A/N
Welcome back and welcome if this is our first go together, I hope you'll enjoy!
Recommended song is the same title by the Imagine Dragons, and whatever songs of the sixties and seventies will get mentioned along the way. (Beware of an OFC who plays the guitar)
Disclaimer: This fic takes some liberties with mind magic, taking Snape's Oclumency as a natural ability. It also uses "A Slytherin's Guide to Hug Severus Snape" by lastcrazyhorn (which you may find on fanfiction net) with the author's permission. Otherwise whatever you recognise belong to Rowling. All rights of Harry Potter and his world belong to J. K. Rowling and her legal associates. I do not own HP, I make no money of this whole effort, only having fun, grateful for the opportunity. Anne of Green Gables will also be mentioned, but this fanfiction is not an Anne fanfiction by any means, only bows to that classical piece of literature by mentioning it twice.
For reader's discretion: This is an AU fic, rated M (occasionally close to R) for a reason, occasional (sometimes graphic) mentions of violence, rape, murder, dark magic, bad moral conduct, drug use, underage drinking, underage sex, character death, child abuse, abortion, foul language, PTSD and PGD (Prolonged Grief Disorder) will appear. Reader's discretion is advised. Also, this tale will elaborate on student-teacher relationship which eventually will become romantic, and definitely sexual, although only when both parties come of age.
Further warnings: OFC, EWE, angst, Snape romance, positive Filch!, manipulative Dumbledore, unsympathetic McGonagall, mild Harry bashing, Slughorn bashing, Sirius Black and Remus Lupin bashing, Time-turners. This is not a timetravel fic, but the main character will overuse her device. This is a Slytherin tale, so the House's characters will be mostly portrayed as positive or at least understandable, even their dodgier political views will be "explained". To balance the effect, the darkest part of the history of the Second World War will get mentioned, and also some contemporary thoughts of the seventies' and nineties' political views and problems.
The origin of OFC: In the Order of the Phoenix, we read about a Slytherin student, a "sixth year girl" who was a member of the Inquisitorial Squad and was present in Umbridge's room. We never hear her name because Harry and the Trio didn't know her, we only learn she had a sturdy built. What if there was more to her than anyone would have guessed?
Description: What if mind magic was also a natural ability? What if there are more ways in mind magic than Oclumency and Legillimency? What if Time Turner use was commonplace at Hogwarts, offered to a member of any House who shows the most talent? What if Severus Snape found another Natural at the dawn of the second Voldemort war? Would he expose her? Would Dumbledore use her? What if she had a Time Turner and what if she was a dark witch? So dark, her surname was Rosier?...
This is a dark tale of the Wizarding Society, and of a forbidden romance by all morals and rules of every parts of this fictional world in the times of political havoc. This is a tale of a Slytherin girl attending to Hogwarts since the year before Harry's arrival. Her name is Annabella E. Rosier, and she loves to observe….
Thanking here to excessivelyperky for being such a wonderful beta! All mistakes belong to me, but she surely helped to make this story better.
The Natural
by Helia Revelio
Chapter 1.
How effing unlucky do you have to be born on 2nd September in a world where all who turn eleven before the end of summer can attend a magical school? Having two brothers already in said school, who apparently hadn't learned much more than pranks and being loud, was just the icing on the 'unfair cake.' Not that life being unfair was any news to Annabella at that point in her life.
Unfairness was her birthright, so to speak, having been born into a family called Rosier, the synonym of richness and pureblood heritage, from a Muggle mother, and believed to be a squib, devoid of magic, for the first nine years of her life. These two facts did enough to shape her views on the world even without being her first memories about a wizarding war and its meaning for all adults around her: fear.
Montgomery Rosier had married for love. As fate would have it, his heart had pulled him to a Muggle girl, Sara, an enthusiast for fine arts, recreational drugs, and loud music. She spent her twenties having Monty's children and walking around barefoot with her guitar and her paintbrush in the tall village home they called their own, so the proud Rosier clan wouldn't run into them in London. Or any wizarding place that counted. Montgomery had peace with that arrangement because, by some defect at birth, his family's pure-blood ideology could never stick with him. With his love, potions, books, and children's laughter, a quiet, rustic life seemed much better than wizarding politics' endless disputes and quirks.
Then the war had erupted, and the family suddenly had fallen into a vacuum. They had neither had allies nor resources. However, they had had a reputation simply by their name, Sara and her relatives to protect, and three children to care for, while the Daily Prophet had been loud with reporting all atrocities against Muggle-borns, Half-bloods, and blood-traitors, who either gone missing or were found dead under the most horrifying circumstances.
