When Victoria finally manages to rub the sleep from her eyes and has mustered enough energy to trudge down to the main hall, it's to the surprise of an owl wobbling toward her with a rather grumpy sounding hoot.
It proffers its leg towards her and she simply stands there, staring at it like a fool for a solid minute before Sasha nudges her and she's startled into action.
There's no way, it can't be-
"For me?" she mutters aloud, carefully untying it and belatedly offering the impish avian a treat after an expectant and increasingly frustrated stare.
But, indeed, the post is in fact for her.
Brilliantly blue, Victoria Dodger, is scrawled in looping fine print across the nearly yellow off-white envelope and she grunts when she's suddenly clapped on the back.
"I don't think I've ever seen you get a letter," Weasley number one comments, Weasley number two sidling in along her other side to lean over and give said letter a curious glance.
"And how would you know?" she mutters a little scornfully, taking a seat, "Do much Victoria-watching?"
"Only as much as is legally and morally acceptable," says number two cheerfully, prompting a scowl that's ignored.
A plate beset with an assortment of breakfast items is settled in front of her, the twins taking up arms on both her sides, and she carefully tucks the letter away before giving her breakfast a baleful look.
"We didn't poison it!" the one on her right promises with a mighty beam, motioning towards the food expectantly, and she takes a timid bite of sausage when the innocent expressions don't waver.
The one on her left cheers and when she doesn't immediately start vomiting or turning different colors she tucks in with a bit more gusto.
"To what do I owe the displeasure?" she asks after her first slice of toast and some potatoes, poking the eggs with her fork and fighting down a lurching sense of nausea.
Eating was hard, sometimes.
"What?" number one asks, with an exaggeratedly pitiful tone, "We can't just check up on our favorite charms master?"
She raises a brow at him, disbelieving, "As if there's ever just anything with you two," and then, tacked on a little belatedly, "and I'm not a master of anything, now tell me what you want or get lost."
"Wow," someone else comments, and when she looks up it's to a gangly dark skinned boy slipping into the seat across from her, "are you sure she's a Hufflepuff?"
"Somehow," the one on her left says, and she bristles a little, affronted and overtaken by a weird sense of house pride.
"I didn't ask for commentary from the peanut gallery," she sneers, and judging by the confused glances the teens around her share, it didn't come out as well as she'd intended.
" Wizards," she sighs, "whatever, now, what do you want?"
One of them rustles into his pocket and produces a jingling pouch which is then plopped in front of her with flourish.
"Your cut," they sing together, and she slides it towards her, picks it up, and is pleasantly surprised by the weight in her hand.
"Oh," she says after a moment, "is that all?" and at a nod, "Cool."
She spears a sausage and takes a small bite.
Swallows.
"Bombastic Bombs is a stupid name."
"Yeah well, we didn't think calling them Boom Balls was any better, so."
She shrugs, pushes her plate back, and eyes the new kid.
"Lee Jordan," he offers, flashing pearly whites, "a pleasure."
"Sure," she replies back, skeptical, "is that really all you wanted?"
"Well, I suppose we also thought it might be best to introduce you to the potions master of our little project," said one of the twins, "this is a business venture after all!"
Sasha takes the opportunity to weasel her way around the one on her rights shoulder, stretching out long with a snuffling snort that has the boy across the way immediately enthralled.
"Oh she's lovely," he says, "what a glossy coat, and such long whiskers!"
Sasha was visibly preening under the attention, chin tilted high with a pleased slanted glance towards her that screamed smug superiority - as though Victoria didn't regularly brush out her fur, or her teeth, and primp her to cozy purring bliss.
"She's spoiled," she says flatly, plucks her cat up and turns to leave.
"It was nice to meet you!" Lee Jordan calls to her back, but her attention is almost entirely focused on the letter burning a hole in her robe.
o.O.o
It was bright and windy, October chill clinging to the air and sinking deep in his bones as he bustled in through the rickety wooden doorway of his destination, heart an anxious thu-thumping beat in his chest, comfort in the form of his friends tucked close behind.
It was filthy inside, the kind of muck-gross that had his nose wrinkling because the floor was more mud than wood and there was a thick stench of what might have been goat marinating in the air - but he casts his glance, instead, towards the patrons spread sparsely throughout the room and the anxiety drops to flutter into his stomach.
