Holly Days

Fourth Floor Corridor, December Twenty-fifth

We wish you a Merry Christmas, We wish you a merry Christmas

We wish you a Merry Christmas and a $%!#&New Year!

Jezibell leapt back a few paces from the spiriting suit of armor. She had quickly learned not to trust the ones that swore at you while caroling. Sure enough, Peeves the Poltergeist zipped out from inside the helmet and flew upside down the empty corridor, cackling maniacally at his own cleverness. Of course it wasn't always Peeves inside. Before Winter Break started, several students (probably trying to show up the Weasley twins) managed a ventriloquist charm on several enchanted pieces in the castle. Emmy stalked ahead of her those last few weeks, looking for routes around the Sir Nittlebreath and the Arch Duke of Catsenbarrel. It was actually an educational moment. Jezibell wouldn't have try to listen to Professor Binns for that perilous essay on Knights of the Middle Ages her classmates were all sweating over, had new knowledge of the castle's secret passage ways and sort-cuts to all her classes. And she had added several new curse words in her repertoire.

Now the long halls of Hogwarts were all but devoid of these joyous tidings. There was a mad dash to sign McGonagall's form to go home for the holidays and a recent attack on Nearly Headless Nick and Nearly Bit By Angry Snake Finch-Fletchley had everyone up in panic.

On the snowy December mid-morning of the attack, Jezibell had heard the ancient monster stir in the wall behind her, just as on Halloween. Clearer than she had heard it in the waking world for months, curiosity to know the face of her tormentor propelled her from sanctuary in the common room. Down the stairs, around a corridor, right turn, left turn. She hardly registered where it was going. It traveled just ahead of her, always just ahead of her. It turned into a particularly shady hallway, the light from the dim torches was barely enough to see by. Something immense had shifted in the darkness a few yards in front of her. There was a gasp and a startled half-shout that was quickly muffled. The thing heaved its huge outline and moved off down the next corridor, disappearing completely into the shadows. Jezibell had stood frozen, pressing her back against the slick, stone wall. But the thing just passed her by, like she didn't even register on its internal tasty-human-food radar.

Footsteps were approaching in the lit hallway she had come from. She should have run, fled from the scene of the crime, but she was still getting over her moment of terror. What had caused it not to notice her? What made her so special?

A panicky male voice said, "Lumos!"

Wandlight splashed the scene. Justin Finch-Fletchley lying paralyzed on the floor and a few feet ahead of him was... Nick? Sense making not. Ghosts can't be touched by the living. They lived in their own sort of dimension, not alive but not truly gone from this world - unaffected by either side. This was impossibility, as Granger would say. Another impossibility (though one that was becoming chillingly plausible all the time) was a wide-eyed Harry Potter with his face illuminated in all its underrated glory looking directly at her.

Classes ended a few seconds later, and the halls filled with students who quickly noticed the petrified Hufflepuff and smoldering ghost is their midst. Professor McGonagall had marched them directly to the headmaster's office.

"Now you two have a seat and wait here, until Professor Dumbledore comes to decide what to do you," She had said before leaving and shutting the door behind them. They had pulled up opposing chairs, content to glower across. After several minutes of eye ammo being pumped steadily, Potter pushed his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose and Dumbledore's pet bird combusted.

"You're the devil," concluded Jezibell, watching ash settle on the charred stand where a molting red feather duster turkey stood moments ago.

"Shut up, Malfoy," Potter had spat back, going paler, "You're a millimeter from being expelled, so I wouldn't be so cocky."

"Not a first for either of us," She had reminded him subtly of Halloween and the Deathday party. He turned away in annoyance, casting a worried glance at the empty stand. The headmaster himself arrived at that point, smoothing ruffled feathers over. He told them the bird was a phoenix, christened Fawkes, and showed them both the newborn chick. Still, Jezibell had to wonder.

To the point of the visit to the Headmaster's study, Dumbledore told them confidentially that he did not believe Potter or Jezibell was responsible for the attacks, but he did ask them if they knew anything about the real cause.

She should have told him then. Should have told him of the mysterious voices she had been hearing since the first week at Hogwarts, should have told about the dark chamber in the bathroom on the second floor, should have told him her suspicions regarding the person across the table from her, should have told of the creature that had passed feet in front of her today, should have told him about how the whole school hated her for things that was only some of her fault.

But she just looked at him, straight in the clear blue eyes on that old, wise face and said calmly,"No of course not, Professor. I'd be sure to tell you if I did."

He then turned his serene gaze to Potter and asked him of the same.

"No, sir, there is nothing."

