The consequences for my rash actions during Hallowe'en started arriving as soon as I opened my eyes the morning of the following day, because I felt impossibly drained and wanting nothing but to go back to sleep. It seemed all my reckless discharging of magic all over the place was catching up with me.

I laid there on my bed as my housemates rose and began their morning routines —loudly opening and closing their trunks and talking and making other unwelcome noises— my eyes half open and my body feeling disjointed, each limb weighting twice as much as it usually did. Eventually I resigned myself to the reality of a new day, and with a deep groan I sat on the bed, blinking like an owl at the clarity of the light coming from the magical sconces.

It took me much longer to get ready for the day than usual, even if I skipped brushing my hair entirely; my every movement lethargic due to the sudden scarcity of shits to give I found myself with. And by the time I was finally done and as ready as I was capable of being, all the other girls were long gone.

All except for Daphne Greengrass, that is. The heiress stood in the dorm as a contrast to me, her eyes wide awake and her blond hair immaculately styled —which mine would be too, of course, if I also had a bloody enchanted hairbrush.

It was clear she wanted to talk to me away from the others' ears, so I acknowledged her with an interrogative grunt; which was the most complex vocalisation I currently felt capable of.

"Sarramond," she said, "I find you agreeable, and a good addition to the Slytherin house."

Oh, hell no.

I slumped back onto my bed, sitting down, took a deep breath, and then asked: "But?"

"But I'm not happy with how you used me yesterday," she continued, in a stern tone; I guessed this would be how Daphne's own mother sounded when she was scolding her or something. "It wasn't respectful of you to put me on the spot in front of everybody else."

I sighed, not sure of what to say. This was very much not the right time for such a discussion, it feeling like my brain was on critical life support. It took me a few moments to put it into gear, but in the end I managed to piece together a more or less coherent sentence: "I... Parkinson stole my stuff, I deserved... had the right to duel her; but I needed someone with more... otherwise Selwyn... ah... you know."

Daphne sat primly on my bed next to me, her hands resting atop her knees, her back ramrod straight and her robes not even crumpling with the motion the way mine had. She said: "That's not the problem. I would have backed your challenge anyway, but you should have asked me first in private."

"Uhm? You would have?"

"Yes. Parkinson acted against my wishes, so it wasn't the challenge itself that I minded, just the way you went about it."

"Your wishes?"

She turned her eyes towards my trunk. "I told all the girls not to touch your bed, or your belongings."

Wait, what? "You did that?!"

"Is it that surprising? It's as you said the first night: I don't want for sudden noises waking me up at night, or for any of you to turn our dormitory into a battleground. I wish to relax in here without having to worry about jinxes flying off and hitting me by accident. I made myself very clear to her that the dormitory should be a neutral place, so I'm very cross at Parkinson for not respecting that."

I gave her a puzzled look. "But Parkinson is also a pure-blood? I mean, I'm sure the Greengrasses have more... clout or whatever, but that doesn't make you a Prefect, no? It's not like when Farley told them not to bully me in public."

She returned my look with a curious expression of her own. "Sometimes I forget that you weren't raised in the magical world; you seem to know much about many of the spells, creatures, enchantments, and some of our customs... but then you say things like that and I remember there are many things that you simply don't know about. They just aren't always what I'd expect them to be."

"I read a lot, but still have gaps in my knowledge, sure." I shrugged, rolling my eyes. "You know, don't really need to rub it in that I'm the ignorant mud–"

She tutted. "We don't say that word in polite company."

Really? The pure-blood was censuring me for using that word?

"Well I'm reclaiming it," I snapped back, with maybe a bit too much bite. "But yeah, I don't know why Parkinson would have to obey your wishes; if not because some families are better than others, like Malfoy says."

"It's quite simple, really: the Greengrasses don't have more clout than the Parkinsons," she explained. "Both our families are similarly considered. But I myself have a higher status than Pansy because I am my family's heiress, and she is not hers."

