A/N: First update in a while, I admit. Suffering with a smidge of the old Writer's Block. I sort of know what turn I want to take with this fic but trying to get it off the ground can be somewhat difficult.
I'm not entirely sure what to say of this chapter. I'm even getting Writer's Block writing Authors Notes now; it's really rather ridiculous.
I hope I can get this fic going properly soon.
Chapter Nine: Battleground
Owls swooped into the Great Hall laden with parcels and letters for the majority of Hogwarts' residents.
In all honesty, the dark-haired woman on the far end of the teachers' table would much rather have not received anything at all. Ever-so-subtly she grimaced, as a newspaper and four envelopes were dropped on the empty plate before her. Her semi-decent mood had now dissolved into a state of passive-aggressive irritation.
She didn't need to read the writing on those white paper envelopes; she knew exactly who they were from. Sliding them off the table, she placed them in a deep inside-pocket of her robe — an action which went unnoticed by a vast majority of Hogwarts' residents — and turned her attention to the newspaper before her.
Headline news stated a break-in at Gringotts'. Strange, however, that not a single thing had been taken, though the article announced that the alleged vault had been emptied earlier the same day.
So that was why Dumbledore wished for that death trap on the third-floor? That was why he sent her on a voyage fraught with monstrous animals, plants prone to provoke strangulation; risk of getting her head bashed in by a troll—? Was the man mad?
He informed the entire student body that the third floor corridor was out of bounds. That, in itself, was a mistake. The first thing any child would do would be to question why it was forbidden in the first place and seek out the answer for themselves. Well, at least, she could certainly think of seven students who would have done so — one dead, one believed dead, one behind bars, one living as a recluse and three at the school. And if the child of her nemesis was anything like his father, he, too, would be curious of its nature.
'You'd better not,' she seethed to herself, eyes trained on her son at the Gryffindor table, never once letting her focus slip, even as she irately, yet subtly, buttered some toast and stabbed herself with the knife.
Silently admonishing herself for her lapse in concentration, she erased evidence of injury with her napkin and delicately ate her breakfast. She had been a delicate eater for quite some time now; had been since Lily had shown her what decent table manners were, following the continuous abuse regarding her undesirable habits. These days, of course, she had more of a delicate stomach and, as such, her table manners weren't so frequently questioned.
"With all due respect, Minerva, I don't think Mr. Potter should be rewarded for disobeying a teacher," Dinah said, hands on her colleague's desk.
As it had turned out that day, the first-year Gryffindor and Slytherin flying lesson (again, Dinah wondered who decided that those two Houses should ever have classes together for all the trouble they caused) was not without it's fair share of excitement.
Young Neville Longbottom had been presented with, most unfortunately, the very same broomstick that almost broke Dinah's own neck twenty years previously. That most temperamental of brooms; the one Sirius and his friends had called 'Bucky.' In fact, following her own flying disaster, the Marauders themselves had called Dinah 'Bucky' until the following Christmas.
As Madam Hooch had taken the tearful boy to the Hospital Wing, Harry Potter was in the air having what could only be described as a 'broom duel' with Draco Malfoy from what she'd heard so far. She had yet to hear the whole story.
"With all due respect, Dinah," the Transfiguration teacher responded, with a raised eyebrow, "Mr. Potter caught another student's property following a fifty-foot dive."
The Potions professor sighed. "And what, pray tell, was Mr. Potter doing with another student's property?"
"As I understand it, Mr. Longbottom's Remembrall was thrown by Draco Malfoy who was also in the air at the time."
"Minerva," Dinah said, through gritted teeth, her patience wearing thin, "as you understand it, why was Draco Malfoy in the air with Mr. Longbottom's Remembrall?"
"Perhaps, Dinah," McGonagall responded, sighing heavily, "that's a question for Mr. Malfoy. As he is one of yours, I trust you will deal with him accordingly."
"And how do you propose to discipline Harry Potter?" Dinah said, shaking her head. "By rewarding him with a position on the Gryffindor Quidditch team."
"We needed a new seeker," the older woman replied, quite plainly.
"'We needed a new seeker?'" Dinah repeated, disbelievingly. "That's your argument, is it? 'We need more Quidditch players because Slytherin's won the Cup several years running?' Oh, poor Gryffindor," she mocked. "Do let me leave now, Minerva, before I burst into tears."