Though it wasn't spoken aloud, Harry Potter's green eyes narrowed suspiciously as if to say 'not yet'.

That was a week ago, the day after the dueling club, and while the idea that Harry Potter was the heir seemed daft at first, facts were starting to add up to support it. Justin told him himself he was a muggleborn, Creevey must have bragged it while in a fan boy mode and Potter had read the Kwikspell letter that condemned Mrs. Norris. Creevey had been found not a hallway or two away from the hospital, where Potter was recuperating. Another intriguing connection was that no matter where the attacks commenced the Thing liked to hang around Gryffindor tower. Before the pep talk with Emmy, Jezibell thought this meant it was stalking her personally but, as Emmy so tactfully pointed out, this was a self-centered assumption. She was pureblood, unrelated to Slytherin and had made clear she wanted nothing to do with it, so there was no reason for it to still be fixated on her now that it had an alternative master. This master was very likely a Gryffindor. There was no reason for the monster to so consistently be at the tower otherwise because contrary to popular assumption, Gryffindor house is not the densest in mudblood populous; kindly turn off at the kitchens for the Hufflepuff common room if you want ready victims.

So let's review. To qualify for the coveted post, "Slytherin heir", the applicant must be: a Gryffindor, a parselmouth, have knowledge of victims' blood status and consistently at or nearby the scene of the attack. Sound like anybody familiar?

To boost this theory, the Holy Trinity kept a close, unnerving eye on Jezibell since the double attack. Their frequent glances and anticipating smirks made her wonder if they were planning to do something to her next. Jezibell had tried some snooping of her own, if only for self-protection. Extracurricular research on whatever information on the Potter family wasn't already publicized. Maybe they were great great great grandsons of Salazar Slytherin or something. But after a few days of old wizarding records and rereading the Hogwarts library copy of Nature's Nobility she could find nothing of interest on the Potters. Their family line could be traced several centuries of purebloods, some of them crossing paths with the Malfoy and Black families as it did. They'd lived in Godric's Hollow for the most part and had many fingers in historic events, namely the goblin riots that took place in the area. Following the female line of descendants, Jezibell traced present-day-Potter's ancestors all the way back to the Peverell Family, where she lost the trail altogether. It was pretty impressive, but didn't lend the information Jezibell needed. Potter did not have direct relations to Salazar Slytherin or any of the four founders of Hogwarts.

Meanwhile, life at the great school itself had reached an all-time low. One of the benefits of your only friend being a cat is that you oceans of free time in which to do your homework. Or procrastinate on said homework that you don't care about seeing as you're an inch from expulsion anyway. Her grades dropped. Jezibell was spending increasingly more time at the library as it was clear she wasn't welcome on the Quidditch pitch anymore (some of those suits of armor got very personal with comments about her mother), reading her way through the Hogwarts supply of magic fiction and receiving the occasional wayside glare from Granger, who frequented the Potions section. Jezibell almost signed up with the rest of the frantic second year to take the Hogwarts Express home for Christmas - when she remembered her parents didn't celebrate muggle holidays and wouldn't appreciate the prodigal daughter on their doorstep anyway.

Some of her clothing went missing in the wash a few days ago. She tracked down the house-elves in charge of the Hogwarts Laundromat, demanding to know where her lost linens were. Blinky and Dipkins swore on their tea-cozies they had not seen the articles, so Jezibell tried Dobby as a last resort to relocate her robes. The family elf promised he did not know where they were, but something funny was up with him. He fidgeted the whole time through his humbling apologies, his bony little hand jerked upward every few second like a nervous twitch. Jezibell wondered if the elf, who was always a little off, was finally cracking under her father's impossible standards. She could sympathize.

Jezibell spoke parseltongue more than English these days as Emmy was her only companion. This attracted even more frightened looks from students since the brainier ones put two and two together and figured out what it was they were speaking in. Jezibell didn't care as she already received so many glares and whispers on a daily basis. Most of were ignorable, but there was one person that could still make her indignation bristle. Draco completely ignored her since the Sorting Hat proclaimed her a Gryffindor. The brother and sister were never ideal playmates for each other - night and day, Mother called them (Take a guess which is night. Go on.) - but 12 years of sibling-hood should count for something. Support for family in times of need. Malfoy family creed: We are one. Apparently not. Judging by Draco's laughter at Parkinson's Emmy-related snide comment, he considered her family ties non-existent.

So while watching the poltergeist zoom out of sight, Jezibell felt his profanity summed up her current mood. Peeved.

