LESSONS AND IMPRESSIONS

She was getting used to the dungeons now. It wasn't the sort of place she had ever inhabited, but now that she had slept two nights there, the darkness and the cold stone were becoming almost home-like. She'd always been an adaptable person.

Drusilla's first day of classes had gone rather slowly. Each lesson had been quite long, but interesting enough (excluding History of Magic, which topic she had never found less magical). She particularly enjoyed Astronomy, which had taken place at night at the top of a tower. Her teacher, Professor Sinistra, knew more about the stars than any witch or wizard she had ever met before. Which was quite significant, really, as up to that point Drusilla had considered her own mother the absolute authority on that subject (and most others). In addition to Sinistra's ability, though, her indifferent personality made her more tolerable than any of the other teachers. Especially McGonagall, who had surveyed Drusilla for her entire Transfiguration lesson with a distinct look of mistrust.

Care of Magical Creatures was the least pleasant of all her lessons so far, as the sixth-year Slytherins shared the period with the Gryffindors, who were quickly becoming Drusilla's least favourite group of people. Since coming to Hogwarts, it had become apparent to Drusilla, who considered herself an outsider, and certainly not a member of any particular house (though the Sorting Hat believed otherwise), that there was a deep-rooted and unchangeable animosity between Slytherin and Gryffindor, which went further than House rivalry. And though she tried to remain a mere observer, Drusilla found herself caught up in the House Wars, against her will and better judgment.

"Watch it, new girl!" a short little Gryffindor boy had spat at her as he shouldered into her on his way to grab some seeds for a Fire-Breathing Sunbird.

"What the fuck?" she had snapped back, turning around to glare at him. The boy opened his mouth wide, clearly unused to hearing such language at school.

"Professor Hagrid!" he yelled, and ran over to the indescribably large (and rather hairy) man who was taking the class. Drusilla watched the two of them confer for a moment. The boy pointed at her and Hagrid looked up, studying the dark-haired girl while the boy waited excitedly for him to scold her. Professor Hagrid stared at her for a long time, and then seemed to remember something, for he nodded his head as though he understood something the little boy didn't, then turned around and walked back to the Sunbirds. Disappointed, the boy Drusilla had mentally dubbed 'Blondie' scowled at her briefly before turning to follow the giant man.

"That's Gryffindor for you."

Drusilla turned around to see a chubby Slytherin girl standing beside her with an unpleasant look of superiority on her face. "What's Gryffindor for me?"

The chubby girl sighed and rolled her eyes. "They're all like that. Every single one of them. I'm Heather, by the way," she held out her hand, which Drusilla looked at disdainfully until it was put away. "My parents say that no Gryffindor was ever a true witch or wizard. They're all fakes – and completely useless, the lot of them. Of course everyone else thinks the sun shines out of their behinds, especially that Potter," she paused, and looked at Drusilla questioningly. "You do know who Potter is, don't you? Harry Potter?"

"Of course I do," Drusilla snapped.

"Yeah, well," Heather continued. "You don't seem to know much about anything, really, so I just thought…"

"What do you mean by that?"

"W-well," Heather faltered, and then pushed bravely onwards. "You don't seem to know much about Slytherin, otherwise you wouldn't have said what you did at the Sorting. You know, after the Hat sorted you, and you said –"

"I know what I said," Drusilla replied coolly.

"Well, if you knew about Slytherins, you wouldn't have said it. It was a very unlucky thing to say. You'll really have to prove yourself now, won't you? I mean, I know Draco's your cousin and everything, but that will only take you so far, especially if he turns against you. Which he will if you keep treating him the way you did last night." Heather took a breath, looking worried – as though she'd said too much.

"And if he turns against me? What's that supposed to do?" Drusilla asked, sounding bored.

"I just think you should be careful, is all. He's Head Boy, after all, and… and for other reasons, too." Heather looked around and then lowered her voice. "Malfoys deserve respect."

