Before we begin, I'd just like to thank everyone that comments and faves and otherwise expresses their appreciation for this story. While creativity is often its own reward, I do shamelessly enjoy every bit of validation I receive, and it does encourage me to keep things going at the pace I do.
Chapter Seven: catalyst
11 September, 1991
In his literary classic, The Count of Monte Cristo, Alexandre Dumas tells the story of Edmond Dantès, a man betrayed by those he was closest to and sentenced to life in a prison fortress far away. While he suffers for fourteen years and plots his escape, his accusers and conspirators live it up, pulling down wealth and success. While Edmond is languishing in prison for a crime he didn't commit, his former best friend has married his (Edmond's) fiancée, his rival at work has taken his job, and his neighbor who knew about the whole plot remained silent, lest he become implicated himself.
While I spent ten hellish years in the Dursleys' house, being trod on, starved, yelled at, neglected, and otherwise made to regret my very existence, Albus Dumbledore has spent his days with his finger on the pulse of wizard society, sitting in a cushy office and enjoying the finer things.
Who else knew? Did he have coconspirators? Others that saw the course of action he was taking, knew what he was signing me up for, and sat with their thumbs up their arses?
Edmond Dantès eventually escaped his imprisonment, found his way home, and exacted a long and calculated series of revenge plans against those who wronged him. Not content to simply kill them, he spent years dismantling their lives, made them watch as all that they had built up fell apart around them.
He didn't just want them dead. He wanted them to suffer for it first.
I definitely feel that he's a man to look up to.
-H
…
"Got a nervous feeling about today," Neville said as he took his seat next to Ron in Potions. Harry had already joined them, sitting a few rows back from the pair in his usual spot. There was a palpable tension about the classroom, as though everyone present was waiting to see just how Snape would react to the return of the only student brave enough to simply get up and leave his classroom. He was historically unrelenting once he had set his sights on a particular student, victimizing them every chance he was given. Despite this, Ron couldn't help but feel that the Potions professor may have met his match in the bespectacled boy, even if he hadn't realized it yet.
"You have a nervous feeling all the time," Ron pointed out, and Neville shrugged, unable to deny the fact.
"This one feels a bit more nervous than usual, though," he said, sparing a glance back at Harry. Ron decided to simply do the same, as everyone else was peeking at him anyway. Harry looked placidly at attention, the emotionless mask of his face (seriously spooky) betraying no hint of nervousness or reluctance. He seemed nothing more than a student ready to attend yet another routine Potions lesson.
Well, he would get his wish sooner than later, as it wasn't long before Professor Snape glided batlike into the classroom once more, his eyes alighting on Harry and gleaming like a cat's that had just spotted a particularly juicy mouse.
"I see the famous Harry Potter has lowered himself to my poorly Potions class," he said in scathing tones. "I thought my methods didn't cater to your lofty standards."
"If you can call performing your basic job requirements 'lofty'," Harry said. "Believe me, if I was able to be anywhere else and get a passing grade, I would be."
"Time will tell if you can even earn a passing grade in my classroom," Snape said.
"I'd hardly call this a classroom," Harry said. "Actual teaching needs to be done for that to apply. Twenty points from Ravenclaw."
Snape paused with his mouth open—it was clear he'd been just about to say that last bit himself—leaving a few students to desperately stifle their laughter.
"Thirty," he said flatly, making his way to the front of the classroom. "Because of Mr. Potter's cheek, today we'll be concocting a Wiggenweld Potion. It's from the second-year curriculum, but I daresay if anyone runs into any issues, you may feel free to ask Potter for help. Clearly, you know how to teach this class better than I do, don't you?"
"That is not at all the point I was trying to make," Harry said with a shake of his head. "You are actually acting like a child."
Snape seemed particularly bothered by this statement, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. Ron feared for a moment that he might actually strike Harry, and though he couldn't deny that he was genuinely eager to see a fight between the pair, he was nonetheless relieved when Snape only returned to his desk and sat, gesturing at the board where a long and complicated set of instructions had appeared.
"Get to work," he said.
