As August gave into September, an unusually strong wave of heat made its way across the UK. Britain wasn't built for this southern weather, its buildings were old and constructed to contain heat, not repel it, which spawned the sort of temperatures that one found impossible to ignore. It travelled so far north that even the frosted Scottish moors that hid Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry began to bleach and burn under the sun's heavy rays.
With so much going on in the world, it had nearly slipped her by entirely that this would be her last time attending Hogwarts. It was odd such a significant event could escape her nearly silent and unnoticed. Then again, maybe that wasn't too unusual.
Her eyes lazily followed the train's route to the horizon. She knew Tracey, Domonique and Astoria were sitting somewhere near and pretending to be interested in the view was all she could manage to avoid conversation. It was the last time she would get a chance to see it, after all. Vaguely, she could make out her reflection in the pane of glass separating her from the dried fields beyond. She twisted her head to confirm the apparition was in fact her reflection, and while it was, the face that stared back was unrecognisable as her own.
She'd been in a sort of fugue state since the morning, a sort of drunken, intensity on the present while completely unaware of anything before or after. She felt as though she'd been hit with a confundus charm, but in actuality, she was probably one broken fingernail away from a complete mental breakdown.
The scenes outside continued to change: trees became grasslands, then plains with the occasional tree here and there; then more trees. As she gazed out at the land, she realised just how much of her summer had been spent locked away in the Woodhouse. This made her think of the Hogwarts awaiting them. She had no idea what to expect once she got off. The world was different now and she'd be a fool to not expect it to have been polluted the same way. The question was just how much had it changed? Would it be beyond recognition? It had been her home for almost six years - would she still recognise it? Old faces were back on the train: Pansy and Millicent, Blaise, even Draco had found the nerve in him to return.
A sudden awareness brought her back from her reverie. Her hours in legilimency allowed her to sense an early warning. She could feel a presence, dark, moving closer throughout the train. Despite this, she knew there wasn't any danger - the malicious intent was not targeted towards her, anyway. The carriage door opened and an arm emerged, revealing the familiar sight of long black robes wrapped about a forearm.
An audible breath of shushing swept the cabin around them. Regretfully, she recognised them and the bit of her that still cared grew genuinely angrily at their appearance. But the intruders paid her no mind, skimming past her and settling to make conversation with a nervous-looking boy two seats behind them. The one leading - who she identified as Augustus Rookwood - leaned over the seating and whispered into the boy's ear, with "whispering" being a loose word. She could hear him perfectly from where she sat and knew he wasn't making any effort to keep the exchange quiet.
"Haven't seen anything suspicious on our journey from London have we, lad? Nothing we'd be wanting to keep secret, I hope?"
All she had to do was turn away and pretend she couldn't hear. Yet found herself growing antagonised by the second.
"Oi, losers. He's not here."
Her eyes flashed back to the scene. The idiot, Neville Longbottom, had appeared and despite his outnumbering, wore the face of a man ready for a fight. Everyone around them suddenly seemed very interested in the palms of their hands.
"And who are you?" demanded the one she recognised as Ismelda Murk.
Longbottom sneered back at them.
"Friend of the Mudbloods."
Were it not for the ambient rocking of the carriage, the air would have been a deadly silence. Rookwood looked doubtfully around them. No one seemed willing to speak for Longbottoms side, and those that were, were smartly deciding against it. Incredibly, even Tracey seemed to have lost her gaul. The boy couldn't have looked like an easier target if he had BLOOD TRAITOR written across his forehead.
She kept her eyes planted firmly on the horizon, mentally begging for him to stand down. She didn't care about him - they could do whatever they wanted to him, but they had to do it away from her. She couldn't sit through this again.
Rookwood took a step closer but Longbottom remained firm in his place.
"I know of you. You're the Longbottoms kid."
"Frank and Alice. Use their names."
"You'll do well to know your place, boy. We don't mean any harm. Lest you end up like Frank and Alice, suggest you don't go looking for fights."
Her soul itched. Her heart was dancing around somewhere in her throat and she realised she was shaking.
"Like to see you try."
Even facing the window, she couldn't avoid watching the fuzzy reflection of Rookwood lunge and knock Longbottom clean off balance - followed by the sound of Ravenclaw girls shrieking as he landed on them - then the silhouette of his other two companions moving to flank him. They secured the Gryffindor in a helpless position and they took turns punching him again and again. An audible shattering exploded hard from his mouth and he fell backwards to the carriage floor. The air burst with electricity as a wild chorus of squeals and boos broke out all around them.
