"So what it is that you're offering, exactly?" asked the boy.

I looked at him from my vantage position —leaning on the wall next to where the little group was seating in the common room. For a first year —and one that had been at Hogwarts for a sum total of three days by now— Thomas Avery somehow managed to command a fair amount of respect and attention; and so he had quickly gathered a sizeable group of followers within his year.

Him, and Darius Berrow —another first year, and one who was quickly emerging as the other focal point among the firsties. Which surprised me somewhat, given that in my year there was both a male-led circle —Malfoy's— and a female-led one —mine, or rather: Daphne's. But Sabine Rosier, who would have been the logical choice as the highest status female figure among the Slytherin's firsties, seemed uninterested in acquiring any followers. She was content instead to vegetate on her own seat, gazing listlessly into the depths of the lake.

I shrugged. "Everything, Avery. What I'm not offering! Answers to the homework exercises in Transfiguration, Potions and Astronomy, pre-written and battle-tested essays for History of Magic and Charms —you'll just need to reword them a little, y'know, so that they aren't identical? But really, anything and everything you'll need to excel in your schooling at a minimum of effort! The only exception is Defence Against the Dark Arts, as that one simply changes too much year to year. But as the local expert in the subject, I'll be available for consultation if you need any help... for an adequate price, obviously."

"Obviously."

"So, what's the price?" asked Sean Higgs. "For the Transfiguration homework?"

I flashed him a grin, producing a piece of parchment with as much theatrics as I could, then handing it off to him. "For this first time: nothing! This one is free, you can consider it a welcome gift. Now, if you like the quality —which you will, because remember: I got an Outstanding on Transfiguration!— and want more of it... well... for the most basic homework my price is low: just a few Galleons here and there. But Transfiguration... now that's a tough subject."

"It is," muttered Grace Crabbe. "I could use some help with it myself."

"Yes, well... a favour, then. That is my price."

Avery frowned at me. "A favour? What favour?"

"Oh, I don't know it yet. But I'm doing you a favour by helping you, no? And so... someday —and that day may never come— I may ask you for a favour in return."

The firsties looked among themselves with some alarm that they tried to conceal behind impassive faces. Joke was on them, though: I knew everything about wearing a mask, and they were still too green at that to fool me. I wondered for a moment if I might have come across as too direct and ominous for them; but just how many times in your life did you get to use an epic line from a film and actually mean it? A film they'd have never heard of, so I could take all the credit for its epicness. I wasn't one for wasting opportunities.

"Well, thank you for the offer, Sarramond," said Higgs the Younger at last. "We will consider it."

I nodded, stepping away from the wall. "Consider away. You know where to find me. Which is... over there, after lunches and dinners," I added, just in case they didn't actually know. "Don't take too long, though. I bet Berrow will also be interested... and my time is limited."

I parted with those words, joining back with Sally-Anne Perks and Tracey Davis, who were patiently waiting for me to be done before we went to our own class of Defence Against the Dark Arts —our first lesson of that subject in the year. We left through the common room's secret door, then ascended the spiralling stairs out of the dungeons, me leading the way —with Greengrass still missing, it seemed I had become the default leader of our downsized group.

Which was worrying —Greengrass still missing after three days, not me being elevated to a leadership position; that was perfectly good— and a worry in the back of my mind. We had sent her a letter using one of the school's owls two days ago, but we had received no reply so far.

"Did you get any customers?" asked Tracey as we entered the Defence classroom and sat down among the Slytherin ranks —opposite the Gryffindors we shared the class with, of course.

Tracey's annoyance at me because of the Potions thing hadn't lasted long. Or at least I believed it hadn't, as she'd stopped wearing her chromosentis bracelet at my and Perk's urging. But she was back to treating me like she always did, so I figured it must be water under the bridge already.

"It's still too early to tell," I admitted with a shrug. "But I reckon at least two or three of them might become regulars; they just need some encouragement. A little taste first."

"Won't that take you too much time?" commented Perks. "Having to keep up with your own work, while also doing theirs?"