The irate Potions Mistress spun on her heel and moved to leave the Transfiguration classroom. Professor McGonagall had neither moved from her seat nor changed her expression.
"Five points from Slytherin for mocking a colleague," Minerva said almost inaudibly, a slight smirk gracing her aged features.
"Oh, bugger off!" was Dinah's response, as she stalked through the door, slamming it in her wake, only to be greeted by her son walking the opposite way.
"Hi, Mum. Y'alright?" he grinned, though his expression contorted into one of confusion soon enough.
"That's Professor Snape to you," she snapped, whipping her head round only to admonish the teen before returning to her anger-induced journey back to the dungeons.
Rigel watched his mother go with a rather bemused expression. "You got a bowtruckle in your bloomers?" he asked, thankful that she hadn't heard him, before entering the Transfiguration classroom regarding his latest essay.
Dinah didn't actually go to the dungeons. Instead, she took a walk to the post office in Hogsmeade. It was perhaps a blessing for both the faculty and students because she wasn't feeling exceptionally calm that day and was ready to bite the head off anyone who crossed her path; even half-giants in wooden huts were not exempt for the woman's ire. Sirius once said all short women had an even shorter fuse, which she hadn't taken too lightly at the time.
"Next!" the clerk called, as the little old man in front of her shuffled from the queue, prompting Dinah to move forward.
"One muggle first-class stamp please," she said, fighting the urge to groan at what was to be coming in the not-so-distant future from the writer of those letters she'd received that morning.
"23 knuts," was the plain response, as the employee slid a solitary stamp under the window, which Dinah agitatedly affixed to the letter in her hand, an action which didn't go unnoticed by the man who became rather uncomfortable.
She'd spent most of the day writing that thing; sacrificing the grading of students' essays solely to appease her father. She'd simply have to work through the night on those papers.
Delving into the pocket of her robes, she fumbled around frantically searching for money. At last she came up with one lone sickle. It was her last. The rest of her money she was unable to sacrifice, for there was a hand-written cheque in there for her father (as demanded) and she was lucky to scrape two galleons together to put aside for Rigel's birthday present in November.
Defeated, she slid the letter back under the screen.
"It'll be collected at five," he said, as he absently placed it in the large bag to his right; his concerned eyes never once leaving Dinah's person. Handing her the six bronze coins he owed her, he whispered so no one could hear. "I hope things get better for you. Take care." With a weak smile, he bade her farewell.
Upon her return to Hogwarts that afternoon, Dinah stopped off at the Forbidden Forest to collect a few potions ingredients. Perhaps it wasn't the best idea, of course, for the Forbidden Forest was one of the many places at Hogwarts that made her miserable. She was almost killed by a stray acromantula (which just happened to be bigger than she was; not that she'd have had any reason to suspect why it couldn't at least have been a newborn) during her second year of teaching, while replenishing her stocks. Were it not for the art of transfiguration she'd scarcely have got away with life.
A simple 'Pullus' had resulted in less of a painful death and more of a quick fondle with the acromantula-come-goose. Oh, she'd had her fair share of injuries and was unable to sit down for a considerable time (a fact Minerva McGonagall reminded her of every chance she got) but she was still here. Touch wood, she had yet to be discovered by King Arachnid himself who may likely have been confused to find fowl in his lair, in addition to the disappearance of one of his many children. (Of course, it would never have surprised Dinah if the vengeful monster had eaten the transfigured goose without realising.)
As of the current day, however, she seemed to have once again evaded capture by Mr. Big-Black-Thing-With-Long-Spindly-Legs, as she collected horklumps for juicing later.
Before she knew where she was, however, an uncharacteristic scream erupted from her oral cavity, as she was knocked forward, landing on the spiky mushrooms and beaten about the head by the very thing that had just managed to ram itself up her backside.
Things were thrown at her from all directions, as mischievous laughter surrounded the area.
"Pack it in!" she seethed, looking up to discover herself being physically abused by a mob of bowtruckles joyriding a rogue broomstick.
Getting to her feet — horklump needles piercing her chest, legs and arms — she scouted around for her wand, which had rolled away from her.
Ignoring her pain, she scrambled over to where it lay. Reaching out, a giggling bowtruckle snatched it and ran around Dinah in circles.
