Take Me For A Ride (Please Don't Make Me Hide)

Gardenias and Girls

I bit me lower lip hesitantly and stare once more at the closed Slytherin Common Room Door.

I don't know the password.

(How many times did Neville forget . . .?)

I blink hard and point my wand at the portrait. Here goes nothing.

"Homenum Revelio," I mutter as a light blue shine crosses the snarling man in the portrait. Princely grace. What a password, I think to myself wryly before stepping forward. "Princely grace," I tell the portrait meekly, seeing that the man did not see me cheat the system.

He peers down at me. "Young sir," he scolds imperiously, "fix your tie! And that hair of yours! What grace do you speak of? Surely not your own?"

First off, rude.

Secondly, I guess this is good practice for my persona of a mouse. Not a rat- a mouse. I'm not a rat. I'mnotarat. I'mnotaratI'mnotaratI'mnotarat—

"Well? Are you entering, or are you just here to perambulate around the corridors wanderingly and give out our cherished passcode?" he snaps. "Hmm?"

"Sorry, sir," I reply immediately and flinch back. He's so much like Vi at times it hurts. "I just wanted to know . . . what's your name?"

He glares. "I'd tell a plebian like you that, why?"

I bit my lip harder. "Um—"

"Don't stutter!"

"I . . . I just wanted to know your name-"

"You'll earn it," sniffs he scathingly, sticking his pompous nose high in the hair. "And if you'd not, then guess it, at the very least."

"Alright . . . ?" I pause. "Can I enter now, please?"

He gives me one last withering glare before swinging open and revealing me to the entirety of Slytherin House. Joy.

.

Thankfully, there's only two people in the common room when I enter: someone who looks like Greengrass' great-someone and another girl I don't know. She has wavy brown hair and breathtaking chocolate eyes that seem to glitter with madne—oh shite. Did Hermione come from a long line of squibs? This girl looks just like her. It's disconcerting.

I quickly remember, though, that I'm supposed to be weak. Meek. Idiotic.

(Dead.)

I start to walk towards the boys' dormitories, thank Merlin for second year, when one of the girls stop me.

"Are you the new kid?" who-I-am-assuming-is-Greengrass asks bluntly.

I look right below her eyes and hunch my neck a little. "Yes."

She hums. "Don't get caught in the fly trap, that's my advice. Your name?"

"Er," I think back to the portrait and wonder if I can afford to be cheeky, but I quickly throw that thought out. Meek, Harry. Meek. "Harrison Evans . . . may I ask what yours is?"

"Heiress Greengrass, Wystilia Greengrass. Do you not hold a title?"

"U-um, no." Yes. Lord-freaking-Potter-bloody-Black. Not that it matters.

"Hm. Unusual," she tells me, her keen eyes searching. "I bid you night's rest, til morn. And to the hope we shall meet again, Evans."

With that, she leaves in a dramatic flourish to the girls' dormitory. I don't even notice that I'm left staring until the Hermione-look-alike sniffles daintily.

"Fly trap, my foot," she mutters.

"What?"

"I said," she tells me carefully, as though I am a slow child, "fly trap, my foot. Greengrass is just as engrossed in Riddle as the others. I swear to Merlin sometimes, you should count yourself lucky that you are not a girl."

". . . thanks?"

"Don't be so idiotic. It's unbefitting of a pure-blood."

I pause in rightful indignation, but I quickly shove it back down. No spirit, Harry. None at all.

(Yes, good . . . that same spirit got your friends killed.)

"What-what if I'm not a pure-blood?" I ask quietly. Who knows what could upset this Hermione-look-alike. After all, she seems to act the opposite. "What if I'm . . . muggle-born?"

"Don't be ridiculous," snaps Hermione-look-alike. "With your magical core . . . with your power- there's not possible way you're not a pure-blood. Perhaps you are related to the Blacks?"

"Don't be pretentious," I retort. "I'm not sure you're not off your rocker with the core stuff you're on about, but I'm not related to the Blacks. Do I look mad to you?"

Her smile changes from devouring to genuine. "I have a feeling we're going to get along well, Harrison Evans the muggle-born."

"I would too," I say slowly, "If I knew your name."

"Silly me, forgetting my manners, do forgive me," she apologises, a wide grin appearing. "I am Belladonna Lestrange. You might want to avoid the Greengrass, however. She and her sister, Atropa, are ruthless. I would not be surprised if they already had a body count between the two of them."

My eyes widen considerably. "I'll put it in mind, thanks."

And an awkward lull in conversation seems to start, just when she beams a brilliant grin at me and tell me, "I'll see you tomorrow, Harrison Evans the muggle-born." She gives me a wink and leaves, with much less dramaticesed action than Wystilia.

Girls.

Take Me For A Ride—Please Don't Make Me Hide