Chapter 4: The Start of Something Good?
The train station is a cluster of bodies. Irene has never particularly liked the overcrowding of London—it was simply something she tolerated due to living in the city—but now she finds it positively annoying. She pushes through the sea of bodies and can only tell her path through the glimpses of passing signs. As the red bricks cover every inch of King's Cross, she finds the entrance to Platform 9 ¾. It's surprisingly devoid of life next to the support beam—muggles giving it a wide berth.
Anti-muggle charms or notice-me-nots? She debates, and then realizes the unspeakables have somehow managed to brainwash her with their own curiosity. Though a part of her still wants to check, to see the runes and enchantments weaved into this structure
However, she banishes the entire idea without another second wasted. Since she started working at the DoM there's been an unsettling nagging at the back of her mind when she's often alone. It's a prickling, persistent buzz like she's being watched. She hasn't felt it since yesterday—not since she moved to her new temporary residence, a rented room at the Leaky—but that does little to qualm her wound nerves.
Irene breathes out and makes a run straight at the wall, her trolley within tight fisted hands.
Boarding the train—called in order of incoming class—she passes by student after student. All of them have their house colors proudly shown on their ties. Not a single one has a plain one like her. It's not a surprise, but she's not exactly looking forward to the attention. Fontius only let them go over her background once, not wanting to waste more time on frivolous things. His motto, "what do children really know?" sounds like a horrible character flaw.
Irene bites her lip. She's now in the third carriage. More and more students are beginning to crowd the compartments. Orphaned asylum seeker. Avoid questioning by acting sad. "Nobody wants to interrogate sad children," more advise from Fontius nags in the back of her mind.
She pivots and walks back to the second carriage. It was fairly empty being the closest seats to both the prefects and few teachers boarded. With a rattle, she pulls the first empty compartment door open and steps in. If she locks the door with a quiet Colloportus, there's nobody there to complain.
Irene sleeps throughout the entire seven-hour ride until a forceful banging and a put-off Finite stir her to wakefulness. The door rattles open with a curse.
A student in Hufflepuff colors stands in the entrance. Irene's eyes flick to her, "Head Girl" pin.
"It's against school rules to lock the carriage doors," the girl says snappishly.
"My apologies," Irene wipes the dried drool off her lips and blinks to try and clear the fog. "As you can see, I wanted to sleep."
"Miss Irene Hill, correct?" She crosses her arms in a huff. Her tight pony-tail bounces in her irritation.
"Yes, and you are…Head Girl?"
Her lips twitch, Irene's not sure if it's in annoyance or amusement. "Regina Laxley, Hufflepuff." She curtseys. "I'm here to inform you that you are to deboard the train with the first years. You will be sorted with the rest."
"Thank you for telling me." Irene nods and Laxley leaves without another word.
She sighs. It's not like Irene was expecting special treatment, but the prospect of being huddled with the first years seems awkward. Why couldn't they just sort her beforehand?
An hour later, the first years are finally called to deboard. Irene's not tall but she certainly sticks out like a sore thumb among the first years as they walk to the docks following some burly, roughish man. When they arrive, the group huddles around the bank of the Black Lake. Whispers and noisy chatter bustle with interesting theories on the castle and its sorting until the man sends a Quietus to silence them.
"Forgot to mention this earlier, but I'm Ogg the gamekeeper at Hogwarts. Since I'm sure you lot aren't interested in hearing 'bout my job, I'll keep it short. I maintain the grounds and what not. From this point forward we will be taking the boats. No more than four to a vessel. If you decide to disregard the rules you won't be answering to me or even the headmaster but the giant squid in the lake, kids. So, stay in thedang boats."
Children excited to see the spectacle of Hogwarts, group up and hop in the boats with enough order and speed to give Irene pause. When she steps into a boat, she's the third member of a two-person group.
"You aren't a first year," the little girl in front of Irene frowns. "Why are you riding to the castle with us. I heard all the upper years ride the bewitched carriages to the school."
"She's obviously a new student," the boy to her left cuts in. "Look at her tie. It's like ours."
"Correct and correct," Irene says and then cringes. Merlin, she sounds like Fontius.
"—And we're off!" Ogg yells and the boats shove off from the docks.
"I'm a transfer, here to get sorted with you before I join the fifth years." Irene turns to look out on the lake.
