Clara sat down in the plush black armchair she was already so used to sitting in. They'd been meeting most evenings for weeks now — possibly more if not for Malfoy's regular Quidditch practice.

Weekends were no exception. For Slytherins, weekends were the perfect time to laboriously train in the wind and rain for upcoming Quidditch matches, regardless of the reduced fixtures thanks to the Triwizard Tournament. Malfoy looked like he'd only just showered, lethargic from hours of exercise as he rested his head against his hand and flipped through History of Potions Volume 68 boredly.

He sighed. "What took you so long?"

Clara could've launched into a long explanation about the Weasley twins and their goal to make her laugh, but shrugging was much simpler.

"It's like you speak less every day," Malfoy remarked, sitting up with effort. "We've been working on this assignment for almost a month now and the only verbal responses I ever receive are 'no', 'yes', or a few words if I'm lucky."

He was looking right at her now. She hated it when he did that.

She watched her hands in her lap, twisting her fingers around in idle knots. "What did you want me to say?"

He picked up an empty roll of parchment. "Are you even capable of having a normal 1-1 conversation, badger?" he asked offhandedly.

"I don't like to talk," she said quietly.

"Yeah," He laughed under his breath, "I've heard that one several times. What do I have to do to get you to answer more when I ask you something? Is it because I call you badger? What — do I have to call you 'Davies' now?"

Clara hesitated. Surely he didn't actually think this had something to do with her name.

"Alright then, Davies," He emphasised her name heavily. His tone made her squirm, "what took you so long?"

"Fred and George Weasley tried to make me laugh," she said.

She realised how pitiful it sounded as soon as she said it. Not only was it an invalid excuse — the kind of excuse Snape would've had her head on a spike for — but it made her sound–

"Is that it? Merlin, quiet and boring."

Boring.

"I don't laugh in front of people either," she added, hoping it would save face.

"You don't? That's just depressing," he retorted, his words bitter with judgement.

Clara realised she was better off withholding from casual conversation with Malfoy, no matter his insistence. Clearly he was far more interested in provoking her than listening to her plights and understanding her. She should've expected this outcome from the start.

"So, Yule Ball, huh?" Malfoy said.

They'd been silent for the best part of an hour, so Clara wasn't sure how to go about replying, or whether that was a question.

He pressed on, regardless of her lack of answer. "Who are you going with?"

"I'm not going," she said.

"And why not?"

Clara glanced up from beneath her hair. He was doing it again — looking directly at her with those cold silvery eyes, waiting for her to reply. She looked back down at her lap and absently played with the ends of her sleeves.

"I don't want to," she replied. "It's a waste of time."

"Is that just another way of saying, 'I don't have a date and don't want to look sad and alone'?" he asked with a tinge of amusement. He must've not expected her to nod. "Oh."

Neither had anything more to say to one another. Clara took to organising any completed work into the notebook they'd been provided, using Sticking Charms to attach diagrams and lose notes. It gave her something to take her mind of Malfoy's presence, which had never been so unnatural.

"I'm going with Astoria," he said. "By the way. In case you were wondering."

Clara was not wondering. Clara didn't want to know.

"Okay," she muttered.

December 19th 1994

Dear diary,

I don't know how much more Yule Ball talk I can tolerate. It's bad enough sharing a dormitory with a group of excitable girls who are all equally impatient to dress up in ball gowns, but it's not something I really want to think about.

What's only making it worse is that Malfoy's going with Astoria. I realise how much I'm obsessing, I know, but it's hard not to. I could try to move on, but I don't think I can. Not knowing how extreme the situation has gotten.

I wonder if he'll figure out someday that it was me, but what if he never does? Or worse, what if he does? Both possibilities are equally miserable. I can't choose between regret following me to my grave and public humiliation.

If I had to go with someone, it would probably be one of the twins, but even that's something I want to avoid. An entire evening of closeness, conversations, and eye contact sounds pretty miserable, no matter who it is.

At least I can enjoy my evening to myself for once. Christmas was never really my thing anyway, including the Christmas parties the Hufflepuffs hold every year. I just find it pointless, a lot of obsession over one day. Sure, the decorations are pretty and the atmosphere is light, but that's about it.

I sort of thought that Justin would end up asking me, but it turns out he asked Susan Bones to the ball instead. I didn't want to attend anyway, but he didn't know that. After spending most of last year together, the very least he could do was ask!

Clara dabbed the corner of a tissue at the ink puddle she'd made.

But it's fine. It's not that deep.

Clara's housemates never believed her when she said she wanted to attend breakfast alone. Breakfast was her time to mentally wake up and adjust to the land of the living. She wanted peace, and space, and no company. She wanted it, she really did.

This morning, she found an empty section of the Ravenclaw table with no others for a few metres, allowing her to enjoy her bowl of strawberry yoghurt in peace.

Mostly in peace.

The group of Gryffindor girls a few seats down were eyeing her and laughing. She knew them all too well. They varied in year groups — only one of them was her age — but it was their penchant for nastiness that unified them. Quiet kids and weird kids alike were just toys for their amusement. That included Clara.

People often said how Slytherins are horrible, that they're the real bullies of the school, but in reality it was very often the Gryffindors you had to watch out for. Their bravery sometimes made them a bit too brave.

Clara ignored them and poured herself a glass of apple juice. One of them made a noise, like a cross between a pig and an ape. Her bewildered reaction had them pissing themselves.