The Christmas dinner made by 100 top-level house elves in the decked out Great Hall was extravagant, none the less. Golden tinsel and tiny stars of pure light set the domed room ablaze, upon the evergreen trees brought in by the Gamekeeper, so covered with baubles and ornaments the needles could hardly be seen. Fairies danced in the warm of glowing red and green balls that hovered above the long tables and glorious musical medleys seeped from the walls. Professor Dumbledore gave a tailor made uplifting speech about facing challenges and finding comfort in times of hardship to the remaining 10% of the students. There were so few left that Jezibell's customary seat at the end of the Gryffindor table didn't seem so isolated. After a few helpings of turkey, hot mashed potatoes and savory pudding, it was hard to feel too resentful of the muggle-lovers holiday. Even the evil-eyes from Potter, Weasley and Granger seemed less offensive than usual. The trio left the Great Hall early, the boys turning off into the direction of the dungeons while Hermione Granger proceeded to the stairs. Jezibell may have found this separation suspicious (the trio was joined at the hip during the day) but she was too content at the moment to conduct an investigation.

Great Hall, February Fourteenth

New Year's Day came and went. Jezibell personally didn't find '93 much better than '92 had been. Winter Break ended and the students who fled the hallowed halls for Christmas were back again and they seemed to have obtained new levels of paranoia over the holidays. Must be something in the eggnog. The stories that circulated now chilled worse than the weather. Students terrified of the attacker and worried that it may be one of their own. Some of them were even (gasp) wondering if it might be Harry Potter. Scary stuff. People hurried from class to class in the halls, clustered into tightly knit bundles of best friends, whispering. Always whispering.

Everyone was now a self-proclaimed detective, poking and prying into personal business. All wanting to be the first to solve the mystery of the chamber of secrets and catch the Heir of Slytherin. Jezibell knew they wouldn't, couldn't, find anything on her family. The Malfoys formed a procession through historical archives as pureblooded outspokenly prejudiced Slytherins, but there were no connections to Salazar himself. Same went for her mother's side, the Blacks, and anything unpleasant would have long since been bribed from records of Wizarding history. In addition to being pure as the Fountain of Fair Fortune, all of Jezibell's ancestors had been the cream of society and rolling in gold. She had nothing to worry about in terms of persistently nosy scholars.

For undisclosed reasons, Hermione Granger landed herself in the hospital wing for Boxing Day. Parvati and Lavender exchanged hyperventilative theories in the girls' dormitory late into the night, but Jezibell knew what was really happened. She had sent Emmy to spy on Granger's ward and the cat caught a glimpse of the furry face when the school nurse gave Hermione her evening potion. Jezibell's usual practiced stoic was put to the test in the weeks that followed.

As mentioned, Potter was taking some of the heat in addition to Jezibell now but this was not enough in common to spawn empathy. Unlike Jezibell, Harry Potter still managed in light of parselmouth revelation to have friends. Human friends, anyways. Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger (hospitalized or not) would never desert their shepherd, even when subjected to the accusing glares of half the school. Weasley's brothers, the classless class clowns, turned the Harry Potter suspicions into a big ha-ha. They waved cloves of garlic in his face as he walked to class and cracked loud jokes about the Pottercentric theories in the common room. Jezibell found these almost as irritating as the snide comments they aimed at her. For some reason.

And so, with the school on edge of a collective nervous breakdown; teachers and staff striving to maintain some kind of order in the castle; monsters in the walls able to touch even the long deceased, what does the worldly wise Gilderoy Lockhart think would be the right thing to in the middle of such a crisis? Throw a Valentine's Day party.

Ridiculous? Inappropriate? Worthy of a trip to a Saint Mungo's private ward? Maybe. But that didn't stop him from stringing up pink bangles overnight and unloading buckets of confetti upon the unsuspecting Great Hall at breakfast, February the 14th. Emmy retreated to the girls' dormitory for health reasons and it took a lot of effort for Jezibell not to follow.

Garishly colored corridors taken into account, the professors (the few who still maintained a grasp on sanity) put up a valiant effort to keep lessons running smoothly. This was a challenging feat as Goldilocks hired a surly of dwarfs to play dress-up cupids and deliver valentines to individual students during class. Jezibell found it miraculous that he could stuff a bad-tempered dwarf into a tutu given his plight with pixies. Even better, they were literate enough to pass out the Valentines to their correct owners, something Jezibell discovered upon receiving her own baby pink card after lunch.

Don't get too excited. It was coated with stink pellets on the inside and came with a barbed Dandelion seed most likely planted from the Weasley twins. It produced an odor similar to a mildewey grease trap left far too long under the sink when flushed down a toilet. This move sprung the dormant seed to life and it proceeded to throttle Jezibell with rapidly growing thorny vines as the wretched card swirled down the drain. Happy Valentine's Day.

