The Haunts of Hogwarts
Girls' Dormitory, September Fifth
The rest of the first week went by just as unsmoothly as day one. The other teachers were eager to ignore Jezibell as Professor Sprout, except Blockhead who was simply oblivious. Jezibell's initial opinion of the moronic excuse for a professor was, in light of the Cornish Pixies he unleashed on the class his first day, still strong. Every answer she gave, every small Charms victory was greeted with a wary look, leading Jezibell to wonder if Dumbledore explained the circumstances of her expulsion to the staff. Or if he even knew. Taking the hint, Jezibell stopped going out of her way to show the teachers her completed work and hardly spoke unless called on.
Few other students approached her directly since the rebuffing of the resident know-it-all-and-you-should-to, which Jezibell supposed could be taken several ways. On the positive, this meant she wouldn't have to bother with introductory speeches and be force fed their lightly sweetened lies of welcome. Her housemates didn't want her disrupting the balance of their precious social system any more than Jezibell herself did. On the negative, this meant she was quickly becoming the least popular person in school. Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws and Slytherins for years did battle for equal opportunity, value of education and who deserved the House Cup now finally found something they could all agree on: Jezibell Malfoy was a problem.
Granger in particular seemed to have come to the conclusion that Jezibell enrolled at Hogwarts purely on the whim of competing with her in class. This was very bothersome as it clashed with Jezibell's minimal attention plan. Not speaking did little to divert this unwanted competition. Whenever completed papers were given out, Granger would always sneak a peek over her shoulder to see if Jezibell's score was as good as hers. Often it must have been very close because it sent Granger into a rant to Harry Potter and Weasley, who supported her in the matter. Out of a petty spite aimed at the Hogwarts community at large, Jezibell fought back. She would sometimes give the teacher rather showy answers or add an obscure fact onto the subject Granger explained, simply for Granger's reaction that she and Emmy could laugh about later. The fact that the girls were forced to share a dormitory did not help. No confrontations yet, but it was only a matter of time.
But Hermione Granger was small potatoes compared to the horror, two actually, that lurked in the girls' side of Gryffindor tower. Jezibell spent most of her evenings with the curtains drawn around her four-poster, trying to block out the endless chatter of Patil and Brown, the girls she had spotted glaring at her while walking to Herbology. Of every other torment life at Hogwarts offered, sharing a dormitory with a pair of friendship-bracelet-besties was the cruelest. Not that Jezibell would be able to stand companionship at that level with people like them. From what she observed they were concerned with little outside the Wonderful World of Cosmetics and took a meticulous distain to her, starting with the plain blue hair band that was Jezibell's sole accessory. Everywhere they twittered her story of expulsion, the madness that lurked in those hooded eyes, and the demon cat that clawed the eyes out of the Durmstrang Headmaster. Or was it the History teacher? Either way, the tales quickly overtook the Harry Potter's Grand Theft Ford Anglia in fueling the gossip train.
Jezibell didn't care, about any of it. Really. Emmy was all the company required so she discouraged friends on principle. She didn't ask for these people as roommates, never said expulsion would be a dream-come-true and – The Dark Lord forbid – hadn't given the Sorting Hat permission to stick her where everything about Jezibell Malfoy screamed she did not belong. At least, she didn't think she did.
Personality Wars aside, the second most aggravating part of Operation Survive Hogwarts: Week 1 was that the wishful thinking tour guide had not yet shown up. Navigating the ever changing seven stories of patched together castle was near impossible if you are also desperate to reach class on time.
"They really should hand out maps to the new students." Jezibell remarked to Emmy after knocking halfheartedly at one particularly smart aleck door-wall. She supposed it wouldn't be so bad if she arrived the same year as her classmates, when everybody else was just getting the hang of things as well. Then again, the teachers did their best not to notice her in class, so when Jezibell slipped in ten minutes late the only one who cared to comment on her absence was Brown hurriedly whispering to the Irish kid about what the Mystery Malfoy had been up to now. The weekend would be an enormous relief. Jezibell was planning to enjoy the last of the warm weather with her new Nimbus 2001, assuming she could find the Quidditch stadium.
About three hours before these plans could take form Emmy landed on Jezibell in her bed and shook her awake.
"It's no go for the broomstick today," hissed the cat. "I just saw Harry Potter leave with the Quidditch team, they're practicing now."
Jezibell groaned. Why on earth were they up at this time practicing? There had to be months until the first match. She decided that she would be at the pitch, whether the team liked it or not and after they were through it would be her turn. Emmy nabbed a piece of toast while Jezibell put on light gear and she ate the bread on the way to the pitch. It wasn't terribly filling but she could finish breakfast after the flight.
