As always, the Great Hall was decorated in an impressive impression of the outward sky. Besides hundreds and hundreds of floating candles another hundred-thousand stars punctured the bewitched sealing. The sorting ceremony that had just ended had been utterly delightful. To Morgan's surprise, some of the first-years she and George had encountered on the platform earlier had in fact as they had walked into the Hall secretly put their clothespins on their noses. At the sight of the Sorting Hat, however, and upon noticing that none of their fellow students fainted from some gruesome troll scent, they had, as quickly and secretly as they pegged their noses, taken the clothespins off again and put them far away in their cloaks. George had been overjoyed and shared his elation with Morgan, sending her a big grin and a cheeky wink.
And as always, the sudden appearance of food evoked appreciative noises from all around the Great Hall. At the Slytherin table, the noises celebrating the opening of the feast were accompanied by anxious discussion of the headmaster's warnings against leaving the school's premises. All Slytherins' were now eagerly debating their views and perspectives on the matter, their mouths full, their stomachs hungry.
"Heard you were attacked by a dementor, Weasley?" The sneer came from familiar grounds.
Morgan paused a second before reacting, staring blankly in front of her towards the Gryffindor table, channeling some lion's strength.
"Shut your gob, Malfoy," Imena intervened without looking up from her food before Morgan had even so much as turned towards the blond boy.
"No one asked you anything Atieno," he retorted right back.
"I do not need any, let alone your, permission for speaking."
Draco Malfoy ignored her effortlessly, forwarding himself over the table towards Morgan while leaning on his elbows.
"What did you feel? Was it the shame of living a penniless life? Stomach aches from lack of food? The knowledge that you're an utter disappointment to that family of yours." He spat out the word 'family' with full disgust.
"It was the bitter pain of knowing that people like you exist. And thank for you asking. I heard you were quite in your element yourself." Morgan granted him a sweet, saccharine smile, which made Draco frown for shortly, smile still plastered on his face.
"I can't believe they let these monsters on the schoolgrounds," Agnes Monkleigh cried out fearfully. She was a fourth year Slytherin, which made her a dormitory companion of Morgan and Imena.
"My father thinks it's a blessing that the Ministry allows them to guard our premises. I tend to agree, although I, for one, have nothing to be afraid of. Black and I are practically family."
"I can spot the resemblance," Morgan snorted.
The boy's loopy grin did not wither. They were used to these exchanges.
"Don't think some common blood will keep you safe though." Imena utterly detested Draco, who she deemed nothing but a spoiled and spiteful blond brat. For Morgan, however, he was more like a darkly distorted dualism, contrasting in the extremes. His sincerity, if his indoctrinated hatred could resemble anything like sincerity, was brutally honest. Draco was clever, nasty, ambitious, spoiled, inventive and dark. Dark-dark. And she spent a lot of time with him on the quidditch pit where he showed, besides foul play and filthy talent, perseverance, and tenacious team-spirit.
Regardless, his puritan pureblood ideals degraded all his potentially positive traits.
"It does if this blood is pure," Draco scoffed.
"The dementors will sure enjoy some of that. Hell, with all these purebloods up in Azkaban you'll fit right in. Quite the family reunion." Imena heaved her glass to Draco before taking a sip.
The smile on Malfoy's lips twitched. Morgan, on the other hand, felt ignorant with respects to Imena's Azkaban references. Mr. Weasley, although himself undoubtably aware of all Azkabanian affairs as he worked for the Ministry, disclosed to his children only the necessary: evil is locked up in Azkaban. That it was also evil that had been guarding the Azkaban prison, Mr. Weasley had never told Morgan explicitly. Before her attack, she had thus been blind as to what a dementor was.
"It is evil they are after, not blood," Blaise Zabini, a studious third year student like Draco Malfoy, interfered casually, ignoring his fellow Slytherins' vocal strife.
"Evil?" Morgan asked interestedly, reminiscing her earlier encounter with the dementors.
"Must be trained now, won't they? To go after evil, kiss out the life of these prisoners, make 'em desolate, real desolate." Zabini's dark eyes reflected the floating candles above his head.
Morgan shared a look with Imena, whose tensed, unblinking eyes glared curiously like Morgan's. Why would the dementors have attacked her if they are after evil?
"Hiding any dark secrets from us, Weasley?" Draco drawled again, reading her mind. "That why they put you in Slytherin? Too wicked to make cat?"