"If you don't watch it," she warned, pointing her finger at the wooden thief, "I'll do a Finnigan and blow you to smithereens." Comparing herself to a first-year Gryffindor with a propensity for pyrotechnics was perhaps a rather foolish action. After all, Dinah could scarcely say she'd ever set herself on fire or blown up a cauldron. That said, given the circumstances, she could do a lot of damage in anger.
The tree-dwelling creature possessed little desire to cooperate, even after chasing it several times around the area, which served only to wear the Potions Mistress out. "What are you doing, woman?" she admonished herself. "You are a witch and you are chasing a twig. How pathetic do you have to be? Accio bowtruckle!" she exclaimed and, despite her lack of wand, the impish being was pulled back towards her, hitting her square in the face with a thud, causing her to stagger backwards and land squarely on a horklump.
With a scream of frustration, she wrestled with the bowtruckle, who clearly had no intention of returning the wand to its rightful owner. With a sigh, she looked around and said, "What's that?" indicating a centaur in the distance, which certainly gave the small creatures enough of a distraction for Dinah to seize her wand. "Ha!" she smirked, simply, picking up the bowtruckle and carefully placing it on the ground.
Slowly, and with literal pins and needles, she got to her feet and focused her attention on the creatures lined up along the handle of the broom, which Dinah winced at, upon realising exactly where it had come from. "Oh, why?" she asked, glaring at the rotten thing before her. "Why you? Seriously? 'Hello, Dinah. Ma name's Bucky. Mind if I beat the stuffin' out o' y' again?'"
With that, another piece of bark hit Dinah on the head. With a sigh, she aligned herself to duel. "Flipendo!" she exclaimed, as a jet of bright blue light burst from her wand, knocking the four bowtruckles off the broom like skittles. "Clear off, the lot o' ya. Leave me alone!" she cried, as the creatures fled.
With a heavy sigh, she readied herself to leave, dishevelled though she was. Her hair was half-loose and her semi-intact bun was halfway down her back. Needles were sticking out of every visible orifice, blood dripping from her bashed nose and she could barely walk straight.
"I will never touch you again," she stated, angrily, sneering in the general direction of the highland cactus, as the herd of prickly horklumps just sat there gloating at their victory. And with that, she left the Forbidden Forest.
Bucky, as expected, had been only too happy to follow the battered woman, impaling her repeatedly for attention. After about two hundred yards, she was so genuinely annoyed that she seized hold of the broomstick and stormed off to find Madam Hooch, the flying teacher, and the very person Dinah had decided to hold personally responsible for her recent misfortune.
It was quite by chance, she found her colleague locking up the storeroom.
"Rolanda!" she called, aggressively. It was near impossible to control her temper now. Not only had she just suffered a humiliating beating by five creatures less than a foot-tall, a mound of squishy, spiky things and a temperamental piece of magical engineering, but she was also very poor, very tired and very hungry. "Rolanda, I wish to make a complaint."
"Well, this is the flying department. Go to Dumbledore," the older woman said, sharply.
"Oh, no, I wish to complain to you, Rolanda," she said, venom dripping off every syllable. "Pray tell, when did the school broomsticks last have a service? Fifty years ago? Perhaps it's time for some new ones."
"The Ministry pays for them, Di," the flying instructor informed her colleague, as though the fact were completely plain.
Dinah sighed and rolled her eyes. "Well, as per usual, Dinah is the last to know everything that goes on this castle. Does it not strike you as strange that an organisation with such vast pots of wealth are somehow conveniently unable to afford basic broom care and, or, health and safety regulations to avoid children succumbing to injury or, in more serious situations, even death?"
"Not every child is a natural flyer, as much as I wish they were, Di. We've had these same broomsticks donkeys' years and I've never seen an issue that can't be fixed with a good helping of Skele-Gro."
Dinah sighed, defeated. "Not even this one?" she said, a pathetically-pleading expression on her face, as she indicated the aged broomstick in her left hand.
"Looks alright to me," the white-haired woman replied, nonchalantly, after a rapid visible perusal of the transportation device.
With a deep breath in attempt to quell her anger, Dinah replied, "Is this not the broom which is responsible for Mr. Longbottom's broken wrist? The very broom, I might add, which, twenty years ago, almost broke my neck?" Speaking with deliberation, she'd hope she might get the message across.
She didn't get the message across.
"Well, it didn't, fortunately for you," was Hooch's response, which served only to outrage the Potions Mistress. "Dinner's being served shortly," she added, sharply, sneakily changing the subject. "Just fancy Beef Wellington tonight. Meat, pastry and mushrooms. Lovely!"