There was a man at the bar whose whole head was wrapped in dirty gray bandages, and two figures shrouded in hoods sat at a table near one of the windows, heads hunched close. There was a witch with a thick, black veil that fell to her toes curled by the fireplace, and a thoroughly clothed figure tucked in the corner gripping a tall canteen of something cherry-red, a tuft of dark hair spilling loose as they lifted the mug to their shadowed face for a deep gulp.
"Hermione, I don't know about this," he can't help but say, eyes fixed dubiously upon the witch, "has it occurred to you that Umbridge might be here?"
Hermione follows his gaze and says, in a quiet ramble, "I know you're nervous, Harry, but she's too short to be Umbridge and, besides, I double and triple checked the schools rules - there's nothing against students coming here, and I specifically asked Professor Flitwick about it and all he said was that he strongly advised bringing our own glasses."
Then, sounding a little tense, she tacked on, "Though, of course, we shouldn't be parading what we're doing about either."
The barman was making his way out of the backroom, tall and thin and grumpy with long gray hair making a home on both his head and his chin. He looked them over, gruffly, before he huffed.
"What?" he grunted.
"Three Butterbeers please," Hermione said.
He reached down behind the bar and slammed three dusty bottles on the counter.
"Six Sickles," he said.
Harry grappled for his robe, produced the money, and slid it over quickly, "I've got it."
They retreated towards the back of the small room, Harry popping the cap off his bottle and taking a timid sip of the sickly-sweet drink as he eyed the door with a great deal of trepidation.
"Who'd you say was meeting us, again?" he asked, not for the first time.
"Just a few people," Hermione smiled, popping the lid off her bottle.
"You know, I bet that bloke would sell us anything," Ron said, staring at the man seated at the bar that was downing another flaming drink, "I've always wanted to try Firewhisky-"
"You are a Prefect!" Hermione hissed, affronted.
"Oh," Ron said, spirits immediately dampened, "right…"
It was quiet for a moment as they took in their drinks and the tepid atmosphere, the minutes drawing out long as his attention kept wavering between the patrons and the door.
He - really wasn't sure about this. Even beyond the knowledge that this could all come crashing down on their heads spectacularly, and the weird role he'd be taking as a teacher should they pull this off, there was the heavy burden of almost the entirety of the school despising him to consider as well.
He wasn't sure what to expect from his prospective… students, but he doubted it would be anything other than quickly cast judgment and derision.
"Victoria!" Hermione suddenly gasped, "What are you-"
"I heard about the meeting," a voice next to Harry suddenly said and he jumped, "and I must say I'm a little offended I wasn't invited."
"You didn't invite her?" he heard Ron hiss, and glanced back in time to see Hermione lurch forward with a furious glint in her eye.
" No," she hisses back, and then a bit more loudly, aimed at Victoria, "because she's a second year student who shouldn't even be in Hogsmeade!"
Victoria, for her part, doesn't even look a little ashamed, dark cat riding her shoulder. Her brows raise as she slides into the seat next to him, and his stomach lurches terribly.
The cat slithers down to curl up in her lap, and one of her hands starts languidly stroking the now-purring creatures back as the other came up to rub at her chest.
"Her name is Sasha," she offers, unprompted, and it immediately throws him off-kilter.
Was this an attempt at being friendly?
"How did you even get here?" Hermione asks, arms crossed now in a display of true displeasure.
"Hogwarts is full of secrets," she shrugs, and Hermione glowered fiercely.
"Did you use the wi-?" Harry starts, but he's cut off by a frigid glare that has his mouth clamping up shut.
Geez, he really can't figure her out.
She leans back in her seat, and Hermione glances between the two of them tersely.
"Why are you here?" She eventually settles on, after the air has grown tense and uncomfortable.
"Well you do plan on having me as an instructor, don't you?" she asks, and Harry's already cramping stomach does a flip, although this isn't news to him.
She slips a Butterbeer from her robe, pops the lid, and takes a sip. Her dark eyes wander the pub and Hermione huffs, but ultimately drops the issue.
Harry shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. Despite everything, he was surprised to see her - he hadn't really believed Hermione when she'd told him Victoria believed him. Their previous encounters had been passive aggressive at best and the idea of mending the rift between them had his heart skittering with a nauseating sort of anxiousness.