It's dark at this time in the fall. The lanterns attached to the boats only supply the faintest of light to the water below. She doesn't focus too long on the deep, not wanting to see any disturbing creatures to fuel nightmares. Instead she watches the stars twinkle above them stretch to blanket the gothic castle that sits on the horizon. It's peaceful, picturesque, a moment that could be—
"Wow! Are you a blood traitor? On the run from Grindelwald?" the girl chirps. "My mom talks about them sometimes. Says if they really don't mind the muggles, they should just live with them instead of causing problems for us." The little thing says this with pompous arrogance seeping through every word.
Irene's face screws up in a complicated expression.
"What school were you in before? Beauxbatons? Durmstrang? I bet it was Beauxbaton. Aren't they struggling with the war?" the boy continues.
It's better to get some practice in. Irene tries for a solemn expression, brows pulled down and slight frown. It's fairly convincing based on the kids' reactions. "I…I don't really want to talk about it."
"Why not?" The boy frowns.
"It's not a pleasant memory. I don't want to think about it."
The girl clicks her tongue. "That means you're a coward. Mom says people that aren't able to talk about their past are running away from it."
Irene frowns. "Sometimes people have other reasons for not talking about something."
"Excuses." The girl tilts her chin up, proud.
Irene's eye twitches. She's a tad annoyed with the whole situation and the fact that she underestimated an eleven-year-old girl. "You'll understand when you're older."
"Doubt that. I'm not ashamed of who I am or what I've done."
Irene's already speaking before her filter can activate. "I'm not ashamed, it's painful. How would you feel if your mom died? Because that's what happened to me. My parents are dead," she snaps. And—
Fuck. Where's her tact? Isn't she supposed to be the mature one?
The children's eyes go wide, the girl's taking on a misty sheen as if she's about to cry. Instead, the little girl turns her head to the side and bites her lip. Irene can't find it in herself to say something—afraid of making things worse. And so, they avoid making conversation for the rest of the ride. She's fairly certain she's ruined their Hogwarts' boat-ride experience.
Upon arrival the children scatter like she's the Dark Lord himself and all Irene can do is sigh. She feels terrible for taking out her irritation on them but not terrible enough to track them down and apologize. When they arrive at the doors to Hogwarts, a familiar ginger-bearded man greets them.
"Dumbledore," Ogg bows his head.
"Ogg." Dumbledore returns the gesture—bright red robes breezing in the wind. Irene thinks she can spot lions on them from her position in the back of the pack. "Thank you for bringing them."
Ogg gives a grunt and doesn't bother to stay a moment longer.
With a polite "come this way," from Dumbledore, the students are ushered into the castle.
The flagstone corridor at the entrance dwarves the group, wide enough to fit a mountain troll through. Hypnotized by the low lighting of the sconces and the crackle of their flames, Irene barely registers a word from Dumbledore's information dump. It's strange seeing the future headmaster, like meeting a childhood hero that you know too much about. His favorite candies, past relationships, family history, garish collection of robes, place of death; she knows all about it. Does that count as stalking?
As they come to a stop, Irene bumps into a child, nearly crushing them. It seems they've found their destination in an empty chamber. A wide and long ornate rug spreads itself across the stone floor. Several paintings, some still-lifes and other portraits line the walls sparingly between sconces.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," Dumbledore says. "We will begin the start-of-term feast shortly; however, before being seated in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. Like families, you will attend classes, sleep in dormitories, and share a common room with your house members.
"At Hogwarts the four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each has its own noble history and has produced wizards and witches of great talent and caliber. Throughout the school year, your achievements and disobedience will win and lose points for your house. Come the end-of-year feast, the house with the most points is awarded the House Cup. As it is a great honour, I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever family becomes yours."
"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes at the front of the Great Hall. If you wish to freshen yourselves up, now is the time."
"I shall escort you all into the room when we are ready." He smiles kindly and leaves for the feast.
When Dumbledore returns, they walk in a uniform line to the hall. The double doors open, and Irene is peering into a fairytale. Long tables, noble flags, goblets and plates of gold. Professors with pointy hats and fine robes, ghosts shining in whisps of silver and white, and hundreds of students wearing expectant expressions and house colors. Irene's been in and out of the DoM for months, but she hasn't seen any of the grander chambers—too busy and too lazy. The sight is a shock. It's all too much to properly sink in. She feels like an astronaut—or perhaps an alien—staring at Earth. Her tiny world before this seems a faraway memory. The bewitched ceiling, a vast expanse of stars that glisten above, steal her eyes away.
