The Time For Silence

Characters and main events leading to this story belong to JK Rowling.

ooo

6.

Tracey woke up early that morning. Had one of the girls cried in her sleep? All seemed still behind the emerald green curtains.

She hadn't had any nightmares that night, she noticed, pleasantly surprised. Perhaps it wore off, after a bit. Perhaps it stopped being every night and became every other night, then only once or twice a week. Then one could start living more or less normally.

What day were we today?

Tracey's heart leapt as she remembered: today she was scheduled to meet Professor Snape's portrait. With the other girls, of course. The only time Professor Snape had spoken to Tracey alone had been for her career appointment, in fifth year.

"I believe you have a brain," he had said, when she had stammered that she didn't know what she wanted to do after school. "You wouldn't be in Slytherin if you didn't have a minimum of cunning."

That was a compliment.

"You must choose," he had told her. " I wouldn't trust any of the girls in your year to do it for you."

And then what had she done? Followed Pansy and Daphne to the Dark Lord. Because purebloods lead and the rest follow.

Now they were saying Professor Snape was a half-blood, that his father was not just Muggle-born, like Tracey's, but an actual Muggle.

The subject was taboo in the Slytherin common-room. One did not discuss Professor Snape's ancestry or his so-called great love for Potter's mother. Pansy's cherful motto, "always believe the worst", did not apply to Professor Snape.

Professor Snape was Professor Snape was Professor Snape.

And Tracey was going to talk to his portrait today.

Of course, she wouldn't do the talking. Pansy always did the talking. That's why she had been made a prefect and Head girl, before her disgrace. The Slytherin girls' meeting with Professor Snape would go like this: Pansy would talk, Daphne would nudge her and remind her not to talk like a Muggle and Tracey and Milly would nod and agree.

Still, it would be good to listen to Professor Snape's advice.

Like making your own choice and not listening to others.

Tracey wished she could discuss things with Milly. Milly's common sense was usually helpful. But Milly was snoring loudly in the next bed. If Tracey tried to wake her, Milly would start, grunt "What?" and wake the whole dormitory.

Tracey sighed.

The curtains in the bed across the room tore open and Pansy's puffy face appeared.

"Oh, it's you," she said in a sleepy voice. ''S'your big day today, isn't it?"

Tracey sighed again.

"Stop it, Pansy. It isn't funny."

Daphne's feet slid out of her bed right into her emerald slippers and their owner emerged, wrapped up in a bathrobe.

"Wake up, Milly. It's time."

Milly turned over, grumbled something, took one look at Tracey and said, "Professor Snape."

.

The boys had all spoken to Professor Snape. Greg was showing more interest in Quidditch, though he still hated Knatchbull, the other Beater. Theo was making efforts to talk about something else than how long his father still had to live. He and Blaise had been having intense discussions about Salazar Slytherin's teachings and the future of his house. Draco was sulking. He was angry at everyone: at Slughorn, at Pansy, at his dorm mates, at McGonagall and even at Professor Snape. At least, he never spoke of his father any more, which was a welcome change.

The girls had not dared ask anyone what Professor Snape had to say. They would soon find out, anyway.

Soon! Tonight!

Tracey hardly touched her breakfast, even though Milly rolled her eyes at her full plate. Milly knew Tracey felt about Professor Snape the same way she felt about Professor Grubbly-Plank, but she had never lost her appetite over it.

A dark grey owl landed majestically next to Daphne, who untied the roll of parchment from its leg with a visible lack of enthusiasm. She pushed the letter over to Pansy, who eagerly unrolled it.

After a few minutes of silently feeding cornflakes to her house-owl, Daphne turned to Pansy.

"What do they say?" she whispered.

"Same old rubbish,' said Pansy cheerfully. "That you'll never find a husband who wasn't a Death Eater."

"What if I don't?"

"You will. You're not a Slytherin for nothing."

Pansy's eyes scanned the Ravenclaw table.

"Let's see. Who's pureblood over there?"

"Oh, please!... Let's get out of here."

.

Soon they were sitting in History of Magic. Tracey found it hard to concentrate on this subject, that had always been so important to her. Usually, she would write every single word down avidly, eager to become so knowledgeable everyone would forget her father was Muggle-born.

A fly came buzzing in front of her nose. She tried to push it away in Milly's direction, but the fly seemed to have a mind of its own. It chose Daphne's neat parchment and alighted just on top of the last word, the word 'war'. The ink was still damp. The fly seemed to be tasting it.

Flies aren't supposed to drink ink.

The absurdity of animals and people acting differently than the way they were expected always set Daphne on edge.