I nodded, opening my mouth to interrupt, but she wasn't done: "It's not that she has to obey all my wishes, mind you. But it was an old tradition at Hogwarts that the students with the highest... social status were responsible of ensuring a peaceful living in their dormitories, help their housemates, solve conflicts, that sort of thing. This was long before Prefects existed, of course, and I believe our house is the only one to keep with this tradition in some form."

"Yeah, Slytherins do like their traditions," I commented.

"Our traditions. Yours too. You are a Slytherin."

I paused for a beat, eyeing her. She seemed to be going out of her way to make me feel... well, included, in her own way. And I appreciated it, of course, but I also had to wonder what her angle was.

Still, if she wanted to act friendly, I would certainly accept any offers made my way. I said with a grin: "So who would win in a fight, a Prefect or a... whatever you are?"

"I believe Selwyn and Prefect Farley are working together at answering that very question."

I whipped my head to stare at her. Did Daphne just make a joke? Yeah, she was sporting a delicate smile of her own. Oh wow, the princess was indeed capable of humour!

"But in fact," she continued, "someone in my position doesn't have any true authority, just the respect of their housemates. That is why it's important that you don't give everyone else the impression that you can simply... make use of me like that. It makes–"

"It makes you look weak."

She nodded. "Yes."

I shrugged, looking at my hands. There were little cuts on my fingers from the day before, but I couldn't remember when I got them.

I said: "I was furious, you know, and also very tired and... I don't know. She just made me so f–... so bloody angry that I had to do something right then. But I'm sorry I used you; I'll try to keep that in mind."

"Thank you. Maybe try not to rush ahead so blindly, too; it's not something that Slytherin values, and other people might use it against you if they realise you are easy to anger."

I looked at Daphne, at her perfect posture, the way she spoke. She'd probably been training for this since she was an infant, since she could stand on her own feet. Parents and tutors morphing her into the perfect little damsel, into the best approximation of a child politician I'd ever met.

"I'm realising," I said absent-mindedly, "that I can't for the life of me imagine how your childhood has been like so far. As a pure-blood heiress, I mean."

If she was surprised at my comment, she didn't show it. She just said: "I also feel the same for your own life. A Muggle orphanage... that sounds so... sordid."

"Yeah. There was this time when they served us spinaches for dinner. I still get nightmares about it," I said, pantomiming a shudder.

She let out a polite chuckle and stood up. "Speaking of, it's time to think of breakfast."

I moved to follow her, but she paused and said, her voice a little less self-assured: "It might be better if you wait here for three of four minutes before leaving."

I paused at that, my eyebrows rising. She bit her lower lip in a self-conscious gesture that I was sure her tutors had probably tried and failed to train her out of. A gesture that made her look vaguely guilty.

Ah.

I made an assenting noise and let my body fall backwards fully, laying down on my bed. "Sure," I said. "Don't worry about it."

She nodded and left the dorm on her own, closing the door after her.

Of course.

Of course she didn't want any of our housemates to see us walk into the Great Hall together. As much as she was making me an offer, I was still toxic, and she valued her reputation. So all this joking and... well, friendly overtures between us would have to remain private. Like it was some dirty secret of hers.

Because I was still someone she'd be ashamed to be seen next to. She might not like the sound of the word, but in her eyes I had no doubt I still was pretty much a mudblood.

In the end it was the promise of a croissant what got me up again and into the Great Hall. That and the fact today we didn't have any classes during the morning's first period, so I wouldn't need to worry about falling asleep at Transfiguration or something.

I was met with some staring and whispers when I arrived for breakfast, but they only came from the Slytherin table; most of the other students were too busy gossiping about Harry Potter instead. The moment I sat down, Draco said: "You didn't tell us you were with Potter! What were you doing together?"

I sighed, grabbed a cup filled with black tea, and then replied: "Why do you care that much, Malfoy; jealous I'll steal his attentions?"

He gave me a narrow look, but I did get some laughs out of Zabini and a couple of nearby second years that were eavesdropping on us. Malfoy mumbled something disparaging, but I ignored him in favour of focusing on my own breakfast when the rest of it appeared in front of me. Plixiette had come through for me, in the end, and the croissant was another of her masterworks: with a perfect golden shine, a dazzling smooth but also crunching texture... I could feel my drained energy come back with each new bite.