Unconsciously, she stood up. Tracey moved to intercept her.
"He's telling the truth!" she shrieked. "Harry Potter is not on board!"
The noise fell again as the chaos halted, attention now falling solely to her. And then, quite as she knew they would, the gasps and whispers began.
This past year had left its marks on her, some emotional, but some physical. At least now, the scar splitting her brow in half was no longer her most attention-grabbing feature. Her beautiful blonde locks were now shaved down into an unsightly undercut. It had been the best she could do to disguise the fact half her hair had been torn from her head while escaping the maws of a beast two months prior. Anger began to burn her fists.
Whether Rookwood recognised her, understood her words or was plainly put-off by her gnarly appearance, she couldn't read. All the same, he abandoned his beating of Neville and gestured for his companions to do the same.
His head cocked to the side, his demeanour suddenly shifting to something more formal.
"'Ello again, Greengrass…"
She glared at him.
"Can I help you?" she spat.
"Just conduction' safety checks," he nodded. "All standard procedures."
He refused to meet her with the same level of aggression he'd expressed towards Longbottom, who was presently attempting to gather himself off the floor behind them. She didn't know if that pissed her off more or not.
She began to verbally reprimand him when his voice spoke over hers.
"Hey, sorry about your dad. Genuinely, he was a top bloke. Shame what happened."
She stopped. Rookwood had a genuine look of concern in his eyes. There was no malicious intent behind his words, just a man concerned about the death of one of his friends.
She was almost sick.
"... Harry Potter is not on the train," she forced out. "Can you please leave?"
He nodded solemnly, holding his arms up in a gesture of defeat. With not another word, he and his two companions departed via the entrance they came in. She waited until they entirely departed before she dared to breathe. When she did, she felt rage coursing through her every atom.
Longbottom said something to her, but she didn't hear it.
She returned to her seat and closed her eyes tightly. She was so unfathomably angry that she didn't understand how it hadn't leaked out of her and destroyed the whole carriage yet. Her fingernails dug painfully into her palms.
When she opened her eyes again fewer were staring at her now. The ones that still were looked afraid. Good. She took a deep breath and buried her head into the window, hiding her face once more.
"It doesn't look that bad, Daphne," Astoria tried gently. "I actually think it's kinda cute. In a badass way."
She rolled her eyes. She wasn't interested in talking about her hair and it was a miracle that the group had respected the silence for as long of the journey as they had.
"You alright, Daffy?" Tracey pushed. "You're lookin' a bit shook after that."
After a moment, she decided to push back.
"Tracey, shut up. Please."
She observed their expressions change from concern to horror. From Dominique she saw fear and shock, while Tracey's face was drenched in sorrow. They stared at each other for a long moment before, in nothing short of a miracle, Tracey went quiet. Astoria deflated.
If there was one thing she hated more than anything else, it was pity, and that was something people seemed fond of throwing at her these days. She would continue to escape it.
She scratched her arm.
The rest of the journey was very quiet. They were all tired, scared and somehow she felt even more detached from herself than she had boarding the train. Was this her soul working through everything that had just happened, or was it preparing for everything that was about to come? Were the last traces of her sanity abandoning ship so they did not have to sit through the humiliation? Or was her pride dealing with the situation through sheer denial of reality?
It'd been a tediously long day by the time their train pulled into Hogsmeade Station and it was a fanciful idea if she thought it was close to being over.
Had the sunset always been so blinding? So sickening?
As they were herded off of the train one-by-one, she noticed that though everyone seemed to have someone to walk with, nobody was talking. Silence of this extreme was unheard of for Hogwarts. Was it possible that the school's population of immature idiots and hypocritical bullies had finally had their spirit broken?
"Right then, you lot… Bag checks! C'mon, open 'em up!"
She trundled forward into the faceless crowd, a million miles away, her suitcase in tow. She did not put priority on keeping track of Astoria, Tracey or Dominique in the rush. In fact, she couldn't think of anything worse than being trapped in a carriage with them at the moment.
"What're you lookin' for?" she heard somebody ask as a line formed around the checkpoint.
"Contraband," Rookwood announced, "or maybe… Harry Potter!"
There were sniggers.
Daphne kept her wand at the ready, hoping in the back of her head that someone would be foolish enough to try and start anything with her.
It took time to get down the line, each person having their bags inspected by a member of staff. They seemed to be going from First Years upwards. Some first impression, she thought. As Filch came to her, she could feel his gaze boring into her. He gave a grunt and began rummaging through her suitcase.
