I chase the sun, moon and stars
Searching for a haven
But the elementals elude me
A supernova in the darkness
Good effort, Astoria, written in Professor Flitwick's neat cursive at the bottom of the parchment. I exhale a sigh of relief, the same one after each graded assignment. The scholarship terms and conditions had been very clear: a pass rate of at least 80%, or they cut my funding. This is Hogwarts Academy, after all.
"Dinner at mine tonight," Ginny whispers from the seat beside me. "Luna will be home from Athens."
Sunlight filters in through the box windows, casting streams of gold across the mahogany desks and bands of light on the heritage floors. There's a general rustle of parchment, whispers confessing poor marks, boasting about great ones. Not for the first time, I find myself grateful Ginny is not the type to ask about grades.
"Another of her father's archeological adventures?" I ask.
"Supposedly," Ginny says. Her forehead creases in concern. "But it was strange. She said-"
"Miss Greengrass," Flitwick interrupts us, speaking quietly to me. Ginny quickly busies herself with her textbook. "Professor McGonagall has requested to see you after class."
Oh no. I try not to panic — but struggle to think of any harmless reason why I've been called to the head of department's office. I have two classes with McGonagall, Renaissance Literature and Introduction to Narrative, and my mind races through assignment deadlines I may have missed, papers I may have failed. Flitwick gives me a small, kind smile, which worries me further. Is it a gesture of pity?
Ginny tactfully turns back to her parchment, already taking notes for our next assignment. I struggle to do more than stare blankly ahead as the minutes tick by, much too quickly, and the loud bell chimes through the brick walls.
"Don't forget your homework!" Flitwick calls out amidst the jostling of bags and scraping of chairs. "A descriptive piece using natural elements as metaphors!"
Usually I would wait for Ginny and we'd leave together, particularly on a sunny Friday afternoon like this one. The temperatures have already begun to drop, the first claws of Autumn desperate to take us in its grasp. Soon it will be too chilly to lounge by the lake, reading sonnets with Luna and Rolf, Harry often joining us, too. They became quite lonely affairs on occasion, surrounded by happy couples brushing hands freely across textbooks or whispering answers and stealing a kiss. More than once I had mumbled an excuse to leave early, craving the solitude of my own dorm rather than playing fifth wheel any longer.
But rather than lingering by the door for the red-head, my feet carry me quickly through the corridors, quickly filling as students spill out from their classrooms. House colours are proudly displayed; sometimes obnoxiously with large knitted scarves and blatant ties, other times with subtlety — the lining of a blazer, crest pendants hanging from golden chains. I tug at the hem of my own blue cardigan beneath my blazer, fidgeting as I approach the door to Professor McGonagall's office. Heart hammering away in my chest, I knock twice on the heavy, mahogany door.
"Come in."
I try to open the door quietly, but have to lean against it with a shove to get the damn thing to move. There's a snicker as I stumble into the room, cheeks turning pink. I don't bother closing it behind me. It swings shut of its own accord.
Heat from the crackling fire spreads through me at once, rising from the base of my leather shoes to cast a pleasant flush across my forehead. The old, brick walls are rarely capable of holding such heat, and so most professors don't bother to even light the fires. I wonder idly if McGonagall's office has some special kind of insulation.
Bookcases line each wall, and for a brief moment I'm envious of so much storage for so many texts, recalling the many books I had to box up and put into storage when moving into my tiny dorm. McGonagall sits at the polished desk, adorned with an assortment of fine quills. I've seen students use similar writing utensils in class, dipping their feathers into ink pots, droplets and smears staining their parchments. But what really catches my attention, jolting my roaming gaze to a stop, is the blonde figure sprawled across one of the armchairs in the room.
He looks oddly familiar, though I struggle to place him in any of my classes. His eyes are silver, intelligent, as they catch my own. He runs a thumb across his jaw. I wonder stupidly for a moment if I've barged in on somebody else's meeting with the Professor.
"Miss Greengrass," McGonagall greets me, rising to her feet. "Thank you for coming to see me. Please, take a seat. Toffee?"
She shakes a tin at me, bristling with Werther's. I take one politely and settle down in the spare armchair, maroon velvet and stained oak framing. The faintest scent hits me — spice, amber and citrus. My companion nods to me in greeting, pretending to fuss at one of his cuff links. A silver serpent.
McGonagall's lips twitch into a frown. "I'm afraid I have some bad news."
Uh-oh.
"At the end of the school year, the Ministry will be suspending the scholarship program." I remember the Ministry from the school brochures, a board of governors chosen by the government to oversee college operations. "And with Hogwarts Academy's funding only stretching so far, I will have only one spot open for scholarship students wishing to continue with the Literature program."
I'm silent for a moment, the words still sinking in. My initial relief — no suspension, no enrolment concern — quickly turns to worry. Without the scholarship program, I'll have to leave Hogwarts. My life will be over before its even begun.