"Not really. Most professors don't come up with entirely new assignments year from year, they just reuse the same ones; so I already have all that work done. Snape is an exception, sure, but remember what we were doing this time last year? It was all very basic stuff; I could write an essay on measuring ingredient quantities off the top of my head."

"And you have a Self-Writing Quill," added Tracey.

"And I have a Self-Writing Quill, yeah. So I don't even need to write it at all. Saves me from all the hand cramps."

"I asked my mother for one too, you know," she commented. "When we were at Diagon Alley purchasing this year's books and such. But she said using one of those quills can hamper one's own skills at cursive writing."

I had heard that line of logic before, in my fore-memories. And in the end my adult life hadn't required much writing at all. Maybe because of computers and phones, truth be told; I doubted the same would happen now that I was in the Wizarding world, so it might turn out to be an actual concern this time around. But I simply shrugged and said: "I can't use it during classes or I'd be yelled at, so I still get to practice my penmanship."

The girls didn't seem that convinced. But the thing was, I couldn't use the quill at the Residence either, with all the Muggles. And I'd done so much handwriting over summer that I reckoned I had already filled my quota for this whole year.

"What do you make of this year's professor?" asked Perks as she paced down one of Lockhart's books —selected at random, apparently— on the desk. "My mother said we should listen to him carefully, that he is very adept at fighting dark creatures."

Oh boy. I needed to burst that bubble quick. I had invested way too much time in helping both girls get better at duelling, for this year's fraudster come and ruin it all. I said: "Told you on the train, remember? Snape didn't seem to like him much when he escorted me to Diagon Alley. He implied he was faking it all."

"Yeah, but Snape never likes anybody," commented Tracey.

"That's true. But he's good at spotting who is competent and who isn't, at least."

That comment didn't land quite as I wanted, because I noticed Tracey's subtle jerk when the words registered. I'd never intended it as a jab aimed at the girls —who had both received a thorough dressing down from out Head of House at their 'complete and utter failure of a potion', when out of sight of the Gryffindors— but her sudden silence told me I'd put my foot quite deep into my mouth.

I didn't get the time to apologise, though —not that I knew how without shining a light all over the thorny issue— because Gilderoy Lockhart finally made his appearance, causing the remaining students to sit down, and the conversations to fall silent one by one.

Lockhart shot us a winning smile —and I just couldn't get past how different to the films he was, so youthful and... well, good-looking. I couldn't fault anybody for taking him seriously at face value, not really. He had a natural charisma of sorts, able to hold the class' attention by his mere looks.

And then he started talking: "...Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defence League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award..."

I felt my mind quickly going off into daydreaming, and noticed that I wasn't the only one. Whatever appeal he'd hold at first on the students was quickly evaporating with every single asinine word coming out of his yapping gob.

Then he had the great idea to hand out tests; tests asking questions about himself and his books. I hadn't recalled that particular detail, and so I hadn't really prepared for it. Not that I would have, in any case. I had better things to do with my time than learning who Lockhart's first love had been, thank-you-very-much.

I opted to answer with whatever I could remember off the single book of his I'd partially read over those last days at the Residence, plus a lot of guessing and random answers. It would probably turn out to be my lowest graded test, but I didn't expect it to matter at all.

Besides; is it really a low grade, if that's what the entire class gets anyway?

The entire class except for Hermione, of course, who I'd hazard had read all seven of his books, twice.

Half an hour later the test was over, Lockhart was disappointed, and a large cage covered in a piece of canvas was on the table at the front of the classroom. I quietly cleared my own desk, putting all my stuff back into my bag and placing a hand on my wand, inside my pocket. The professor uncovered the cage with a flair, revealing the dozens of angry pixies in it. The creatures screamed at us in high, piercing shrieks, fluttering inside the confines of their cage, hitting the bars and making it rattle in place.

"Get ready," I muttered to the girls. "I think he's gonna open it."

Perks blinked. "What? Open it? In the middle of the–?"

And then, of course, he opened it.

I was quick on the uptake and whipped out my wand to cast a Shield charm, the trusty bubble protecting the girls and me from the four or so pixies that shot like rockets towards us and bounced off its surface. The contents of their desks weren't so lucky, though, and two of the devilish creatures were already hard at work destroying their sheets of parchment and throwing quills and ink around the classroom.