The card-carrying cupids seemed to be following an alphabetized list and in midafternoon while the second year Gryffindors were hustling to Charms, one of them caught up to Harry Potter.

The squat little creature marched through the thick crowd of students, announcing it had a musical message for Guess Who. Jezibell failed to notice it in time, still trying to rid herself of the Dandelion that was firmly wrapped around her left arm, and consequently received the elbow-ribs treatment. She shifted forward with her classmates, yanking on the stem as she went, to watch the show. The dwarf managed to pin down its quarry in the center of the crowd. It tripped the Boy-Who-Lived flat on his face and plopped its rear on his ankles.

"And here is your singing Valentine!"

Oh boy.

"His eyes are as green as a pickled toad,

His hair is as black as dark board!

I wish he was mine, he's really divine,

The hero who conquered the Dark Lord!"

There is nothing more satisfying in this world then watching the person you envy most lying on the floor with a ripped book bag and being sung a homemade love song by a reedy voiced dwarf in a frilly pink tutu while half the first and second year are laughing themselves sick. Nothing.

By Nimue, why hadn't she thought to do this?

Prefect Weasley, drawn no doubt by the unlawful laughter of merry children, was on the scene in three seconds trying to disperse the crowd, a true test of merit as most were still doubling over in laughter. While the Hero Who Conquered the Dark Lord was nursing his pride, Draco snuck up from his clutch of Slytherins and swiped a book from Harry Potter's open bag.

No. The brief moment that the maroon leather flashed into view, Jezibell recognized it completely and inexplicably. It was the Diary. The loosely bound book that had sat in the glass case in her father's study for all her life. The one that whispered to her at night, in the dark. Whispers Draco said he couldn't hear. But Jezibell could. She could hear them coiling around her in her sleep, fear tight as a constrictors bind. Dreams of swirling colors and foreign memories. Nightmares that sent her on a pre-school treasure hunt, Emmy padding at her side, creeping through the deadly dark hollow silence of Malfoy Manor at midnight to her father's forbidden study were the it lay, untouched by time. The Diary. Then the lights came on, blazing blinding white hot light. Her father's pale face livid in her own. Never, never, never, never go into my study again. He shouted the word study, but Jezibell knew what he it was he really meant. The Diary. That Draco was now tossing hand to hand like a new toy.

Stop! No, idiot, put it down! Draco, you moron! She wanted to wrench the small red brown book from his slim hands, rip its cursed pages, tear them to shreds and throw them into the Gryffindor common room fire, where they could crumple and disintegrate into tiny piles of ashes as be swept away by house elves with the rest of the burnt wood.

"Wonder what Potter's written in this?"

How did he not remember this horrid little book from the forbidden study? How had Harry Potter, of all people, gotten a hold of it? Why was hell not breaking loose at this moment?

"Hand it over, Malfoy," said Prefect Weasley, holding his hand out expectantly.

"When I've had a look!" taunted Draco, waving the thing in front of him as he sneered. Harry Potter pulled out his wand just as Prefect Weasley started to chide Draco some more.

"Expelliarmus!"

The Diary flew out of Draco's hand and landed neatly in Ronald Weasley's. He cried a triumphant 'Got it!' and he and Potter, gathered up the busted book bag, took off down the corridor, the Diary flapping loosely, visible Weasley's hand. Jezibell still hadn't moved. For all her mental shrieking, literary destruction and the angry Dandelion constricting her arm, she didn't make a sound.

Charms was torture. Jezibell sat alone (She managed to ditch the Dandelion by smashing the head against a wall until it was a green and yellow smear. She hated Herbology. Actually, she seemed to be developing a thematic loathing for things beginning with 'H' in general) two desks behind Harry Potter and Weasley. The Diary was stuffed haphazardly into the ripped book bag and it hung out halfway open on the seam with bloody red ink dripping off it in perfect nabbing distance. Weasley's patched wand was malfunctioning and both boys had a constant distraction of purple bubbles floating around their heads. It was taking all of Jezibell's concentration not to lean over to the open book pluck it out of the - no, not going to happen. Book=evil. She didn't want to touch it with a ten foot broomstick. But it was just hanging there and technically it was her property... Just reach over and - AH! Could that clock move just a little slower? Time was passing at a glacial pace. The ink slid off the enchanted cover in large lazy drips like water off a duck, infuriatingly leaving no damage behind. She couldn't even call Emmy to make an excuse to get out of there. Stupid Harry Potter, stupid parselmouth, and stupid diary that was tantalizingly easy to steal...