The fly was an apathetic type. It needed to be prodded with the end of Daphne's quill before it condescended to drag itself off the site of the crime.

The thought 'it's not fair' presented itself to Daphne for the thousandth time since the war had ended. For the thousandth time, she dismissed it. Professor Snape had taught them 'Slytherins don't expect fairness'. But then, Professor Snape had led them to believe he was on the Dark Lord's side for years.

What was the point of listening to parents and teachers if they were going to lead you on false tracks and then turn their backs on you? Daphne's life-order had been shattered. She had no idea what her place in this new world was. She studied and took notes because she felt safer doing so, but the sudden sight of a fly messing up her neatly written History of Magic lesson was one more illustration of the mockery her life had become.

Angrily, Daphne rolled up her parchment, not caring if the smudge spread to the rest of the words. The fly achieved a last minute escape.

"Shit," said Daphne tentatively.

The ceiling didn't cave in. The desk stayed in place, Professor Binns droned on and the fly danced off dreamily towards Pansy. A 'Reducto' would have had more effect.

"Fuck," she added.

It felt good.

"I agree," said Pansy, looking up from her dawdles. "But I am supposed to say that and you're supposed to tell me to talk nicely."

"Sod off," said Daphne. She thought of adding "little bitch", but decided not to overdo it the first time.

What was wrong with Daphne? wondered Pansy. Was it because of that stupid fly that was now buzzing off in Draco's direction? Pansy watched it for a moment, as it hovered over the pale blond head. Then she checked on herself and turned her gaze to the other side of the classroom where Granger was writing diligently. Not that she was interested in Granger, but she didn't want anybody to think she was looking at Draco.

The official version was that she had dumped him for being a Death Eater and a loser. What had actually happened had been slightly more complicated, but that was irrelevant. It had to be irrelevant if she wanted to survive and Pansy wanted more than to just survive. She wanted revenge. She wanted to show them all, the Gryffindors and Draco, that Pansy Parkinson was not defeated. Pansy Parkinson always landed on her feet, thank you very much. To use Professor Snape's word, Pansy didn't blubber. Pansy Parkinson didn't pine after a boy who didn't deserve it, never mind how handsome and rich he was. Never mind what their past history had been. Never mind that... Never mind.

He was just a stupid, selfish, egocentric, weak and cowardly git.

She hated him.

"Bastard," she muttered.

"Bastard," approved Daphne, who didn't need to ask who Pansy was referring to.

ooo

In they marched: petite, sharp-eyed Pansy Parkinson, tall, aristocratic Daphne Greengrass, big Millicent Bulstrode and rabbit-like Tracey Davis. Severus' girls.

For the boys, Minerva had always felt sorry. Doomed childhoods. With the girls, it was not so simple. Nothing was simple with girls.

They stood opposite her, one silent hostile bloc.

"Girls," said Severus.

All turned around in perfect choreographic unison. Even Bulstrode demonstrated a certain grace.

"Good evening. Please get some chairs, Minerva."

The girls sat down, ignoring the Headmistress as if she were nothing more than a house-elf.

"How are you?" asked Snape.

"We're surviving," answered Pansy. "But everybody hates us. And I wish you had told us you were a spy."

"Would that have affected your choice?"

"Of course it would. And Draco's."

"On the other hand," interjected Daphne. " We had no choice. Professor McGonagall," she looked accusingly at the Headmistress, "chucked us out."

"Professor Slughorn intended you to go home."

"We wanted to fight on your side."

"Miss Parkinson, I find it hard to believe you went to the Dark Lord only for my sake."

"Well, if you'd told us not to, we wouldn't have."

"I did give you hints."

"They are children, Severus," said Professor McGonagall. "They need more than hints."

"They are Slytherins. And there is such a thing as taking responsibility for one's actions. Blaming one's mistakes on others is a sign of immaturity."

'If we're immature, then you should have-"

"I see you like playing the blaming game, Miss Parkinson. Fine. You can blame me and leave this office."

Pansy bit her lip. Daphne gave her an 'I told you' look.

"If you were immature, it was all the more reason for you to ignore my role. Professor McGonagall herself was not informed of it. Nor was Professor Slughorn."

"Slughorn's only interested in his Slug Club."

"The Slug Club has been dissolved," said Professor McGonagall.

"He still has his favourites."

"May I ask who they are now?"

"Oh, Granger, Weasley, Longbottom, Lovegood..."

"Any Slytherins?"

"Maybe Maia Calico... Graham Pritchard... But way behind. They aren't war heroes."

"I see. Now Miss Parkinson, you mentioned 'everybody hates you.' Who is everybody?"