A match of a different sort was in full throw when she arrived. As Jezibell approached she could see the two teams of red and green standing opposite of each other, her father's brooms glinting in the sun on the verdant of the two. She moved closer and could hear their voices; it sounded as though the Slytherins had received special permission for practice that over road the Gryffindor booking. What else is new? Perhaps they would both leave in compromise. She ducked behind the first row of benches to hear more clearly.
"Oh, look - field invasion." said the Slytherin captain. For a second Jezibell thought he'd seen her, but then came the real invaders. Potter's friends, Weasley and Granger were coming down from the stands probably thinking they would be able to single handedly chase the Slytherin team off the pitch. Along with them came the camera-happy first year, Creevey, a few seconds from collapsing in excitement.
"What's happening?" asked Weasley, "Why aren't you playing and what's he doing here?" he added confusedly pointing at Draco. Weasley must be pretty slow. The bright green Quidditch robes and wide smirk on her brother's face were clues enough as to why exactly he was present. Not to mention the big, bold silver letters stating SEEKER across his chest.
Draco took it upon himself to clear up the confusion
"I'm the new Slytherin Seeker, Weasley. Everyone's just been admiring the new brooms my father bought our team." He paused just to make sure everyone had gotten it. Weasley looked even more gormless as he stared at the previously unnoticed shiny black Nimbus 2001s, "Good, aren't they? Perhaps the Gryffindor team will be able to raise money to buy some new brooms too. You could raffle off those Cleansweep Fives; I expect a museum will bid for them."
The Slytherins laughed stupidly over his lame joke. Actually, had reality taken a different turn, Draco wouldn't be the only new addition to the team. If Jezibell made Slytherin as planned, Father arranged via a generous bribe of broomsticks for her to be let on the team as Keeper. Jezibell could see a relieved Miles Bletchley in the back of the lineup, gripping his broom nervously and staying in the shadows of the argument so not to be given the boot.
Granger spoke up, "At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in. They got in on pure talent."
Burn. Draco looked like he was debating something in his head. Jezibell knew what was coming. He'd been rehearsing this little bugger since the trip to Diagon Alley.
"No one asked your opinion," Draco said, then added with relish, "You filthy little mudblood."
The Gryffindors, predictably, went bananas. It was a wonderful performance of pointless aggression, the foot stamping and hair pulling were nice touches, though it did get a bit over the top when one of the chaser girls screamed 'How dare you". Creevey clicked madly away at his camera while Weasley pulled his wand and attempted to aim at Draco through his bodyguard.
BANG!
Weasley doubled over, hit by what appeared to be his own slug-vomiting curse. Jezibell could hardly hear the anxious squeals of Granger over the Slytherin laughter. Not needing to see the rest of Weasley's invertibre convulsions Jezibell stepped out from behind the first row of seats, intending to go back to the castle. Big mistake.
"You! What are you doing here?" Harry Potter was glaring at her fiercely – no, at not her, but the Nimbus 2001 in her hand. On look at its ebony handle identical to the Slytherin team's was enough to convince him whose side she was on. Jezibell looked back, wondering whether to turn and flee to the castle. "Get out of here! No one wants you. Leave!"
Weasley puked more slugs on the ground.
Jezibell did not run. She stared him down coolly, even as the camera flash white spots popped in her eyes. She turned slowly, marveling at her own self-control, and walked calmly to the castle wishing Emmy would quit snarling at her side.
That night was wrong. There was no reason for it, it just was. Nothing had changed in the dormitory or in the behavior of her roommates and she really couldn't care less about what happened on field.
"Really?" asked Emmy, teasing with skepticism as was her way.
"Yes, really." Jezibell spat a confirmation, unnerved by her shortness with the familiar as she did so. Emmy never upset her. After apologizing to her only companion, she decided her skiving off dinner again was the cause of her troubles, so ignored all misgivings and went to bed. Goosebumps prickled up her arms as she tried to fall asleep. Somehow, dreams came. Nightmares more like it. Whispering voices hissed her name, unclear murmurs like an out of tune radio. She caught snippets of phrases, this one must be temporary….bad hunting tonight…..so hungry, so long….. Something came clear through the smoky dream-haze, a door in a corridor that opened to a bathroom with a pitch black hole where one of the sinks should be….