I took notice of the Gryffindor table as I ate. It seemed like Hermione had been accepted as part of the wider group, sitting next to Ron and Harry and confidently talking to them. And when they left a few minutes later, they did so together. So I let out a relieved breath; at least the Trio was a thing now, no matter what happened with Quirrell and the rest of the first book's plot. Which meant I could take a rest from worrying about them, focus back on my own personal stuff for a while.

Many other students were leaving too, in fact, not just the Gryffindors. I had arrived late, and pretty soon it was just me, Tracey, and a couple other stragglers at our table; and Tracey was only nibbling on some of the leftover Hallowe'en sweets while clearly waiting for me.

"I owe you an apology, you know," I told her, taking the last bite out of my croissant. "For yesterday."

"Oh?"

"Greengrass told me I was... hmm... a bit forceful on how I went about calling for that duel," I admitted. "I shouldn't have assumed you'd be my second without asking you first."

She paused for a moment, then said: "Thanks. It was all... so fast. But I don't get it. Why would you do it?"

"The duel? Well, Parkinson had–"

"No, not the duel. But running off after Potter and Weasley like that? That was stupid."

Oh, that. I shrugged. "I figured they'd get hurt without some extra help, and I also wanted to see Granger safe."

She shook her head slowly. "But why do you care about them? Is it because it's Harry Potter?"

I let out a laugh, because she sounded just like Dumbledore the day before. "Why is it so hard to believe I just did something good for its own sake? Didn't I tell you I asked the hat–"

"To sort you into Gryffindor, yes," she said crossing her arms. "And of course it put you into Slytherin; where else would you be?!"

I blinked. "Did you get hit in the noggin or something? I was raised by Muggles, probably a Muggleborn myself, remember? In what world does that fit in with the pure-blood house?"

"I don't mean about your bloody... blood!" she countered. "Just that you are always... machinating something, aren't you? Nothing you do is ever straightforward. It's always a trade or a scheme or some angle that you're working. Like with the kitchens yesterday: I thought you just wanted to show them to me and get ourselves some food ahead of the feast, but of course not: you only wanted to interrogate the house-elves!"

I stood silent for a beat. It seemed I had underestimated Tracey's observation skills. Note to self: just because she didn't comment on something, that didn't mean she hadn't noticed.

I winked at her. "Fair. But I can work more than one scheme at the same time, you know, so yeah... it was also about showing the kitchens to you."

"And the thing with the Gryffindors?"

"Well... Hermione is my Potions partner, you know."

"Please, you can get a new partner!" she snapped back. "And I was at that stupid book club too, so I know you two aren't friends. Try again."

I sighed, frustrated. I couldn't simply reveal the whole reasons for my acts the day before, no matter how out of character they seemed to her. Surprisingly, it was easier to come up with a suitable explanation that Dumbledore would believe than one for Tracey Davis. She just knew me that much better.

In the end, I had to resort to some honesty. Not all of it, of course. Sanitized honesty, if you will:

"Fine. Yeah, you're right; it was about Potter too. Same thing with the Read-Ahead Club, which is not stupid at all by the way. I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not very popular in Slytherin–" she scoffed, "–so I'm trying to reach out to other people outside our own house, make acquittances and such; people who can help me now and then.

"In my defence, I didn't really expect to actually run into any acromantulas. But at least now the Boy Who Lived will see me in a positive light. So that's worth something, no?"

She shook her head. "Not if you are dead! It still was very stupid, you should have gone to tell a Professor with me instead."

I... didn't disagree on that. Nothing like a close encounter with giant murderous spiders to bring to the fore your own mortality. I was now very aware of the risks I was truly facing; but despite that, having survived those monsters also made me feel like there was nothing the Wizarding World could throw at me I couldn't deal with.

And which was insane, to be clear. Because I hadn't so much 'survived the monsters' as 'been rescued from them'. And I wondered if this was merely caused by the relief I felt somehow twisting into a false sense of security; or if perhaps it was some deeper thing. Some sort of unintended consequence of Hogwarts itself, of receiving an education in the Wizarding World.