The class scrambled into motion, and it became clear very quickly that the Wiggenweld Potion was on the second-year curriculum for good reason. Several of the steps mentioned terms that Ron had never read in his life. What on Earth did "foment" mean? He was vaguely aware of what an "emulsion" was, but he had no idea how to go about the process. Around him, confused mutterings and panicked whispers told him that he wasn't the only one at a complete loss as to what to do. Next to him, Neville looked on the verge of a panic attack, and Ron placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, staring down the directions.
Alright. Snape had told them to ask Harry, right? A quick glance revealed that the black-haired boy was coolly going about the process of brewing his own potion, drawing a few apprehensive looks from the students around him that were clearly too nervous to approach.
Well, a Weasley had little in the way of concepts of personal space, Mum had always claimed.
"Oi, Harry," Ron said, and Harry glanced up at him. "What's 'foment' mean?"
"Old potion-making term," Harry said, not even pausing in his work as he spoke in quick, halting speech. "You're supposed to make a salve out of the billywig slime, the flobberworm mucus, and the sloth brain slime. Stir it up until it's uniform then pour it over the wiggentree bark. Heat up the calcinator first, though, then stick the bark in and pour the salve overtop of it."
A ripple of movement moved through the class at this, and everyone else began to hesitantly go about the work, occasionally pelting Harry with questions while he blazed through the process on his own.
"Harry, do I grind up the lionfish spine or – "
"No, either ten standard size or about two grams' worth of whole spines," Harry said. "They have to dissolve in the mixture or it'll clump up."
"Harry, is this mint too wilted?"
"Pick off the brown bits, the rest will work."
The class continued in that manner, with Harry expertly fielding every question while Snape seethed quietly behind his desk. By the end of the proceedings, every student had a carefully-crafted Wiggenweld Potion before them, and even Neville's attempt seemed passable, if slightly off-color. Scooping them all into vials, they hesitantly delivered them to Snape's desk, each student placing their bottle before hurrying away from the murderous look on his face. Harry was the last one in line, his expression still perfectly impassive as he placed the bottle on Snape's desk.
Just as Ron was gathering up his bag, he heard the muted crash of something small and made of glass hitting the stone floor of the dungeon.
"That was rather clumsy of you, wasn't it, Potter?" Snape's voice spoke with absolutely dripping smugness. Ron rounded and saw the Potions professor staring Harry down with a sneering smile, his hand clearly outstretched across his desk and having knocked the potion to the floor. "Looks like no marks for you today, either."
"Looks like it," Harry said after a moment's pause, and Ron saw Snape's sneer return at the lack of even the slightest reaction to his sabotage. "Enjoy your week, Professor."
With that, he turned on his heel, heading down the aisle of desks and toward the door. As he passed Ron and Neville, he gave them a brisk nod on his way by.
"Ron, Neville," he greeted them in cordial tones, and Ron made eye contact with him for one brief second, feeling a shuddering chill run down his spine at what he saw. For the first time, there was something behind Harry's eyes, a flitting emotion welling up in the once hollow glass.
Cold, depthless fury.
…
Gaelic Spells Of The Twelfth Century…Gadrak's Guide to Goblin Cuisine…Gadzooks! You've Grown A Tail!...
"Ah, there you are," Hermione said with a smile, standing on her tip-toes to reach Gallywook's Compendium. Tugging the book carefully from the shelf, she let it fall into her arms and spent a few seconds taking in the sheer age of this tome. It was probably older than her grandfather, than her great grandfather. Magic made it all too easy to preserve a book from the normal hazards of wear-and-tear (even in a school full of irresponsible children), so Hermione had spent the last week and half poring over pages and contemplating covers generations-old despite the fact that they all looked freshly-printed. The inside cover of this one—a collection of spells that had been indispensable in the day-to-day life of a semi-famous wizard named Gredrick Gallywook—claimed it to have been published sometime in the early seventeenth century. Apparently, all of the pertinent information had found its way into the various editions of The Standard Book of Spells, but there had to be some fascinating tidbits that hadn't, and that was the sort of thing Hermione was after today.
While she wouldn't trade her upbringing for anything, she had missed out on so many little nuggets of knowledge by being born to muggles, and she had a lot of catching up to do.