"Let's fall back!" I said, following my own words as I placed my free hand on Tracey's shoulder, urging her to move with me rather than try and recover her book —it was already a lost cause. Slowly, we stepped towards the back row of the classroom and away from the eye of the hurricane —most people simply too scared to raise their heads from the safety of their desks.

All except for Neville Longbottom —swinging from the chandelier somehow— and Vincent Crabbe; who, for whatever inane reason decided to stand up wand in hand, next to a covering Malfoy, and shout 'Incendio!' at the top of his lungs.

I would have yelled him a warning not to do it, but by the time his intentions registered it was already too late. A jet of flames emerged out of his wand, setting fire to a bunch of the pixies flying around him.

If they had been noisy before, the shrills of pain the creatures emitted now were ear-splitting. Engulfed in flames they shot in all directions across the classroom, bouncing off desks, tapestries and bookshelves —all very combustible materials— spreading the flames around. I saw Dean Thomas emerge out of hiding, his robes smoking as he ineffectively tried to pat them down to put out the fire. Fortunately Granger was quick to react, casting 'Aguamenti' on him and drenching him on water.

"This is stupid; I'm out!" shouted Zabini, zapping pixies left and right with his wand as he ran past us, abandoning the classroom.

It was the smartest thing to do, of course —it was what Gilderoy Lockhart himself had done a few seconds before, having lost his own wand to the fury of the swarm. But unlike the professor, our housemate didn't have the precaution of closing the door after him. And so the flock of burning pixies quickly flew outwards, leaving the confines of the room for the expansive corridors outside. I heard the cries of panic from the figures in the paintings that were suddenly catching fire.

Zabini's example was quickly imitated by about the entire Slytherin wing, and half the Gryffindors. Inside the classroom, conditions were quickly getting worse: the pixies turned fireballs had stopped flying at last —succumbing to the fire— but almost the whole room was now aflame; with long red tongues snaking through the smoke-filled wooden ceiling. I could feel the radiating heat on my skin, like being one step too close to an enormous fireplace.

"Everyone, get out!" I shouted, walking with my girls towards the entrance; Tracey was casting water charms, putting out fires, but it just wasn't enough. Most people didn't need much encouraging, though, abandoning books and bags in a wild stampede to save themselves.

Most people except, of course, the Golden Trio.

"Shit!" I muttered. Then raised my voice: "Granger! What are you lot doing? Get out!"

I didn't think Hermione would have heard me, but it seemed she did because she yelled back: "Neville! We can't leave him behind!"

"Oh, no," muttered Perks. And yeah, 'oh, no' indeed... because Neville Longbottom was still hanging off the chandelier, his head now deep inside the cloud of thick, black smoke that filled the top portion of the classroom. He was coughing, jerking this and that way as he tried ineffectively to release his stuck robes. I figured the only reason he was still conscious was thanks to Hermione's wind charm pushing a stream of somewhat fresh air towards his face. But the fire was advancing quickly along the wooden beams and would soon surround him.

Bloody threads of fate. A little worse; yeah, no shit.

I aimed my wand with my arm extended, steadying my hand and even going as far as closing one eye for more precision; I simply couldn't afford to mess it up here.

"Sectumsempra!"

The slash of my wand hit the chandelier's chain, which broke in half. I winced when Neville fell and hit the desk underneath with a loud bang, following by the remains of the solid iron light fixture crashing right on top of him. But he didn't seem to have broken any limbs, seeing as the three Gryffindors helped him to his feet.

I didn't wait for them, though. For one, both Tracey and Perks were pushing me towards the exit already; but I'd also seen the curious look Hermione had given me when I'd spoken aloud the incantation, and didn't want to stay around and have to give explanations as to what spell exactly it was that I'd used.

I needed to learn the 'Relashio' spell already. Less questions, and less risk of accidental dismemberment if your aim happened to fail.