Jezibell woke in a cold sweat. She struggled with breathing for a moment as the bathroom image swam in her eyes. Since her discovery of the Dark Chamber, Jezibell gave the lavatory and its ghost a wide berth. The monster in her dreams was the same as in the pit, she was sure of it. But how could it have gotten out and why was it haunting her?
She was reading too much into this. The chamber had sealed, Jezibell had heard it shut itself as she left the bathroom. The way to open it was parseltongue and no human in the school besides herself could possibly have the knowledge. She shook herself mentally. The monster was nothing more than a product of an overactive subconscious on an empty stomach. That was all. She was awake to see the sunrise, blood red.
The monstrous dreams and Jezibell's doubtful sixth sense continued to badger her through October. Classes proved to be much the same as Durmstrang once she figured out where all of them were, the difference being of the cast and the lack of bilinguistics. Durmstrang students were required to be fluent in German and Norwegian, the primary languages at the Scandinavian school that took students from most of North-eastern Europe, but when the Obliviators took her visual memories somehow much of Jezibell's knowledge of both was lost in the process. Though there was relative peace in ongoing struggle of Hogwarts vs. Jezibell, Potter and friends gave her frequent looks to show they hadn't forgotten the slug incident. In retaliation, Jezibell simply looked back. It freaked them out.
Potions was steadily becoming Jezibell's best subject for several reasons. Foremost, it was the only class Granger wasn't a pet in and the teacher, Professor Severus Snape, had the courtesy to treat her like any other student. He hated Gryffindors on principle, but favored Malfoys on the same, so Jezibell supposed it evened out with her. But above all, the most appealing part was it's being of the few classes that didn't require the use of Great Aunt Elladora's wand.
After having her first instrument snapped upon expulsion (14 ¾ inches, sycamore and phoenix feather) her parents made the decision to give her a hand-me-down instead of brand new. Whether this move was to remind Jezibell of the legacy she hailed from or to hinder her magic abilities was unclear. All she knew was that it felt wrong in her hand; too heavy, too soft, too porous, not the right curve about the handle – etc. Not one day transforming teacups to toads in Transfiguration went by where Jezibell didn't fervently miss the old sycamore. What she hated more than the new wand was the witch behind it. The late Elladora was a contributing member to her mother's side of the family, starting the tradition of beheading House Elves and mounting them on a wall. Now who wouldn't want to use the wand of such an aspiring person? Her mother told her she would adapt to the new wand, and Jezibell supposed she was. Her marks in the classes were more or less fair, but that made her loathe Elladora's all the more. The wand chooses the wizard, and if this wooden beast was shifting it's alliance, what did that say about Jezibell?
An escape from the schedule, Jezibell visited the Quidditch pitch often as she was able, but usually found it occupied by one of the four house teams. Watching Quidditch was almost as good a way to take your mind off of things as playing it, so she stayed most days to watch the team practice. They were usually too focused to mind her presence, quickly figuring out she wasn't a scout from another house as they all hated her. She started to construct a personal almanac, based on her observations, about the Quidditch match outcomes.
Slytherin was doing well, mostly due to the new brooms. The team was comprised of hulking boys, save Draco, who all looked vaguely related on the troll side of the family. Their strategy seemed fairly straightforward. To dazzle the enemy with incredible brooms and cross the tactics bridge when they got to it. Jezibell decided they were getting too overconfident and would, to everyone's great surprise, be defeated in the next match. It was thoughts like this that made her wish people would talk to her, if only to rob them of their gold in betting.
Hufflepuff worked hard, but they simply didn't have talent in the air that the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws did. Their beaters weren't nearly up to snuff and the chasers dropped every other pass. The Captain and fumble-fingered seeker was on his last year, and Jezibell guessed no one on the team would be too upset to see the back of him and his passive-evasive tactics. They would lose spectacularly to Gryffindor.
Gryffindor practiced with a fever. The captain was one of those mad genius types and they flew - rain, sleet or shine. The incident that first weekend could have been completely avoided if Jezibell had known anything about him beforehand. Staking a claim to the pitch at four a.m. was practically mandatory for these players. As much as Jezibell would love to say otherwise, Harry Potter was a pretty good seeker. Once he caught the snitch within ten seconds after it was given a head start on the field. With him on their side, Gryffindor would beat Slytherin and Hufflepuff, guarantee. Ravenclaw was a close call, but they might just pull through.
Ravenclaw was an exemplary school Quidditch team. They possessed wonderful natural talent and were nicely coordinated. The seeker, Chang, was particularly fast and the chasers weren't half bad, if a bit off task and chatty. Once they did start playing seriously, however, Gryffindor would have to pull out all the stops to beat them and their Hawks Head Attacking Formation.