Carting the book back to the table where she'd set up shop for the afternoon, Hermione added it to a rather considerable stack that she'd already accumulated. While she'd thoroughly skimmed and sampled from a number of volumes—taking notes on the portions that she'd wanted to read and skipping over the bits with outdated or archaic information—some merited a proper cover-to-cover reading. Those were the ones she actually planned to check out before withdrawing into a corner of the common room for a truly comprehensive understanding.
"Oi, there you are," a voice said, and Hermione felt a smile pull at her lips. Fred had such impeccable timing. She spun to see him standing there in a set of form-fitting green robes, a pair of goggles pushed back over his forehead. "Blimey. Planning on doing a bit of reading this weekend?"
"You should know the answer to that, we've been acquainted for longer than five minutes," Hermione told him. "Would you mind carrying these for me?"
"Miss Proper, here," Fred chuckled as he scooped up the pile of books. "We've 'been acquainted' when I thought I was friends with you."
"Well…that, too," Hermione huffed, feeling her face heat up. The concept of friends was still a strange one to her, and going from a social outcast to someone who had accumulated a healthy social circle literally overnight had taken some adjustment.
"Where's George?" she asked as they made their way to the front desk so Madame Pince (the hawkish but categorically knowledgeable librarian) could stamp them for her.
"He took a pretty nasty spill at practice," Fred said. "Banged his arm up real good. I was actually finding you to see if you wanted to visit him in the Hospital Wing."
"Of course," Hermione said while Madame Pinch whipped her wand at the stack of tomes, a rubber stamp dipping itself in an inkpad and marking each one with the due return date. She slid the stack back to Fred, fixing him with a beady eye as though daring him to get up to his usual mischief around her turf. Oblivious (or more likely ignoring her), Fred lead Hermione from the library.
"Is George okay?" Hermione asked.
"Oh, he'll be fine," Fred said flippantly. "Our line of work invites this sort of thing. Wood says it's good luck for someone to get injured in the first practice."
"Oliver Wood sounds entirely too committed to this sport," Hermione said with a shake of her head.
Fred and George were both on the Slytherin quidditch team, a sport that apparently was played on broomsticks and operated like a mix between football and basketball. Hermione had gathered that the twins played a position called beater, which involved hitting an autonomous flying ball around with a club while it tried its level best to smash into the other players.
It still didn't sound quite as violent as rugby.
The distant sounds of a distressed George Weasley could be heard as the pair approached the Hospital Wing, followed by the chiding voice of Daphne, who Hermione spotted sitting next to one of the many beds arranged in neat rows throughout the massive room. High windows let in plenty of sunlight as it spilled over the distant mountains, illuminating a second green-clad figure in the bed. While Daphne observed, George Weasley was being seen to by the white-haired matron of the Hospital Wing, Madame Pomfrey.
"…broken in six places, and I have to mend each one separately or it won't sit right," the old woman was saying in the stern but caring voice of a woman that had obviously seen to a lot of injured children in her time. "You signed up for that wretched sport, you'd best be willing to handle the aftermath."
"C'mon, I'm barely older than your little sister, and you're being a big baby," Daphne said, and George glared at her.
"If my hand wasn't completely numb right now, it would be making quite a rude gesture at you," he said.
"Wouldn't Mother be scandalized," Fred said as he approached with Hermione in tow, and George grinned at him while Daphne shot Hermione a wave.
"I think she's reached the scandal threshold with us two," he said. "Anything new just doesn't register anymore."
"That just means we need to try harder," Fred nodded, depositing Hermione's stack of books on an empty chair. "Oh, speaking of, those buttons should be coming in tomorrow."
"The ones for Snuffles?" Daphne asked with a giggle. "I want one, of course."
"You'll be the first," Fred said. "Hermione, you sure you don't want one?"
"It does seem rather cruel of them to keep an animal like that locked up in a windowless corridor," Hermione said with a thoughtful hum. "Alright, yes, I'll wear one, too."
"That's the spirit," George grinned. "If they try to get you in trouble for it, tell Snape or McGonagall we kept pestering you until you wore one."