In the background of her loud thoughts, she hears the song of the Sorting Hat and the resulting applause.
"As many of you have noticed, this year we have a transfer student to the fifth-year class. Please be respectful and understanding to our new member," Dumbledore says as he stands to the side of the stool and perched sorting hat.
Irene swallows when she notices the eyes on her.
"When I call your name, place the hat on your head to be sorted." He flashes her a wink. "Hill, Irene!"
It's easy walking to the front. She keeps her mind occupied, wondering what house she belongs to. Irene's never been particularly prideful or ambitious, but she has a healthy dose of self-preservation. She's neither hard-working nor extraordinarily loyal, but she values fairness above all. There's no brash bravery to her person but she is perhaps a bit courageous—a byproduct of her mom's steadfast righteous indignation. And…no. She's definitely not a Ravenclaw. No matter how hard Fontius tries to instill those traits, she's neither that witty or creative, nor clever or original.
She's at the stool now. Dumbledore's waiting expectantly. She hovers for a moment, holding the hat in her hands. It's going to look into her head, right? See all the secrets, the jumbled mess of memories that cloud her thoughts. The prospect frightens her. But no matter, she places the hat on and sits.
"Hmm," the hat rumbles.
Irene's hands twitch. It's startling to hear someone speak inside your head.
"My, my, my, it's been centuries since I've dealt with one of you."
She furrows her brows. One of me? A Late-bloomer?
"No, those are uncommon, but they wander to the stool every few decades. I'm referring to that messy mind of yours. Quite complicated. Too many memories, too many conflicting thoughts. I must say I'd get a headache if I had a head." It chuckles.
Do you know why I have more than one set of memories?
"No, I can't say that I do. That's not my area of expertise, you'd have to ask a wizard or witch about that."
"Now then, let's see here…. Not adverse to lying to survive, I see. Although your execution could use some work."
The hat chuckles and Irene hopes it's not looking through anything too embarrassing like the time she told the schoolteacher that Adam had shoved his own head in the toilet or the time she tried to convince someone she was actually white but had a rare facial deformity. Various embarrassing moments flicker in her mind like a picture reel. She even sees a moment from the 'other' her. Apparently, her abhorrent lying skills transcend lives.
"Stop that. It's hard enough to sort through this disaster," the hat chides. "Goodness. Where was I…? Ah yes, very patient and just. And, my, let's skip Ravenclaw, shall we?"
What?
"Now don't do that. We both know it'd be a terrible house for you, and I dare say an insult to Miss Rowena to sort you there. No thirst for knowledge in that mind of yours."
I'll have you know I studied at the level of a PhD for the past seven months!
"I have no inclination as to what a 'P. H. D.' is—must be a by-product of that jumbled mess of a mind you have."
Irene's mind flashes with memories of post-doctorate students.
"That was not permission to assault me with your 'other' memories," it scolds. "Any matter…. Oho? Determination and courage you have in spades. Not afraid to stand up when it matters. So then, where to place you? Hufflepuff or Gryffindor. They both fit. They could both build you in their image."
Irene runs through her options and really, she would be fine in either house. After all, it's only three years of her life. A little more than two if she totals the months.
Anything's fine really.
Irene sighs.
The hat echoes her. "I must say, your head is a terrible place to be Miss Hill. Do try and work out your memories, or else I believe the Mind Arts will never come to you. Now then, with that wand of yours, better be—"
"Gryffindor!" the Sorting Hat bellows into the hall.
Irene pops the hat off to place it on the stool. Belatedly, the applause starts. When she begins walking to the Lion's den, she catches the proud glint in Professor Dumbledore's eyes. She keeps a blank expression. It's not going to last past her first lesson in his class. She hastens her steps, sits in the first empty slot she spots, and ignores the curious looks of her seat mates, clapping for each first-year student—even Headmaster Dippet's morose speech—until the feast begins.
"Longest hat stall for a muggle-born I've ever seen." The boy that had been staring at her throughout the sorting offers his hand. "Graham Frank Longbottom, sixth year." He's a bit on the lanky side—perhaps going through a growth spurt—blonde-haired, and blue-eyed.
"Irene On, An—whatever you prefer—Hill, as you already know." She shakes his hand, and he gives her a funny look that breaks into a smile.
