."

"I remember who won the war, Mudblood," you nearly snarl. This, you remember too clearly. It's in how you never receive a letter from your mother. It's in the way all your schoolmates look at you, like you are dirt beneath their shoes. It's in the Daily Prophet, splashed across the headlines – 'Parkinson Family Head Dead in Azkaban'. "It's difficult to forget when people keep coming up to me and congratulating me on my father's death."

She flinches and you feel a vindictive pleasure in the stricken look on her bookworm face. "Here," you say, throwing a stack of parchment at her. "My part of the assignment. Hopefully, we will never have to speak to each other again." You stalk off, not even bothering to see if she caught it.

By the sound of her nasal squawk, you doubt it.


Sometimes, you think Zabini got it right. He never came back after the war. He never contacted any of you. You've heard rumours he's left the Wizarding World completely.

"Stupefy!" You aim the red beam of light at the sixth-year Ravenclaw. She dodges, and you prepare to fire another spell.

"Incarcerous!" Too late, you barely turn before you feel the ropes wrap around your body, so tight you feel like you're suffocating. Yes, Zabini definitely got it right.

"Death Eater spawn," spits the sixth-year you shot the Stunning Spell at. You glare at her and struggle over to Pascal, who is lying on the ground, unconscious, blood dripping from his nose. "See how you like being treated like scum?" She lashes out her foot and slams it into your gut.

It drives all the air out of your body, and you can barely breath. They advance on Pascal's still form. You try to shield him. "Get away from him," you wheeze out.

"Oh, look," laughs the other one. Dimly, you recognise him as Zacharias Smith. "Death Eater bitch has got a heart."

You spit at him. He swears and backhands you. "You know," you say, ignoring the throbbing pain. "For a bunch of people who hate Death Eaters so much, you're really acting like them."

He rolls his eyes. "Death Eaters torture for no reason. This? This is re-education."

"That's what the Carrows said when they locked up first-years in the dungeon," you shoot back.

He looks furious, and you prepare yourself for another blow.

Two red lights shoot past from your right and land neatly on your attackers. It knocks them out cold. "Shit," you hear Draco's familiar voice. "Pansy, are you alright?"

"They need the Hospital Wing," another one says. You try to look up to see who it is, but you're too sore. You think it's Longbottom though. It's hard to tell without the stuttering.

"What about them?" asks Draco, sounding disgusted.

Longbottom sounds equally disgusted. "I'll talk to McGonagall later."

"Draco," you mumble.

"Thank Merlin." You feel his hands on your face. "What happened, Pans?"

You manage to tell them how you found a Disarmed Pascal being jinxed and hexed helplessly. You tell them how you tried to fight them off, but they overpowered you.

At the end of it, you choke out, "It's all the same, Draco." Tears gather behind your closed eyelids. "Nothing will change. It's always going to be the same."

He nods, soothing you with a hand, rubbing circles on your back. He understands, better than most. He is probably the only person in Hogwarts more hated than you.

It's all the same. History repeating itself.


Your remaining months at Hogwarts are uneventful. Smith and the Ravenclaw girl got two weeks' detention. Not enough, bitterness sings in you. Not enough, not enough.

At graduation, Granger gives a speech. You don't pay much attention to it, except when you hear her quote some Muggle author – the starting point of all achievement is desire, and whatnot.

As much as you hate to agree with a Muggle – and Granger – you do.

It's written in history. Desire takes people to the top of the world, until someone with stronger desire comes and topples them. It's all about wanting; wanting to be strong, powerful or famous.

You look inside yourself and try to find that want.

There isn't much of it. You've thrown it all away.


It's easier to watch the world on the sidelines. It gives you perspective.

You watch as society rebuilds itself, with Muggle-borns and half-bloods on top, and purebloods scorned. Even Longbottom, war hero he is, faces it. You catch up with him occasionally. Once, he admitted it, too.

"When they hear I'm a pureblood," he slurred, already well on his way to drunk, "they look at me like they think I get off on killing and torturing. Someone outright spat in my face and said her son died because of scum like me."

"It's always going to be the same," you told him, recalling words you spoke long ago. "History repeating itself."

"I didn't get it when you said that last time," he mumbled. "I get it now."

You hated History of Magic in Hogwarts and you hate it still. Hate that it isn't history. Not really. How can it be, when it is all past, present and future? It's all so repetitive, all so dreary. Just an endless cycle of prejudice – against goblins, against Muggle-borns and now, against purebloods.

So you watch the world from the sidelines, as it plays out all over again. You watch as the world drowns itself in meaningless discrimination and hate. You watch as the world kills itself slowly, and you find you can't care less.