"They'll believe you," Fred assured her.
"I'd believe her," Daphne said, "and I'm standing right here."
"Didn't Bella want one, too?" Hermione asked, and Daphne snapped her fingers.
"That's what I've been forgetting," she said. "I should let her know to stick around at breakfast tomorrow if she wants one hot out of the box. Hermione, join me?"
Hermione glanced up to the twins, who simply waved her off.
"Go on, you two have a lovely girls' chat," George said. "We'll bring your books by later."
"I'll stick 'round and nurse my dear brother back to health," Fred added.
"When's the sponge bath?" George asked.
"Soon as they leave," Fred shot back.
Daphne snorted with a roll of her eyes, apparently deciding that George was in good hands as she made her toward the exit with Hermione in tow. Without a word, she pulled Hermione's arm into a squeeze, humming idly as they walked. She was simply like that, Hermione had found, standoffish and downright sassy to those outside of her friend group but quite happy to all but snuggle into Hermione when she was able.
"Sometimes it's cute to just see the look on your face," she had once admitted.
As they passed into the corridor outside of the Hospital wing, Hermione saw a couple of Gryffindor girls she recognized from Potions class, which the Slytherins shared with the house. One of them was one of the Indian girls she'd seen during the Sorting Ceremony (Parvati, who had the longer hair, she recalled), and her friend was a pretty girl with light brown hair and gorgeous blue eyes that fixed on Hermione as they passed each other.
"Hello," she said in polite tones, and Hermione managed a small wave before Daphne pulled her along.
"Mind what you say to Lavender Brown," she said in a low voice. "She's a massive gossip."
"I thought Slytherins loved gossip," Hermione said as they made their way toward the Entrance Hall.
"Slytherins don't spread gossip, but we're happy to listen to it," Daphne said. "Dad always says information is useful, and the spread of it can be even more useful when it's controlled."
"What does he do?" Hermione asked.
"He owns the Cleansweep Broom Company," Daphne told her, amending herself as the pair descended the staircase leading to the Slytherin common room. "Well…he owns the controlling interest and makes sure Benford Ollerton doesn't do anything foolish that'll lose him money."
"Do all pureblood families just have a bunch of money that they put places that'll make them even more?" Hermione asked, and Daphne looked over at her with plain expression.
"Yeah," she said simply.
…
Life as a Slytherin was surprisingly fun for Hermione, who had managed to impress nearly half the Slytherin students due to her intense drive to learn and succeed in all she was able. Gemma Farley, in particular, would often pinpoint Hermione in the common room and strike up a conversation on whatever advanced spell she had managed to wrap her mind around that week.
This drew the ire of a few other Slytherin girls, who saw the beautiful prefect as something of an idol and were loath to see her pay special attention to one student in particular. Most of them left her alone, though Hermione was unsurprised to realize that even among wizards, the same old insults flew her way. Bookworm, bucktooth, frizzy-hair. "Mudblood" was a new one, though that one had fallen out of use after a few too many unexplainable incidents involving Itching Whoopee Cushions and Finger-Fang Gum.
Fred and George had been noticeably absent during most of these occurrences.
Even so, those were only a few girls, and the rest were seemingly happy to let her be.
More than fitting in, though, for the first time in years, Hermione had friends. Daphne, Fred, George, even Bella Zabini often joined them for study sessions. Daphne was proving to be a wonderful friend (though she toed the line from sassy to mean-spirited once in a while), and Fred and George were absolutely amazing. If they weren't rendering Hermione speechless from a snorting fit of giggles, they were surprising her at their capacity for the occasional nugget of wisdom or deep observation.
The only caveat in her perfect school life was one singularly annoying bint of a girl.
"Granger," Pansy Parkinson said as Hermione sat on her bed Friday night, scribbling the last few lines of a diary entry for the day. She had just gotten a nice warm bath and was feeling ready for a good sleep. "Did you get the Defense Against the Dark Arts essay done?"
"…I did," Hermione said. Was Pansy about to ask for help?
"Good, give it here," Pansy said, snapping her fingers and holding a hand out like she actually expected Hermione to just hand over the essay.