After one muddy practice session with Gryffindor, Jezibell reentered the castle rather disgruntled. She managed in her inattentiveness to step in the single foot deep puddle of mud on the way back from the stadium. Her boots were completely soaked through and she planned to squish her way to the library to look up the air-drying charm immediately.
On the way to the library she passed Harry Potter, who was talking to one of the ghosts.
"And did you know, Harry?" asked the ghost, whom Jezibell now recognized as the sensitive patron for Gryffindor tower. He was rather well-to-do but cordial enough so long as discussion strayed from heads, necks or the severing of them. Personally, her main issue with him is that the very idea of a Gryffindor Ghost is oxymoronic. If ghosts are the dead who are afraid of the afterlife and so remain behind, how could any brave, daring Gryffindor proudly call himself one? "This Halloween is going to be my 500th Deathday."
No kidding. Jezibell had heard such traditions existed between ghosts but never had one confirm it.
"I was wondering if you and a few of your friends would like to come to the celebration." Gryffindor Ghost continued, "It would be a great honor to have living people at my Deathday party."
"Er...wow, Nick!" hesitated Potter unsure what to do with the invitation, "Sounds like...fun. I'll think about, ok?"
Jezibell stopped for a moment, considering whether or not to go to the Deathday party herself. She certainly wasn't looking forward to being gossiped and glared at the Halloween feast. It might be nice to escape from the land of the living for a while.
A sudden noise interrupted her thoughts when the caretaker, Filch, sprang out from behind a tapestry.
"FILTH!" he yelled the tartan scarp around his head for his seasonal flu wobbled as he gestured dramatically at her and Potter's mucky footwear. "Mess and mud everywhere!" he exclaimed, "I've had enough of it I'll tell you! You're both coming with me, befoulers!"
Jezibell rolled her eyes and followed the wheezy caretaker with Harry Potter while Nick floated from the scene of the crime. Thanks to her keep head down policy, she never met the caretaker of the school grounds face to face before. This would be an education in Hogwarts staffing. Filch took them straight his dingy office in the dungeons, where Jezibell's critical eye quickly estimated the caretaker's salary in order to support the room's musty condition. The number wasn't high. Filch took a bedraggled quill from his desk and began writing out the punishment, muttering to himself as he did so.
"Names, names….yes, Harry Potter and …um," he glanced up at Jezibell awkwardly, "Malfoy girl. Crime…"
"It was just a bit of mud!" complained Potter.
"Just a bit of mud to you, boy, but it's an extra hour of scrubbing to me!" shouted Filch. Harry Potter glared at Jezibell as if it were her fault Filch didn't buy his excuse.
"Befouling the castle!" cried Filch, having come up with words to express the magnitude of their crime. He wiped his runny nose, "Suggested sentence…"
Before Filch could state his idea of a punishment there was a loud BANG from overhead.
"Peeves!" yelled Filch angrily at the ceiling. "I have you this time, I will have you!"
Jezibell encountered the poltergeist of Hogwarts only once before, on which occasion he made an attempt to kidnap Emmy. He had not bothered them since. Filch was obviously not as successful in warding off Peeves for he raced out of the room with the air of man about to settle a score.
Potter sat down in the moth-eaten chair at Filch's desk and Jezibell supposed she could have taken the opportunity to escape, but realized Filch would be bent on tracking them down after having written out half a report. She crossed her arms and let her eyes wander about the office, not wishing to engage in a staring contest with Potter. They tripped over a large purple envelope on the desk that looked like a much more recent acquirement then the dusty files beneath. Jezibell picked it up and read the curly cursive splashed on the cover. Kwikspell. She smirked as she set it back down. No wonder Filch's pay was so low. He must be squib if he was desperate enough to be investing in a Kwikspell course. The company was a scam, more of a self-esteem psychotherapy class than a way to become more powerful and wouldn't be able tap into a magical well, such as Filch's, that was clearly bone dry. Potter snatched up the letter as soon as she put it down. Jezibell made a note to be more careful with her expressions in the future.
The caretaker was hurrying back to his office. Jezibell could hear the muffled footsteps outside the door. Potter stuffed the opened letter back in the envelope and tried to make it look as if it was lying on the desk all along. Idiot. The envelope lay on the edge of the desk, two feet from where it began and the flap was hanging wide open like a little flag. So much for stealth.