Jezibell ultimately won the war with her conscious, but she still all but sprinted out of Flitwick's classroom when the bell rang. She needed to find Emmy, fast.

"You are sure that's the same Diary?"

Jezibell was having a hissed conversation with Emmy under the pretense of finishing Transfiguration homework. Her slovenly ways finally caught up to her earlier in the week when McGonagall tracked her down and threatened a week of detention if she didn't turn in a decent paper by tomorrow. Jezibell took the opportunity to give Emmy the rundown of the Diary encounter. Discussing with Emmy wasn't the same as talking to a person. It was more like having an argument with your conscience. If your conscience was a pushy serpentine-felid with a wicked sarcastic streak, that is. She scratched out a few of her feebler sentences and ink spurted across the Transforming Teacups versus Water Goblets essay.

"Positive. But how did he get it? It's not something that would be left lying about."

"Actually it kind of is, being a raggedy old book…"

"Father could have sent it to somebody else. Snape, maybe. Remember that time he came to the Manor about a wine glass set that turned whatever was in it to poison? He's our go-to guy for Dark Artifacts. Potter picked up the book like the git he is because it said Diary on the front."

"Why would Potter want Snape's Diary?"

"To use as blackmail. No, he's not that good. To use for his personal amusement. Or spread the contents around the school as a distraction from his possibly being the heir of Slytherin."

"If he's not good for blackmail, he's not good for clamor in the east. Besides, if this thing was personally delivered to Snape, when would Potter ever get the chance to see it much less touch it? Like you said, it's not the sort of thing you leave around."

"If you're smart like Snape. Maybe Father made Dobby take it to him it instead of by owl. It would be faster, and no way would that thing could make it past inspection. Dobby might have just left it lying about outside Snape's study. Potter has detention with him every other week. Yes, this makes sense. This was what Dobby was at Hogwarts for in November - delivering the Diary."

"And then he stopped by you for your sunny disposition?"

"Dobby lives to serve the Malfoy family."

"Yes, but he said Father sent him for you, specifically. He wouldn't be allowed to lie about that since you asked him directly. Maybe that Diary wasn't intended for Snape or Potter. It was meant for you."

"… no. He -"

"After last year, do you really think there's anything your Father wouldn't do?"

"But what would be the point?"

"Punishment. You expected it for being made Gryffindor and here you go. He had Dobby leave it with your school books. He wouldn't think you could remember what it looked like from four years ago. You'd open it because it said Diary on the front. Potter might have found it by accident, or he could have been looking in your things to see if there was evidence for you suspecting him being the heir of Slytherin, or to see if you were the heir of Slytherin if he isn't. Either way, he found a book that said Diary on the front."

"… I wonder what is written in it."

"You could ask him."

"Why didn't I think of that in the first place? I will tell the most likely candidate for the Heir of Slytherin, who coincidentally hates my guts, that the Diary is a forbidden book from my Fathers' study laced with dark magic and the powers of hell, and this veritable grenade of evil should be given to me for reasons I can barely articulate regarding my sanity."

"Alright, you have to steal it then."

"I don't have to do anything. Whatever curse is inside that Diary is now Potter's to deal with and no longer my problem."

"Like how that kid being tortured at Durmstrang wasn't your problem?"

Jezibell used a quick siphoning charm to clear away most of the spill, but a since it had already dried mostly, this had little effect.

"That's why I'm not making messes this time. Lesson learned. Meddling with things that aren't your business only makes it worse for you. Look where I am now."

Emmy's whiskered mouth curled into a little sneer, "You are exactly where you want to be. You think you would be having any better a time catering to Slytherins? You heard the singing hat: you are a Gryffindor, you always have been, whether you like it or not. And whether Father, Karkaroff or Harry Potter likes it or not a Gryffindor is unable to just sit here and back down when you have the option to do something!"

Jezibell didn't answer Emmy immediately and wet the parchment, bleeding out the ink. She siphoned again, sucking up both fluids and proceeded to completely rewrite the line, remembering to add the Principles of Transfiguration she had forgotten. The black spots were starting to dry on the essay. It wouldn't look very neat under Professor McGonagall's critical eye, but would have to do. Emmy was wrong. Jezibell did have control over her Gryffindor nature, now. Last year she simply hadn't known the consequences to it.

"I'll give it a week. If nothing happens, then there's no concern."