"What's this, then?"
She stared at the item he'd fished out.
"A necklace."
"Looks expensive to be bringin' with ya into school. Not hopin' to flog this in Hogsmeade were ya?"
She glared back at him.
"It was a gift. If you confiscate it I will hex you."
Filch grumbled obscenities under his breath and chucked the locket unceremoniously back into her open suitcase.
"... clear. Move it along."
Before closing it, she snatched the locket from her trunk and brought it inside her uniform.
The line was shifting again now and she didn't fight the flow as they began up toward the castle. She was about halfway up when her eyes met those of the person walking next to her: Draco Malfoy. She stared hard at his profile. His shoulders were hunched, his head low and she noticed a small scar on his left cheek, just above his mouth, that would've been invisible in any lower light. Though his expression was blank, she felt it was a safe judgement to read he was uncomfortable with these proceedings, or perhaps even disgusted by it. But if he truly had a problem with anything that was happening right now, he'd long missed his chance to do anything about it. It was too late for him. For both of them.
Her head was pounding, her mind felt numb and her skin stung with sweat. But she still had one last thing left to do.
Her pessimistic daydreams rang true - Hogwarts had indeed changed. It simply felt wrong. Everything was where she remembered it, yet nothing felt right. She remembered these corridors, classrooms and hallways, but there was a blockage of mist shrouding them all. Everything about the world around her felt so distant that she wondered if this was perhaps how it felt to be a ghost? To exist in a space without truly inhabiting it? To be far beyond the boundary where things on this plane still affected her. It was definitely how she felt.
Her heart sank lower into her stomach with every beat.
They began to queue in front of the Great Hall and through its great doors she saw a glimpse of Hogwarts' infamous ceiling - now stained with clouds. Then her eyes fell straight ahead and a sense of foreboding washed over her. Her body went rigid. At the centre of the hall stood everyone's sole focus - the newly anointed Headmaster of Hogwarts, Severus Snape. Despite the new title, he kept the same appearance, black robes covered in so many dark creases and stains you could have guessed he'd slept in them.
She saw the agony and fear in others eyes as they sat down, heads lowered and not a word passed between anyone. The only consolation she could find was nobody seemed like they wanted to notice her. It would have been easy to disappear without anyone noticing. There were so many Slytherin's sitting around their table, yet it felt empty.
Professor Snape looked weak as always, but his voice broke the silence clearly. She couldn't hear him though. She was so very far away from this table, its people and this school that nothing the new Headmaster could have said could have aroused her interest. She could see her reason now more than ever. Her whole excuse for being - this really was her purpose. Before it had been spiteful daydreams of retribution but now it was clear as day. Her counterattack to every misjustice she'd been served.
At this, she couldn't help herself. She turned to stare at the new Headmaster, his words hollow on her ears. She looked straight through him and saw something that told her he never cared about what he was preaching. She felt her strength grow. She could understand it distinctly now - it wasn't just him, it was everyone in this room that had let the Dark Lord win. They were all complicit, even those that fought against him. They should have fought harder. They all allowed this to happen. They were just as guilty as she was.
The Headmaster finished speaking and, in a break of tradition, the crowd was not quick to speak among itself.
Her gaze fell lazily to the rest of the table staff and a cringe of recognition ran down her spine. Amycus Carrow - the bastard that had abandoned them and nearly cost she and Merula their lives - was their new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. He had nerve - teaching children when he should have been rotting in Azkaban. But he wouldn't last long. She'd make sure of that. Then her eyes fell upon Alecto Carrow. His sister looked like a mirror had been placed between them - no doubt they shared the same twisted soul, as well. They were Death Eaters, plain and simple. Death Eaters welcomed into the halls of Hogwarts. Just as she had been.
She felt tears threatening to break through her cold barrier, but didn't allow them to fall. She swallowed hard - the rage was still there. It was boiling and frothing like an angry volcano about to erupt, and all she could do was channel the energy into staying present. She stared around, wondering where everybody else's anger had gone, but all she saw were worried, scared teenagers. She just needed to get through this one dinner and after that, all would be right with the world. After that then she could die. Or better yet, someone could kill her.
Around her, the students began to eat. She stared at what was before her and saw a plate of roast potatoes, some kind of juicy meat and vegetables and a bowl of salad. She stared at it for several seconds, trying to remember what it was supposed to taste like. She noticed Tracey, Dom and Astoria had found her and were staring at her, trying to decipher her feelings, neither brave enough to ask. She tasted bile in her throat and food was the last thing on her mind.