Monty had never been an exceptionally courageous man, but now he'd introduced himself as a closet-pragmatic and had offered shelter for his pureblood relatives in exchange for staying out of the rest of the havoc. The fact he had already sheltered his Muggle relatives in the same house hadn't been any more surreal than the war itself at that point. Spitting into the face of his true beliefs had been surprisingly simple when he'd only seen the choice to do so or lose all he loved. So his wife's disagreement had bothered him little. He might have been a blood traitor, but Sara was still just a Muggle, and as such, she had no way of understanding the danger. She had ridiculous ideas like grabbing up her paintings, her records, and her kids to run away. Monty had no idea where they could possibly run to. So they had stayed.
Their two sons had been mostly undisturbed by the unlucky turn of historical events. Caleb born in '74, and Gavin, within a year, their main focus had been learning to play football and flying their little brooms along the countryside. They'd entertained themselves with mischief and Muggle friends, only joining the family at the meals while the adults engaged in their boring ways. Their little sister posed no problem either.
She had been a late surprise four years after having Caleb. Magical contraception had been known to fail now and again with the Muggle constitution, and the mishap had produced a quiet girl by nature who soon learned to stay out of everybody's way. Monty hadn't even minded believing her to be a squib and trusting her Muggle relatives with her education. At least she had those to rely upon.
Annabella was not a squib. Although she didn't comprehend the difference for a long time. However, showing off her secret magic had also been nothing to consider, especially not after seeing the ugly face of what such things could cause. That happened on a summer day when she was to turn three. Her brothers were playing in the vast garden and refused to let her into their game. So little Annabella hid behind the rosebushes to have a good cry when an iridescent green image of a skull and a snake rose above the country road somewhere in the neighbourhood.
At first, it was only interesting. Then their father put a silencing charm on the boys and whisked them into the house, tense and agitated. Adults crowded to the door, and they watched the green image with fear and uncertainty all over their faces. Her father ordered everybody back, but he stayed and watched that now ominous-looking skull until it dissipated in the clear sky.
He observed the Aurors and the Muggle police from a distance, and Annabella watched him. Her father looked helpless in his fear. Paralyzed. He even told her mother he had no idea what to do. All that astonished Annabella behind the rosebush because, up until that hour, she'd believed her father had known everything in the world and could solve any problem. He had magic, after all!
The evening fell when the family discovered she wasn't in the house, and Annabella was afraid of getting chastised for staying out for so long. She was also fearful of letting them know she spied out on the world's biggest secret: That they had no clue what to do. There hadn't been a single person, magical or Muggle, child or adult, who had known what to do that afternoon. She didn't want to be found. And just like that, Annabella Rosier performed her first act of magic, and became invisible.
The involuntary Disillusionment charm worn off within the hour, and it took years for her to realize how strange it was that no one even looked after her sooner than dinnertime. No relative searched for her in the big household for hours, which taught a rare and vital lesson about her worth, and about the world's true nature. She understood that quicker than the circumstances: She wasnt missed, and no one was in charge.
Monty accepted his daughter being a squib when she circumspectly hid her secret and was hiding behind her invisibility whenever she felt like it. That the little girl kept disappearing wasn't a novelty after raising her brothers. It wasn't until five years later when the boys entered Hogwarts at the same time – Caleb being born in October, Gavin the next August – that Annabella finally shown her abilities.
The day her brothers boarded the Hogwarts Express, Monty left for the Leaky, and Sara took her daughter to her Muggle relatives. She already loved them. Rose, her grandmother, had a happy disposition, always glad to invite guests and play with her grandchildren, and her sister, Rachel, her polar opposite. Also, in Annabella's opinion, the real treat to be around.
Since Rose's husband had died, the two Muggle sisters lived together in their cozy flat in London, near Tottenham Court Road, on one of the smaller streets. They happily taught their granddaughter to read and count, dance and play dress-up, recite poems, from silly rhymes to various classics, and play cards.
That room was more magical than anything she had ever seen in her magical home, for Rachel's room was packed with bookshelves from floor to ceiling, the tomes still never had enough place, and they lay over each other and above the rows. The rug under the shelves always had cat hair, and Rachel's desk was so big she had no more place left for a bed. She slept out in the dining room, which no guest would ever guess, with her being a meticulously tidy woman and an early riser.
Rachel was a lecturer at one of the Muggles' universities, and she still held some classes on modern world history even after her retirement. She collected and wrote countless books about the Muggles' two great wars, but she was also a passionate reader of classical literature and an admirer of ancient and renaissance art. All that was displayed in her study.
Annabella would spend days on the small rug under the bookshelves indulging in what Rachel called the true magic of the imagination, making up stories to entertain herself just by the titles of the books above her head. Her beloved game was making up stories with every title, but Paradise Lost was the best daydream material of all. Annabella could imagine at least a dozen different scenarios with such a title. They were so lovely she'd never actually bothered to crack the book open. If she named her cat Milton, that was just in case.
The day her brothers first left for Hogwarts, Monty found Annabella on that same old rug, levitating some of the books closer, which were far out of her reach. His praises and exuberance knew no limits, and only Rachel's iron will could keep the girl's education in the Muggles' hands.