The corridor outside welcomed us with a breath of fresh air, and the panicked voices and shouts of our classmates, the paintings on the corridor's walls —some of which sported deep, dark stains, although they hadn't quite caught fire— and Professor McGonagall, who was rushing towards us from the opposite end of the corridor, probably after hearing all the commotion. Behind her a group of fourth years poked their heads curiously out of the door of the classroom she had just vacated.

I joined the rest of my housemates, turning alongside them to look at the inferno still raging inside our own classroom, the fire consuming everything that still remained inside the chamber. I was one of the few who had managed to save my school paraphernalia, and Nott —who hadn't— was asking pointed questions to Crabbe in a low, menacing tone.

"Yes, Crabbe," agreed Draco. "What in Merlin's name were you thinking?"

"I– I'm sorry," replied the boy, eyes downcast. "I just– I thought– Well, my father told me– He said that... that after last year and... I should be more... uh... better at protecting my housemates."

"Perhaps he should do us a favour and think less," muttered Tracey, but loud enough that the boys would hear her. "If that's even possible."

I chuckled for a moment, going straight-faced immediately afterwards not to invoke McGonagall's ire —with my luck, she'd think I'd started the fire myself. But the witch pretty much ignored me and the rest of the Slytherins, focusing her interest instead on Gilderoy Lockhart, who had reappeared once more and now observed the ruined chamber with the expression of a man quite in over his head. An expression that vanished the moment he saw the older witch, giving her a wide smile and saying: "Ah, Professor McGonagall. No need to be alarmed, truly! We were merely performing a routine exercise with some Cornish pixies when one of the students... overreacted. Understandable, as not everybody can have the nerves of steel required to handle such vicious creatures. But now that you are here, perhaps you would like to demonstrate to our students how one would bring a fire back under control?"

I'd have openly laughed at the guy's audacity, though McGonagall's thinning lips said she hadn't quite believed the story. Nevertheless, she entered the classroom wand in hand, and started casting water charms this and that way, the flames receding under her assault.

Nobody followed the two adults back into the room to witness the demonstration, however. Instead, the three most famous Gryffindors approached our group, Hermione in the lead. She went straight towards Crabbe, saying: "Why in the world would you cast a–?!"

"Shut up, Granger; nobody asked you," replied Malfoy, giving her a dismissive stare down his nose. Funny, how quickly he changed tunes the moment it was them criticizing his sidekick. He would never have told Nott to shut up.

"He almost killed us all!" she continued, turning to face the blond boy instead. "I left the bag with my books inside! It will now be utterly ruined! If only you could think for once before–"

"He told you to shut up, you filthy mudblood!" Crabbe shot back.

And then everybody went crazy.

Ron Weasley jumped at Crabbe's throat, who fell back to the floor. Goyle started raining punches down on him, and Draco took advantage of the situation to sneak in a few kicks of his own. After a beat Potter —and half the Gryffindors around, even though I was quite sure they hadn't even heard the insult in the first place— happily joined the melee. From the sidelines, Pansy Parkinson and Bulstrode used their wands to cast stinging jinxes on the lions; but I was sure they didn't care much about friendly fire.

Hermione remained still, as if paralysed. Then she looked around and her eyes met mine for a moment, as if demanding... something, I wasn't sure what. I gave her a subtle shrug; but it seemed like the wrong answer, because she frowned as if offended —not at Crabbe or Draco, at me!— and stepped towards the idiots, trying to break the fight.

"Let's go back to the common room," suggested Perks after McGonagall's furious voice put a truce to the skirmish, and she started berating a dishevelled Malfoy and Potter. "It doesn't look like this class will resume anytime soon."

"Right," I agreed, joining them. But inside I was churning; because from what I took from Crabbe's reasoning, this looked a lot like it was yet another side-effect of my own interference. I was started to glimpse the silhouette of a picture, of how that thing with the Hufflepuffs —and how his counterpart Goyle had been so thoroughly humiliated by them— might have set in motion a number of things behind the scenes.

My working theory was that the event might have caused Draco's father to wonder if the two gorillas truly offered sufficient protection to his precious child —which pretty much tracked with the offer he'd made me in Knockturn Alley, after he'd seen my grades. But could he have made some comment to Crabbe's father too?