"The whole bloody school."

"Pansy!" protested Daphne. To swear was one thing. To do so while speaking to Professor Snape was another.

"The staff?"

"I'd say so."

"The staff does not-" began Professor McGonagall.

"Miss Parkinson," interrupted Snape. "Do you enjoy the idea of the whole school hating you, of being a martyr?"

"Of course not."

"Good. Then you won't feel too disappointed to hear your assumption is false."

"How do you know?"

"I have spoken with my colleagues. It would be closer to the truth to say they are worried about you."

"Why? Because we've got the Dark Plague?"

"Please refrain from mis-using Muggle expressions, Miss Parkinson. And remember that the enemy within is the most dangerous."

"You mean Professor Slughorn?"

"I mean yourself."

"I'm nobody's enemy. Shall I tell you the truth, Professor?"

"I would appreciate it."

"Well, I'm glad the Dark Lord's gone. We made a mistake going to him, it was horrible. And I'll tell you something else: I don't really care who's pureblood and who isn't. Rita says the Dark Lord was a half-blood himself."

"Rita?"

"Skeeter."

"I see. Sometimes being pureblood is convenient and sometimes it isn't."

"Exactly."

"So, Miss Parkinson, is there something else you wish to talk about?"

"It's just that we're the black sheep. Professor Slughorn says we must keep a low profile."

"I am sure you understand why."

"Oh yes."

"Any questions, requests?"

"Well, I'd like to..." she turned and looked at Professor McGonagall.

"Do something of which Professor McGonagall would disapprove?"

"I don't know. Would they take me at the Prophet?"

Minerva could hardly believe her eyes: Severus was smiling.

"Very good, Miss Parkinson. I understand you know Rita Skeeter."

"I told her you were a great Head of Slytherin and all the rubbish she wanted to write about you wasn't true. You never met Potter's mother in your life."

"Thank you."

He really was smiling.

"Well, good luck, Miss Parkinson. How about you, Miss Greengrass?"

"I've been wondering," said Daphne quietly. "My parents are ashamed of me. Professor Slughorn is ashamed of us. And all I have ever done is my duty. What's the point then?"

"That's a very good question. Keep wondering."

"What is the point?"

"What do you want to do in life, Miss Greengrass?"

"I'm a pureblood. I am going to carry on the traditions... I suppose. Though I don't know any more."

"Now is a good time to think about it. What do these traditions mean to you? What do you like?"

"I like feeling secure."

"What would make you feel secure?"

"A good marriage."

"What is a good marriage?"

"Marrying a pureblood from a good family."

"That wouldn't guarantee security, Miss Greengrass."

"No, I suppose not. So what would?"

"Nothing would. What would you like to do?"

"Do?"

"Do. What interests you?"

Daphne blinked.

"Think about it."

"What about you, Miss Davis? And leave your collar alone. You are not eleven years old."

"Well, I... I am going to do what you told me."

"That sounds good. What did I tell you?"

"Not to listen to... anybody. To make my own decisions."

Snape's portrait nodded.

"You have finally come to the right conclusion."

Tracey blushed and nipped at her collar again.

"And you, Miss Bulstrode?"

Milly was staring out of the window, on to the Quidditch pitch. She started.

"Uh? I mean, excuse me, sir?"

"Any questions, requests?"

"Why can't girls play Quidditch?"

"You can. I just don't want you on the team."

"Why?"

"Because..."

Because Quidditch is dangerous and I am responsible for you. Because the place of a pureblood daughter is in the audience. Because I couldn't protect Lily. None of these reasons made sense any more, as Snape looked at the sturdy girl's eager face.

"Madam Hooch tells me Miss Bulstrode would be an asset to the Slytherin team. And Miss Parkinson would be an excellent Seeker," remarked Professor McGonagall.

"Can I trust your judgement, Minerva, or are you trying to sabotage my team?"

"Talk to Rolanda, then."

Pansy was failing pathetically in her efforts to look indifferent.

"What position would you play, Miss Bulstrode? Beater? You might do better than Knatchbull."

"Oh, he's not that bad, Professor. Greg doesn't like him because he isn't Vince. He wouldn't like me any better. I'm not Vince either."

"He might be better disposed towards you because you are a girl."

Milly looked doubtful.

"We ought to try and get Draco Malfoy back on the team too. Why isn't he playing any more?"

"Don't ask me," said Pansy disdainfully.

"I'll speak to Madam Hooch."

"Oh, thank you, sir!" exclaimed Milly.

"Thank you," repeated Pansy, her eyes sparkling.

"A new era in Quidditch is beginning." Professor McGonagall was beaming.