Because this was my life now, apparently, the life of someone who could bend the laws of reality with magic and who existed in a world of fantasy with monsters and creatures of legend, evil wizards and all the rest... and well, at what point do you start believing yourself untouchable, develop a certain sense of invincibility? There were only so many loops around the Training Grounds you could make atop a broom, so many things you could make fly through the air with a flick of your wrist before it all started messing up with your perception of risk. Which perhaps had been the true reason behind my acts the day before, all along.

Was this why magical society was so... well, off their rocker, so to speak? I could see how it would be even worse had you not known anything but all this... craziness. How it would seem normal, feed an appetite for the bombastic, for the daring. Up until you went against something that outclassed you entirely, of course.

Then you just died.

There was a part of me that didn't want to care for that sort of hair-splitting, though; and so I was in a good mood when Tracey and I left to the lake, to spend the sunny morning free period lazing around. We used the excuse of practising our banishing charms to throw flat stones into the water with our wands, competing to get the highest number of bounces.

We were still there when Susan Bones found us, approaching me to deliver what I immediately realized would be bad news —just from her stance: hands clasped together over a crumpled piece of parchment and gaze slightly down. She said: "I'm really sorry; I tried owling my aunt Amelia, but she says she can't just disclose the obliviation records... she says 'willy-nilly'?... to anyone who asks. She also wrote the word 'nepotism'... two or three times."

I sighed and muttered: "God save us from the lawful good people. Thanks anyway, Bones; it was worth a try."

She nodded and started walking away, but stopped to look back at the parchment and added: "Oh, my aunt also says there are... hmm... proper ways to learn this? Something to do with an official inquiry made by an attorney, but that's as much as it says here. I think she was a bit... angry when she wrote this."

I thanked her again. It was an option, at least, but one that would take time and knowledge. The first item in the list of bullet points being: 'how to find a wizarding attorney in the first place'. As always, I felt the familiar bite of those ropes that had been constraining me for years: not being an adult anymore meant I couldn't simply walk into a lawyer's office and hire someone. No, my guardian would have to do it. And being a ward of the state, my guardian was probably none other than the Giraffe herself.

Which was a Muggle and unaware of the existence of magic, so that was that. It was so unfair, and it made feel so disadvantaged that I wondered if there would be some sort of provisions for people like me, people who were trapped between the two worlds, in a sense. Some sort of wizarding guardian I could maybe ask to be assigned to me.

But maybe that would be for the worse, if I got assigned someone like Mrs. Coverdale: someone who would feel entitled to own my life, to direct what I could and could not do. Better to have at least some leeway than none, even if it came at the cost of certain rights. I mean, for all I knew I could end up being Umbridge's ward or something equally terrifying.

"Hmm... none of your parents happen to be an attorney, right Tracey?" I asked.

"No. Depulso! But maybe they know of one? I could owl them."

"I don't think I can pay for it... at least not yet. And it would take them time to go through the Ministry's bureaucracy anyway... also... it's probably not going to be enough on its own. Just lead me to yet another question."

"Do you want me to owl them or not? Depulso!... That's seven again!"

"Hmm... you know what? Fine, owl them, but just to test the waters... Depulso!... Bugger! How do you do that?"

"You're putting too much force. Try giving it a little upward swish..."

All in all it could've been a good day, despite the news about the Ministry. I'd managed to navigate two pretty thorny conversations with style and walk away not the worse for wear, which was a pretty solid achievement in my books. Getting in contact with an attorney could also help, if Tracey's parents could simply ask around without invoking the wrath of the wizarding bureaucracy on me. It wouldn't come in time to save me from Selwyn, but I could at least start to get a feel for what an official inquiry would cost, and the hazards I'd need to navigate.

So yeah, not a bad day. Except that Parkinson had to ruin it in the end.

Apparently she was a tad sharper than I'd given her credit for, because she pretty much turned my previous night's display against me. It started that very day, when we entered the Great Hall for dinner and I overheard her muttering something to Bulstrode about a '... violent mudblood thug...' Bulstrode's not so subtle glances my way made it obvious who exactly they were talking about.