"Aren't I a Malfoy too? Everyone says I am. Perhaps you should start showing some respect."

"I… I'm just giving you some friendly advice, that's all."

"I don't need it. Now please stand elsewhere." Drusilla turned her head away and heard Heather's offended-sounding scoff, then muffled footsteps on the grass as she walked over to where the other Slytherins stood.

And now, the next day, she was with the Gryffindors again – in the dungeons this time for their first potions lesson. It seemed it was impossible to get away from them, and even more impossible to get away from the Slytherins, whom she found she disliked the most. Drusilla was beginning to wish she hadn't gotten herself expelled from Durmstrang.

Just as the clock struck 9:00am, a tall dark-haired figure swept into the dungeon. "I trust none of you are expecting any beginning-of-year motivational speeches. If you are, I suggest you withhold your anticipation for today's Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson, as I'm sure Professor Lupin has devoured a greeting card salesman at some point in his existence."

All of the Slytherins laughed loudly, while an indignant rumble of whispers was heard from the Gryffindors' side of the room. Drusilla merely stared a straight ahead looking uninterested, for she neither knew nor cared to know the meaning behind this little joke.

The potions master, Professor Snape – whom Drusilla had been told was the head of her house -, pulled out a long piece of parchment and began to take attendance. Each student responded by saying 'Here, Professor Snape,' or 'present.'  Drusilla noticed there were several students – Gryffindors, all – for whom Snape reserved special looks of loathing as he noted their presence.

"Lackey, Heather."

"Present, Professor Snape!" Heather practically sang, and Snape lip curled into an almost undetectable snarl.

"Very good, Lackey," he said tiredly. "Longfellow, McTavish."

A brown-haired boy grunted in response.

"Five points from Gryffindor, Mr Longfellow. Perhaps by the time you next step into my classroom you will have taught yourself to speak properly." A few Slytherins sniggered, but McTavish and his friends looked perfectly furious.

"Malfoy, Drusilla."

Like she had in every other class, Drusilla remained silent. By now the Slytherins were used to it, but some of them still looked uneasy. Many of them, including Heather, smirked in anticipation, as though expecting some sort of scene to erupt, though it hadn't in any other class so far. All the other professors had looked straight at Drusilla, noted her presence and continued marking the roll. Drusilla refused to say "Here, professor" for these Hogwarts people (especially in response to THAT name). It felt somehow beneath her, especially seeing as how people like Heather Lackey performed the task with such relish.

Snape did not look at her, however. He waited a moment, still looking at the parchment in front of him, with his quill ready to make its mark.

"Malfoy, Drusilla," he said again, still in that low voice. Again Drusilla did not respond. Finally Snape looked up. Like the other teachers, he did not have to search the room for her; he had already noted where she was sitting. His black eyes burned straight into hers and he repeated himself yet again.

"Malfoy."

Even the Slytherins were silent. Nobody in the room moved or spoke, and the tension hung in the air for the long minute that the two stared at each other. Finally, Snape stood up from his desk and moved to stand in front of Drusilla's, his black robes billowing (there was simply no other word for it) behind him. Every single student had to strain their ears to try and hear his words, even the Slytherins sitting at the surrounding tables (for no one had sat beside her). But nobody except Drusilla and Snape were privy to the extremely short conversation that unfolded. Snape leaned in towards her on his hands and they both looked into one another's eyes.

"Lacroix, Drusilla."

"Here, Professor."

Snape nodded shortly before straightening up to address the entire class from the front of the room.

"You will take out your quills and parchment and copy down what I'm about to write," he said. All of the students got to work immediately, even the lazy Slytherins, but Drusilla took a moment to study Professor Snape before joining them. His back was turned. He wrote quickly, his hand moving across the blackboard sharply, and his writing was barely legible. His long black hair fell in his face but he made no move to brush it away, as though the task of writing a potions recipe took every ounce of his concentration. Drusilla was certain it didn't. And she was amazed that a few short minutes ago, she had not found the Potions Master even mildly interesting.