"Shaking instead of presenting your hand. How masculine of you, Hill. I approve. Though, perhaps you did that to avoid Graham's kiss? Can't fault you for that." The girl across from her laughs. She's a petite thing, all round edges and soft lines. Her loose brown curls and kind honey-brown eyes seem to emphasize a sweetness that is nowhere to be found in her jeering tone. "Augusta Iris Fawley, fifth year. I'd offer my hand, but I don't fancy dipping my robes in gravy."
"Pleased to meet you, Fawley, Longbottom." Irene fills her plate with an assortment of delectable foods. She needs to remember that a normal greeting entails letting the other kiss her hand. Gross. "Unfortunately, the hat was feeling chatty and rude. Even offered some advice." Irene doesn't wait, digging in the moment her plate's filled. With her mouth too busy, engaged in the feast, the curious students leave the questions for another time.
When the feast is over, Irene follows Fawley to the dorms, telling the Gryffindor Prefect Allan McLaggen that she'll be fine without joining the first years.
"So, you're a transfer but from where?" Edmund Wolpert asks. His dark skin shines a purple hue in the scant light of the corridor.
After splitting from the Great Hall Fawley and Irene were flocked by a group of fifth year Gryffindors.
Lillian Wood skips in front of the group and spins to walk backward. Her curly blonde locks bounce with each step. "Bet it was Beauxbatons. The muggle war has gotten a bit crazy. There are so many asylum seekers—"
"—But she doesn't have an accent, Lils," Evelyn Sloper interrupts stepping to Wood's shoulder and locking their arms together.
"I was taken in by a small witches' enclave in the north." Irene rubs the back of her neck. "My mum decided it was best for me to stay close to home. Grindelwald, Hitler—everything going on and all that." She waves her hand loosely gesturing at the madness that encompasses the entirety of the forties.
"Oh, is your mom a witch? With the last name Hill, we thought you'd have muggle parents." Wolpert cocks his head. He's looking at her like she's a puzzle to unravel.
"No, you were right before. She's a muggle."
"She must be very intuitive to keep you in a small enclave. Now's not the best time for the muggle-borns and 'blood-traitors.'" Wolpert nods.
"Why are you here then? It's only gotten worse." Wood's spun back round to walk hand-in-hand with Sloper.
Subtlety, subtlety. Irene bites her lip. "That's…."
"Why does anyone transfer this late, Lillian? Are you daft?" Fawley, er, Iris as she's said to call her breathes out, disappointed.
Irene's shoulders slump in relief. Up the last run of stairs Wood offers a password to the portrait of the Fat Lady, and the group enters the common room.
The first feature that catches Irene's eyes is the cozy fireplace that sits in a gentle flame at the room's center. She's drawn to its warmth along with the rest of the gathering, Sloper and Wood huddling on the couch while Iris, Wolpert, and Irene settle on the rug swaddled in a mountain of pillows. Tall windows emphasize the high-ceilinged, round space as dark wood stairs wind around to scale the walls in spirals. Every inch is covered in ornate gold and red, Gryffindor colors and pride are stitched into each draped gonfalon flag.
Irene palms her tie. The golden chandeliers sparkle against the dark gothic windows. This will be her family, her home, for the next three years.
"—too busy running from the giant Hodags." Wolpert laughs. "Merlin, I think that was the moment I truly understood why he got a troll on his Care of Magical Creatures O.W.L. Father and I were laughing so hard we couldn't get a word out to stop him."
"You'd think your brother would notice the creature was harmless with how the tour guide was acting." Iris sighs and slumps into the pillow mound.
"It's not his fault. If giant frogs with red eyes were chasing after me, I'd start running and screaming too." Sloper shivers and leans into Wood.
"Did you go anywhere during summer, Hill?" Wolpert's shoe pokes hers.
"No, I was stuck at work all summer." Irene frowns. "Oh, and you guys can call me Irene. Don't worry about niceties either."
"Work? What do you do? I've always been curious about muggle establishments. They seem so labor intensive." Wood pushes Sloper off her and leans closer towards the group on the floor.
"My mom used to own an antiques shop. We had to move everything around physically. There were times when she'd get bulk shipments of carved wooden trunks—took an entire day to load those onto the truck and into the shop. Unfortunately, it's closed with everything that's happened." The effect of her words is instant, all of the group looking a bit awkward and pitying at her. "But now, I work at the Ministry and I can't complain about the pay."