I ignored it then, but it was merely the herald of what was to come, because over the following days the both of them launched a campaign of light harassment designed to egg me on relentlessly. The concept was simple: I was an uncivilized brute who couldn't control herself and would easily resort to violence. And to prove it, they tried to provoke me into reacting. It was all petty shit, Elliot-and-Miles type of stuff like bumping my books off the table during Charms, hiding my matchboxes away in Transfiguration, or dripping pumpkin juice all over my tartiflette.

It took them a week to succeed, until one of them shot me a stinging jinx from the back while we were walking towards Herbology. It was a weak one, sure, but still strong enough to produce a red welt all over my left forearm, itching like crazy. So I pivoted on the spot, and didn't have to look for long to find the culprit: Bulstrode was trying to hide her wand from sight while sniggering to Crabbe.

It might've been because I was already tired of all the stupid bullying, or perhaps because of the looming threat that was Herbology, the most frustrating class in the entire schedule, but I was already miffed well enough that I simply aimed my own wand back at her and intoned: "Locomotor Mortis!"

Her legs bounded together, and she tilted forwards like an unbalanced plank. And because her hands had been otherwise occupied with hiding her wand, she simply face-planted into the floor with a loud 'SPLAT!' that attracted the attention of everyone around us. Including the Ravenclaws we shared the class with, who all erupted into wild laughter.

I mean, it was a lovely sound. The way it rebounded across the corridor... just... lovely.

I enjoyed the outcome for some hours, thinking me victorious. But Prefect Farley seemed to be of a different opinion, because she grabbed me by the scruff of my robes the moment I entered the common room, later that day, and scolded me in front of everyone else: five minutes of berating about house unity and not showing our disagreements in public. I argued back that Bulstrode had started it, but to no avail. Apparently it didn't matter who started what, only what students in the other houses would see.

After that my reputation as the 'thug' became entrenched and well established, reminding me of the kind of stuff that had landed me at the Residence. And it was a prickly one to fight, because no matter how strong or apt at magic I was, it wasn't my abilities that they were putting into question, but my very character. My belonging into polite society. And my typical approach of responding in kind, with copious amount of escalating simply... backfired here. It didn't matter if you had the strongest hammer when there were no nails to hit.

Fine, then. Petty shit it was. If that's how Parkinson and Bulstrode wanted to play it, I would gladly step onto that stage. And I'd bring lorryloads of petty shit with me. So much petty shit that by the time the dust settled they'd have to crown me the undisputed Queen of Pettyshitland; in a parade with trombones and bloody jugglers.

I went to the Weasley twins for supplies —some of them being the very same stuff we'd sold them before, and that they returned to me at a higher price, traitorous boogers that they were— and dove into my revenge with gusto, bringing back and updating my old classic tactics from my early foster days.

I coated the lenses of their telescopes in an eye irritant. I used the cutting charm on their scarves. I learnt how to cast the knockback jinx with a mere whisper, and I used it liberally to bump any and all objects around them to the floor, make them look like they were some clumsy fools. I convinced the kitchen elves that Parkinson loved her food spicy. 'No, no, real spicy, like coated in chili powder. Yes, yes, I'm sure she'll love it.' Some days I levitated their inkwells and flipped them over their heads, other days I replaced their contents with invisible ink. I was savage, my density of pranks through the roof. I sacrificed some of my studying and reading time in the all-out assault, with the hope that they'd tire soon of living in a state of perpetual anxiety, always waiting for the next attack; that they'd be forced to negotiate a cease-fire.

It all came to a head one day in Potions. I was enjoying that class more than ever on account of Hermione being more positive towards me since the episode with the acromantulas —Ron apparently still mistrusted me, but that was okay, as thankfully I didn't have to spend any minute of my time with him.

But having this sort of... friendly relationship, along with her presence at the Read-Ahead Club, was exactly what I'd aimed for all this time. The attack on Hallowe'en had given me hope that, even if some of the specifics had changed, the main line of events still held true. Voldemort wanted the stone, and he'd most likely try to get it when Dumbledore left by the end of the year.