Rolanda's mouth was watering at the very thought of her future dinner, as she turned to leave. Dinah, however, was positively disgusted at the mere mention of the big-headed fungus.
"So that's it then?" Dinah shrugged, having all but given up. "No cause for concern; we'll just let eleven-year-olds all fall to their deaths every September. Accidents like this happen everyday."
It appeared, however, that the hawk-eyed Hooch hadn't heard her, though turned to look at her. Taking in her colleague's bedraggled appearance, she offered what was assumed to be solid advice.
"Do something about that Dinah. You look like you've been dragged through a hedge backwards." With that, the woman was off.
"Well, thank you, Rolanda. I'll remember that the next time I make the front cover of Witch Weekly," she spat, before turning her attention to the store cupboard, which, appropriately enough, was locked. It was at this point she began staring at her wand. "I could do it, couldn't I? I could kill her. I could kill those bowtruckles. I could kill all those acromantulas. We'd never be poor again; just one pint of acromantula venom would feed us for a month, wouldn't it? Why am I even talking to you? You can't talk back; you're a piece of wood which just happens to have some sort of attachment to me, aren't you? See, it's not everyone else that's the problem; it's me," she said with finality. "And now you're talking to yourself, aren't ya, y' dingbat? You're crazy. You argue with trees, you get impaled by mushrooms. You're not normal, woman!"
With a sigh, she switched the broom from her left to her right, and her wand from right to left. 'Switching spells,' Rigel would have called it if he'd been present.
"And you're more trouble than you're worth, you are," she admonished the long-handled wooden (albeit failed) sweeping brush. "Perhaps you'd be of better use to Argus. Alohomora."
Returning her wand to her robes, she pulled the now-unlocked door open, only to go crashing to the floor, buried beneath a bundle of brooms. With a yowl of pain, she felt horklump needles plunge further into her skin.
With even broomsticks now conspiring against her, Dinah waddled — unfortunately not quite in as ladylike a manner as she would have liked — back to the main castle, with the aim of making her way to her quarters. The last thing she wanted to see now was people and the school Healer Poppy Pomfrey was at the top of her hit-list, considering that the horklump juice (which she never got) was to go into medicinal potions for her stocks. Oh, initially she had blamed Rolanda, of course, for the broomstick fiasco, but Poppy was the one who was really at fault in Dinah's mind.
Most unfortunately, for Hogwarts' resident potioneer, any chance she could have had at avoiding people was all for naught, as she was stopped in the Entrance Courtyard by Sybill Trelawney, who had at that precise moment decided it was the perfect time to predict Dinah's death (something to do with being stabbed several times over.) Dinah did her best to ignore the students in the surrounding area laughing at her appearance and made to push past her colleague, throwing the double doors open, wiping out a grand total of three second-years, a fourth-year, the Head Boy, the caretaker and his cat.
Amid gales of laughter at the state of her, she stalked up to the third floor with the intent of visiting the Headmaster to ask for an advance on her salary. Having such a bad day, she was inclined to even ask him for a raise for her trouble, but that would never happen.
She left the office in fiery fury, having been refused this one advance. So that meant no more money for Rigel's birthday present, no more money for her father (which he was constantly demanding — Dinah never did anything for him, apparently) and no money to visit the nearest apothecary for ingredients, following the day's disastrous visit to the Forest and she, herself, never possessing any desire to raid the greenhouses.
"Twenty points from Ravenclaw!" she barked, causing the two students clad in blue and bronze who, until that point, had been contentedly chatting outside the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom.
"What for?" one of the girls asked, as she and her friend exchanged confused expressions. They had neither said nor physically committed any offence against their teacher.
"Loitering!"
"Ooh, er, someone's on the war path," the brunette whispered.
"Make it twenty-five!"
The two girls remained silent until she was out of earshot and ascending the stairs to the fourth floor, at which point the pair of them burst out laughing.
Throwing the door to the Hospital Wing open, Dinah stood beneath the frame (which, considering the luck she'd had that day, it might just as well have collapsed on top of her) like a woman possessed.
"I will never touch horklumps again," she informed the mediwitch, threateningly.
Madam Pomfrey finished smoothing down her last bed and turned to face the dark-haired woman. "What in the world happened to you?" she asked, deeply concerned as she approached the injured professor. "Sit down, Dinah," she said, leading her to the nearest bed.