Who was I kidding? He was Lucius Malfoy. Of course he would have made his displeasure known. And in turn Crabbe's father had... what, told his son to be more proactive? To be seen as the perfect sentinel Draco could ever wish for?

It was a reach, sure; but it was within the realm of possibility. Something had changed to get this result, something that had necessarily started with my existence. And once more, it was sobering to realise how even my minor interferences could branch out, then come full circle back at me with the fury of a Cornish pixie set on fire.

It didn't bode anything good, regarding the basilisk. Which reminded me that I had to put my hands on Riddle's diary.

But that was something easier said than done. I'd taken to keep an eye out for the youngest Weasley, but she being in a different year altogether complicated things. I had half a mind to repeat my performance from last year, when I'd assaulted Wayne Hopkins. I just needed to wait for the right moment when Ginny would be on her own and attack her from the shadows, quick and swift. But that came with a lot of risks —the first among them being the reprisals from the whole Weasley clan, who I knew wouldn't take such an event lightly.

There was another, safer option I wanted to try first, though it would take me a few days to prepare for it. In any case, I put all thoughts about Ginny Weasley out of my mind the moment we entered the common room and saw who was waiting there.

"Daphne!" exclaimed Perks, rushing to embrace her friend. Because we might be part of the same circle, sure, but that didn't mean we were all equally friends to each other. Tracey and I followed after her at a more even pace, sitting down around our usual tea table.

The blonde pureblood had been reading our Herbology textbook, apparently, and she looked as close to perfection as always. Just from her immaculate appearance you wouldn't have noticed anything was wrong at all. No, that took personally knowing her, realising how her eyes darted around as if distracted, how she was a little slow to react to our presence —as if coming from a deep daydream. How she forgot about asking us to sit down if you wish, please, and would you like some of these pastries?

"Greengrass," I greeted her. "Nice to see you at last! You just missed a perfectly invigorating first class of Defence."

She flashed me a fragile smile, nodding at me and asking about how our first days had gone. We had some minutes of stilted conversation, bringing her up to speed with the latest common room gossip. Then, Perks asked the question in everyone's minds:

"What kept you, Daphne?"

I saw Daphne's mask crack a little at that, her eyes darting again as if looking for an exit. Saw her bit her lip for an instant before she corrected herself.

"Oh. I apologise for not replying to your letter, really. But as you would have only received my reply this very morning, I considered it unnecessary when I knew we were meet in person today in any case," she replied. Then, after a beat, she added: "I was at St. Mungo's. It was... it had to do with my family."

"Is everything alright?" I asked.

She gave me a tired, sad smile, then nodded. "Yes. My sister Astoria had a spot of sickness, but she is... she is fine now, thanks for asking."

I nodded back, deciding not to keep digging. There was a world of worry in those words, in her eyes. One that I didn't think she'd appreciate having to unpack in public. Because you didn't miss three days of school just because your sister got a cold, right? Right. And while I didn't remember what the deal was with her sister exactly, my fore-knowledge told me enough: that it was sort of a big deal, and that it would cause her to die young.

And I guessed, looking at how Daphne's eyes didn't know where to rest, at how she uncharacteristically fidgeted with her robes... I guessed that the twelve years old girl in front of me might be very aware of that fact already.

So instead I decided to distract her, by telling her of our ordeal in Defence and my assumptions about Crabbe's sudden bout of proactivity —skipping any mention of my encounter with the Malfoys, of course. But it helped that I was honestly curious about her take on the situation, seeing as she was in the pureblood loop. She nodded at me, listening with rapt attention and making comments here and there, in a way that mostly resembled her usual self.

"Yes, I could see how that could have made an effect," she said at last. "And I'm sure Mr. Crabbe must have mentioned something along those lines to his son. Though you haven't considered the status motivations."

Again with the status. It always seemed to come down to that, with them. I asked: "What do you mean?"

"Well, Draco Malfoy's circle is now second on status to ours," she explained. Then, at our widened eyes: "Yes; think about it: you two gained a score of points for our house, without which Slytherin might have never won the House Cup. You helped defeat a dark wizard! And academically speaking–"

"They have both Crabbe and Goyle," commented Perks, nodding. "Their average grades must be pretty low."