"…No."
"Give it here, Granger," Pansy said warningly, "or I make you regret the day you were born."
"How about you climb down from your high horse, or I make you regret the day I was born?" Hermione shot back.
"Solid comeback, Hermione," Bella said admiringly as she emerged from the bath, wrapped in a fluffy-looking set of pajamas and toweling her hair dry. "I got chills off that one."
"Sod off, bimbo," Pansy spat at her. "This is between the two of us."
"You're really picking a fight with Granger?" Bella asked. "That's your power play?"
"I said sod off!" Pansy shot, and Bella quirked an eyebrow, fixing Hermione with a curious look.
"It's alright," Hermione said with a wave of her hand.
Smirking at Hermione, Bella grabbed her toiletry bag (she was notorious for forgetting it) and made her way back into the bathroom to finish her nightly ablutions, leaving Pansy to once again snap her fingers in a "hurry-up" manner that had Hermione suppressing the urge to hex her nose from her face.
"Goodnight, Pansy," Hermione said, and Pansy sneered at her.
"You don't want to make me your enemy," she said.
"No, I don't want to make you my friend," Hermione said. "Because I find you to be rather unpleasant. Having you as an enemy is a complete nonissue to me."
"…You were warned," Pansy said archly, and Hermione rolled her eyes. She sounded like she was hoping to be the villain in some pulp radio drama, but she was coming across more like a Saturday morning cartoon character, a bully that was all bluster and completely ineffective at more than schoolyard insults. Hermione had learned long ago how to brush off even the most caustic and scathing remarks.
Fred had even called her overlarge front teeth "kinda cute" once, which had made her glow for days afterward.
And if Pansy felt like things needed to come to blows, Hermione knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that she could handle the girl in a magical confrontation. She had enough support that her friends could attest to her acting in self-defense if and when a teacher became involved, and she would most definitely leave Pansy thinking twice about tangling with her again.
No, the only worry plaguing Hermione's mind as she settled under her covers that night was the invitation she had received from the Weasleys to visit over Christmas break. She yearned to go, as much to visit her new friends as to see what a proper magical household looked like! Imagining days spent among fully-grown witches and wizards, pelting Molly Weasley (who had personally invited her in a letter, the sweetheart) with question after question about household spells and common enchantments cast upon wizarding homes, it was an alluring prospect.
Not to mention cozying up by the fireside with a cup of cocoa, maybe sharing a blanket with Fred…
Hermione felt her face heat up and tossed under her covers, cursing herself for bring up a mental image that now simply wouldn't leave.
Even so, with all that in mind, her parents had also extended an invitation to come home for the holidays—they had even taken a two-week vacation around the holidays and rescheduled a few appointments—and from their letters, Mum was keen to see her again. Dad likely was, as well, though he wasn't as emotive about it. Much as Hermione wanted to see the Weasley household and delve deeper into this magical world, she longed for home. Memories of Christmas carols playing in the living room, of cheesy holiday specials on TV, of Mum and Dad squeezing her between them and serving up piping hot mugs of the old Granger family white chocolate cocoa recipe (sugar simply didn't exist during Christmas, even for dentists), and waking up Christmas morning to a pile of presents from the entire Granger extended family…
"You will always have your Mum and Dad to come back to."
Mum had assured her of it twice, and Hermione owed it to her parents to make good on her end of that promise. She would just need to tell Fred and George that she wouldn't be able to make it.
That would be daunting.
Speaking of daunting, as Hermione was getting situated under covers and ready to doze off, she heard a rustling on the other side of her four-poster's hangings. Was someone making a midnight trip to the loo? No, the noise was right on the other side of her hangings, like someone was fiddling around with her things. A metallic rattling told Hermione that this stranger was trying to access her trunk, and even sight unseen, she was positive that it was Pansy attempting to swipe the much-coveted essay.
That was rather foolish.
Poff!
"Oi, what the hell!?"
Stifling a laugh, Hermione lit the lantern on her bedside table with a wave of her wand and peeked out from behind her curtains to check out the commotion, spotting Daphne across from her with a matching impish smile.
