The next morning I woke up in an empty dormitory. No Semele and Eris gossiping about Rosier and Avery's gang, no Themis blithering about the upcoming Ragnorak, no Narcissa snogging a miniature portrait of her much older boyfriend. Just me and the sound of raindrops splashing against the lake's surface.
The next few days were perfect. I was all alone in the castle, save a few teachers and Dumbledore. I spent all the cool, rainy days in the common room with a book, all the warm, sultry ones in the Astronomy Tower, trying to tempt a cool breeze.
It went on like that for another two weeks, before I found I wasn't alone. The night before, I had been in the library later than usual, and had happened upon the Restricted Section. Without adult supervision, the temptation was too great. I guiltily brought my prize back to one of the table, and started in on it. It seemed harmless enough, but it was late.
I hardly slept that night. I woke up earlier the next morning than usual and skipped breakfast in favor of the library. I found my book back on the shelf I had left it and finished it in two hours.
As I finished the last page, I realized how hungry I was. I went back to the Great Hall for brunch and sitting at the Gryffindor table was a very handsome boy eating a piece of toast with an obscene amount of grape jam on it.
"What are you doing?" I demanded.
"Ahm meeming," the boy replied through his toast. He swallowed. "Who are you?"
"Lucy Cole. Why are you in here?"
The Gryffindor shrugged. "Eating on the front lawn seemed like a bad idea, and—"
"I mean, why aren't you with your parents doing—doing familial things?"
"Why aren't you?" he countered.
"I don't have parents," I said sharply.
"Then where did you come from?"
"The stork," I snapped.
He laughed, and that's when I recognized him. Sirius Black, the handsome, lazy, malicious Marauder. He stopped laughing suddenly and looked at me mock-sadly. "If you must know, my mother doesn't love me."
"Poor baby," I muttered.
"She said so last year," he said, pretending to wipe away a tear, "when she told me she never wanted to see me in her house again. She was probably just blowing steam, admittedly, but I thought why not humor her? So here I am."
"I don't like you," I said. "Humor me."
He opened his mouth to say something, but I stormed off dramatically. Unfortunately, in my dramatic exit I took several wrong turns and ended up lost.
"Who do you have, Charles?" an elderly-sounding voice said from inside one of the doors.
"Dirk Creswell and Marlene McKinnon in fifth year," Atwater's voice replied, "Lily Evans and James Potter in sixth, and—"
"James Potter?" Professor Anael said. "James Potter of the bullies-for-fun-and-profit, writes-purposely-miniscule-script, chews-with-his-mouth-open fame?"
"That's the one," Atwater said drily.
"What possible prefect qualities could James Potter possess?"
At water took a deep breath as though he had been expecting this. "James would make an excellent prefect; he's a leader, popular, and I'm sure that if we gave him a chance, he would mature…"
"Didn't he turn a student upside-down two weeks ago?"
"The other boy started it!" Atwater snapped.
"Who do you have in seventh year?" Dumbledore said.
"Caradoc Dearborn for Headboy, Lauren Rodgers and John Osbourne," Atwater said.
"Any objections?" Dumbledore said.
I could hear Professor Anael, Head of Hufflepuff, grumbling, but Atwater's nominees were passed.
"And you, Horace? Who do you have?"
I could just imagine Slughorn rubbing his hands together like a fly. "Regulus Black—excellent breeding, you know, and the most polite young man I've met—and Cordelia Eldis in fifth year, Severus Snape and Lucy—"
"Severus Snape?" Atwater said obnoxiously. "Severus Snape of the picks-fights, makes-faces-while-you-teach—" he floundered for a moment, trying unsuccessfully to think of a third annoying habit "—fame."
Very clever, Professor, but he only makes faces at you, I thought.
Slughorn nodded happily. "I see you've met him. As I was saying, Severus Snape and Lucy Cole in sixth year, and Tavish Travers and Pernella Clovis in seventh."
"Lucy Cole? Who on Earth is she?" Atwater asked. Perhaps I should make myself a bit better known.
"I'm not sure, myself," Slughorn answered. "She's very, er, good at not being noticed…"
Atwater wasn't impressed. "How do we know she isn't another made up name, like Seymour Wonds?"
"I know her," Dumbledore said. "Why do you think she'd be a good prefect?"
"Her O.W.L.s are the best of my fifth year girls," Slughorn said, defending himself more than me. "And, oh, you've seen the fifth year girls. Narcissa Black is a nice enough girl, but she couldn't exert authority over a dead flobberworm. I wouldn't trust the other three with the badge…"
"Any objections?" Dumbledore asked again.
"No to Snape," Atwater said. "I won't complain about what's-her-name, I won't even complain about Pernella Clovis, but Severus Snape will not be a prefect!"
"No objections," Professor Anael said sweetly.
"I don't like the looks of Snape," Flitwick said nervously.
"Ha! There's a tie, Dumbledore; it's your call. Is Snape a prefect or not?" Atwater demanded.
Dumbledore sighed. "Who else do you have in sixth year, Horace?"
I walked off, disgusted, at that point. Snape adored Dumbledore and was the Slytherin who could stand him! And this is how Dumbledore pays him back, by sentencing him to a year of being lorded over by James Bloody Potter?
I stomped off to the library, having regained my sense of direction, and found the book I had been reading earlier: Bloode Curses of the Darke Arts.
I was rereading chapter eight (Curses Involving Kinshippe) when Dumbledore walked in and sat down at the table I was reading at. I leaned over my book, trying as subtly as I could to cover the title.
"Good day, Miss Cole," Dumbledore said cheerfully. "What are you reading?"
"Oh, er, nothing, it's, um…"
He reached over and opened the book to the title page. His smile slowly melted. He glanced up at me and then reread the title.