"Yes. And we have Sylvia," continued Daphne, ignoring my noise of protest. "No, don't try to be modest now. It doesn't suit you."

I smirked at her, then shrugged. "Fine, I won't be modest."

"Good. Because the truth is that all of us benefit from having you in our circle: our own grades would have been lower without your help, we all know that."

"And I doubt I would have passed Flying on my own," I admitted, playing into her game. Because it was a game. A social repartee of sorts, where she first complimented me, then I was supposed to flatter them in return. Kind of the opposite of that other game I had with Blaise Zabini. "Besides, all of your help when my blood was in question; goes without saying."

"Goes without saying," Daphne nodded.

And yet it had to be said.

"So if our circle is... well, the best considered one in our year," commented Tracey. "Doesn't that mean he might try something against us? Malfoy, to recover the top spot?"

"He might, although it's not necessary for them to attempt anything direct. Perhaps they simply aim to overcome us academically–"

I leaned back on my seat, hands behind my head. "Fat chance."

She smirked back. "–or perhaps they'll try to gain respect in extra-curricular activities, such as defeating packs of Cornish pixies. But we should keep vigilant if they try to move against us, when that fails."

We all nodded, though I realised with a start that they had already moved against us. Because in light of this new knowledge, Lucius Malfoy's offer that day took a whole new meaning. Perhaps it wasn't really about me being so valuable and good at Defence —or, the Dark Arts, as he'd called it— as much as it was about denying an asset to the Greengrasses. Simply taking me away from her, and thus breaking apart Daphne's circle. Hurting her chances in favour of his son's.

Ugh. And I was so happy, thinking I was already savvy enough to navigate the Slytherin waters. I had this sinking feeling that I would always be an immigrant to this world, an outsider. That no matter how many years I spent in Hogwarts and the wizarding society as a whole, how many books on pureblood etiquette I read, there would still be things that eluded me. Things that people like Daphne would find only obvious.

Whatever. It still meant I was highly regarded, right? It was enough to boost my ego, as long as I didn't think too hard about it. Because sure, I was coveted by Mr. Malfoy, in a sense; but only like one would covet a particularly fast greyhound, or a unique painting to hang on the wall. Only as a tool, as something that would serve to raise Draco's status.

Yeah, fuck him. I'd rather stay with the prim heiress; at least she seemed aware that I was human.

The irony being, of course, that I wasn't.

We then went to our first class of Herbology in the year, filing into the stuffy Hogwarts greenhouses and taking our usual positions around the different workbenches, beneath the eerie cover of a web of vines softly moving, creeping and twisting across the ceiling's glass.

I had just opened my textbook when Professor Sprout entered the greenhouse and walked up to me: "Ah, Sarramond, dear. Why don't you sit next to me for today's class?" she asked, putting a hand on my shoulder and pretty much guiding me forcibly to a spot by the head of the table. "We will be repotting Mandrakes today, and they can be dangerous if treated without the proper care and attention... and they can be... quite expensive, also..." She then addressed the rest of the class at large: "Now, does anyone know the properties of a Mandrake?"

"They can cure cursed people," I replied, my voice carrying a hint of annoyance. She quite visibly wasn't expecting me to know the answer, though, because she turned to look back at me with some surprise evident in her face.

"Oh, that's... correct. Five points to Slytherin," she said. "But as valuable as they are, the cry of a Mandrake can also be dangerous, even if the plants we will practise with today are quite young; which is why you will have to wear a pair of those protective earmuffs. Now, everybody get one, quickly."

We put on the earmuffs and I got a first row seat to Sprout's demonstration on how to repot one of the evil, crying vegetables, as the one in her hand shook and twisted. Despite that, though, the older witch expertly buried it into the other pot without any visible difficulties.

"Just pick it up from its leaves, then plop it down," she explained later. Somehow, I suspected it wasn't going to be quite that easy.