"Something wrong, Pansy?" she asked in her sweetest tone.
"Did you get mixed up and try to open the wrong trunk?" Hermione asked, even though it was a logical impossibility; Pansy's trunk was on the literal opposite side of the dom room. "Only I've got some warding charms on mine to keep people from stealing from it is all."
"You…you absolute scum!" Pansy shrieked, advancing on Hermione before the dormitory door flew open.
"What the blazes is going on in here?" the voice of Gemma Farley carried into the room, and she stood in the doorway with a dressing gown hanging open over a set of surprisingly pink pajamas. The Prefect's eyes shot wide when she saw Pansy in the light spilling in from the hallway outside, and Hermione saw her trying to stifle laughter. This of course only made it harder for Hermione and Daphne to keep their own giggles from breaking through.
"Granger attacked me!" Pansy insisted, her face red, though Hermione wasn't sure if it was from anger or embarrassment or a mingling of both. She suspected both. Pansy had no idea what had been done to her, but from the laughter sounding around her, she could likely tell it was hilarious.
And, oh, it was.
Pansy's hair was now a vibrant shade of greenish-yellow that reminded Hermione of the safety vests worn by construction workers, and it had been styled into a mullet, a short flat-top complimented by a long mane that spilled over her shoulders. Worse still, her eyebrows had been changed to match, making her look somehow even more ridiculous as they nearly disappeared into her pallor. Fred had been the one to suggest the warding spell array (citing that many would-be thieves had been deterred after only two successful triggerings), and Hermione had meticulously set it up on both hers and Daphne's trunks.
She would have to remember to reapply them.
"Oh, she attacked you?" Gemma asked in a voice laced with skepticism. "From her bed? Looks to me like you tried to be a sneak, but Hermione had a surprise set for you. That looks like the Weasley boys' trademark, isn't it, Hermione?"
"Yes, Fred showed it to me," Hermione said, and Gemma smirked at her.
"That's advanced stuff for a first-year," she said. "Very impressive."
"Gemma!" Pansy huffed. "What about me?"
"What about you?" Gemma asked, her tone switching instantly to that of utter exasperation. "Pansy, I dunno what sort of power trip you think you're on, but if you're thick enough to try to pick a fight with the absolute brightest girl I've ever met, you'll continue to get what's coming to you. Would you like me to inform Professor Snape about this? After you're little episode at the start of term?"
Pansy glared at the Prefect, but there was little she could do without digging herself deeper. Huffing, she turned and flounced away toward the bathroom with a slammed door, likely to attempt to fix her hair. She would find it quite a chore; apparently the wards Fred had told her about had come from a thick old tome he'd found in the Weasley family library. There was a very trickily-worded counter-spell, but nothing Pansy would likely know.
Of course, there were ways around such things for a more-learned magic-user, but if Pansy was trying to plagiarize homework, how learned could she be?
"Back to bed, you two," Gemma said much more warmly to Hermione and Daphne. "Hermione, if she keeps being a bother, come and talk to me, okay?"
"Oh, she hasn't bothered me at all," Hermione insisted, and Gemma winked at her.
"You are just a little ball of sass, and I love that about you," she said. She shot them one last little smile before ducking back out of the room. As soon as she was gone, Hermione heard the telltale shuffling of Daphne leaving her bed, and seconds later, she was joining Hermione in hers.
"Boy, she's really digging herself deep, isn't she?" the blonde asked, and Hermione snickered, tugging the hangings shut and lighting her wand. Daphne settled to sit on her heels, smirking at Hermione. "What's it like to be the Queen Bee of the Slytherin first-years?"
"I am not the Queen Bee," Hermione huffed.
"I think Gemma Farley is going to propose to you at some point," Daphne said, and Hermione snorted. "At the very least, you've caught Blaise's attention. He's been asking about you."
"Bella's prat of a twin brother?" Hermione asked distastefully. "Ew."
"You say that, but he's rich and the son of a pretty famous witch," Daphne cautioned her. "That means he's influential and someone you want to at least pretend to get along with."