He touched a nerve. It was exactly Morgan's sortation that always made her feel as is something was horribly wrong her. Some simmering Slytherin secret she was only too afraid to find out about. A hidden character of vileness, a virulent, nefarious infection spreading slowly through her system, vilifying her.
"If you don't watch these lips of yours you'll find out Draco," she warned him ominously.
Eyebrows raised in defiance, he chuckled but obeyed the warning.
"But most of all, they want happiness," Blaise continued as if Draco's intermezzo hadn't interrupted him the least. "Suck it right out of you." His lips imitated a sucking noise.
"That's why they avoided you, Malfoy. You radiate pure poignancy and smell like deep-seated sorrow. They knew there was nothing to score, so why try." Imena chuckled at her own words.
"Glorified happiness, I'd settle for success instead any time," Draco exalted with pride.
"How does a dementor at once desire evil and happiness?" Morgan asked trying to reveal her ignorance by trying to sound indifferent.
"They want the happiness of the evil; they're fussy like that," Blaise chuckled slightly.
"Oh," Morgan voiced her prolonged confusion. As far as she knew, she had resembled the dementors' favorite dish: Azkabanian evil with a slice of happiness.
"The Ministry really thinks Black would come here?" Agnes stirred up their previous conversation again.
"To finish the job I suppose. Don't see how since he could never get in here though. Hogwarts' protections are stealth-mode. There's no apparating in nor out, Floos don't work either. And now with all these floating leeches floating around the premises, it's virtually impossible." Blaise notified them, looking around the tables to glare into his peers' faces.
"Black disappeared from their radar once, what'll keep 'em from doing so again?" A skeptic fourth year called Graham Montague sitting beside Morgan asked.
"At least they're now all practically wired to hunt him down. Before he was just one of many. Now, he's like the golden snitch and these dementors a bunch of hungry seekers." Blaise's hand reached up in the air, grabbing an illusionary snitch.
"What's he after anyways?" Morgan asked innocently, causing a lot of heads to turn towards her to stare at her unbelievingly.
"You mean, you don't know?" Imena pried before any of their fellow Slytherins could.
"Don't know what?" Morgan pressed, brows worried.
There were some hushed sounds rising at the Slytherin table of people whispering to each other.
"Black's after our dear Potter." Draco's eagerness got the better of him. "Can't blame him though." He grinned.
Morgan's eyes sneaked towards the Gryffindor table and landed on the black haired, lighting struck boy who was feasting insouciantly with his friends. Would he know? Was that why Arthur was being so secretive with him at the train station?
"Black's after Harry?" She repeated in some sort of whisper.
"Doesn't that father of yours tell you anything Weasley? You'd expect that he at least briefs his children with intel from the Ministry. My father–"
"No one gives a thinker's curse about your father, Malfoy," Imena interrupted him, earning some snorts from the students around them.
Draco's eyes shot daggers at her. Imena shot them right back.
"Black's the reason Potter is an orphan. He helped Voldemort trace down and murder his parents. Some Gryffindor loyalty right there," Draco dragged out, ripping his gaze from Imena's. "And now he's back to complete what he started, to eradicate the Potters at last."
"I'd be terrified," said Agnes in a hushed voice.
Morgan's gaze shifted towards watching Harry again, Draco following her traces, turning around to get a better look at the boy himself.
"Concerned about Potter, Weasley? Look at it this way, he might leave your family something to inherit if he dies." Grabbe and Goyle grunted some sounds that were supposed to be laughs.
Upon hearing yet another of Draco's insults, Imena placed a hand on Morgan's underarm as a sign of non-verbal support. Her friend didn't know, however, that Morgan wasn't much touched by Draco's verbal assault. Sure, she utterly detested its message. But it did no longer manage to hurt her personally. His snakelike slang, mostly revolving around her family's poverty or blood-traitor-ness, had over the years affected her increasingly less and less. Unbeknownst to the blonde, the repetitiousness of it wore off its impact. Besides, Draco taunted everyone; not everyone equally but everyone disinterestedly. And the fact that none of her personal traits were ever the object of his vilification revealed that he detested her context more than her content; his hatred was always honest.
"I don't particularly carry a death-wish for Harry, no," Morgan answered nonchalantly, after which she asked Montague to hand her the honeyed, crisped potatoes chips.