"The Ministry? I'm impressed. How'd you manage that?" Wolpert asks.
"Cheap labor and a recommendation." Irene shrugs.
"Ha. You must be someone's apprentice." Iris shakes her head. "So, what do you do there?"
"Yeah, how'd you know? And I work with magical artefacts." Irene doesn't mention Fontius, knowing that will draw too much attention to her. "They're terribly understaffed. It's no wonder they'd let me join the team with no complaints." She hopes they won't be too busy while she's gone.
"It's how the Ministry usually gets away with underpaying their employees," Wolpert explains.
"Wait, do you work with the unspeakables?" Sloper is at the edge of the sofa, her eyes narrowed at Irene.
"Uh, yeah. They'd rather not have to contract a new full-time employee, and I needed the money." Irene shrugs.
Chaos erupts.
Apparently, working with the unspeakables under the age of twenty-four is incredibly rare, even more so for those under the age of eighteen. Irene grimaces and listens to the various complaints about the department's exclusion of young talents and a history lesson on the shady experiments that they've run. She's pretty sure the avoidance of youth has something to do with Fontius, and if the story about Croaker is true, Irene's not sure if she'll be able to face him at work. It seems the development of the time-turner isn't as simple as she thought. But on another side, it makes perfect sense how easy it was for Fontius to hire her. Maybe destructive predispositions are a requirement for the job.
With great patience, Irene answers their questions but leaves out as much information as she can. Curious onlookers eavesdrop and wander into their conversation. Being the new student, interest in her must be at its peak. She wonders how many days that'll last before they mosey off back to their own business.
Irene yawns. The common room is starting to empty. It's getting late. She watches a group of—most likely third or second year—girls giggle while ascending the stairs and entering the third door up. "I'm guessing the girl's dorms are that way and the fifth years are in the fifth door up?"
"Yeah, that about sums it up. There are four people to a room and the names are written on the outside of the door," Sloper says.
"Thanks." Irene stands up, smoothing out her pleats and robe. "I'm a bit tired from the trip. Think I'll head to bed and wash up. It was nice talking with everyone."
Iris's expression falls a bit, but she quickly fixes it. "I'll come get you tomorrow for breakfast, okay? I want to see your timetable. Maybe we'll have a few classes together."
Irene flashes a smile to the group and makes for the stairs.
Of course, it only takes a night for rumors to spread about her deceased family. Irene has her money on the children she scarred on the boat ride. However, the wide berth some of the fifth-year Gryffindors are giving her makes her almost think one of Iris's friends spread the gossip. She can see Lillian accidentally saying too much. Sighing, she takes her last bite of hotcakes. The way they treat her as if she's spun glass is almost insulting. Dragging a hand through her hair, she picks up her timetable. Her lips press into a thin line.
Eleven classes. Bloody Hell.
All this and she has DoM work on the weekends with Professor Galatea Merrythought. Irene sneaks a peek at the older woman. Her sharp curved nose and severe features scream strict, but Irene hopes it's just her appearance. Afterall, her first impression of the Overlord was a kind old man, and she couldn't have been any more wrong. Though, the frown lines the Professor is sporting tell a different story. Irene's face droops. She should destroy all of Fontius's artefacts when she's back for the summer. Suck them dry in retribution.
Iris leans over Irene's shoulder. "Seems like we have our core courses and Arithmancy together, but I don't have Ancient Runes, Ancient Magic, or Magical Theory." She cocks a brow. "You sure you aren't a Ravenclaw? You barely have any free time. This looks like an unspeakable's timetable."
"That's the least fitting house for me, no matter how hard my mentor tries to change my nature. Trust me." She looks through Iris's schedule. She's got Care of Magical Creatures and that's the difference really. The one class with animals—regardless of how terrifying they may be—and she doesn't have it. She slumps her head on the table. "Flavian, I'm coming for your Probity Probe." she mumbles under her breath.
"Is this some form of innuendo I'm missing?"
Irene's nose scrunches up. "No. Definitely not. He's a horrible old codger." She rolls her head to the side and peeks at her first class of the day, Transfiguration.
She's doomed.
When the seats begin to empty, Regina Laxley approaches her. "Irene. I hope that it's alright that I call you by your first name?" She has a kind smile unlike the day before.