"I'd prefer to stand if you don't mind," she replied, jerking her prickle-filled elbow away from the healer.
"Nonsense!" Poppy exclaimed, pushing her down on the bed and turning to retrieve something, not noticing the visible pain she was in or hearing the high-pitched squeak of her distressed cry.
As she returned, she noticed the sheer number of Dinah's collection of needles and her watering eyes.
"Dear me, Dinah, what in Merlin's name have you done to yourself? Don't cry. We'll sort you out," she said, removing the needles from Dinah's legs.
"I'm not crying," she seethed, "I just happen to have them up the jaxy!"
"On your knees," Pomfrey said, once the last needle was out and Dinah reluctantly, and with a great deal of pain, did as she was told, while her colleague began the pain-staking process of removing the contents of Dinah's posterior.
Once more, the doors burst open. 'What now?' Dinah thought, with a great deal of humiliation, as she aggressively shot a spell at the modesty curtain, which performed a protective shield around the bed. Nobody else needed to see what the Potions Mistress had going on; Poppy was more than enough.
With a bit of a waddle, Dinah left the Hospital Wing. Students were still laughing at her misfortune, as she made her way down to the dungeons once and for all.
Naturally, she just had to be stopped by Filius Flitwick, who had apparently noticed the significant point loss for Ravenclaw House, before a fortnight was barely out.
"Might you enlighten me, Dinah? A twenty-five point loss when we had only twenty-four to start with?" he questioned.
With a defeated sigh, she gave him the answer he'd likely have been hoping for. "Reinstate them," she said, simply, and continued on her way. He never got his explanation but Ravenclaw got their points back.
Before she was scarcely through the final corridor on the way to her quarters, she heard an unmistakable call of "Mum?"
Couldn't people just leave her alone?
With a sigh, she turned to face her son. "Rigel?"
"Are you alright?" he asked, with utmost concern, slowly stepping forward to approach the unapproachable. He wasn't scared of her; she just seemed to have a hard time tolerating his presence. He had his suspicions why but, as of yet, he couldn't very well confront her on them.
"Not particularly, but I shall live," she replied, plainly. "I'm going to bed to wake up." With her hand on the doorknob, she noticed the look he gave her and ushered him inside.
Rigel perched himself on the end of the wooden coffee table in front of the couch. Precisely why he couldn't simply sit on the sofa like a normal person was a mystery to his mother.
Closing the door, Dinah took it upon herself to lean on the edge of her desk, before throwing herself forward in pain.
"Do I really need to ask why everyone's been laughin'?" he asked, suppressing a grin. "I'm sorry for what I said this afternoon."
"About the bowtruckle in my bloomers?"
"Seriously? You heard that?"
"I'm your mother. I know how your mind works." With a pause, she spoke again. "You weren't far wrong. The fact that I am currently unable to sit down would suggest so."
For a few moments, Rigel became quite quiet and Dinah attempted to press her son for information regarding his real purpose for seeking her out.
"How much money did he want?" he said, finally.
In an instant, Dinah's face contorted into one of malice for the man in question. "That does not concern you, Rigel," she said, through gritted teeth.
"It affects me too, Mum," the teen said, his eyes meeting those of his mother. "He's the reason you're so miserable. You used to laugh and smile and sing. I haven't forgotten, you know. You've not done any of that since V—" he broke off. He couldn't speak to her; not about that. Casting his eyes downwards to think for a moment, he eventually raised his head once more. "Mum, you might find it very hard to believe, but I love you. Stop letting him bully you. Next time he demands money just say no. You're starving because of him. I've seen you in the Great Hall. You barely eat, and I never saw you touch anything over summer. If Dad was here he'd never allow it."
"Yes, well your father isn't here, is he?" the woman spat, eyes locked with those of her son, as though challenging a bull to a fight.
With a deep sigh, Rigel got to his feet. "Why are you so cold? Why don't you open your heart to anyone? There's nothing shameful in having feelings, Mum. If you feel like rubbish, show it. Cry. You never know; you might feel better for it."
With caution, he made his way over to his mother, whose expression was nothing far short of disbelief. He was honestly giving her permission to show the world how weak she was; how unstable she was.
"Not once have you ever pressured me to stop crying," he said. "You wouldn't even say meaningless words when I was; you'd just hold me until I stopped. While it's been a while, I still remember, Mum." He paused. "Why is it okay for me to be upset but not you? You do matter; in spite of what he says."
