Clara walked the corridors of Hogwarts castle in silence and solitude. Her footsteps were so quiet that you'd assume she was just another spirit that roamed the castle. She wore her Hufflepuff robe close to her body while she hugged her Transfigurations book to her chest. Her head was bowed down, her dark brown hair blocking most of her vision.

Even those in her own house didn't acknowledge her presence, barely even sparing a glance as she bristled past them and towards the dormitory she shared with the other Hufflepuff girls in her year.

Fortunately, Clara had managed to claim a bed in the corner of the room at the start of her enrollment, furthest away from her roommates. It wasn't that she had an issue with them, but they were just so loud and desperate for conversation when she would rather do anything else. This way, her silence was easier to excuse.

The dorm room was empty. Opening the blinds by hand — she was awful at the spell needed to do so — she placed her belongings down on her bed, including her books, stationary, and her diary. She draped her robe over the back of her chair and placed her shoes on the floor, sitting cross-legged on the bed.

Clara stacked her other items to the side, turning her attention to her diary. The diary had been a Christmas gift from Justin Finch-Fletchley, back when they'd sort of been close during their third year. It was just a plain spiral bound muggle notebook, but it gave her the chance to contemplate her day and her life without her business becoming everyone's. It was like having a best friend that didn't interrupt her need for quiet.

Just to be safe, she never signed her name off in the end. Someone finding it would be mortifying enough, but being identified too would be enough to send her spiralling into a full-blown panic attack.

She flipped to the next clear page and began to write.

October 30th 1994

Dear diary,

Every time I think my day cannot be worse than my previous day, I'm somehow proven wrong. I'd had my hopes up too, with my only class today being Transfiguration, but I don't think I've ever been so confused by a lesson in my life.

I was tempted to ask my desk partner to help, but she ignores me. The only time she ever spoke was once when she asked to borrow some ink because she'd run out. When I asked her for a short piece of parchment, she looked like she wanted to hex me just for speaking, so I didn't see why I should help her. But I wouldn't bother to start up a fuss. It always makes a big scene with those types of people.

I received my Herbology assignment back from Professor Sprout this morning. I failed. Honestly, I can't say I'm surprised, Herbology isn't my strong suit. Not many subjects are. But at least it wasn't Potions.

No one else really spoke to me much, except Ron. He tries to be nice and start up conversations with me, and I think he thinks I don't like him. It's not that, but I won't tell him that's what I think he thinks or it'll make things awkward, and I don't want that.

If I'm lucky I'll manage to get through this year while avoiding the worst of the Triwizard Tournament fuss. It's bad enough having so many more people to dodge in the halls every day, but I hope it won't be something that'll get in my way too much.

The next morning, a forgotten alarm clock meant that she was late to breakfast. Late was the wrong word — on time, maybe — but being on time meant she'd be eating when the hall was busiest.

Clara had a habit of taking a very short amount of time to get herself ready in the mornings. Her roommates were already in the common room talking which allowed her the space to herself. Once her hair and teeth were brushed and she'd changed into her robes, Clara hurried towards the Great Hall without receiving so much as a 'good morning' from her housemates.

She froze at the sight of the hall. Students from all years and houses filled every table. Even the Hufflepuff table was packed, mostly with those from her house but also a few Ravenclaws and Gryffindors dotted between.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Clara held her hands nervously by her sides and sat down in an empty space at the Gryffindor table. She served a small helping of strawberry yoghurt and bowed her head over her bowl, conveniently avoiding eye contact with the others at the table. She could feel their eyes on her. The grains in the wood of the table had never been so interesting.

"Hey."

Clara hesitantly glanced up, wary that she wasn't actually being addressed. Very few people ever had a reason to start up a conversation with her unless it was as a prank or as part of a dare.

Though this time that wasn't the case. George Weasley had slid onto the bench opposite her, carrying a handful of tangerine slices which he haphazardly popped into his mouth.

"You're quiet today," George noted. "Well, every day really, but today's no exception, eh?"

Clara shook her head and timidly stirred her yoghurt in her bowl.

"Are you excited for the feast tonight then?" he asked her. "I'm still pretty pissed off about that age line Dumbledore decided on adding, but Fred and I think we've figured out a way around it. Want to hear? But you'll have to keep it a secret."

"Okay," she replied.

"Well, we've been brewing up an Ageing Potion all morning," he announced proudly. There was an awkward silence. "I see you're underwhelmed, understandably, but you won't be when you see just what our plan will accomplish. We even had to sneak a small ingredient or two from Snape's cupboard. The greasy-haired git probably won't notice though."

"Will it work?" she whispered.

A brief look of surprise flitting across his face — he probably hadn't been expecting her to engage with him at all — he nodded eagerly. "No reason for it not to. An Ageing Potion vs. an age line? The plan's foolproof," he replied excitedly. "Anyway, I have to get back to that potion. Will you be around for the big reveal? We plan to test our masterpiece this afternoon."