History of Magic classroom, April First

A week passed without event. The secrets of the Diary were not unleashed upon the castle, Harry Potter did not drop dead or start acting demonic and the whispers in the walls seemed to have disappeared altogether. The same was true for the next week, and the one after that, and the one after that. Jezibell dissolved the raw plan to seize the Diary and Hogwarts seemed to be calming down. By Easter, the overwhelming sense of a two-ton anvil hanging over everyone's' head was starting to fade in the absence of a culprit and the undercurrent of panic was meeting a dam of common sense. Even Harry Potter, Weasley and Granger (now tail-less) seemed to give up whatever scheme they had involving Jezibell. Their glares became less frequent, less personal and more frustrated than threatening. Jezibell understood that they must have hit the dead end she knew they would in her history, but couldn't help feel relieved all the same.

But for Jezibell Malfoy relief is an emotion that cannot be permitted to thrive and must be killed swiftly with fire, water and dungbombs. Lots and lots of dungbombs. April Fool's Day hit as an unexpected mallet over the head from a malicious clown. She stumbled, Potions to Astronomy, bombarded with various slapped together pranks on all sides not trusting anything she touched or anywhere she moved to be secure. She tried to escape via the secret passage ways but biting tea ups and porridge creatures always caught up to her. It disturbed her to think that those clever little nooks had never belonged to her alone and her enemies had always had the ability to find her but let her get away with evasion anyway so the moment when such delusions of security were ripped away it would be all the sweeter. This of course would require a ridiculous amount of foresight and control, not to mentioned vindictiveness that Jezibell could not rationally attribute to any of her classmates. But rational was put aside and she was snarling fierce as Emmy by lunch, which was left uneaten while she took refuge in a deserted hallway, not daring enter the Great Hall fearing what booby traps lay in wait for her there.

In said deserted hallway she and Emmy plotted while everyone else ate. She had to get even and get even quick while revenge would still be timely. She had no specific target in mind; there had been far too many disconnected attempts for it to have been the work of a single person or truly organized group. Jezibell settled for a large scale display of wrath, a problem seeing as there was neither a fleet of Zonko's products nor mass magicking abilities at her disposal. What she did have was a roll of leftover parchment in her book bag, a snake cat and the mob psychology of the Hogwarts student body. She had an idea.

In History of magic Jezibell passed her first note. She chucked it underhand, across the room to an air vent that blew it diagonally to Lavender Brown. Brown was sure she got it from Patil and it was written sloppily enough so it could pass as the scribbles Patil excused for handwriting.

Ravenclaw team members don't wash

Brown giggled and wrote back to Patil, Patil wrote to Finnegan, Finnegan wrote to Thomas, Thomas wrote to Neville, Neville wrote to Potter and Jezibell watched the rumor ripple through the room. On the way out the door, she passed Granger and dropped a ball of paper neatly into her book bag when she wasn't looking. It read "you're next" in red ink.

In Herbology she left a note claiming, Weasleys are going to get Ernie on the way to the wash

In Potions, Hufflepuffs think we don't wash

Along with assorted messages, threats and offhand ideas tossed around in the halls with the common theme. By dinner, the school was simmering, seething with personal insults and awakenings of age old prejudices. Little fights broke off in the corridors, nasty looks and cold shoulders infected everyone. Emmy told her confidentially the tension was about to snap any second. What better place for such a snapping than Feast of Fools that evening?

Jezibell sat in her normal seat (after dutifully setting off the fart cream spread there) and waited as a burrowing spider peering out of its concealed hole for the right moment. She positioned Emmy a few spots down from her and began scanning for a good starter. It didn't take long to find. When a large notably hotheaded Gryffindor fifth year ceased his glowering at the Ravenclaw beater behind him, she chucked a ball of parchment at the latter's head, simultaneously as Emmy tapped the Gryffindor on the shoulder. Both spun around, furious at the other and the Ravenclaw held up the note (Face stuffing vulture, do you ever wash?)

"Meat-headed pussycat, you don't know how to bloody wash!"

"Yeah? Well meathead this!"

As the large Gryffindor picked a steak off the nearest platter and flung it at the Ravenclaw Jezibell quietly walked out of the hall, calmly shoving a Hufflepuff sitting behind Slytherin Captain Markus Flint's face into his stew as she went.

So began the second largest food fight in the history of the school. It lasted for nineteen minutes and forty eight seconds before a baked potato covered McGonagall managed to diffuse it. Casualties included sixteen broken noses, twenty one bloody noses, thirty nine people with things up their noses that had to be magically removed, eighty three bruises, an outbreak of pimples, two broken stools, a broken wrist, a re-broken wand, the death of a small turtle catching shrub, two hundred points deducted from each house and about a hundred and ninety five detentions. When asked what caused the madness the reply was, "Something to do with who doesn't wash." April fool.