"This is a Dark Arts book," he said quietly.
No, sir, by 'Darke Arts', the author means painting without light, I thought.
"Yes, sir," I said, forcing regret into my voice. That was my usual strategy on the rare occasions got in trouble: agree with everything they say, unless you can think of a plausible story, and toss around the word 'sir' a lot. I hadn't had much of a chance to try it at Hogwarts, but it always worked at the orphanage.
"Go to your dorm and pack," he said. "I'll have the train take you home tomorrow."
"Yes, sir," I said with genuine remorse. I managed to force that out of my mind by the time I got out of the library, and replace it with mutterings on censorship.
Too my credit, I was very calm as I packed my trunk, and I slept very soundly that night. I woke up to Slughorn knocking lightly on the door early the next morning.
"The train leaves in an hour," he said from the other side of the heavy oak door.
I rolled out of bed and dressed deliberately slowly, just to show them I didn't care about their little time restraints (and I'm very sure they counted the minutes). I ate my breakfast as dignified as a condemned queen, although I very much doubt any condemned queens were served cold cereal.
I was on the train for half an hour before I started to cry. It was really quiet, and sat there waiting for the snack lady to come by, then I thought, She isn't coming. You aren't going home for the holidays; you're being sent home. I started to cry, thinking of all sorts of horrible and unlikely situations. They were going to expel me, snap my wand in two, and throw me out of the Wizarding World. After several minutes of hysterical crying, doubling at each horrible situation I imagined, I got a hold of myself. Surely they didn't expel sixteen-year-old girls for reading the wrong books, and if they did, I could manage. I'd just wait until I came to my majority, take all those Galleons and such I had saved from my annual school fund to a Muggle banker. He'd give me a pretty sum, and I could live comfortably for the rest of my life.
I went into the bathroom and washed my face, continuing with these reassuring thoughts. Besides, who needs Dumbledore and Atwater and the Marauder and Evans? I wouldn't give a Knut for the lot of them.
I was quite pleased with myself when I got off the train and flagged down the Knight Bus. I even grinned back at the peach-fuzzed conductor.
I didn't bother to knock on the door of the orphanage. No one ever did, and as much as she complained about it, Mrs. Howard didn't mind. The Young Ladies Dormitory was to the left of the game room at the top of the stairs, and held about fifteen beds. Seven were lined up against one wall, with a wide shelf above them. Another seven beds were on the shelf, and one bed stuck out oddly next to the landing of the stairs.
I sat down on my bed and read some more of Burning Times: A Goblin's Account of 1667. Not as provocative as Bloode Curses of the Dark Arts, but the only thing I had on hand. Just as Uroff the Uncouth began the siege of Hogsmeade, Mrs. Howard came into the room unannounced, leading a couple.
"As you can see, I'm afraid all of the girls are on a vacation in the south," she said to the couple. She glanced at me, and quickly added, "Except for Lucy, who only just got back from a very exclusive boarding school."
"What are you reading, young lady?" the man asked loudly. He was a very tall man, with thinning brown hair and incredibly large hands.
I smiled sweetly and considered telling him, er, something naughty. "A historical novel."
"Very studious," the short, squat woman whispered to him.
"Not bad looking, either," the man replied, not bothering to keep his voice down. He turned to Mrs. Howard. "When can we take her?"
Mrs. Howard was caught off guard. "Five o'clock, I suppose?"
The man nodded and turned sharply to leave.
"No!" I half-shouted. This was unbelievable. Un-bloody-believable.
"Fine, we'll be here at six," the man said with finality, and strode out of the room.
"That was…sudden," Mrs. Howard said.
The ride to their home, despite being relatively close to St. Dympna's, was very long and very awkward. They owned a very cramped little car, and put me in the backseat. I wouldn't have minded, if only were the size of a very small dog.
"Who are you?" I asked them, not very politely.
"I am Mr. Meadowes, my wife is Mrs. Meadowes."
I was quite relieved that they didn't expect me to call them 'Mum' and 'Dad.' That would have been very awkward.
The rest of the half-hour drive was very quiet. We finally arrived at Budleigh Babberton, a tiny village of dollhouses and well manicured lawns. We stopped at the blue-trimmed dollhouse with the very bright magenta flowers.
"Your room's the last door on the left," Mrs. Meadowes said in her most simpering voice.
I forced a smile and went into that room. I nearly gagged before I made it to the desk, took out a piece of parchment, ink, and a quill. I sat there for a moment trying to think of who to write. No one in my dorm, of course. The girls at the orphanage wouldn't understand. Snape said he owed me. This probably wasn't what he had in mind, but I was desperate.
Dear Severus Snape,
You said you owed me, so I decided to write you. I don't need you to do anything; I just wanted someone to write to. You can burn this letter now; I just need to send it to someone.
I am writing to you from a white desk, covered in pink stenciled hearts. (No, the desk is covered in pink stenciled hearts. I can just see you snickering at that.) It is in the center of a pink room. The carpet is pink, the walls are pink, the tables are pink, you get the idea.
I've been adopted. My parents aren't dead, I think, but I've been at an orphanage for most of my life. It's not a big deal; no sympathy is required. No sympathy for that, at least, though I do expect an outpouring of pity because of the Muggles I'm staying with.
They are worse than the room, despite not being pink. (Well, the Mrs. Meadowes is a bit pink, and rather fond of wearing the colour, but that's not important.) Mr. Meadowes is part ape, I believe. He's brusque, pompous, and has hands that look better fit for peeling bananas than banking. Mrs. Meadowes is the most simperingly annoying woman I've met, and if I heard her correctly, intends on bonding with me while cooking. Taking into account my last attempt to cook, I'm tempted to send a muffin or something to the Marauders.
Humbly awaiting your sympathy
Lucy Cole