"He'll probably try and go after Black himself," snarled Pansy Parkinson, a pug nosed, black haired third year student, from somewhere beside Montague. "He's ever the show-off."
"Can't believe that Dumbledore neither. One moment he forbids us to enter a corridor. The next he awards those Gryffindors for their imprudent doing so. Greatest wizard of all time transformed recklessness into braveness. Hurray!" Morgan didn't miss out on fellow fourth year Fergus Cowley's sarcasm. "Mark my words," He went on. "If you forbid Potter to go off the premises, you'll find him right there, off the premises."
To some extent, she admitted to herself, Morgan was troubled by Fergus' words. In a purely descriptive manner, it was hard to decide when virtue becomes vice. She, for one, rather left such normative judgements in the middle however–not quite out of indecisiveness but more a loyal, undifferentiated heedlessness to all existence in the world. Rather like a faithful owl delivering any letter from its master, regardless the content.
She knew it wasn't up to her to judge whether puritan declarations dismissed a Slytherins' aspirations or whether Gryffindors' good intentions recompensed their rash bravery. Whether Hufflepuffs' sense of justice justified their impartiality or whether Ravenclaws' cleverness cleared them their conscience.
But she did know that at some point any aspiration, bravery, justice, or cleverness was bound for its own doom.
"The old imp is undeniably biased. Snatched the House cup, our House cup, from us twice in row," Draco added to the vented resentment towards Headmaster Dumbledore.
Morgan did not, however, dislike the ancient wizard himself in the least. His unparalleled cleverness matched his boundless sense of righteousness and forgiveness, a combination seldom found in those with superior magical powers. But she realized full well that if you stood in the way of a Slytherin's ambition, your head will be torn off and placed on a stake on full display for friend and foe alike; be with us our against.
"How come that loathsome sloth has retained his position at Hogwarts anyways? What kind of Headmaster allows the attack of its students," Pansy lashed out.
"Well… his incompetency in the face of these attacks might have been the best he's ever accomplished here on Hogwarst," Draco said darkly.
"Don't be such gits. If Voldemort would have succeeded–bless he did not–Hogwarts would've been closed permanently. That means Slytherin would be done for as well," Imena hushed impatiently. Her outspoken anti-Voldemort stance was not happily accepted; several students glanced at her resentfully.
"Which," she quickly said when she noticed Draco had a reply ready. "Would mean no more House cup, never."
A growl escaped the boy's mouth as he took in Imena's words. Slytherins' were too proud to desire the ruination of their own existence.
"At least the Quidditch cup still reads our name," Morgan tried to steer away the subject from last years' events. She didn't need reminding of how she almost lost her sister nor of how some of her fellow Slytherins had applauded the attacks, that of her sister included.
"And it will continue to do so," growled Marcus Flint from a bit up the table towards the third and fourth years. This big beast of a seventh year Slytherin was captain and chaser of the Slytherin quidditch team and was proud to be so.
"You've awakened the monster," Imena noted, looking queasily at Flint. His large body heaved over his plate and he was eating so ravenously it seemed he was trying to fill nine stomachs.
"The other Houses frankly don't stand a chance," Miles Bletchly, the fifth year Slytherin keeper, who had also overheard the quidditch talk, added.
"We playing Plunge again?"
Although Plunge sounded like a quidditch strategy, it was anything like it. Plunge was a traditional Slytherin gambling game. For every match, you could bet on the outcome of a match, pointwise and in terms of winning or losing. You could bet on people falling, hurting, and scoring. Most points were awarded for exceptional incidents, like lightning strikes or dashing into an owl. The more precise a prediction, the more money was to be gained.
As such, in increasing value, one could bet on "Gryffindor player is hit by bulger," "Gryffindor player is hit by bulger in the head," "Female/male Gryffindor player is hit by bulger," "Female/male Gryffindor player is hit by bulger in the head," "Katie Bell is hit by a bugler," "Katie Bell is hit by a bulger in the head," and so on. Extra points were given for those predicting rightly when this was going to happen, but most students didn't venture that far. Such predictions were extremely difficult.
This year another category had been added: attack by a dementor. It was a huge success.