A few weeks passed, with the castle was on the recovery and it was time to remind the students why they were there in the first place: school. And, more specifically, future careers and choice classes starting next fall. A few months ago, Jezibell would have employed one of her new phrases from the Hogwarts Season Greetings and tossed the bit of useless parchment from McGonagall into the fireplace without further ado. Now, however, it seemed she may just squeak out of Hogwarts without a second expulsion her permanent record, she decided to take the opportunity for new lessons more seriously.

Other students got letters from parents, relatives and family friends daily with fountains of advice and experience. Jezibell received no such fan mail. She already knew exactly what her parents wanted and wasn't fooled to think they wanted it for her. In a brief rebellious streak she chose Muggle Studies just to spite them, and passed over Divination for what seemed to be the more practical option in Arithmancy. Jezibell met a real Seer once at one of her father's dinner parties and 'The Beyond' didn't hold much interest for her.

Care of Magical Creatures was a tough call. Jezibell enjoyed time with animals with more basic instincts then human prejudice, but at the same time if the professor brought anything serpentine to class it would be another Dueling Club. She decided for it in the end. Maybe Emmy would meet some new friends just as mixed up as she was. Ancient Runes, like most foreign languages especially dead ones, was just waste of time and efforts unless you actually had plans to go and study real text. This and the fact Hermione Granger could be viewed in the library any day of the week burrowing into decrepit books with twisted letters and hieroglyphics aided Jezibell's decision. Thanks but no thanks.

The Quidditch season was back on, Gryffindor vs. Hufflepuff. With the match weeks away both teams practiced to best of their ability, but anyone who attended the training sessions could see canary yellow corpses dotting the field in the near future. The crazed brilliance of Oliver Wood Jezibell identified in the first term took on new zeal. He drove his team with inspired enthusiasm and kept them on target with a disciplined air that even got the Weasley twins' heads in the game. The defeat of Slytherin pumped the Gryffindors with a passion and confidence that Wood used to fuel his well-oiled scarlet machine. Those Badgers were good as beat.

Two days before the match, the nightmares returned. It wasn't the same as before, the other times she was an eavesdropper, but this time something was actually trying to contact her personally. Get her attention, or recapture it. It did a good job on that. The dream was of a fluid rush of loneliness, pain and promises. Lies. She was catapulted awake by a girl's high pitched scream with the image of the Diary swimming in her vision. She ripped open the hangings on her four posters, half expecting to see one of her roommates cowering in fear. But they were all fine, all asleep, Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown's curtains fluttered slightly with their easy, untroubled breathing.

Jezibell, out of extreme 1 am paranoia, crept softly over to the other side of the dormitory. Making sure Hermione Granger's bed was still occupied, just in case. When she saw the mane of light brown hair rising and falling gently on the pillow, she breathed a tense sigh of relief. If someone was petrified in her dormitory, her fate would be sealed. But everyone was fine. Go back to sleep and forget about it, just a silly dream, nothing to do with anything. She couldn't even convince herself.

Nemesis

Emmy awoke to Jezibell stroking her fur in gentle raking motions. The cat didn't open her eyes for a minute, taking in what she could with her other senses. Below was the stiff, wooden surface of the bedside table she curled up on to sleep. It was hard and flat, but not so hard Emmy's claws couldn't tear up a good portion of it if she wanted. She remembered being was near a window and wasn't surprise when her sensitive ears pricked to a twittering song bird on outside. She licked the air and tasted the familiarity of her mistress close by, rising distinct from the other muddled scents of the girl's dormitory. The second odor was stale though and she didn't hear the even breathing or incessant chatter of the other females that used the room so she knew she and Jezibell were alone. This was a good thing. Judging by the tense rougher-than-usual strokes Jezibell ran across her short layered fur and the anxious sweat rolling off her, she had something to tell Emmy.

The snake-cat opened her eyes and rolled over.

"What is it?"

She watched patiently as Jezibell's eyebrows, shadows under her bangs, creased together as she hesitated.

"The dreams are back...sort of," she said finally. Emmy sat upright on her haunches looking at her mistress curiously.

"Really? Usually when you have them I can hear something moving around too, and you start mumbling stuff in English."

"I know, but it wasn't to do with the monster this time, or the chamber at all. It was the Diary. The visions were just as before and I know it was the same calling."

"What did it say?"

"I don't… know. I'm not sure if it even did, really. I can't remember words or a message, it all blurred into the images. It wanted me to pay attention to what it wasn't saying. It woke me up with at the sight of a screaming girl, but she sounded so real I looked over Granger, Patil and Brown to make sure their lungs weren't being ripped out or something."