Tentatively, he reached his hand out to take his mother's in his own, though she jerked hers away and promptly moved to the other side of the room at what was more likely a sprint than anything else.
As much as it hurt her child, he knew she had a great deal of trouble being touched or having affection demonstrated to her.
The pair fell into somewhat of an awkward silence, before the boy spoke up once more, in an attempt to relieve the tension.
"I had Care of Magical Creatures this morning," he said, noncommittally.
"Do you enjoy it?"
"Well, I'd call it interesting, I suppose. After all, it's only been my third lesson. Professor Kettleburn said today we'll be studying acromantulas tomorrow."
If Dinah's eyes weren't quite so black, they might surely have turned red with rage at her son's comment. "What?" she spat.
"Professor K—"
"I'm well aware what you said, Rigel!" she seethed, causing the boy to step back, on the off-chance that she decided to go on a rampage. Yet another colleague on her list of people she had no respect for that day. She'd surely get him later on.
Rigel was at something of a loss for words. "Well, er—" he stammered. "I-I-I'll just be going then—?"
With that, he bolted through the door before she could snap at him to stop impersonating Quirrell.
She hadn't particularly wished to go to dinner that evening either. She was probably too angry to eat, in truth, but Dumbledore would have only insisted she be present.
Ignoring the many eyes — and, indeed, the hushed voices — all focused on her in that moment, Dinah, with great care, took her usual seat at the staff table. Glaring at the Hall full of people, she dared anyone — colleague or student — to speak directly, or perform some other action, to or against her.
Rather awkwardly, everyone refocused their attention to anywhere but at her, the occasional snicker sounding from the House tables.
She, in turn, focused her attention on the numerous people who had annoyed her that day:
— Her father, with his incessant writing and unreasonable demands.
— Harry Potter with his rule-breaking, which might have quite easily ended his life but didn't.
— Draco Malfoy who she was led to believe was the source of the drama — and who she would pull aside later that evening.
— Minerva McGonagall, who rewarded the Gryffindor rule-breaker to satisfy herself in the hopes of snagging the Quidditch Cup at the end of the year.
— Poppy Pomfrey who had been responsible for her painful predicament and which had ended in the ongoing embarrassment — ignoring the humiliation of having the medi-witch pull spikes from her backside.
— Pomona Sprout for being in charge of the greenhouses which Dinah herself refused to enter.
— Rolanda Hooch for ignoring her concerns about the perils of outdated, unserviced broomsticks.
— Albus Dumbledore for his unwillingness to give her an advance on her salary.
— The two Ravenclaw girls for loitering in corridors — which was perhaps a little unfair, as they hadn't caused her any real harm.
— Filius Flitwick for catching her taking points from Ravenclaw without logical reason — which, of course, he'd received no explanation for.
— Argus Filch, his cat Mrs. Norris, and the five students who were injured in her state of frustration: reason being that they were in the way. — That, perhaps, wasn't very fair either, but it was Dinah's excuse for blaming them.
— Sybill Trelawney for predicting her death — as if anybody wanted to hear that on a bad day.
— Rigel for sticking his nose where it didn't belong; no matter how much she loved him.
— Silvanus Kettleburn for her son's confession regarding the study of eight-legged monsters of gigantic proportions and who could not only have eaten someone like Hagrid alive, but otherwise maimed a person for life. (That, of course, reminded her that she really needed to have a word with him.)
If she was quite honest, it seemed as though the only people who hadn't upset her that day were, surprisingly, the Weasley twins. Then again, she hadn't taught any third-years that day either.
With her mental list declared to herself, she rose from her seat and approached the current object of her distaste.
"Silvanus, a word with you?" she questioned, threateningly, and the ageing man shrank back in fright, as her dark eyes locked on his usually playful brown ones.
The poor man couldn't move; so frozen with fear at the tiny woman standing before him. She had always intimidated him, even as a student, and he had once attempted to hide behind a quintaped when she, at fourteen, looked at him dangerously, daring him to offer an explanation as to why he would choose a carnivorous beast for his students to study; especially for the first lesson of the new school year.
She had also, at the time, been very pregnant and more irritable than usual, particularly when the aforementioned quintaped was more than content to go for her, as though it somehow knew there was fresh meat inside her to satisfy its insatiable appetite. (What was a quintaped anyway? — An acromantula that had been in a bad accident?)