So now, I could relax and focus on my own stuff; let the plot follow through while just keeping an eye on the Gryffindors through Hermione. And if needed, our improved relationship gave me enough access that I could easily put some book on Alchemy or Nicolas Flamel in her path, if they hadn't figured it out by the time Quirrellmort would make his move.

We were deep into brewing our hair-rising potion, me distracted in slicing the rat tails for a more even diffusion, when Parkinson just happened to walk by our table on her way back from the ingredients' shelves. I didn't see her do it, but I clearly heard the telltale 'plop!' of something falling into our cauldron; the solution inside promptly losing its even green moss tone in favour of turning into an inky, lumpy soup.

"Oh, no, no," said Hermione, flipping one way and the other through the class coursebook. "We can still fix it! Do you think she put in something acidic? It would have to be, wouldn't it?"

She started grabbing more ingredients, pouring leech juice and fly wings into the cauldron in a desperate race against time. But no matter how valiant her efforts, I knew a lost cause when I saw one.

I instead started working on our revenge. Snape was distracted looming over Neville and Seamus Finnigan, his back facing me; so I produced my wand out of one pocket and one of my last remaining stink pellets out of another. I whispered 'Wingardium Leviosa' and levitated the little pellet towards the shadowed ceiling of the classroom. Then, I slowly floated it until it was right above Parkinson and Malfoy's boiling cauldron, keeping an eye out for anyone who could see me doing it. Fortunately, Hermione was too focused to notice.

Then, I simply cancelled the spell, quickly putting my wand back into its pocket and my gaze back to our own cauldron.

I heard Malfoy mutter a 'What...?' followed by what I could only describe as the sound of a giant toad endlessly belching and throwing up, a mix of deep gurgles and hissing and thick liquid sloshing on its own. Everyone in the class halted what they were doing and turned their heads to see the two pure-bloods jump back just as a column of dark smoke —as wide as the cauldron's mouth— poured out of it, rising upwards to pool under the ceiling.

Then, some sort of malformed tentacles dripping in a dark thick substance rose out of its lip. They flailed around in wild spasms, crashing against the furniture and launching ingredients and vials through the air; one of them hitting Parkinson's body with a wet slap that dropped her to the floor. Meanwhile Draco crawled on all fours, hiding under Zabini's table as the tentacles proceeded to drop down and lift the cauldron itself as if they were legs, turning the whole thing into some sort of unholy, nightmarish parody of a hermit crab.

"Wicked," I muttered. Hermione's jaw was dropped open.

Snape didn't seem to share my enthusiasm, because he started to shout for us to "Stand back! Move over there! You too, Potter, you dimwit!" as he whipped out his wand and approached the cauldron, which was now using its three tentacles to climb up the wall towards one of the open windows above, used for ventilation.

It was like a scene out of one of the movies: Snape waving his wand in the air, his robes billowing dramatically among all our yelling and racket. He didn't even mutter an incantation, but the tentacles nevertheless lost their grip on the bricks of the wall, the cauldron dropping back to the floor with a clang and crawling to hide under a table.

He didn't let it get away, severing the tentacles with what I recognised as some sort of modified cutting charm, the severed parts turning instantly back into a liquid and splashing on the flagstones. A third spell caused the cauldron itself to contract into a ball of metal the size of a fist, which then simply disappeared with a flash, taking the... entity, whatever it was with it. Another flick cleaned the spilled puddles, a twirl created a wind that pushed the condensed fumes out of the room through the open window, and a final swish repaired the damaged table and put all the furniture back into order.

For a few seconds, there was a deafening silence. Then, he slowly turned to face us all, his gaze burning with the intensity of a newborn star. It was the angriest I'd ever seen him.

I never knew if it was because of the furious glare Parkinson —her robes caked in the black substance— sent my way, or because of the grin splitting my face from ear to ear that I couldn't hide in time, but Snape strode straight up to me like an arrow, wand still in hand.

He snarled: "Detention, Sarramond."