Chapter Six:
"Have you heard?"
"Yeah, I only heard a little bit though…"
"I can't believe it happened, and I was asleep!"
"So was I! I bet he passed our bedroom!"
"Yeah but he killed the Seventh year girls instead!"
"Oh my Merlin, are you serious, all of them?"
"Yeah, each and every one of them are dead."
"How did they die?"
"Slit throats, but one to the point of decapitation."
"They were killed the muggle way? Those dirty bastards!"
"Do you know which one was found headless?"
"No, tell me!"
"Parkinson."
I listened to the endless short sentenced conversations as I gradually worked my way through several pancakes, swimming in golden syrup and three goblets of pumpkin juice, in the Great Hall. I wasn't really paying attention to my deeply disturbing breakfast, as my mind was focused on what I could make Granger-the-newest-type-of-Banshee through the incredibly amusing simple game called blackmail.
The news of the delightful discovery of my latest victims had spread through the school like a wild fire in a forest, even the greatest and utmost gruesome details had somehow been leaked out into the pitiable crowd of gossiping students.
The Great Hall was skilfully decorated in all black, the teacher faculty's wardrobes, tablecloths, walls and accessories to the usual student ensemble of their uniforms had been covered completely in sable and mahogany to resemble the 'oh so horrible loss' of the sluttish whores of seventh year Slytherins.
"Who do you think murdered them?" another conversation began on the most interesting topic of the hour, again.
"It's probably some bloody fucking Mudblood." The other answered.
I held in my vast urge to laugh, and then held back another urge to curse them to oblivion, how dare they think that the murderer, is just a pathetic, low-life Mudblood?
"Silence please," Dumbledore called, the students and staff fell to a paramount silence, solemn expressions plastered each and every face in the crowd. "Now, as I am sure that news has spread throughout this morning's breakfast, it has unfortunately been discovered that seven Slytherin Seventh years have been murdered."
A murmur whipped through the crowd like a frosty wind sweeping in and out of the now empty, once-the-centre-of-bloodshed Malfoy Manor.
"Hem hem," McGonagall coughed, imitating the once Hogwarts Defence Against the Darks Teacher, Professor Dolores Umbridge. The mere imitation had sent many chills down the spines of the students who remember her unpleasant stay at this school, I ignored this reaction because not everyone hated her stay here, she hated us all, with the exception of the few Slytherins, such as myself, who joined her elite group of the Inquisitive squad.
"As I was saying, these several students were caring," a few raspy coughs echoed through the hall, including my own. "Gentle in their nature, simple and very pretty," this time many more coughs and snorts reverberated throughout the grieving Great Hall. "In their own way and now I would like you to all raise your goblets in remembrance to Kia Wakeham, Jinn Atarys, Millicent Bullistrode, Pansy Parkinson, Miranda Coppertone, Angela Freedman and Tara Kersten; we will never forget you're kind Slytherin ways." Dumbledore sighed sadly, sipping sorrowfully into his large golden goblet.
Fortunately, he did not notice everyone else snorting into their own.