"D-D-D-Dinah," he stammered. "H-How very n-n-nice to s-s-s-see y-you—" he trailed off, no longer able to control himself.
"Are you, perchance, related to Quirinus?" she asked, her tone rife with cynicism. Unable to speak, however, he merely shook his head. "Then stop stammering. I've a bone to pick with you."
Naturally, she had caught the attention of the surrounding teachers, and the students, though attempting to talk amongst themselves were still talking about her.
"What is this fascination you appear to have with classification-five creatures, Silvanus? As I understand it, you plan to teach your third-year students about acromantulas in the morning. Do you neglect the fact that several students are likely to conveniently go missing before half-past ten or am I missing something?" When the wizard remained silent, head bowed, she spoke again, indicating his lack of upper-body limbs. "To what did you happen to lose that arm, Professor?"
The man didn't answer, merely shuffled out of his chair, and exited through the door situated a few feet away, his wooden leg making more than enough noise to attract attention at his recent leave.
"Well, far be it from me to question the teaching methods of another," she said, in such a quiet voice that it could be heard only by the surrounding teachers. "Go on, Kettleburn. Clop off," and, with a roll of her eyes, she returned to her seat… exceptionally painfully.
"Mr. Malfoy, may I speak with you?" the Head of Slytherin queried, standing by the portrait hole.
"Of course, Professor," the blond replied, surprisingly respectfully, as he joined her in a secluded corner of the Common Room.
"Mr. Malfoy, I understand that during your flying lesson this morning, you were in the air with another student's property and with neither permission to be there nor supervision."
"Potter started it," the child argued.
'Using another student as a scapegoat,' she thought. "I care little for who may or may not have started it, Mr. Malfoy. What were you doing with property that is not your own?"
"I was just having a look."
"I hardly think anyone needs to be fifty feet in the air to examine the appearance of a Remembrall." The boy said nothing, but his face contorted into an expression of masked hatred for the woman before him. "You disobeyed Madam Hooch, did you not?"
"If Potter hadn't—" he started, though she cut him off.
"Mr. Malfoy, don't instigate disputes and then act like the victim when you don't get what you want. That is not the way the world works, and it is not behaviour I'll tolerate." She sighed, before continuing. "I'll not tolerate theft, disobedience or disrespect from any student. What you did was dangerous and reflects poorly on yourself, your parents, your House, me and, indeed, the school itself. Ten points from Slytherin," she said with deliberation. The boy looked gobsmacked; as though he'd never been told off before.
"But, that's—"
"Life is not fair, Mr. Malfoy; you're right," the teacher said, her eyes boring straight into his own. "It is what it is. Get used to it."
That said, the woman left the darkened corner of the Common Room and stalked to the portrait hole, a Houseful of serpentine eyes glaring at her as she went.
"You wait until my Father hears about this!" the recently-admonished first-year shouted after her, but she'd already left.
Slamming the door to her quarters with an almighty thud, Dinah leaned against it, sighing heavily.
That had, most certainly, not been the best day she'd ever spent at Hogwarts the last two decades, but, to be fair, it probably hadn't been the worst either.
Rather pitifully, the woman turned around and walked in a zombie-like fashion to her bedroom.
With a landing considerably softer than she'd previously experienced that day, she plonked herself down on the edge of her bed. She scarcely had the energy to express pain at this point; barely enough, in fact, to remove her shoes and remove the silver dove from her hair, which she placed very carefully on her bedside cabinet.
"I hate people," she admitted to no one in particular. "I hate people, I hate broomsticks, I hate bowtruckles and I hate mushrooms."
Standing up, she, somewhat frustrated, walked to the wardrobe. "I hate me," and with a frustrated kick to the furniture, her eyes watered for the second time that day; this time accompanied by sobs. "I'm so sorry, Silvanus. You didn't deserve that."
Entering the bathroom, she stood at the mirror. "Why are you crying?" she admonished herself. "You didn't get your way! You're throwing a temper tantrum, you spoiled brat!"
If anyone could hear her screaming at herself, they might scarcely have believed she was the same woman that usually seemed rather calm and collected. Truth be told, they'd probably declare her deranged and have her committed.
The words she repeated before the mirror she'd heard so often as a child, in much the same tone of voice. Eventually she had learned to accept such words as gospel, for the word of Tobias Snape was sacred.