Filch evidently managed to find Peeves for he was muttering to his lint-gray cat excitedly about all the ways he was going to exploit, punish and disembowel the poltergeist after enslaving him to be his butler. Jezibell considered if the old man was insane, and then if she was being hypocritical. He saw the envelope. His face, previously flushed with excitement, became trickled with old not-even-good-for-cheese milk white. Filch's eyes fell on Potter and Jezibell. He seemed too terrified for words. Maybe there was a way out of detention.
"We were just looking at this letter, Mr. Filch," she said, Potter turned his head to stare wildly at her like she had given their death sentence, "Kwikspell is an interesting choice."
"No, it's not mine," he stammered and Jezibell raised an eyebrow at his protesting too much. She never asked. "I mean yes…er, it's very interesting.
"Definitely, sir. Other people would be interested too," Jezibell laid her hand on the unfinished report, counting on the caretaker of the underbelly of Hogwarts knowing such dealings as well as her father did.
"Yes, in-interested," He parroted her in his panic, "To be sure… er, you may be dismissed. Yes, you may go now."
"Erm, did you mean me to go too, sir?" Potter asked, seeming very confused by the whole exchange, which confused Jezibell. He had read the letter, same as she did.
"Stay put, Potter, I haven't finished," commanded Filch thickly through his cold. He returned to Jezibell, "You go. Just go!"
"Certainly, sir," She bobbed her head in parody of politeness and swiped up the report. She considered lighting it on fire, but that would be just plain nasty and she hadn't mastered the incineration charm yet. "But sir, you wouldn't mind if I kept this, would you, sir?"
A dribble of sweat weaved downstream through a rivulet on his aged temple at every 'sir'. He glanced rapidly from her to Potter and back again. "No, not at all, Miss.
Jezibell crocodile smiled at the honorific reversal, "Malfoy, sir. Jezibell Malfoy."
She walked out the door triumphant, crumpled report in hand and an equally cowed man behind. Oh, that was fun. Potter, finally, caught on and followed.
"And stay out!" Filch shouted after them in a pitiful try for authority.
They walked down the hall together, if only by accident. The other way led deeper into the dungeons, so it would be fairly useless unless you were looking for an audience with Snape. Jezibell started absentmindedly shredding the parchment and the rough noise filled the void some. Potter abruptly stepped in front and faced her. His skinny shoulders tensed back from his chest in an unconscious attempt to seem taller. It didn't work. His glasses were opaque in the limited dungeon lighting, but it wasn't hard to guess he was glowering. They stood like that for a moment, peering through one-way glass and bangs. Potter appeared to be teetering on the verge of speech, but for whatever reason unwilling to go first. Jezibell wasn't about to help him out and eventually he turned away into a half-run down the rest of the corridor, going up at the first staircase. Jezibell figured she must have overdone the creep factor. Good, that was part of the point. Squelching to the library for the second time, she decided to go to the Deathday party. If any ghost asked her she could say she was a friend of Harry Potter's. He owed her that.
The Dungeons, October Thirty-first
The Deathday party was not difficult to find. All Jezibell had to do was follow the dozens of pale, transparent figures floating down to the dungeons. Remembering how ghosts cooled whatever space they were in, she brought her winter cloak along with a plate of sandwiches Emmy stole for her(Emmy herself would not be attending the party; she didn't like ghosts and how they had no smell/taste). Jezibell was confident the ghosts wouldn't be serving edibles.
The passage way to the particularly old and clammy dungeon for the party was lined with eerie black candles with bouncing blue flames that sent Jezibell's lone shadow dancing lithe and spidery across the worn stone. She kept the effect in mind if she ever wanted to host her own. The orchestra wasn't nearly as pleasant. It screeched and wailed reminding her of the sound people made after stepping on Emmy's tail. At the doorway stood the Deathday Duke in velvet plumed hat that would been very fashionable in the late 1400s.
"I suppose you are a friend of Harry Potter's," Nick made the jump for her, "I do find it a pleasant surprise that anyone would be as kind as to forgo the Halloween feast on my behalf."
"Wouldn't miss it for the world. It's sure to be smashing; you've got the atmosphere spot on," She added, gesturing at the decor.
Nick looked at her for second like he was trying to fathom if she was being ironic or not (as if there was a way to avoid it at a Deathday party). It could just be he remembered her as the girl who called him out on being a Gryffindor Ghost, though. Regardless, he bowed her in in a flurry of plume. If the Greenhouses had been a sauna then this was the arctic. The extra layers weren't nearly heavy enough to block out the frigid air. Jezibell wandered around and through the pale figures, avoiding what small talk with the ghosts she could. She only ate few of her sandwiches because there was a funny smell hovering around the room that made her a bit queasy. While trying to escape a nutty spirit who thought he knew her from a past life she walked, literally, into Myrtle.