"Well, mission accomplished then. But a girl? It can't you, you never screamed. And I thought you were over the nightmares the Diary used to give you anyway."

"I didn't say it made sense, and honestly I don't want to wait around until it does. It's invaded my head again. It wants me back." She shook her head slightly at the nonsensical statement. It never had her to begin with. "Never mind. It's messing with me, and that's all the provocation I need to act on.

"So, back to grab 'n' go?" asked Emmy. She at least had no issues with stealing from the boys' dormitory.

"Yes," stated Jezibell shortly. Emmy knew she didn't want to linger on the thought of the heist, just to do it. Get the Diary, get rid of it. Save herself and a kid who is going to hate her for it. Like ripping off a muggle bandage strip. "Harry Potter goes out for Quidditch practice directly after dinner. We can wait in the common room until we see him and the team leave and then take it."

Emmy dosed in the big brown armchair in front of the fireplace while Jezibell attended her lessons. It was a very cozy spot and she could hear everyone who came or went from Gryffindor tower, but not so loud in her ears that she wasn't able to catnap. Once or twice an inattentive student almost sat on her. Emmy gave them a territorial snarl and they left her alone after that. The Quidditch team, judging by the smell of their woody broomsticks and uniformed confidence, trooped from their dormitories a few hours before dusk. Emmy tasted the air, checking that Potter was indeed with them and settled back down to wait for Jezibell. A few other people came and went from the boys' dormitory, but none of their scents foreign. Jezibell returned not long after the Quidditch team started practicing. She had a bit of ham leftover from dinner that she gave to Emmy, who snapped it up gratefully.

"Anybody else up there?" She asked quietly, glancing at the left staircase.

"Not a soul," Emmy assured her, gulping down the last of the ham, "All the other males left with the Quidditch team. It should be empty now."

Jezibell walked across the deserted common room the foot of the staircase. Emmy followed her, stopping on the gold embroidered rug a few feet from her mistress. She curled up on the carpet, to all appearances in a deep sleep, "Ready."

Muscles tensed in the leisure position and her ears completely alert. If anybody so much as glanced in their direction, she would know. She stayed as a statue, listening to Jezibell's boots ascend the staircase to the boys dormitory, tasting the ingrained masculine odor in the air. A door opened a few yards above her, must be the one to the second year's bedroom, and she heard a sharp gasp of surprise.

"Emmy! Get up here, now!"

The snake-felid leapt the stairs two at time. What happened? What could have gone wrong? She padded into the second years' sleeping quarters where Jezibell stood tensed in shock. The place looked as if a tornado had hit. Books and articles of clothing were strewn all around the bed closest to the window, the one that smelled like Potter.

"So Potter is a slob," said Emmy, "What's the deal?"

"I think someone already got the Diary," whispered Jezibell, even though the room was empty but for them, "Look, somebody tipped his bag upside-down like they were doing a hasty search. I don't see it with any of these."

She picked up a well-read copy of Quidditch Through the Ages from the pile. Emmy tasted the air, trying to find the distinct flavor of the aged leather-bound book cloyed with protective charms but couldn't locate it anywhere, "Do you know who?"

"Yeah, someone went through Potter's stuff very recently." Emmy sniffed, using her nose to get a clearer scent, "One of the red-heads."

"A Weasley? Which one?"

"I can't tell. None of those kids have a distinct flavor. Too many second hand robes. They all sort of mush together into one 'Weasley' scent." Emmy wrinkled her nose in annoyance. Jezibell was still doubtful.

"Maybe Weasley was helping Potter find something he had misplaced when they were in a hurry to get to Quidditch practice. Maybe it was the Diary, and they still haven't found it. "

She started rummaging through the overturned book bag and Emmy pawed the scattered contents on the floor, making the mess even further. They looked everywhere in the room; through the book pile, under all the beds, between the sheets, little nooks behind the windowsill - nothing. Emmy even made a brief search through the male undergarments to no avail.

"He could have taken the Diary with him to the stadium" suggested Emmy half-heartedly after twenty minutes of all but running over the room with a fine-tooth comb.

"So they could use it for a bludger target?" Jezibell roughly sifted through Potter's school books for the fourth time in row.

"There's nothing here." She concluded decisively. "We need to back to the common room before the practice is done. I never thought someone could be more paranoid then I am, but it looks like Potter keeps the stupid book on him at all times."

She let the bag fall untidily back to its original position and left the ransacked dormitory, her boots delivering audible punishment to innocent stairs. Emmy yawned and followed.