Irene's willing to take it as long as it isn't the stifling pity running through Gryffindor—she's half afraid it'll trigger some sort of chivalry from the guys that are staring for longer than considered socially acceptable. "I don't mind, Laxley."
"Please." She offers her hand. Irene doesn't think about it and takes it. "Call me Regina."
Regina helps her to her feet, and gestures for Irene to follow her.
"I have been tasked with showing you around the castle. The teachers gave me a copy of your timetable. Your courses are interesting."
"Oh. I think the professors are expecting too much. I'm fairly confident I'll fail at least a third."
"Please, Irene. Your curriculars have already been explained to me. Someone with an apprenticeship at the Department of Mysteries is guaranteed to be genius level at least, or maybe even a prodigy."
"I'd consider myself a savant if anything," she sighs out.
"A savant?"
"Muggle term." And isn't it a mystery how fast some pure-blood's faces will twist from the mere mention of a muggle? "The concept's quite interesting. I suggest looking it up."
Boisterous chatter hums around them as Regina begins showing her around Hogwarts. They pass chamber after chamber, starting from the dungeons, and ending in the astronomy tower. Regina's busy interrogating Irene on her life, studies, extracurriculars, trying to find something in common. Irene's quite adept at being contrary when she doesn't like someone. In a heated verbal rapid exchange, they don't notice the time that's passed. Thoroughly annoyed with Irene's refusal to show any cordiality, Regina sends her on her way not caring if she finds her way to Transfiguration or not.
Irene does of course—great mental map and all that—but not without a long run that still ends with her tardiness.
She pants—hands gripping the door frame to keep her from bending over. "Sorry. The tour ran late, Professor."
Dumbledore's sparkling eyes and fiery hair are blinding in the early morning. "I would take points off normally, but I believe tardiness on your first day and first class is excusable. Please do take a seat Miss Hill."
"Thank you, sir." Irene breezes to the only other empty seat.
The class resumes, and she takes her textbook out and glances at the student beside her. Page 164. She flips through and feels eyes on her. It's only a glimpse but she notices the green tie and instantly wonders if she made a mistake.
A Slytherin. Aren't they supposed to hate Gryffindors? She's also a muggle-born. Neither wanting to know or deal with a possible threat at the moment, she forces all concentration into Transfigurations. Iris tries to convey something in little glances from the front, but they aren't on the level of friendship that Irene can understand what the hell she means when her hands are flailing about like that.
Ignoring it, Irene gets back to taking notes.
"As it is the first day back, we shall move onto review. Please decide on a fourth-year transfiguration of your choosing. At the front, I have a selection of various animals and other items you can use. Once you perform the spell and counter—if that is applicable—to expected competency, you will be dismissed." Dumbledore's jovial expression is answered with various cheers from the Gryffindor side of the room, and God isn't that embarrassing to realize there are sides now?
Maybe that's what Iris meant when her hand was making a cutting motion between the two sides of the room and pointing at her tie. Good to know. But a bit late to supply any help.
Irene decides on a simple Orchideous because really, she doesn't want to experiment on an animal, not with her skill. Transfigurations always go awry when she practices. She doesn't rise from her seat, instead pulling out her wand. However, the entire class moves to grab their chosen animal or item. Irene's left sitting and feeling particularly wrong-footed. Especially when her seatmate returns with a lovebird in hand and a scoff on his lips.
They make eye contact for a split second. His glaring platinum blonde hair is almost as long as her onyx locks. Grey eyes narrow at her with disdain. "Poor performance is especially damaging to people such as yourself, Miss Hill. It'd be wise to follow in the class's stead."
Irene's lips pull taught. Let's just get out of here fast and wait for Iris outside. She brushes him off and stands to stare down at her desk.
Orchideous. Her wrist glides in the symbol for a bouquet—sparks cracking in the air. A gentle poof sounds accompanied by a cloud of smoke. It clears, and a perfect collection of plants sits carefully tucked together in a brown paper bouquet on her desk. She feels the relief pour through. But just before her exhale, a green vine whips out. It snaps forward.
Toward her.
The stunner is out of her before she can think, tendril dropping inches away from her arm. With a better look at her creation, she recognizes an assortment of cannibalistic plants. Some frozen Vampiric Vegetation wilts. At least they aren't dead. Although she wishes they weren't nearly as 'alive' as they are either. Irene acts like everything's fine but catches an unimpressed eyebrow from her desk mate.