"Bleh," Hermione grumbled, flumping back onto her mattress. Daphne smiled down and nestled alongside her. Hogwarts beds were king-sized, allowing plenty of room for both girls, and Daphne had even simply spent the night sleeping next to Hermione a few times.
Hermione had often dreamt of having a proper slumber party with a girl friend, and here she was, making good on that goal.
"Slytherin politics is bollocks sometimes, isn't it?" Daphne asked, and Hermione shrugged.
"I guess if what I'm reading is right, pureblood money controls a lot of how the government runs," she said, and Daphne nodded. "So the more I learn to get along with them, the less hassle they'll be causing me."
"Exactly," Daphne said proudly, reaching over to gently pinch Hermione's cheek. "Look at you, thinking like a proper snake."
"That would be your corruptive influence," Hermione said wryly.
"Oh, I can't take all the credit," Daphne said with a shake of her head. "It was always there, you just needed a good solid nudge. I mean, look at you. You booby-trapped your chest and all but invited Pansy to go rifling through your things. That's devious."
"Oh, you'll make me blush," Hermione said, crawling up and moving to the end of her bed. "I do need to reapply that charm, though."
"I wouldn't put it past Pansy to try again," Daphne agreed. "She really is just the worst sort of Slytherin. She's mean for the sake of it. It's like she goes out of her way to be an arse in the stupidest way possible."
Waving her wand at her trunk a last few times and muttering the spells Fred had told her, Hermione crawled back under the warmth of her blankets, giggling a bit when Daphne snuggled into her side. For all her talk of the politics of school life and playing the part of Slytherin's "Ice Princess", she was an unrepentant snuggle-bug, and the nights where she joined Hermione in her bed usually ended with mornings wrapped in a tangle of Daphne's limbs. Not that Hermione minded.
It was nice, she mused, to have friends.
…
How he hated night patrols. When he wasn't being accosted by portraits attempting to sleep, Severus found that no matter how often they were caught and punished—no matter the severity of the penalty—the same troublesome wretches could always be found prowling the corridors, getting up to no good and obviously hoping to glean some small bit of glory and notoriety they could strut about the next day. A utensil from the kitchens, a book from the Ravenclaw common room, even a sword pilfered from one of the suits of armor while it slept.
In other words, the sort of imbeciles Potter had kept company with.
The memories, once buried and thought forgotten, had resurfaced with the same intensity as if they had happened yesterday once he'd laid eyes on Potter Jr. How like his father he was, the same annoyingly superior air, the same swagger. Even the familial resemblance was uncanny to the point of torment. The only difference was in the eyes.
Her eyes.
Staring at him constantly from his face, a searing reminder of her, of how out of reach she had ultimately become…
Harry Potter's very existence was a mockery, his resemblance to James haunting and mocking him while those damnable eyes stared constantly, full of accusations.
And all the while, he unknowingly parroted her words.
"You're actually acting like a child, Severus…"
His obsessive rivalry with James had always been a source of exasperation to her, brought up nearly every time they'd spoken before –
He was suddenly yanked off his feet by an unseen force, moving with such speed that the air whipped at his face, seconds before he collided painfully with the stone wall of the corridor. He felt more than heard a crack in his side as his shoulder crashed into the masonry, his wand flying from his hand before he was quickly wrenched in the opposite direction.
The corridor was a blur around him as his other shoulder was treated to the same brutal impact, robbing him of breath in his lungs. Searing pain erupted in his side—some ribs were likely broken, the pain blossoming hot and stabbing. Before he could fully process the shock of it all, he was flung upward. Higher he flew until his back and skull were thrown against the rafters, dizzying him and leaving it difficult to collect his thoughts.
Abruptly, the invisible force that had taken hold of him was released, and he fell the nearly three meters to the ground, landing with a pained grunt. He managed to roll onto his back, looking around to find his wand missing. He tried to call out, but only a grunting cough sounded wet and rattling in his throat.
Just as he felt himself slipping from consciousness, a face loomed overhead, seeming to float in the darkness. James? No, Harry Potter.
And he was grinning from ear to ear, his eyes wide and manic.
"Hello, gorgeous," he said, just as blackness overtook Severus.