The second the feast was dismissed she departed. She could feel her heart physically dragging her to her destination, threatening to tear itself out of her chest if she did not arrive quicker. She didn't slow for either companions, despite Tracey calling out her name. Her legs shook beneath her and as she moved, the whispering began again. She snapped around to glare at those who dared belittle her, only to find everyone silent and nobody looking her way. Despite this, the whispers continued. She took deep breaths, willing her courage to the top of her throat. She was on the brink of solving her final problem. It was time for her last move on the chessboard before checkmate.
Daphne Greengrass did not feel fear as she approached the deserted Headmaster's office. She knew exactly what she would find there and ran through this moment repeatedly throughout the holidays. She did not stop at the door, but tried to slow her breathing so as to speak. With a quick motion from her wand, she spoke the password she'd convinced Cersi to acquire and the grand entrance began to spiral upwards. Her heart was thundering and her breaths were quick, but aside from the white dots spotting her vision, she felt no emotion at all.
It was finally time for the change that was promised to her, all those nights ago in the Department of Mysteries. From glory to glory. Authority was power. Influence was responsibility. And her redemption would come from this betrayal. After seeing her father's body, she'd made her decision then and there.
Her first act of the new term would be to murder Severus Snape.
As the aged potions master approached his desk, a thick leather bound book with a rose-shaped embossed cover made eye contact with him. His complementary free copy of The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore. He glared down his hooked nose at the book with bitterness and disdain. It seemed as if the world had betrayed itself by allowing such a thing to be written. There was no justice in this life, he knew this, but quite how far the universe would scoop to punish it's best never ceased to disgust him.
His eyes fell upon a painting that hung above the room, depicting an old man standing on a ledge of stone, gazing down at a moonlit lake - the very man whose office he was pillaging. The wizard's features were obscured by the night-time shadows, but the pointed hat and cloak were hauntingly familiar to anybody that knew him in life.
Everywhere he looked was Albus Dumbledore.
Among the deceased private collection was grimoires, bestiaries, maps of ancient lands and other works pertaining to the old ways. The shelves were filled with expensive bottles and rare vials containing liquids unpronounceable to any living being. There were books on magical theory that looked far older than him. It was a collection truly like none other, and one that had to have been put together over an incredible lifetime of experience. To any other man in his position, he'd be having a field day at his new property. But this office was not rightfully his.
"What now, you old fool?" he asked.
The portrait did not respond. He didn't know if he preferred it that way or not.
Just then, something stung in his mind. Too vague to be a memory or the flush of deja vu, but too significant to have been anything else. And all too late, the sudden sensation of something prodding him in the neck informed him that he'd walked into a trap. With a start, he realised there was someone else in the room with him.
"Turn around."
He did as he was told and found himself, somehow unsurprisingly, face-to-face with the eldest Greengrass daughter. She appeared from mid-air, removing a familiar invisibility cloak from around her shoulders, thereby explaining how the room was empty when he arrived. But the mental protections she must have placed on her mind to avoid him sensing her would have taken tremendous skill. She had been practising. If he didn't have a wand stabbing into his cheek, he may have even been impressed.
"What do you think you are doing?" he asked slowly.
She raised her chest, breathing loud.
"... what the Dark Lord should have done a long time ago."
He cocked an eyebrow, humouring her.
"... which is?"
She didn't answer. Which in itself, was her answer.
He sneered spitefully at her.
"How old are you?"
She leered menacingly at him.
"Seventeen."
"... and a seventeen year old is going to kill me?"
"Yes."
He could read her like a book. She was trying to provoke him to showing a sign of fear or anger, but he'd never displayed either to anyone and would not start for this child. But the hatred she harboured in her eyes almost could have done it. Her face was not only contempt but a desire for revenge. This hatred for him had stewed for years.
He mused the idea. For years he'd strove to become Headmaster and fix it into a better environment, retroactively improving the wizarding world for all kinds. But this was not how it was supposed to come about, he should have risen through the ranks and achieved it himself. But now, perhaps another destiny had been laid out for him? Maybe he was destined to die before his time; a victim of a useless assassination conducted by those who thought they knew better. Nobody would mourn him. His family, friends, colleagues, and students would go on living their lives without giving credence to his passing. Was it even worth still fighting at this stage?
Dare he even humour the thought?
He closed his eyes, savouring the moment, willing death to come. And then he would finally know what it felt like.
He sneered, growing impatient.
"You are not going t-"
"Avada kedavra."