Some days later, she was sitting again on the rug, watching the rows of books above her head, when she heard Rachel's footsteps approaching. Anabella expected her to look something up for her notes, but instead, she reached up and offered a book from a higher shelf. "Anne of Green Gables" – Anabella opened the book and decided within a day that her name was way too long to use, so she modified it to Anne with an "e." That opened a whole new era, marked with novels, Muggle schoolings, mathematics, science, literature, music, languages, and history. Rachel was strict and relentless, and Anne loved every second because she basked in the feeling that someone finally cared.
When Anne sat on the rug under the bookshelves on her eleventh birthday four years later, just a day after waving farewell to her brothers at King's Cross, she relieved the truth she'd already established about life. It wasn't fair.
"How effing unlucky do you have to be born on 2nd September in a world where all who turn eleven before the end of summer can attend a magical school?" – she sighed with romantic enthusiasm.
"You shouldn't bother this much, you know" – Rachel smirked – "What's in it for you? Now you feel old enough, then use it. You have a year to get ahead of them all. They are unlikely to notice it, and you are wiser than to call unwanted attention. And you know…" – she cleared her throat, and Anne peeked above the edge of the book she read. Rachel hesitated, and she found that intriguing. It wasn't a common occurrence when it came to her aunt. "…you are always welcome if you wish to come," Rachel finished, letting her eyes fall.
So it happened that Anne Rosier spent her last year before joining the infamous school of Hogwarts and taking on her dubious wizarding heritage, basically as a Muggle. She learned to help with the citations for Rachel's research, the Muggle library system to run her errands, and familiarized herself with the terrors of the two great Muggle wars, the subject Rachel kept writing and lecturing about. Anne hid in an alcove at the Muggle university to listen to her lecture and watched their study material forming into journal articles under their hands at home.
She read all the Muggle literature Rachel provided, and they discussed the textbooks for Muggle kids in detail. At the same time, her mother enjoyed the well-deserved calm and peace at home undisturbed, and her father wanted the constant buzz at the Wizengamot to regain some respect for the family name because the 'great heads' of the family finally let him.
Anne never asked for permission, so she was never denied, and her escapades as a Muggle went pretty unnoticed. Christmas came and passed, marked less by the wizarding relatives, while the Muggle women showed her those seven slender candles lighting on seven consecutive evenings for all to joy in the light and God's care for His people. She wondered if this rite had a set of its own magic, but Aunt Rachel thought it was magical enough even without feeling that soft hum Anne told about sensing when the candles were lit.
However, her grandmother found her remarks fascinating and told the tale of magical signs and letters, all supposed to have mysterious meanings. She showed old texts about her religion and told Anne she shared in it. Rose took it upon herself to teach her granddaughter about the tradition different from her wizarding heritage and encouraged her to map out the magic she felt it carried. It was more a feeling than conscious thought for young Anne, but her curiosity peaked until Rose told her that the mysterious knowledge about the marks and letters were for the men, and Anne became disturbed for days.
It might have been for the men, as it was in the wizarding world. A decent witch had to be ready to succumb to her husband when she came of age. At least her father kept telling her so, but she still didn't have a great opinion about that gender after watching her male relatives. None of them seemed ready to pass a Muggle elementary school level math, literature, or basic science test – all of those Rachel introduced her in these past few years – so why would they be better prepared in 'religious magic' – if there was such a thing – or life at all?
As far as Anne was concerned, knowledge came from the women in her life. She was unsure what to expect at Hogwarts, but she hoped at least she would learn about some kind of magical symbols, so she attacked her brothers' old textbooks. Unfortunately, she found nothing covering the matter but she read on anyway.
She had the time, unfortunately. Rachel suffered some minor illness, so Anne was advised to stay away after Christmas. With the new reading and her mother finally teaching her music, Anne hardly noticed January passing by anyway. By the time spring came for Sara to return to her paintings, Anne could read music sheets and was elbow deep in researching her brothers' books.
Herbology seemed dirty but useful, such as Care for Magical Creatures, to a point. Still, neither was half as fascinating as Charms or Transfiguration, while Potions seemed like Heaven to simultaneously try her hand and intellect even before acquiring a wand. She did just that all spring while Rachel's minor illness proved severe enough for her to be stuck in a hospital. Anne gave herself to experiments, and everything seemed to work that she found in the first-year Potions book. She began the second-year textbook with a smile on her face.
Her brothers chose Muggle Studies and Divination - all boredom and peerless bullshit, but both had E-s and O-s, a rarity. Anne suspected this was the reason behind their choices and went back to crack open the third-year potions textbook, cross-referencing it – just like the previous two – with the One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi and all the other Herbology texts and handouts she found. She played that she was still with Aunt Rachel, and they were doing her research now about moonstone and billywig sting.