As it was, it had taken Hermione over an hour to convince him of the merit of bringing Victoria into their little club - and he had no idea where the girl stood on the matter, either. Hermione had said she'd agreed, but he couldn't imagine why.
Something about her was-
Off.
His scar aches with a simmering sort of burn and he resists the urge to rub it.
"Besides," Victoria says, "I bet you weren't even going to put up a muffling barrier."
Hermione flushes, caught, and the girl smirks.
He feels a hot flash of annoyance shoot up his spine because Hermione is brilliant and he scowls, ready to say something, when her lips curl; soften, around the edges, from something almost-mean to - kind .
"You'd better be careful about being seen," Hermione cautions, but she's smiling too, "I can't even begin to imagine what Umbridge would do if you're caught out."
The door opens and Harry turns to see a great wealth of people shuffle into the bar. His mouth drops, shocked, as he does a quick headcount and-
" A few people, Hermione?" he hisses, vexed with jittery-nerves, and the smile she quirks at him is small, but encouraging.
"What are they expecting?" he asks numbly, watching Fred scavenge for coins from the group of assembled people while the barman stood frozen behind the counter, "What have you been telling people?"
"They just want to hear what you have to say," Hermione says, soothing, "I'll talk to them first if you'd like."
He nods and Victoria gives him a look he internally categorizes as disgust, then visibly rolls her eyes and hops down from her stool.
"Hi Harry!" Neville beamed in, settling at a seat opposite him while others began crowding chairs around, and he smiled back weakly.
Cho Chang settled nearby and his mouth went dry, her friend giving him a mistrustful ogle that belied her true feelings about this meeting, and of Harry as a whole. Luna Lovegood gave him a smile and started dreamily gazing into space, and soon eyes began to focus on him, chatter dying out, prompting Hermione to clear her throat.
The now muted mass of students shifted towards her, and she flushed, "Well, er- you know why you're here."
She pauses, brow furrowing, and Harry follows her gaze to see Victoria standing in the back, far beyond the group, tucking her wand into her robe with a pointed look.
Hermione smiles, relaxes, and steeples her fingers as she continues.
"Well Harry had the idea-" Harry stares her down here, and she amends, quickly, "I mean I had the idea that it might be good if people who wanted to study Defence Against the Dark Arts - and I mean, really study it, you know, not the rubbish that Umbridge is doing with us because nobody could call that Defence Against the Dark Arts - well, I thought it would be good if we took matters into our own hands."
As Hermione spoke he watched as various gazes wandered from him, to her, then back again and it dawned on him, quickly, that most of them were here to find out what happened in the graveyard that night; that any real desire for applicable magic was an afterthought.
His attention flicks towards Victoria and he shudders back a flinch; her eyes, focused and dark and deep, were set entirely on him.
Somehow, he didn't think she was here to find out what happened the night that Cedric died.
"Harry, take my body back, will you, and-"
There's a challenge there, one he doesn't understand.
"Do you really think you deserve to be treated like an adult?"
His attention wavers to Hermione, who's flush has faded and in its place a terse study of disapproval had settled.
"So he says," someone was saying, nodding towards him, "so Dumbledore believes him."
Dots connecting quickly, his attention snaps into focus and he levels the boy with a dark look.
"All we were told is that Cedric Diggory was killed without any details - and we're just supposed to believe a Dark Lord long thought dead was the one who did it?"
Victoria was still watching him.
"I'm not here to talk about Cedric Diggory," he says, voice coming out more firm than he feels, "The only proof I've got is Cedric's body and my word with Dumbledore's approval. If that's not enough for you, then I don't have anything else to say."
The Hufflepuff boy frowned at him, brows drawing together in anger, and says, "Well, if you'd just tell people what happened then maybe-"
"It's none of your business," he cuts in sharply, resolutely not looking at Victoria, "the only people who have any right to know what happened that night is his family; his death isn't some- some spectacle for you lot to gawk at so you can gossip with your friends. Nothing that I say is going to change that."
His anger is rising with his words, but he tries to reign it in - tries to get a grapple on the near-overwhelming flow of regret and anguish and guilt that's trying to clamber over the rising tide of his fury.
The boy was pale now, mouth thin, and he still didn't let his eyes wander.
Good, a vindictive part of him thought viciously.
"I've told my story to the authorities," he says, clipped, "and I've talked with Mr. and Mrs. Diggory. That's all there is to say about that. If you'd like to learn Defense properly then that's what we're here for."