"Davies, I found something."

A blond blur appeared in her vision and sat down heavily on the seat opposite her. Malfoy was dressed in the typical Quidditch warm-up gear — including a green and silver jumper with a dark green waterproof jacket over the top, unzipped — although judging by the thunder outside and the dry state of his hair, he had yet to attend practice.

She didn't realise he was carrying something until he slammed an open book on the table. A stack of Chocolate Frog cards were clenched tightly in his hand.

"You know how we could barely find anything on Laverne De Montmorency last night? Well, I spent all night reading this," He tossed the book open and patted the page enthusiastically, "and then ate a Chocolate Frog, right? Sounds irrelevant, but look."

He plucked one of the cards out of the stack and slid it towards her. Laverne De Montmorency's portrait adorned the front, with his entire biography written across the back. This was information they'd spent hours combing through books to find.

"It was on a Chocolate Frog card all this time," he exclaimed, looking like he wanted to slap himself. "Oh and I found Babayaga. A rare one too, isn't that neat?"

Clara's brother was a Chocolate Frog card collector. She didn't share the same enthusiasm for the snack.

"That's nice," she murmured, stirring her yoghurt.

She felt an odd kind of satisfaction, watching him awkwardly squirm out of the interaction the way she had for most of the previous evening. If this wasn't karma in action, she didn't know what was.

"That's all I wanted to say," he said evenly, stowing the cards away in his pocket in an act of nonchalance.

"Hey Clara, isn't it?"

All Clara wanted was a peaceful breakfast. That was it.

After waiting for Malfoy to stand up and leave, one of the Gryffindor girls shuffled over to her. Another had a hand over her mouth to conceal her derisive laughter.

"Mind if I keep this?" The girl held up Clara's Charms book. Clara wasn't even sure where they'd gotten it from. "I just haven't done any of this work," she said as she flipped through the pages. The other girl's giggling was a nasty soundtrack, "and I could really do with a good grade. It's fine if I hand this in though, right? We're best friends-"

Malfoy snatched the book out of the girl's grip and dropped it unceremoniously in front of Clara. Her yoghurt bowl tipped over, the contents sloshing onto the table.

"Maybe if you paid attention in class for once, Stanmore, then you wouldn't have to nick Clara's homework, would you?" Malfoy sneered.

Stanmore leaned over the table. "Go fuck yourself, Malfoy."

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. "Want to repeat that again, you filthy blood-traitor?"

Stanmore made a high-pitched noise of indignance that allowed some satisfaction to show on Malfoy's face. Both girls stormed out of the room, closely followed by the rest of their friends.

Clara watched with her eyes wide and her jaw almost completely hanging open. Her yoghurt was long forgotten.

"Thank you," she said earnestly.

Malfoy responded with a small nod of acknowledgement before sweeping out of the room. She watched him leave. Two of his teammates met him at the door, dressed identically. They didn't pull the look off as well as he did. He greeted them and laughed, not so much as sparing a glance back at her.

Okay, so she might've been down bad, worse than she'd first thought.

The snow fell in tiny little flakes around her. Clara had found a comfortable spot in the courtyard and settled down with a grey scarf from her mother around her shoulders like a blanket. Her diary was open in her lap, her quill in her gloved hand. She wasn't sure how to start the next entry, but she'd have to think of something. She'd never gone a day without writing before.

Distantly, a boy from Durmstrang took a Gryffindor girl's hand and asked her to the Yule Ball. Judging by their relieved and elated expressions, she'd agreed.

Clara had started to relent to the idea of attending the ball. Fred and George had long since found dates, but there was still time for someone else to come stumbling into her path and ask. And if not, she was equally fine with that.

"Clara?"

Ron appeared from thin air. His knitted hat was starting to catch snowflakes. He shifted back and forth. She'd never seen someone look so hesitant to approach her in her life.

"So, you going to the ball then?" he asked 'casually'.

He leaned his weight against one leg, and then the other. A hand moved to his hip. It darted to his hair and then fell to his side again. She wasn't sure whether he was posing, having a stroke, or just being awkward.

Clara shook her head for the millionth time that day.

"Good," Ron sighed happily, "I mean — not good, I mean — good for me, but not for you obviously — unless you're going alone, then that's fine — bit weird, but fine . . ."

In her bewilderment, she lifted her hands in a sort of shrug. Suddenly Ron looked so much more nervous than before.

"So, uh, anyway, wouldyouliketogototheballwithme?"

She blinked. "Pardon?"

Ron closed his eyes and didn't open them again until he'd finished. "Would you like to go to the ball . . . with me? You know, together? It doesn't have to mean anything, I just . . . you know . . ."

Maybe Clara would've said no had this been weeks earlier, and had she not taken pity on the poor soul. Ron must've been really desperate if he was asking her. Saying no would've been selfish.

"Sure," she agreed quietly.

"Really?" he asked, astonished. She nodded. "Great, phew, that's a weight off my shoulders. I almost went and asked Fleur Delacour." He nodded to the flawless Beauxbatons student across the courtyard. "Now imagine how bad that could've gone."

Clara hummed in agreement. If he struggled that much asking her to the ball, she cringed to think how his other attempts would've fared.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

Author's note: Stanmore is based on a girl I knew against my will called Maddie. She made school a living hell for 5 years #authorlore

[Edited 22/06/2024]