"Watch where you're going, will you?" The spectacled specter whined, smoothing out her transparent dress, "What are you doing here anyway? This is a ghost party!"
"Terribly sorry," countered Jezibell remorselessly, "But I was so sure this was Nick's Deathday, not yours."
"OOOOOOOOoooh, nobody ever remembers I have a Deathday! It's just like when I was alive when everybody tried to forget that I existed and still nobody likes me! I thought when you died everybody was supposed to love you and mourn you and I really wanted to be around to see that, but even now people hate me and tease me and ohohohoooo!"
Myrtle was painfully annoying. Jezibell could only imagine what she'd been like alive. Jezibell ignored her and went to take a look at what the Nick was serving having given up on her sandwich. It seemed she found the source of the smell. A haggis quivering with the amount of maggots it held on a long table of other such delicacies. She moved away to a more secluded corner, guessing the catering for the Deathday party was courtesy of Hogwarts feast leftovers. Over left leftovers. She had wondered what happened to the uneaten food when it disappeared. Across the hall she spotted three other human beings - Harry Potter, Weasley and Granger. So Potter decided to come after all. Confusing was a word becoming increasingly apt at describing him. Why would Harry Potter come to this musty stinky dungeon when he could go to the feast?
Two slow laps around the dungeon later, there was some action. Nick made a few fruitless attempts to start a speech, but the Headless Hunt, a rowdy group of ghosts who died due to decapitation, arrived and all spectral attention went to the game of head-hockey. Jezibell was backed up against the nearest wall as two huntsmen ran past her waving hockey sticks, when she the voice of her nightmares.
"….rip…..tear…kill."
She froze, pinned against the icy stone with fear. It was moving. She heard it traveling upward in the wall behind her, a foreign tremor brushed up her spine. Jezibell moved away from the wall, half expecting to see a hand reaching out for her. Maybe not a hand. The Thing wasn't human enough for a hand. She turned, ran to the door, received an additional chill as she passed through a haunt of middle aged ladies and flew up the steps into the deserted stairwell, still listening to the voice that moved just ahead of her.
"…..so hungry….for so long….. I smell it now, blood…. I smell blood!" Its words were frenzied. It had found a victim.
"No, no, stop! No!" Jezibell yelled wildly in parseltongue. She didn't even know what she was chasing or that parseltongue would do quash. It was her default in stressful situations. She knew all her swears in the serpent's tongue and it was an easy way to keep nasty slips hidden from elders. Now it served as an intimidation tool to whatever she was pursuing. Nothing bluffed power better. She turned corner and up the last stairs to the entrance hall.
"Too close…must go back….obey the master..."
She sprinted into the entrance hall, but too late. The Thing had fled. Jezibell looked around at the place where it might have disappeared from and saw that someone somehow someway got there before her. A lint-gray cat was strewn up on the nearest torch, hanging by its tail. There was red writing beneath it, the paint still wet and loose drips running down the uneven marble.
The Chamber Of Secrets Has Been Opened.
Enemies Of The Heir, Beware.
Jezibell stepped forward to the scarlet graffiti, feeling adrenalin fade upon approaching the tangible. This didn't make sense. The words couldn't have been written by the monster, it sounded far too primitive in her head, and no person should have been able to reach here in time. The Chamber of Secrets. She remembered the fable from Mother's bed-time stories. It was one of Draco's favorites (Personally, she always preferred Babbity Rabbity). Salazar Slytherin wrestled with the other founders of Hogwarts over muggleborn rights back when the school was just getting started. He said they weren't worthy to be taught magic and dueled with Godric Gryffindor over it. He lost and was subsequently expelled, but before he left he created a secret niche that contained a horror to purge the school of muggleborns, a nameless monster which only his true heir could access and control.
But no way. Could Myrtle's bathroom be the entrance? It was mad that she could really have stumbled on what warlocks searched fruitlessly for years for on her first day. Insane. She touched the drying paint with her finger tips, as if it could provide an answer. Strange, it was stickier then normal paint should be. She sniffed it, curious. Wait a second.
"It's right up ahead! This way!"