"R-right," Hermione stammers, eyes wide, "like I was saying-"
"Is it true you can produce a Patronus Charm?" a girl with plaited hair asks, staring at him intently.
"Yes," he says, taken aback, and there were scattered murmurs.
"A corporeal one?"
"Yes," he replies, and something about her phrasing stirs something in his memory.
o.O.o
Afterwards, when his emotions have settled into something like muted exhaustion and there was a general sense of approval from those assembled, he settles back as he watches the small crowd disperse in intervals.
"Harry?" a voice asks, and he turns to see Victoria edging closer, arms crossed loosely and eyes slanted away, fixed on a pinpoint he couldn't see.
"Can I talk to you?" she asks, gaze sliding up briefly to consider his entourage, "Privately, I mean."
He wants to say no immediately, but forces himself to smile instead - to nod, waving off Ron and Hermione, and follow her outside, cat in tow. The wind slaps against his cheeks harshly and he grimaces, threading his fingers through his hair, wishing this was over already. She leads him around back, into a more secluded area that, surprisingly enough, corners her off. She turns to face him and her usually pale cheeks are pink, though if that's because of the cold or the situation, he's unsure.
She tugs her scarf up around her mouth, clears her throat, rubs her chest, and still can't meet his eyes as she says, "I wanted to apologize."
He blinks, stunned, and gapes-
"What?" he asks, "What for?"
It's silent as she considers him, void-eyes finally meeting his own with a kind of piercing inspection he should probably start getting used to. She sighs, tucks a curly strand of hair slapping about with the wind behind her ear, and says, "It's not your fault."
His heart picks up and he doesn't say anything and she looks annoyed, briefly, like needing to elaborate was a chore.
"What happened to Cedric, I mean," she says, voice nearly lost, "you were just a kid put into a bad situation you knew nothing about. This isn't an excuse, but I was…under a lot of stress at the time, and I took it out on you and- and I shouldn't have. So I'm sorry. For that, I mean."
She's looking away again, one arm coiled tight around her stomach and the other resting in a loose fist in the middle of her chest, rubbing idly, and Harry feels a great knot cleaving tight around his lungs, unnoticed, loosen.
A large part of him had expected a fight of some kind. He honestly doesn't remember having many - any? - amicable conversations with the girl and he was ashamed to admit that a smaller, quieter part of him was a little disappointed that one hadn't occurred.
He observes her for a moment, and she shifts on her feet, what little of her mouth he could see pulling down.
She looked different, from the last time he'd seen her, and he can't help but compare her to the ghostly visage he'd stumbled across in the Great Lake last year.
He'd thought she was dead then; her frail form shrouded in murky olive-blue, washing her already pale profile in shades that made her more of a specter than a person. His heart had stopped, stomach dropping out, as he'd swam closer in utter panic - her robes engulfed her as they flowed with the water, her normally bright hair dim, and there were thick bruise-like circles under her eyes.
That's when he'd noticed it.
Eyelashes fluttering across her cheeks, he could see her eyes roving wildly beneath their lids and he'd reached out, wanting to help but unsure how, when Cedric arrived. The older boy had waved him aside, pointed him to Ron, and tapped his watch pointedly; and Harry knew it was a race, he knew he had to get a move on, but he still couldn't help but stagger back for a moment, to watch.
Cedric had looked struck ill as he broke her from her bonds; mouth set in a grim line, he'd handled her with great care - like she'd break if he gripped her too tight, and she was so small tucked against his chest that he'd only needed one arm to cradle her as he kicked off to the surface.
She seemed better now. Her cheeks were fuller and the circles lining her lids were dramatically reduced, but more than that; her eyes weren't nearly as oppressive, even juxtaposed to when he saw her in Grimmauld Place.
A thought comes to him, and he frowns.
"How did you know about the meeting today?"
She blinks, stares, then says, "I have my sources."
"Was it Fred and George?" he asks, because he knows she's had a hand in some of the products they've been touting about lately.
"Maybe," she says, "I'm not a snitch, so don't bother trying to dig."
He doesn't reply and she frowns at him, sighing before she rolls her neck, crosses her arms, and gives him a hard look.
"You don't trust me," she says, a statement more than a question.
"No," he says, "I don't."