"I thought my father's donation made it clear," the other student finally says, his voice clear and measured. "We have no issue with the fees."
"Be that as it may, Mr Malfoy, your admission grades are not acceptable. Without the appropriate entry requirements, you are still classed as a scholarship student."
His eyes darken. At McGonagall's words, I finally realise who he is. Draco Malfoy. Heir to the Malfoy estate, with his parents being one of the top aristocratic families in the country. My own parents had tried, and failed, to mingle with them on the rare occasions they appeared together at events. We have the long lines of aristocracy, my family, but no gold left to prove it. I can thank my great-grandfather's gambling problem for that.
"I think there's been a misunderstanding," Draco says. "I'm not working towards a Literature qualification. Professor Snape is happy to keep me on under his supervision."
"You are still taking Literature papers, Mr Malfoy, and as I recall, Professor Snape does not admit students without sufficient marks in all areas of their study. As the head of department, I have the final say in which students are permitted to enrol in my class. Not Professor Snape." McGonagall adjusts her thin spectacles. "If you wish to succeed, you'll need to put in the hours, and the effort. Not only will you need to meet my minimum criteria for second-year students, either of you," she scans her eyes between us both, "will need to outperform the other. Quite frankly, you will need to be exceptional."
Draco and I glance at each other in the same moment. His face is set, jaw clenched, eyes burning with determination. I almost recoil in shock, my own eyes widening. He gives a satisfied smirk, and finally a fire is lit under my ass. I'm not letting this jerk beat me to that scholarship spot — no way. Who does he think he is, bragging about his family's money, overconfident that some Professor I've never even heard of will guarantee his place here next year? His arrogance, God, it's beyond frustrating. I picture his face, the smug look wiped clean off it as he hears the news he missed out. He'll need to pack up his things and go home to his parents, back to spending his days lounging around on a yacht or whatever it is he does with his life. This is all clearly a joke to him. But to me, it's everything. This is a chance to make something of myself, escape my parents' cycle of pretending to have money, while hiding debt bills and final payment notices. I need this.
Draco stands, shaking McGonagall's hand in farewell and slipping a hand into his trousers pocket as he leaves the room. I get ready to go too, but McGonagall holds up a hand to stop me.
"Miss Greengrass," she says in a low voice, that leaves me thinking Draco isn't far out of earshot. "I hope you understand the position this puts you in."
My blood runs cold as I nod. "Yes, Professor. I'll work very hard."
"Working hard won't be enough." She peers at me seriously above her spectacles. "I personally vouched for your admittance to this college, after reading your essay. I hope you won't let me down."
The words ring in my ears as I leave the office, back into the chilly hallway. I'm so distracted I don't even notice Draco until he falls into step beside me, as casually as though we were old friends.
"Greengrass, was it?"
I clench my teeth. "Yes. Astoria."
"I assume after our chat in there you're a literature student, too?"
"With a French elective." I stop to fasten a buckle on my bag. "You?"
"A bit of everything, really." He fusses once more at a cuff link. "I'm finding modern alchemy most interesting."
"That's with Professor Lupin, right?"
"No, Snape. He's an old friend of the family, actually."
"I'm not surprised," I say coolly. "It seems you've got all sorts of connections in this place."
His eyes glitter dangerously, just as they had in McGonagall's office. "Have you taken French before?" he asks, ignoring my statement.
"Of course," I lie.
"I've been fluent since I was six," he says. "Et toi?"
I blink, my mind going completely blank. Of course I know the meaning of bloody et toi, even with my limited knowledge, but in this moment I cannot seem to string together anything in response, in any language. Under any other circumstances I could come clean, laugh it off. But from the way Draco's eyes narrow, the way he talks, I get the sense he's testing me. Trying to decide how much of a threat I am. Whether to take me seriously as a rival.
"Why alchemy?" I ask, ignoring the way his face lights in triumph. "From the sound of it back there, you haven't gotten very good grades even in normal chemistry. I thought it was a pre-requisite?"
I see the barest hint of a clench at his jaw. Childishly, I want to pump my hand in the air in victory.
"Yes, well, that would be boring. I liked to be challenged when I learn. Not everyone can say that."
His eyes relax once more, suddenly more playful than menacing. We approach the grand archway to the entrance hall, where students spill in all directions and conversation is nearly impossible.
"I suppose I'll see you around in class," Draco says.
The noise of loud voices and footsteps grows louder. I'm sucked into a sea of cardigans and sweater vests fending off the chill, satchel bag bumping against my hip. It's only when I turn to see Draco's back, already walking away, that my lips press together in confusion.
"Wait," I call out. "We don't have any classes together. I thought you were taking literature?"
But Draco only smirks and raises a hand in goodbye.