"Only if the Head of Slytherin agrees," intervened Dumbledore's portrait.

Milly giggled.

"What's funny?" said Pansy.

"I know how to convince him. I've seen Professor Grubbly-Plank do it. You walk straight at him like that."

She marched forcefully towards Pansy who stepped backwards in alarm.

"Definitely Beater," remarked Professor McGonagall.

ooo

When the girls got back to the common room, Greg was bent over a letter to his mother, his tongue between his teeth, Draco was gazing moodily at his homework and Blaise and Theo were heading a discussion with a group of younger students, in which the word 'Slytherin' came up frequently.

"So? What did Professor Snape say?" asked Blaise eagerly.

"He said girls can be on the Quidditch team!" announced Pansy happily, riding an imaginary broom across the room, to Knatchbull's horror.

"It's about bloody time!" added Daphne.

ooo

Irma Pince glanced at the clock. She dreaded closing time. Not only because she hated to leave the library, though that was also true, but mostly because she dreaded Argus Filch's daily - nightly - offers to help, coupled with attempts to make her climb to the highest shelves in the hope he would get a glimpse of her legs.

You can't be nice to men without them imagining things and Irma had inadvertently given food for imagination to one of the worse men she knew.

Some two years ago, before Dumbledore's death, Irma had imprudently invited Filch for a cup of tea, out of compassion for his hard-working life as a despised Squib.

Next time she'd know better. Being nice to most people, especially men, was such a waste. There was a reason Irma Pince preferred books to people.

Filch had been missing Umbridge. Irma should have realised that fact spoke in his disfavour, but how was she to guess he would seek compensation with her?

Irma Pince was proud to say she had nothing in common with Dolores Umbridge.

During her time as High Inquisitor, Umbridge had visited the library, banishing books right and left in the most random and arbitrary fashion possible. Had Irma listened to her, no student above first year would have found anything worth reading. It had been almost too easy, though, to Transfigure the books at Umbridge's approach.

Dumbledore had been killed a short time after Filch had begun his 'court'. Then there had been that terrible year. She hadn't had the heart to make Filch miserable. As a Squib, his days were probably counted.

Who doesn't discourage Filch encourages him. He was becoming obnoxious. Irma had seriously begun to think that the only way for her to find peace would be to leave Hogwarts. Of course, she would miss the Hogwarts library, but there were other wizarding libraries elsewhere, with more careful readers. And books were books everywhere.

The only thing that was preventing her from handing in her resignation was compassion for Minerva. The Headmistress had plenty on her plate. She had already been pleading with Professor Slughorn not to abandon the school until she could find a competent new Head of Slytherin.

It was Irma's peace of mind against Minerva's.

Too good for her own good was Irma Pince.

It really was getting late. She had already let the usual bunch of Ravenclaws, Hermione Granger, Theodore Nott and Tracey Davis stay longer than her self-set rules allowed.

"The library is closing," she announced with a sigh. "Please register whatever books you are taking out."

The students gathered their books. Hermione Granger was first in line, with Nott squinting at the books she had taken out of the Restricted Section. Tracey Davis was taking a lot of time sorting out her books. She stood last in line, chewing onto her collar, looking uneasy.

Had the stupid girls spoilt one of her precious books?

It didn't seem to be the case. Quite the opposite, in fact. Tracey Davis showed an unusual respect for books.

"'Rare diseases of the British Hippogriff', that's for your friend Bulstrode. 'Quidditch through the Ages' again?"

"Yes. Professor Snape and Professor Slughorn are allowing Slytherin girls to be on the team now."

"Oh yes?"

Irma Pince didn't care much for Quidditch.

"There you are, Miss Davis," she added with a sigh, resigned as she was to hearing Filch's shuffling and wheezing as soon as Miss Davis would be out of sight.

But Tracey didn't budge. Her teeth parted slowly, letting the damp collar slip out.

"Er."

What now? Usually, this kind of behaviour annoyed Irma, but tonight, given a choice between Tracey Davis and Argus Filch, Irma chose Tracey.

The silly girl probably wanted a book she was too embarrassed to ask for: a sex book, or something from the Restricted Section. Or both.

In the first case, the girl should not be frightened away. In the second, those Slytherins should certainly be kept away from Dark magic. In the third case, hum...

"Yes?" said Irma, keeping her tone neutral.

Tracey took a deep breath.

"How does one become a librarian?"

Irma sighed again, but this time it was with relief. There was hope in sight.

ooo

A.N.: Thanks to Kelly Chambliss for alerting me to the presence of sex books in the Hogwarts library.