By the end of May, she was at the end of the second-year's Transfiguration theory – which she found thoroughly fascinating albeit useless lacking practice– and at the beginning of third-year Charms theory – which seemed much easier to follow. Her new reading game was to imagine the textbooks were novels, rounding up the raw information with stories she invented or, whenever possible, referencing them with a chapter from the History of Magic. There was not much else to do without a wand.
All the while, she had tremendous fun but missed Aunt Rachel horribly. She finally got better with the arrival of the summer, and they had three short weeks before the Hogwarts Express returned Caleb and Gavin.
Anne accounted for all her work as soon as her first visit but couldn't conceal her feelings. She missed her aunt so much that she had second thoughts about leaving her for Hogwarts. Rachel reacted with a rare display of strong emotions, but nothing a bit similar to what Anne would have expected.
"Don't you ever dare to bask in such feelings!" – Rachel warned her – "You have no right to miss me until I'm alive, and when I would be gone, you would be a fool to dwell upon this!" When she calmed, she added: "You think you love me more if you miss me. I once was like you. I thought I owed them to miss all those who were gone. It doesn't work, Anne, take it from me… we survived, but most didn't. I refuse to miss them because they all would want me to live. We don't owe the dead anything at all. They have no use for any of it. If you want to show respect, then respect life!"
Anne sensed her peculiar mood and did what she did best and stayed quiet.
"You have to learn this, child," – her great-aunt drawled on – "living your life always forward and never looking back! Whatever will once be behind you, the things forward will always be more important. Once you'd have a past, don't you ever let it catch you!"
Anne nodded, sensing she finished, but both knew it was a hollow motion. She nodded without understanding or conviction. She hadn't even realized she should have feared for Rachel's life.
By the end of July, Rachel was well enough for a visit again, but Monty Apparated his daughter this time, so even the pleasantries were cut short. He took Anne to Diagon Alley, and this trip was unlike any of their usual tours. She wasn't too old to grab an ice cream at Fortescue's, especially not for a ball of violet, with sugar flowers to open and close like butterfly wings around the cream. But this time she finally would have her school robes, which Madame Malkin premade by measure, and then they could make their most important purchase of the day. Maybe the most essential purchase of her whole life. Unfortunately, it proved more challenging than she had expected.
"Ah, Montgomery Rosier!" – the old man behind the shadowed old counter greeted her father. "What an honour! The latest addition to the great family, I imagine–"
The old wandmaker's piercing look turned to Anne, and she struggled to maintain that small smile she wore. The rows of wands were endless.
"I'd like to have something especially suited for my daughter," – Monty announced, defeating every attempt at smiling. His voice sounded unfamiliar to his daughter's ears. He infused his tone with the resonant of the typical pureblood pride Anne rarely heard at home and thought alien to his personality.
Strangely, Ollivander didn't find it extraordinary. He disappeared behind a curtain, returned with three different boxes, and the struggle began. After an hour of trying and failing, Anne heard her father mumbling the word squib and could only hope the old man missed the syllabi. Her Hogwarts letter arrived just a few days before. Maybe she had magic but not enough to acquire a wand after all? Anne felt like a disappointment after the twenty-ninth wand rejected her, and it began to be harder and harder to understand the old man's mounting excitement.
"No dragon heartstring, although those were the closest…. Definitely not unicorn hair. Not phoenix feather either," - he mumbled to himself, reminding Anne of the catastrophe she almost caused when waving the only attempt with a phoenix feather wand. It jumped out of her hand and destroyed one leg of a nearby stool, even rolling away.
"Here, try these two, girl!" – Olivander concluded his mumblings and held out two boxes above the counter. "This one is rare. Maple, with dragon heartstring. A strange construction, usually not matching, like you must be an unmatched little witch. And here is the other. Ebony. For you seemed to have some luck with blackthorn. And the only thestral hair core I ever kept."
He put both boxes on the counter, and Anne reached for the black one. She knew not why. Maybe in her dark mood, it felt soothing, but she felt as if she sensed a call.
The ebony wand was smooth, and its polished surface felt cool under her touch. There were no carvings, no ornaments. She instinctively knew this wand wanted no spectators or admirers, even if she saw it beautiful. This wand wished to be useful and well-hidden, and she could relate to that even if she'd never heard about thestrals.
Contrary to the first cool touch, the wand felt warm when she finally took it into her hand, and although it was polished even at the handle, she felt as if it somehow stuck into her hand. Her wrist warmed up too. This time it moved in an elegant half-circle without conscious effort, and the wand produced a cloud of silvery stars, which fell around her tinkling, then dissolved before touching the ground.
Ollivander was beside himself with glee and mumbled something about air and aether, but when Anne looked at her father, he seemed much less convinced.
"Maybe you should try the other one," – he suggested.
"Oh, no," – Ollivander shook his overly large head. "No, sir, the wand chose the witch. Your daughter is especially gifted indeed to obtain the alliance of such a peculiar wand."