Although the gamble registration, administrated by a seventh year named Junpei Suruga, was kept out of sight from the players to avoid corrupting their game, since the players were often bribed or tipped by their fellow students to instantiate certain events (or not) and since they often secretly partook in the gambling by letting their friends place their bets, the players' corruption was inevitably. The original committee had foreseen this danger of corruption but dismissed it as irrelevant because, one, it would be unfair to exclude the players themselves entirely and second, who doesn't enjoy a match with a bit of filthy gameplay? The result: a very bold and physically strong Slytherin team that unbeknownst to the other Houses was, aspirations high, playing two games at once.
For Morgan, Plunge was of ambiguous moral standing. In all honesty, she couldn't defend its moral debasement. But it had a charm; the secretiveness, the competitiveness, the hectic, fervent suspense preceding a quidditch game plus its explosive aftermath when the gambling scores hit, were such joyful upsurges, they had the quality of inspiriting even the most timid and strait-laced, pedantic students. Hence, even Imena, who had beforehand judged their gambling game nothing but an inane and immature mania, had eventually conceded to the crave when she found out that her predictions were working wonders when playing Plunge.
Plunge was also one of the Slytherin secrets hardest to conceal from her fellow Weasleys–the twins especially. Morgan could all too well imagine the rascal glittering of their mischievous eyes were they informed of a secret gambling world, inside the castle, that revolved around their favorite sport. No doubt they'd want in. No doubt. And although they'd fit right in, they weren't allowed to either know of or participate with the gambling since they weren't Slytherins.
"First game of the year, we'll be playing the dogs," Flint briefed his teammates with a mouthful.
"Gryffindor, aye?" Cassius Warrington, a fifth-year chaser, replied, sounded somewhat dispirited. Slytherin against Gryffindor was easily the most exciting match of the year and having it so early in the competition disappointed both the quidditch and the Plunge players.
"That roque bludger from last year was a charm! I will never not bet on Potter getting injured." A grinning Blaise reminded himself of last year's luck.
"Easy success that Potter. Heard they might be lowering his price tags. He's becoming too easy a target. Everyone's betting on him. Makes no good sports," Cassius Warrington informed the table.
"We could branch off the Potter bets, call it Plotter?" Montague smirked, getting loads of positive feedback.
"I bet you His Stardom will be only too delighted to hear of a gambling game put in his name," Draco grimaced.
"One sickle!" Cassius opted jokingly.
"Would save your sickles for the game if I were you. Have a feeling little Potter might get hurt some again," one of the Slytherin beaters, Lucian Bole, warned Cassius with a conspiring grin.
"My money's on the twins," Blaise expressed laxly what many other Slytherin only inwardly and silently ruminated.
"Sensible. Statistically, these two easily cause most injuries," Imena retorted in likewise lax manner as if she and Blaise were discussing tonight's weather forecast.
"Don't tell 'em that though," grunted Flint disapprovingly.
Each year, Fred and George presented a real aporia to many a Slytherin. As fits, all Slytherins had the highest aspirations of winning both the quidditch game and Plunge bets. To win at the latter game, however, meant that a lot of Slytherin students were actually betting in favor of the Weasley twins injuring the Slytherin team. Inevitably thus, when playing against Gryffindor in general, and the Weasley twins specifically, Slytherins' ambition clashed immensely with their pride.
Upon hearing her mention of her brothers, Morgan's eyes slipped towards the Gryffindor table where the twins were amicably orating some very amusing story judging from the entertained faces hearing and watching them.
The youngest twin must have felt that Morgan's eyes had lingered on his softly freckled, friendly face since he turned his gaze towards her, letting his brother finish the story. A somewhat secretive, insincerely innocent, caballing grin skewed his lips upwards as he cupped his face in his hand to watch her. Morgan shook her head slightly upon seeing his mischievous demeanor, trying to force back a smile that she couldn't withhold. Her cheeks felt somewhat heated, something she blamed on excess food and drink, the warmth of which so contrasted the outside evening cold.
"Injured a boatload ever since they made the team," Montague remarked, breaking Morgan's trance.
"Would have a lot more injured without them," Draco uttered in a guttural tone, referring to how Fred and George had admirably tried to keep the roque bulger from attacking Harry last year.
"Wait, you keep track of beater hits?" Morgan asked her friend in belated astonishment.
"Among other things," Imena gave her a deceivingly innocent smile in reply.
"George's the most brutal, in case you wondered," she whispered so that only Morgan could hear.