She smiles, saccharinely sweet. "Would you like a cutting? I made these with you in mind after all."
The boy looks positively scandalized as he turns from her to his lovebird. Irene shrugs, then hears the snickers from behind her. She speeds to the front to Dumbledore's desk, presenting her bouquet to him like an eager suitor. His lips twitch in amusement before taking the offering in both hands.
"Living plants in a bouquet spell. In all my years, I have never received such an original gift. Five points to Gryffindor for remarkable innovation." Dumbledore says. His tone is jolly enough that it draws attention. Irene's lips twitch. He smiles and mercifully excuses her from class.
Irene wisely decides to wait for Iris several meters away from the door.
Iris is out within minutes. She catches sight of Irene and crowds her. "Interesting taste. I never thought you'd have something for carnivorous plants or old men. But then again, what was it you said? You're coming after some old codger's Probity Probe?"
She grimaces, urging Iris to head to their next class.
"But brilliant work with Malfoy, I believe you are one of the few to adequately leave him tongue-tied. That pompous prat could learn a thing or two if he'd keep his mouth shut."
"That was a Malfoy?" Irene frowns. She almost regrets taunting him, but then she remembers it was just a tiny incident. He'll forget within the week.
"Abraxas Malfoy, third in our year. He's expected to join the Ministry just like his father. With his popularity, he's expected to land a seat on the Wizengamot by his early forties. I think it's more likely he'll get the position through nepotism and family funding."
"You know we've only had two discussions about the Ministry, but I get the feeling it's corrupt."
"Oh, you sweet thing." Iris reaches over and musses Irene's hair. "How'd you work there all summer without figuring that out?"
"Unspeakable department, remember?" She raises an unimpressed brow.
"Ah, yes. The meritocratic hermits."
Irene opens her mouth in outrage. Iris doesn't allow a word of it, looping her arm through Irene's and tugging her down the hall to Arithmancy.
Class lets out, and Irene waits at the door again for Iris. Her foot taps against the stone floor in satisfaction. Unlike Transfiguration, Arithmancy is like breathing. The theories and equations are simple, easy to understand. She smiles, contented. It doesn't hurt that the 'other' her had years of advanced calc in her reserves.
Iris steps out of class, Wood at her side. "Oh, Irene! Were you waiting?" She has a lop-sided smile stretched across her face.
Wood scratches her head. "Sorry, Irene. We've got Care of Magical Creatures next."
"Meet us outside the Great Hall in the courtyard before lunch, alright?" Iris gives her a small smile and waves before spinning on her heels to run after Wolpert, who waits just a little further down the corridor.
Left alone, Irene debates on going to the common room or heading for the courtyard to relax. She's on the seventh floor, but a part of her wants to lounge in the sun. In just a few more months it'll be too cold for that. She departs with a clack of her heels, mind wandering.
There's still the issue of her self-practice. Fontius recommended the Room of Requirement. If she asks for a magically inert room, she'll likely get one. It's perfect; however, the chances of her being spotted while sneaking off is high as the new student. While descending the stairs, she posits different strategies and tactics on how to evade her peers.
It's on the final step to the ground level that Irene abandons her quests and decides to just wait a month or two. She rounds the last corridor, pushes the double doors open, and feels the breeze on her skin. It's a mixed scent, summer heat and dirt blended with the crisp nutty smell of autumn. Her robes flutter behind as she strides to the courtyard. Unfortunately, without her self-practice she'll have to set time to regularly release her magic.
The courtyard is grand in scope. Irene stares at the endless loggia. It's flagstone pavement and brick walls stretch to border the grounds. She walks under its archway and onto the vast greenery. Flattened walkways section the space along with several bushes and trees—the picture of a Scottish garden. Irene finds a cozy space beneath a tree surrounded by shrubs and sits. The grass tickles and scratches at her calves, while the shade casts leaf-shaped shadows atop her skin.
It's quite busy here. Students are isolated into groups and pairs. There isn't a section unoccupied, even if it isn't crowded. I'll have to practice elsewhere. She could use the grounds around the Black Lake. The nearby Forbidden Forest should keep the area reasonably vacant. The shadow above her grows dark. If it rains, she'll have to use an umbrella charm. Irene leans back against the tree and looks up, but it's not a cloud that obscures the sun.
"Get up mudblood," the voice carries, it's shrill and reedy sound cutting in the dulcet tones of the distanced students.