"Black wands are not special, only dangerous," – Montgomery deemed, returning to his former tone, which Anne thought so alien to him. "What came over you, old man, to even produce such a disgraceful piece of magic in my daughter's presence? I demand you give her another one!"
Ollivander bowed obligingly and didn't look perturbed at all. Unlike Anne. A dangerous black wand? Whatever did her father mean? And if the wand was to choose the witch, whatever was that supposed to tell about her?
She carefully put the ebony wand back into its box and lifted the maple. One wave, two waves… eventually, she focused hard and recalled that special feeling in her wrist she had experienced just a minute before, and the maple wand with the core of a dragon's heartstring coughed up a blue sparkle.
"Very nice, very talented," – Ollivander applauded but took the wand from her hand and replaced it in its box. "Now, you need to know, young witch, that ebony is the most elegant wood to work with, and it must match your inherent elegance and grace. Thestrals are misunderstood creatures whose bad reputation comes from the same characteristic that makes their greatest defence."
"What is a thestral?" – Anne finally risked asking, looking between her father and the wandmaker.
"Mystic creatures with great strength and fast wings, which are invisible to most of us," – Ollivander whispered.
"Horses, Anne," – said her father. "They are ugly black horse skeletons, only showing themselves to those who had faced death. This wand is unacceptable," – he turned to the wand maker. "Pack the other one!"
The old man straightened his shoulders.
"As you wish, sir, however, the young Miss Rosier will never achieve the same–"
"She will do well enough," – Monty decided, giving no place to an argument. He threw ten galleons on the counter and barely waited for the box to close on the maple wand before he grabbed and sank it deep into his robe's pocket. "We bid you farewell, Ollivander. Come, Annabella!"
"Young witch, the wand is yours," – Ollivander said his goodbye, touching the box of the ebony wand. "Don't forget that the plain surface can hide something special!"
Anne hurriedly nodded before they were out of the door with a flourish, and her father only spoke after they were near the Leaky once again.
"This is a good wand, Annabella darling. You will see," – he smiled at her, and Anne did her best to mirror his optimism even if she missed that other wand dearly. "I have some friends waiting for me upstairs. Can you buy yourself some lunch until I talk to them?"
When his daughter nodded, Monty handed her a galleon and hurried towards the stairs. It wasn't the first time he left her to eat alone, and Anne was reasonably sure her father wouldn't turn up for about half an hour. Friends waiting upstairs had a meaning she never understood because she never saw anyone meeting her father outside their home or occasionally the Ministry, where she had only been twice. But maybe half an hour won't be enough…
"Father, may I–"
Monty turned with genuine surprise.
"Am I allowed to… maybe look around in Flourish and Blotts? I'm curious to see the new editions…."
"They made a bookworm out of you, haven't they?" – Monty laughed. "Alright. Here," – he handed her two more galleons. "Buy yourself whichever you fancy, then meet me within the hour. And Annie," – he lifted an eyebrow, waiting for her to look up into his eyes. "This will be our secret, all right?"
"Of course," – she tried a timid smile she intended to be reassuring. It must have worked because her father turned and walked back up the stairs.
Anne did her best not to run, and she was painfully tempted to turn invisible like she would have in her younger years. Thankfully she didn't call attention all the way down the Alley, not even when she walked twice in front of the wandmaker's shop to make sure there were no customers inside before she entered.
She winced when the bells above the door announced her presence, but Ollivander only turned to greet her with a smile and didn't ask a thing, just put The Ebony Wand on the counter in its box. Anne fished out her purse and counted eight galleons and seven sickles on the counter, not wanting to embarrass herself with the handful of knuts she felt at the bottom. She looked up at the old man anxiously.
"This is all I have, sir."
"Seven galleons, young witch. The usual price," – the wandmaker smiled, and his eyes danced with something Anne understood as mischief. He swiped in the price and waited for Anne to put away the rest. "The wand chooses the witch," – he said then. "And in this special case, the witch also chose the wand. I wish you long and fruitful cooperation! And remember, young witch, thestrals are not creatures of the darkness. They only live in the shadows by choice. Darkness is not evil. The night is not evil. Only intent decides if magic is dark or not."
Anne stood for a moment staring at him in stunned silence.
"I'm not a dark witch," – she eventually told the old man, as if that counted, pocketing the wandbox.
Ollivander only nodded with a serious face, not for a second showing surprise.
Anne hurried out the door and ran to the Flourish and Blotts to buy a booklet for a galleon and seven sickles before she returned to the Leaky and waited for her father to descend the stairs.
Six weeks later, armed with her Maple wand and the Ebony wand hidden deep in her trunk, she finally joined her brothers on the Hogwarts Express. It was a day after an emotional farewell with her Muggle relatives, promising to write and teaching Aunt Rachel the use of owls.