Morgan felt fairly flummoxed at hearing Imena talk about George being brutal and the slightest blush heated her cheeks again. A flash of George in quidditch attire flickered through her mind.
"Still can't believe that they cancelled last year's competition," Draco spat out. It had been his first season as the Slytherin seeker.
"Might've been for the better with that seeker of ours. Have you learned to spot the snitch now then Draco, eh?" Cassius grinned at his younger teammate. Last year, when Slytherin had been playing Gryffindor, Harry had managed to snitch away the snitch right from above Draco's head. In the aftermath, the Slytherin team had continuously reminded Draco of this blunder, repetitiously reenacting the scene by pointing to some nonexistent snitch above his head..
Cassius remark earned him a Draconian stare.
"Shall we find out?" Morgan mused to her teammates.
Morgan was the only female on the Slytherin quidditch team, which brought with it the ever-unfulfilled expectations of her somewhat sexist, somewhat savage teammates. In her second year, she had been able to convince the team, amongst whom reluctant chaser and not yet captain Marcus Flint, of her incredible chaser talents despite her lack of physical strength–a trait usually required to make the team. She had told the young Marcus Flint that she had learned to play from and with her brothers, and even though he was a Gryffindor, he had still been unabashedly impressed of the fact that she learned first-hand from star-seeker Charlie Weasley. Besides, she had conspired with her now-captain that she'd be able to share insight on Gryffindor tactics since her twin brothers were on that very team and she knew all about their playing schemes. Luckily, it had not dawned to Flint that these brothers could do likewise for the Gryffindor team.
Reflecting on their quidditch prospects, Morgan smiled to herself as she grabbed an apple from one of the stuffed plates on the table. Feeling its silkiness, she rolled it in her hands and, without warning, threw it right at Draco Malfoy. Catch or not, either way would be entertaining.
"Think quickly," she had blurted out before flinging the fruit his way, a cheeky smile spreading her lips.
Even though the boy startled for a moment, he heaved up his hand, fingers curling around the shiny green peel.
"Decent," Morgan evaluated the seeker's catch with laughing eyes.
Draco's startled face portrayed something of relieved smile though Morgan knew he would've been furious if he had missed. He rolled the apple around in in his hands, inspecting it as though it was a rare artefact, before he took a bite. All the while, Pansy was watching him admirably.
"Oi, got some talent even without his Nimbus 2001," barked a laughing Cassius. "Happy to see you've improved Malfoy."
"Sadly the snitch looks nothing an apple though," Morgan remarked, pursing her lips.
"If only, that'd be quite an improvement," said Imena dreamily, entertaining herself by imagining fruit-basketed quidditch gear.
Their quidditch boasts and roasts went on for quite some time, after which they discussed their new classes, new books, and new D.A.D.A. teacher, who in Morgan's opinion seemed quite mysterious, an opinion countered by the other Slytherins, who instead emphasized his shabby clothes and worn-out etiquette. After this turbulent re-introduction to Hogwarts, its students, ghosts, portraits, moving stairs, and dim dungeons, Morgan laid herself, exhausted but satisfied, on her four-poster bed, closing the curtains, with a flick of her wand, with a sigh. Softly, as if from great distance, she still heard Imena whisper a "good night," while she drifted off into dreams.
That night Morgan had the strangest dream. After closing her eyes, she found herself in the pitch-black void she had been sucked into during the dementor attack; again, it kept her hovering but this time, a speck of light shone in it. A very sharp and penetratingly glittering light. Big as a huge star but radiating much more intensively.
There was nothing beside this light and the darkness mantling it. She'd felt a curious mix of disquietude and solitude, like the calm before a storm or in the midst of its eye.
Without a warning, a large and fleshly substance started to materialize beneath her. From an indistinguishable blub it seemed to knead itself into various protractions. It looked as if it was trying to exorcize its own materiality, to bring alive something by expulsing it.
Then, Morgan identified what looked like five giant fingers, of which the nails were in the process of being carved. Before she knew it, a complete hand was rotating itself beneath her.
The gigantic hand started to move towards her, digits spread wide open to catch her in the act. She felt scared now, but upon moving her arms an legs, all her body did was rotate her in empty space. And when she tried to scream, nothing but a shrill, hysterical sound escaped her lips.
All she could do was watch how the fingers folded around her and slowly but painfully increase their grasp until eventually she felt herself being pressed apart.