Jezibell stiffened. She was going to have company in about two seconds, judging by the footsteps closing in. With her red stained fingers she knew exactly what she was would look like. This could get ugly. Harry Potter (of course) and his friends rounded the corner. Potter nearly slipped on the wet floor, skidding to a halt a few feet before her and the wall. Three pairs of eyes traveled from the cat, to the red writing, to her: speechless. Jezibell didn't know whether to meet their collective mute accusations or not so compromised by looking through her bangs. That didn't seem to help any. Then the thundering began, as a distant storm. The Halloween feast had ended and the entire student body was rushing out of the giant doors as they opened the floodgates. Over two hundred students would see her with the monstrous evidence. She could run, easily, but what good would it do with these three already here?
"We need to get out of here!" Weasley realized this in time for it to be too late. From the back of the hallway came about hundred people, talking and laughing about the wonderful feast. Quite abruptly, the first row of students halted having seen the grisly tidings that awaited them. There was a bit of scrambling as impatient people pushed forward to see what the holdup was as news traveled backward through the throng. Jezibell didn't move from the invisible spotlight and neither did Potter, Weasley or Granger. Once everyone received the message, a heavy silence settled on the crowd.
Draco saw fit to break the electrified quiet.
"Enemies of the Heir Beware," he yelled, reading the sign, "You'll be next, mudbloods!"
They all continued to stare at Jezibell as if it were she who spoke, not her brother.
"What's going on here?" screeched an annoyed annoying voice, "Get to your dormitories, all of you!"
The crowd parted dazedly as the caretaker shuffled his way into the scene.
"You're all going to be in deten-" He broke off upon seeing the cat trussed up as a turkey. "My cat! She's dead! Somebody killed Mrs. Norris!" He only needed to look two feet below the hanged animal to see Jezibell. She might as well have inscribed GUILTY across her forehead with the paint. "You did it! I know you killed her! I'll kill you! Oh I'll-"
"Argus!" a commanding tone called. The headmaster had arrived.
Expulsion, the snapping of her wand, Father: it was Durmstrang all over again. Jezibell wanted to throw up her sandwiches as Professor Dumbledore swept past her, Potter, Weasley and Granger and unhooked Mrs. Norris.
"Come with me, Argus." he spoke to a distraught Filch, "You as well, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger and Miss Malfoy." Jezibell managed to glance at other three through her deja vu. They were all going to be expelled. Her anti-friends, however much they hated each other, didn't deserve it. Not this bad. She would find a way out, for all their sakes, and then groaned internally upon coming to this conclusion. Part II of Durmstrang all over again.
Blockhead, not wanting to miss a chance to be in the center of attention, offered his office as a place for Dumbledore to sentence them. The crowd parted as their little group passed and Professors McGonagall and Snape followed. Filch was hunched over in front, his frame racked with sobs. Jezibell felt a different something than fear rise in her stomach. Guilt? No, never, but pity perhaps. Sympathy must be it. He shared the same bond with Mrs. Norris that Jezibell did with Emmy; that was abundantly clear now. She had been a hypocrite.
Though the lights were dimmed in Blockhead's office when they reached it Jezibell could still see the various portrayals of himself moving around in the gilded frames - the lucky survivors of the pixie attack. The headmaster laid Mrs. Norris on one of the highly polished desks and he started to examine her. His long, crooked nose almost touched the frizzy fur in his scrutiny. While he did this delicate task, Blockhead wouldn't shut up. He flittered around the table babbling his opinion of how the cat was killed. Potter, Weasley and Granger looked about as terrified as Jezibell felt. She hoped with all her might that her waxen face wasn't just as transparent.
After ten minutes of muttering charms, anti-curses and reveal-a-spells under his breath, Dumbledore reached a conclusion.
"She's not dead Argus." He said his voice barely above the whisper he used for the incantations.
"I knew it." said Blockhead
"She has been petrified."
Petrified? Jezibell was completely lost now. How on earth had the cat been petrified? All the horrible monsters she could think of (she knew quite of few of them) killed and ate you, not fossilized you as a chew-toy.
"But how," Dumbledore went on, "I cannot say."
"Ask the little demon across from you!" screeched Filch, "She did it, just look at her hands. See what she wrote on the wall! And she found my – in my office – she knows how I'm – I'm a – a Squib." He concluded miserably.
"A second year could never have done this. It would take Dark Magic of the most advanced kind." Dumbledore said, attempting to pacify the old man.
"Rubbish, she read my Kwikspell letter! Her and Potter!"
The last bit was news to Weasley and Granger. They turned to Harry in surprise. Weird. Jezibell thought he would tell them everything. Isn't that how best friends worked?