The ride was long up to Scotland, and her now fifth-year brothers mainly cared about their friends, but at least they saved her a place in their compartment. Hogsmeade was windy, and she was already too tired for adventure when she sailed through the Black Lake on a cockleshell with an intimidating-looking hairy man, trying to conceal her fright when they entered under the castle.
She was ready to get sorted, but contrary to what her brothers thought, she wasn't sure if she wanted to be in Slytherin. Actually, she thought about it as a test to check out her fate. If she felt something, it was mainly curiosity and hunger. That was until she saw that strict-looking witch who greeted them outside the famous Great hall and was instantly repulsed.
"Rosier, Annabella Euphemia" – Anne wished that strict-looking old witch with her cat-like eyes hidden behind rectangular glasses contented herself only reading up her initials. She'd always thought her name would have suited better a dried-out old hag living with her dull memories in some forgotten manor the Muggles avoided, turning her servants into rats she tortured. She would have been happy to at least forego the Rosier family name in Hogwarts, where it actually meant something to too many people.
"Hmm… you are as smart as a Ravenclaw and passionate like a Gryffindor. But you are also caring, like a Hufflepuff, and do not like the open ways. Very much a Slytherin," – she heard the Sorting Hat muse as soon as it hit her head. "What shall I do about you? You are such a little mix! Your passion is also for knowledge and for people you care about, which could point to Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff. But you don't value knowledge for its own sake and care only for a special few. Let's just choose–"
Anne suddenly understood the hat spoke in her head.
"Oh, wait!"
"Yeeees?"
"I don't think you understand," – she focused on the thought, "I- I think I just want to hide! You see… wait if we're talking in my head, no one can hear us, right?"
"Hmm… questions like a Slytherin…."
"Well, not like any of my family ever belonged anywhere else! Will you answer my questions?"
"Yes, little girl, our discussion is private. I am honour-bound since the great Godric Gryffindor made me a tool to sort and assess. I can sort you into any of the Houses, the question is, what do you prefer? Your care and hunger for knowledge both come from your desire to please. But you only want to please a special few. And you don't value your courage, although you are–"
"Erm… excuse me, isn't this lady the Gryffindor Head?" – Anne recalled the witch's vision in rectangular glasses to the smallest detail.
"Oh, yes, she leads the noble House of the Brave."
"All right, I'm not brave then. Not courageous, you may cross that out!"
"Oh, on the contrary" – the voice seemed to wheeze.
"But I already dislike her," – Anne admitted, hoping the discussion was private indeed. "Can you put me somewhere else?"
"I can put you anywhere. This is what I am trying to tell you, you little Hatstall!"
She had no idea what that word might have meant, but Anne's worries lay elsewhere at the moment.
"I told you I just want to hide. I'm really good at hiding! Which House gets the least notice? Like not frequently used or something…."
The Hat seemed very much amused again. Anne would have sworn she heard a chuckle.
"Hiding is in numbers, wee one. I sort equal numbers, so you may have equal education. That's why I'm only looking for the top qualities. You seem uppermost caring, and your greatest wish is to hide. Would seem mostly a Hufflepuff if not so especially talented as a Raven–"
"I'm nothing special," – Anne quickly interjected.
"Well, not a Ravenclaw then," – she thought she heard a sigh – "But you would make a spectacular Huffle–"
"Nothing spectacular, please!"
The Hat seemed to harrumph, and its annoyance washed through the girl.
"Be it. Go and hide all you've got! No one will ever think you're wise, brave or caring if I put you into… SLYTHERIN!"
The last word the Hat must have said out aloud because Anne felt the tension leaving her mind even before someone lifted the Sorting Hat from her head.
One of the tables was cheering, her brothers waving, and the strict witch in rectangular glasses pressed her lips to a thin line to show her impatience. Anne hopped off the stool and walked to her brothers, wondering if she should have mentioned her issue about their being in that same house, but it seemed it was too late.
Caleb made space for her, and Gavin leaned across the table to pat her shoulder.
"Good girl!" – he said with uncommon delight in his sister before he turned his face to both sides of the table and announced: "This is our sister, you morons. I'll hex the shite out of anyone who tries to mess with her!"
She sent him a timid smile, but Gavin had already turned his attention back to his neighbour and continued to talk. Caleb watched the Sorting go on and didn't give her any more of his mind. Anne slumped back into her usual silence and invisibility with a sense of contentment.
This might work out just fine – she contemplated. At least, it looks so. Maybe it wasn't all that long from the outside. I should look up Hatstall, though… Just then, the Sorting was over, and a long-bearded old wizard stood and jovially said some incoherent words before the tables became heavy with all possible kinds of food. She felt someone's gaze fixed upon her.
Good gracious, what a nose! A solemn-looking young wizard with shoulder-long hair and clad in all-black robes watched her from the Head Table with narrowed eyes. He looked so much younger than the others. Anne had a hard time placing him. She searched his face and found his dark eyes reminded her of closed windows in the night. There should be much to see through them if there was just a shed of light. Anne giggled to herself and imagined looking through those windows. Gods, did he wince? Why?