A suspicion that became a grim reality just a mere few minutes afterwards, once she'd spread the trays around with the rest of the Mandrakes and we were back wearing our protective earmuffs to perform the exercise ourselves. Extracting the root required me quite a bit more of yanking than it had required the teacher —maybe because I was only twelve, and so had just a fraction of the older woman's strength— and while she had warned us about the plant's cry, she had never mentioned a word about its teeth.

I was trying to use my left hand to guide the bottom part of the root into the pot —otherwise it would just twist around, making the repotting impossible— and barely managed to dodge its bite.

"You bloody git!" I muttered, pressing the plant harder against the dirt of the pot. Its ugly, deformed face looked at me with a look of profound loathing as it fought back with desperate energy.

Five minutes later I wasn't anywhere closer to burying it into the dirt than before, so I reached for the trowel on the tray that we'd used to dig into the dirt. Using it like one would a shoehorn, I started to apply leverage and pushing down with all my —admittedly, light— weight.

"Come on, you piece of shit!" I said, confident in that Sprout wouldn't hear me with her earmuffs on. "Get in already!"

Beneath my hand, the plant shook in anger, and even through the earmuffs I could hear the faint traces of its cry —that was getting even louder. But my clever plan was working! Thanks to the leverage, inch by inch, the Mandrake began to slid down into the pot.

That was, until Sprout snatched the trowel out of my hand with a frown and placed it back onto the tray.

I cursed at her under my breath, then began the process anew, with no tool to help me this time around. And after ten minutes of tireless fight with no visible progress, the professor simply grabbed my right wrist with her own hand, and guided it down with a sharp motion. And the Mandrake slipped smoothly into the dirt, as if by magic, becoming quiet at last.

I shook my head and rose my gaze up, only to discover that mine had been the only Mandrake to be still kicking around. And now that it was safely contained, Sprout gave the signal for us to remove our earmuffs at last. I did it quickly, running the back of my hand across my face to clear the sweat.

"Very well! Now, we ran a tiny bit late for another exercise–" said Sprout, causing every student in the greenhouse to look at me. "–but before you leave: for our next class I want you to write a one foot long essay on the medicinal properties of Mandrakes, and their use in potions and antidotes. Is that clear?"

Yeah, it was; and I couldn't pack my stuff quickly enough to get out of the bloody greenhouses as soon as possible. I was about to leave, when Sprout addressed me again:

"Dear, please, stay here for a moment; there's something I wanted to tell you."

Shit. I looked with panic written across my face at Tracey, but she gave me a helpless shrug; and yeah, there was nothing she could do to rescue me. I would have to face whatever the witch had in store for me.

So I approached her —Sprout— as the greenhouse emptied. The portly woman was busy storing the earmuffs and trays back into a large, low cabinet.

"Sarramond," she said. "I see that you're still having the same troubles as last year when handling plants; you tend to be too rough."

I shrugged. "Well, being softer doesn't seem to work either."

"I see... Hmm... since I don't wish for you to fail this year too, I thought that–"

"Let me guess," I interrupted, arms crossed. "Extra exercises?"

"Not quite. Rather, you will have one hour of remedial Herbology lessons with me every week in this term, starting with next Saturday. You will need to be here for the first hour of the morning, right after breakfast, and–"

"Wait! Are you giving me detention?!"

She blinked, then laughed softly. "Don't be silly, girl; nothing like that! Remedial classes are quite common, to help those students that need some extra guidance before they fall behind in their studies. You wouldn't want to get a failing grade this year too, would you?"

I wouldn't want... was that a threat or what?

"I know the theory quite well," I bargained. "It's just that plants seem to hate me for whatever reason. So... you know, if I could do an exam that was mostly theory, and skip a little on the practical side... I don't think I'd fail that. And we both know I'm never going to be an Herbologist, anyway."

Sprout shook her head. "No, girl. You will do the same exam as everybody else in your class. It wouldn't be fair to your classmates any other way; but it also wouldn't be fair to you, if I simply gave up on your education. No, I won't have any of that! Be sure to be here on Saturday morning, Sarramond. Now, that will be all; have a good afternoon, dear."

Yeah, sure... I thought as I left the greenhouse at last, my head hanging low. A bloody great afternoon.