Slightly unsure, she nodded, swallowing another spoonful of yoghurt.

"Alright!" He leaned in to high-five her, but then she stared at him dumbly and he lowered his hand again. "I'll see you around, Clara."

He scooped up the remaining orange peel from the table and disappeared, probably back towards his friends. If not for the fact that her family were close to the Weasleys, she doubted George would've spoken to her in the first place. The twins were popular in their year group. They had nothing to gain from socialising with her.

Clara only finished half of her serving. She picked up her glass of water to take with her and started towards her dorm. People brushed past her, bumped into her, even nearly knocked her off balance, but only one or two muttered any kind of apology.

Just as she reached the end of the path between the Slytherin and Gryffindor tables, Clara saw a boy's shoes come into view. She began to stop, but it was too late. Her glass had completely slipped out of her hands. The contents splashed out in front of her.

Mortified didn't even begin to describe the feeling of complete horror that enveloped her. She hesitantly drew her gaze upwards to see the damage she'd caused. The person in front of her was soaked. The sound of her glass shattering against the floor caught the attention of everyone nearby.

The boy was a Slytherin. She recognised him from a few of her classes, although they'd never spoken a word to each other. She didn't even know his name.

And yet here he was. His friends guffawed with laughter as he dripped onto the floor. Even his face was splattered with water. His lip curled up in distaste at the state of his clothes. At least the water hadn't reached his white blond hair.

Now would've been a really good time to make a run for it, but the shock kept her rooted in place. She wondered if she should say something. She doubted there was an apology sufficient enough to convey just how embarrassed she felt.

"What do you think you're playing at, badger?" he spat. She didn't respond. "Huh?!"

Clara felt like she was choking. She backtracked, her shoes crunching over the glass fragments underneath her. The Slytherins were laughing at her now, not their drenched housemate.

"I-I'm s-s-sorry," she stammered, her arms raised in surrender.

"You should be. My father will be hearing about this," he snapped. One of his friends made a little jeering noise. "Get out of my face, you stupid blood-traitor."

By the time he finished speaking, she was already halfway out of the room. Her vision was starting to cloud up with tears. She stopped at the girls' bathroom closest to the hall. It was empty, nothing but her and the soft churning of the pipes around her.

She twisted one of the cold taps and prayed that the sound of the running water would drown out her whispered sobs.

It was safe to say that her classes for the remainder of the day were uncomfortable. On the plus side, she had the evening to look forward to. After a morning like that, witnessing Fred and George's plan in action was exactly the kind of entertainment she needed.

She shuffled awkwardly into the Great Hall, her hands stowed deep into the pockets of her robes. Her roommates were gathered in a little cluster to one side of the hall, chatting animatedly between each other and sharing a bowl of popcorn one had prepared.

She sat down beside Hannah Abbott, who happened to be one of few people who voluntarily spoke to her. Hannah regarded her with a polite smile. Clara awkwardly did the same. She hoped the expression wasn't too robotic.

She watched as Cedric Diggory was pushed forward by his friends towards the flaming Goblet of Fire. He dropped a tiny piece of paper inside with a smug grin. His friends patted him on the back as if he'd already won the damn tournament.

Clara didn't dislike Cedric — she didn't dislike anyone — but something about him bothered her. It was as if he needed to go out of his way to appear the smartest and most athletically-gifted in the school. She sometimes wondered how much of his personality was genuine, and how much of it wasn't. But maybe she was just looking too far into it. Maybe he just was an outstanding person.

She began to look around the room at some of the others. She recognised people from her classes but was sure to keep her gaze moving so that no one would think she was staring. Ron was standing near the age line with Harry Potter, marvelling the sight of the goblet, while Hermione Granger, a girl from most of her classes, studied furiously on an opposite bench.

That was when Fred and George made their entrance, no bigger than usual. They paraded through the hall, high-fiving anyone who would accept one. When Fred reached her, he raised an eyebrow at her expectantly, so very hesitantly she lifted her hand and high-fived his.

"Not too hard, is it, Davies?" Fred teased her.

A few people consequently turned to look at her. She glanced away distantly and fought down the flush of embarrassment in her cheeks.

But as Clara glanced away, her eye caught someone else. Across the benches in the far corner of the room, the Slytherins in her year congregated together, bantering and laughing as loud as they often were.

At the top of the stack of benches was the boy from earlier. She hadn't really had a chance to look at him before, but it was only now that she took in his distinct appearance — his platinum blond hair, his sharp facial features which were pulled into a smile as he laughed at one of his friends' jokes, the way he leant backwards against the wall with his legs extended out across the bench.

Clara lightly nudged Hannah. "Hannah?" she whispered, subtly pointing towards the group. "Who's that boy? With the blond hair?"

Hannah looked at her confusedly, following the direction of her gaze. "Oh, that's Draco Malfoy," she explained. "Why? Do you know him?"

Clara shook her head. "No."

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

Author's note: [Edited 17/06/2024]