She could only see her reflection in those imaginary windows. Aunt Rachel would probably be impressed by his tenacious gaze – she already imagined using that word in her letter home, smiled, and absently pulled a shoulder.
The dark wizard abruptly turned his attention to other students at her table. He accepted greetings from some- or another before he returned to his plate. Anne followed his lead and dived into her dinner, still curious about who that could be.
The evening was long, the Great Hall loud and warm, and Anne finally felt at peace so much she almost dozed off. The headmaster stood up and drawled on about some list on the caretaker's door, and Anne made a mental note to look it up later. Then they were dismissed. The Prefects collected the first years in the chaos; Anne fell in line behind a boy who called himself Barnaby Lee with half-a-dozen other first years.
Most left the Great Hall heading up the wide marble stairs; some, she later identified as the Hufflepuffs, took a side corridor behind the Great Hall, and Barnaby led them down a short flight of stairs, starting behind a tapestry. It continued on a passage that dipped towards a wide foyer. She saw several identical doors there – a week later, those proved to be classrooms – and a set of stairs further downwards.
"Hi, I'm Flora," – a curly-haired blond girl stepped next to Anne as soon as they left the staircase behind.
"Hi," – she replied with a timid smile. "I'm Anne,"- she said. She wanted to add, with an "e," just for fun before she remembered that Flora probably wouldn't understand the reference.
"That's my sister Hestia right behind you," Flora said, and they both giggled. Anne couldn't ascertain why.
"Erm… Hello. Do you know the others?"
"Well, not all," – flora looked around, "but that dark boy is Urquhart, our cousin, and" – she showed a finger forward, right behind Barnaby Lee – "that cutie there is Miles! Have you seen that hair? We met at the summer fest. Have you been to Lite?"
Now Anne began to feel definitely insecure. What if all the others have known each other for a long time? She didn't even speak to her brothers!
"My family thinks I'm too young to go to the Lite."
"Pity," – Hestia said without any indication of pity. "We saw Vaisey on the train" – she pointed to the brown boy behind her.
"Yeah," – Vaisey said eagerly – "and that's Terence there with Miles."
Anne wondered how many names she could memorize before mixing things up when they arrived in front of a portrait, and Barnaby said: "Caput Draconis" for everyone to hear. The portrait lifted, and a wide entrance came to view. Three comfortable steps led to a rounded Common Room, with greenish lights and a fire in the hearth illuminating armchairs, cushioned coaches, and spherical tables with chairs arranged around a think carpet. The oldest students already occupied the best places, closest to the fire.
Barnaby rounded on the first years.
"All right, firsties, remember the password and don't spill it to anyone, or you're done. Now form a line and wait! Higgs, adjust that tie, you little bugger!" – The one called Terence was quick to oblige – "Hey, what's your name?"
"Vaisey."
"Straight that robe, Vaisey! Where the hell did you come from?"
"Leicestershire."
Barnaby snorted. "And who the fuck cares? I asked about your name. Vaisey? Is your father a Muggle?"
Anne silently thanked any deity who might have listened that she was a half-blood from her mother's side and simultaneously wondered why that would matter when the war was over for nine years!"
"No! He is a wizard!" – Vaisey vehemently protested – "My grandmother married a Muggle, but she tossed it out before I was even born!"
"Well, too late for daddy, wasn't it?" – an older boy snickered from the depth of one of the armchairs.
"Leave him alone! Snape's gonna' bite your heads off!" – the other Prefect, whom someone called after dinner Gemma Farley, stepped in. "Don't bother, Vaisey," – she turned to the first-year, "Slytherin won't fight its own. The idiots just rail you. Did you?" – she looked at the older boys.
"C'mon, Gemma, it was just a laugh," – the older student called out from that armchair.
"Yeah, I was joking, you ninny," – Barnaby added, ruffling Vaisey's hair with a smirk that didn't match his words.
"Here he comes!" – Someone called from the closed entrance, and even the higher-year students straightened their robes and adjusted themselves in their seats.
The portrait opened, and that dark-haired wizard Anne once locked gaze with before dinner sailed through the entrance with his robe's wings billowing behind him. Very dramatic – Anne thought, amused. After listening to Caleb about him, I thought Snape was older.
"Well, well, well… Isn't it touching to begin yet another year of torture together?" – The dark wizard spoke with just enough sneer to suggest he bathed and showered in sarcasm twice a day.
Anne bit her lips together, not to giggle. He didn't seem like someone who tolerated it gladly. On the contrary, he didn't seem like someone in good humour at all. But his tone belied his features, and his posh RP emphasized the dramatic effect.
"Miss Farley, Mr. Lee, I gather you managed your duties…" – he didn't really ask. The question was still evident.