"I can't blame you for that," she looks away, pushes back her bangs, and sighs again, "I'm not sure there's anything I can do to make you trust me. Either way I just came to apologize for my past behavior, I'm not looking to be friends or anything."
He considers her, runs her words over in his head, and asks himself - is there anything she could do to make him trust her?
His scar burns and he holds back a hiss. Her eyes flick up to it and he does not take a step back, he does not, bristling tingle racing hot up his spine.
"Why," he gathered himself, "-Why did you agree to be a teacher?"
"Because Voldemort murdered Cedric," she said slowly, like one would with a small child, and he bites back his frustration.
"Why do you believe me?" he asks instead.
"Because you came back with a body devoid of any signs of attack or injury," she says, pausing briefly, "and because I knew from the moment you said it - I could see it in your face and in your eyes."
He nods slowly and tugs his scarf up to shield some of his face from the chill. He could believe that, but - that was a good point. Cedric's body was devoid of any damage, just an empty vessel whose soul was snatched away, so-
Why didn't anyone else believe him?
"Wizards are idiots," Victoria murmurs, and geez can she read his mind, "they'll believe anything that bloody Prophet publishes, especially because it has the Government's," she rolls her eyes here, snide, " approval."
He has another question, but he doesn't know how to ask it - doesn't know how to phrase it in a way that won't result in her abnormally calm demeanor snapping.
Mrs. Weasley and Victoria and a tiny room; a sinister shade of a man, an awful scream, the look in her eyes as she rushed past and disappeared into the night.
No, that would be too far.
"Why were you staying with us over the summer?" He's not really expecting an answer and even as he says it he's trying to think of what he wants to ask next while she's being so open with him, but her gaze is measured - considering.
Eventually she smiles, casts her lashes down, and gives him a sardonic laugh.
"Apparently," she says, with a flat mirth in her voice, "my mother was murdered by Death Eater's."
The revelation is like a landmine, mentos-soda and pop-rocks, and he gawped at her, flabbergasted and rocked to his core, openly.
"Wh-?"
"Yeah, I don't know," she cuts in, any humor completely abandoned, "I have absolutely no idea why or how or whatever the fuck, so if you want to know more take it up with Dumbledore."
She sneers the name, icy disdain dripping from her every molecule, and he can't stop his flinch back at the sheer intensity of it; at the way it stings his scar and curls up inside of him, settles, warm. Her cat - Sasha, he reminds himself - who had been silent and still by her owner's side, merps up and winds her way to him, wrapping herself around his legs with a solid purr.
He glances down, then back up, as Victoria, lips twisted, started to pace.
"Bastard didn't even tell me until just before we had to come back," she ranted, one hand gripping her bangs and the other tugging at the thick cloth on her chest, "I mean what the hell? Like all that shit at the lake wasn't enough as it is, and then- and then Cedric-"
She cuts herself off with a growl, and he blinked as she turned sharply on her heel to face him once more, and visibly collected herself.
She was still rubbing her chest.
"Are you okay?" he asks, because she's been doing that a lot, actually, and she glares at him.
"I mean," he says, nodding towards her hand, "your chest. Is it okay?"
"Oh," she says, and looks down, blinks - like she hadn't noticed.
She stops her slow circular motions, furrows her brows, and eventually nods, "Yeah I'm- I'm fine, sorry, I don't know what came over me."
He doesn't know what to say to that - to any of it, really, and he's startled back when something heavy and solid lands on his shoulder in a great whumph of weight.
"Sasha," Victoria hissed, looking outraged, "you traitor."
Indeed, Sasha meowed long and loud before sloping against his head comfortably. The tension in the air had eased and he let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
He opens his mouth, apology on his lips, and closes it. Apologies were empty, meaningless, in the face of loss like that.
He nods his head, then says, "I know you're excellent at charms, so I'm not concerned about you holding the class back, but - Victoria, what do you want?"
Beyond the folds of her Hufflepuff scarf, her lips curl upwards into a feral sort of grin.
"I want to watch the life leave Tom Riddle's eyes," she says, eyes blazing, and that - that's something he could work with.
o.O.o
Miss Victoria Dodger,
We would like to extend an invitation to our home over the upcoming Winter Holidays. Transportation and food will be provided, should you be so obliged, and we eagerly await your response.
Please pen your reply to the address listed.
- Mr. and Mrs. Diggory.