"If I may add something," the potions master spoke from the half-light. "Miss Malfoy and her…comrades were possibly in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Jezibell was startled by Snape's oddly helpful gesture. Maybe the strange favoring was a result of her brother's brown nosing. She made a mental note never to criticize Draco's daily suck ups again, "There is, however, a set of rather suspicious circumstances here. Why were they in the upstairs corridor to begin with? Why were they absent at the Halloween feast?"
It wasn't much to float on, but Jezibell grabbed the twisted life raft with vigor.
"We were at Nick's Deathday party." The trio whipped around, surprised at her plural. She ignored them, "There are a few hundred ghosts, if you want eyewitnesses."
"But why not join the feast afterwards? Why go to the corridor at all?"
Weasley and Granger looked to Potter at this interrogation, as if he had the answer for everything. Apparently he didn't, so Jezibell continued.
"The feast was ending and we were too exhausted for anything but bed."
"Without any supper? I didn't think ghosts would provide food for living guests."
"I brought a sandwich plate." Jezibell held up her lone turkey sandwich on the platter, containing a smirk as she did so. Finally some evidence that worked in her favor. Weasley's stomach gurgled inconveniently. Could they look a little more clueless to her tale? Even Granger, who should be smart enough, was totally without guile. Snape continued to give her a stare with the same amount of scrutiny Dumbledore used when poking the cat. Jezibell stared back, giving him a we're-lying-and-you-know-it-but-you-can't-prove-it-so-nyah look. That one had taken some practicing in the mirror to perfect.
"Two points each from Gryffindor for stealing food," Snape said, the punishment clearly intended for Potter and his friends, but widened so as not to show favoritism.
"Hey, it was only her who had the sandwiches," protested Weasley and Granger elbowed him.
"I hardly think sandwiches are at the crest of your problems, Mr. Weasley," McGonagall displayed impressive grasp of priorities. Like the inexplicably petrified cat.
"Innocent until proven guilty, Severus. But Miss Malfoy, in the future if you wish for a meal, I would suggest the feast," The Headmaster peered over his spectacled at her, remembering her performance at the back to school one. Yes, maybe, they would leave this overly shined office with their wands still in one piece. Please? Snape's expression was still mutinous and Filch looked like he was going to explode with righteous fury. Both were too incensed to speak however, so Dumbledore turned to the four. "You may go to your dormitories."
He didn't need to tell them twice, they rushed out the door and into the dimly lit corridor. The trio turned off at the nearest dividing hallway even though it was completely the opposite direction from Gryffindor tower. They probably wanted to put some distance between her and them before they arrived at the common room. Wouldn't want to be seen with Hogwarts Public Enemy No. 1.
Emmy caught up with her halfway up the last set of stairs.
"I hate ghosts, I been looking for you all evening though their extra-dimensional crap. Did you hear it? That thing you dreamt about, it was practically outside the dormitories. Something happened. What happened? Give me details!" She hissed nuzzling herself against Jezibell's left leg. "Your roommates have been quacking about something for ten minutes now. The emotional tension in this place is at a breaking point, I will spontaneous combust if I am not let in the loop."
Jezibell scratched Emmy's chestnut head without real conviction. Emmy licked her fingered affectionately, then recoiled at the taste.
"Sssphat! Is that blood on your hands?"
Huh, so that was what the sluggishly dark red paint was.
"It's chicken blood!" exclaimed Emmy, "What happened?"
Jezibell muttered the password to overweight guardian of Gryffindor tower, barely registering Emmy's distress. Her head was pounding with exhaustion. She just wanted to go to bed and dream regular dreams with no whispering voices, dark corridors and mystery monsters that defied laws of magic. Sleep first, reason later.
She had 'normal' dreams alright. She dreamt she was standing on a Quidditch field that stretched for miles in all directions. To the left were rows of wizards robed in emerald green and to the right they were scarlet, extending to the horizon. Jezibell was positioned in the no man's land between. At some cue, the wizards solemnly raised their right hands in unison, holding up what looked like their own heads. In the dream-logic way, this made sense even though the wizards' heads were still firmly attached to their bodies. Or were they? Looking closer, the heads where actually floating upward to the sky and being received by a fleet of hockey sticks that started to play midair game of head hockey, green sticks vs. red ones. The sticks churned faster, whipping around in the air and smacking the detached heads about. None of this came as a surprise to Jezibell or the fact that Emmy was nowhere to be found or when the wizards still on ground heaved their heads back in their right hand and threw them at each other, at her. Upon impact they burst as rotten tomatoes. Sweet dreams.