"Yes, Professor," – the seventh-year girl readily replied.
"Miss Murk, I see you also survived the summer. Dare I hope you will focus on your NEWTs instead of your possible victims this year?"
Another seventh-year girl blushed spectacularly. Anne later learned her name was Ismelda, and she had a thing for curses.
"Yes, Professor. I meant to apologize, and my mother wants you to know that she thoroughly chastised me."
Some other older students failed to suppress a chuckle, and by the slight twist of the wizard's shoulder, Anne was sure he couldn't really care less. But then, why did he mention that affair at all? Because there must have been some affair…
"Johnston, Miss Snyde, Miss Tottle…"
The Professor greeted most seventh-year students by name, frequently adding some snide comments, which they received with good grace, then he began to evaluate the sixth-years. Anne wondered how long they were supposed to stand in line if he was to talk his way through all the students of the House. However, Professor Snape contented himself with only welcoming the higher-year students before he turned to Barnaby.
"So who do we have as the next glorious batch of dunderheads, Mr. Lee? Why don't you step aside until I fright the ever-trembling innocence out of your new peers?"
"Of course, Sir."
Barnaby handed the Professor a parchment - Anne presumed with their names - and did as the Professor asked. Curiously, the dark wizard didn't even glance at the list. Instead, he looked them over carefully, then cleared his throat.
"Welcome to Slytherin House. A House that is more than its reputation but less than its fame. You are wise to remember that your House-affiliation is for life. You cannot change it, you cannot deny it, and you cannot rely upon it instead of your own work.
"Whatever you've heard about Slytherin, you will find it false and lacking. I will wait upon you constructing your own lies after you finish learning here," – he added with a disdainful grimace.
"However, before that bright day shines upon us, you are to obey our own set of rules. We need no unnecessary rivalry in the House, so you will do well to commit yourselves to your fellow students as much as to your own goals. Slytherin won't fight its own. I believe the rest, Mr. Lee and Miss Farley, would happily explain. Now your names, please!"
He still didn't glance at the parchment but levelled his gaze with the first student's in line.
"Terence Albert Higgs, sir."
"Is that your father in the Ministry?"
"My uncle, sir."
Snape nodded and looked into the eye of the next in line.
"Miles Kyle Bletchley, sir."
"Your sister used to be good in Defence."
"Yes, sir, I share somewhat her interest."
"Somewhat? Mr. Bletchley?"
The boy blushed under his stare. "I know not much about Defence, sir."
"You don't know much about anything at all, Mr. Bletchley." – The Professor drawled maddeningly indifferently.
He stepped onward.
"Tomas Jonathan Vaisey, sir. My grandma married a Muggle."
"And pray, tell, what kind of concern is that of mine?" – Snape turned away with a face between confusion and disgust.
"Flora Tilphusia Carrow, sir. This is my sister, Hestia."
"And is she mute?"
"No, sir. Hestia Megaera Carrow, sir," - the girl hurried to defend herself, elbowing Flora.
"All hopes failing," – Anne thought to hear in the Professor's silent sigh while the wizard moved to her and fixed his piercing gaze on her eyes.
It felt as if he was staring inside her, straight at the back of her skull. Anne couldn't help but imagine how very dark there must be. As if he looked through mudded windows into the backroom of a dark house at midnight… under a starless, ink-black sky… Suddenly the Professor's stare changed in intensity, and she saw a measure of disbelief and curiosity in his eyes.
"Anne Rosier," - she softly said, relieved to have him out of her skull.
"There's no such name on the list," – he said without looking.
Anne gaped only briefly before remembering the strict witch's obsession with skipping initials.
"Annabella Euphemia Rosier, sir," – she said with a suppressed sigh.
"Well, I suppose we are not completely out of hope if you are able to recall your own name" – he stepped on, taking that tickling sensation from the back of her skull with him.
"Malcolm Warren Urquhart, Sir." – The last in line was palpably anxious after the comments, but he had no reason.
"Mr. Urquhart," – Snape handed the parchment back to Barnaby. "The Prefects will introduce you to the House's tutoring system, and my schedule will hang until Wednesday on my office door. "Gibbons, Hughes, and Miss Kottleberg, you are supposed to report on my first open appointment to discuss your remedial courses this year."
His eyes suddenly flashed to the left before he added: "Norton, you continue this behaviour, and I arrange a remedial course with Flitwick for you so I'd know what keeps you so entertained."
Anne peeked to the side of the room and saw a short boy blanch and mutely apologize. It seemed the Professor didn't like gloating or bullying. Even more interesting, his easy mocking of his older students could effortlessly shift into frightening them out of their boots and back within two words. She had no time to contemplate her impressions because the wizard already spoke again:
"Retire to your dormitories. All."
With that, Professor Snape, her new Head of House, strolled out of the Common Room, with his robe's ends floating about his legs, as abruptly as he came.
A/N: Please review, I'm craving feedback!