To Clara's own shock, she wasn't late to her and Draco's final Christmas coursework session. It was novel; it felt wrong. But without the Weasley twins around to make her run late — they were busy brainstorming alternative methods of making income from the Triwizard Tournament — or copious amounts of sleep deprivation, there wasn't really much else to do with her time.
"You arrived on time?"
Her unusually good timekeeping didn't escape Malfoy's notice. He was walking alongside her through the library, his blond eyebrows raised in shock. He was mocking her. It must've been one of his favourite pastimes.
"I should've stolen that Creevey boy's camera to capture this moment." He pointed his thumbs and forefingers out, miming a photo frame. She didn't encourage him. "Remember what we agreed on — you have to make regular conversation unless I tell you to shut up."
Clara looked pained. "Please tell me to shut up."
"You're a funnier little badger than you look," Malfoy remarked dryly. She eyed him with a disinterested look. "Snape suggested we research the physical properties of Amortentia, so I brought another sample along."
"Okay," she agreed quietly.
She'd answered purely to get him off her back. Malfoy was being plain in his efforts to coax any kind of verbal reaction out of her, and it was as unnatural as it was annoying. It made him just as insufferable as Fred and George.
"You really are awful at basic conversation, aren't you?" Malfoy remarked.
Clara exhaled sharply through her nose, her patience wearing progressively thinner, and took a seat at their desk. Malfoy lit the oil lamp on the desk with a low mutter of an incantation and a tap of his wand against the scratched glass.
"If you're so insistent that we talk," she began, using a mildly accusatory tone, "what would you like to talk about?"
He shrugged, tossing open his Potions book. "You aren't a fan of Quidditch, are you?" he asked offhandedly. She shook her head. "Ever played?"
"I tried," she admitted. "Once. But I don't like playing Quidditch."
Malfoy was confused. "Why not?"
Clara could give him a long list of reasons why she didn't like the idea of playing Quidditch, which included but weren't limited to the horrific injuries, the unreasonable balance required, the horrific injuries, the sheer amount of luck involved, and the debilitating injuries.
"I'm not very good," she said. "Anyway, it's a game for wizards with no sense of self-preservation."
"There is nothing dangerous about Quidditch," Malfoy insisted with a dismissive scoff. She nodded sceptically. "And you don't have to be any good to play Quidditch for fun anyway. Unless you can't fly or something . . . No. Davies, no."
Clara shrugged. That was another reason why she didn't like the idea of playing Quidditch.
But many people couldn't fly. Hermione wouldn't be caught dead on a broomstick. Coincidentally, Stanmore hadn't picked up flying during first year either. And the idea of someone like Dumbledore on a broom was like the premise of a comedy skit.
"I've tried," Clara insisted, hoping her embarrassment wasn't too visible, "but I fall off before I can go far. But like I said, Quidditch is a game for wizards with no sense of self-preservation. I hit my head on my broom while trying to fly once and . . ."
Clara slowly turned. Malfoy was being unnaturally quiet, and now she could see why. His pale face had turned pink with poorly stifled laughter. She wanted to be annoyed, but in a strange way she was flattered. Not only had she tickled his humour, but he was actively trying to spare her feelings.
"How did–," Malfoy snorted. "Sorry, sorry — how did you manage to hit your head?"
She gritted her teeth. "I was trying to duck under a tree."
Malfoy's laughter was hard to ignore. It had that constant jeering quality to it, one of those targeted sounds that was impossible to ignore or dismiss as background noise. In the past, it was the kind of sound that would have her cringing and excusing herself from the conversation immediately.
If not for their imminent deadline, she probably would.
Within a minute, his amusement had dwindled to occasional laughs that slipped through whenever he spoke. "You're probably the — hang on–" Malfoy paused, squeezing his eyes closed in an effort to quieten himself, "–the only pureblood witch in history to fail at flying."
Clara shrugged. "I don't see why it should matter anyway," she argued. "There's more to life than mangling yourself on a broomstick."
"Yeah?" He lifted his head and eyed her derisively. "Name one thing. Hold on — mangling? Davies, if you're getting mangled every time you ride a broomstick, I hate to tell you this but I think you might be doing it wrong."
"Thanks for the advice," she said flatly. ". . . And anyway, I don't really have the build for flying either. I'm too lanky."
Her own choice of wording made her wince — it was an unflattering-sounding word when said aloud — but far be it from inaccurate. She struggled to hold onto any weight or gain muscle. It was an ongoing issue her older brother would teasingly poke fun at her for.
"Crabbe and Goyle don't have the build for flying," he countered. "You've seen those two — they're built like mountain trolls."
Clara blinked slowly. She silently lowered her quill to the desk and turned to look at him.
"Did you just compare me to Crabbe and Goyle?" she asked quietly.
Now she understood why people like Malfoy relished in making others feel resolutely uncomfortable. The way his eyes widened as he realised himself and his already pale face blanched filled her with a small burst of achievement.
Because obviously she knew he hadn't meant anything by it, but watching him grasp at straws was more satisfying than she could've imagined.
"No! I mean, no, no that's not–" He paused, trying to gather his thoughts, "–I just meant that Crabbe and Goyle can despite their size but–"
Clara raised her eyebrows.
"–that's not to say you're big, but you're not too skinny or anything you're just–"
"Malfoy, you can stop," Clara interjected delicately. She pursed her lips. "I was kidding."
His eyes narrowed, scrutinising gaze lingering as it dragged down her body and back up to her face. Maybe confirming his spluttered ramblings for himself.
"You're a sly little badger, aren't you?" he drawled, his voice tainted with a trace of . . . respect.
Her uncomfortable gaze burnt holes into the shelf in front of them. She didn't have anything to say in response.
This was why she could never do what the Slytherins do.
Clara's wrist still didn't feel the same since the morning she'd spent being dragged around a wet field by a blast-ended skrewt. It made loud clicking noises when she twisted her hand around in circles, but Madam Pomfrey had quickly insisted that it was a perfectly normal side-effect to her injury.
The cold air didn't do much good for it either. She'd taken to wearing a pair of white fingerless gloves she'd crocheted over the Christmas break, thicker stitches around her wrists preventing her joints from aching later.
She hoped the blast-ended skrewts were old enough to walk themselves now. She would rather wander unarmed through the Forbidden Forest than risk falling face-first in the snow and accidentally swallowing a mouthful of icy cold mush.
Not to be too mean to Hagrid, but she was definitely relieved to find substitute teacher Professor Grubbly-Plank in his place, accompanied by a small unicorn.
The class went by in a mostly regular fashion. Malfoy and the other Slytherins taunted and goaded Potter and his friends relentlessly, the teacher made some intelligent, exam-related comments about the following aspect of the curriculum which were ignored by most, the class stood around restlessly in ankle-deep snow while they were given the usual safety talk about the creatures they were about to interact with — all in all, nothing she hadn't endured before.
The class was separated by gender, with the girls instructed to form an orderly queue leading up to the unicorn while the boys waited a safe distance behind the hastily-assembled wooden fence. Unicorns were sexist. Or something; she couldn't really hear Grubbly-Plank over Malfoy and Potter's indiscreet bickering.
The unicorn reacted uncomfortably to each girl who pet it — Clara was beginning to feel like a sacrifice in the name of science. Hannah was unlucky enough to break a bone in her foot from being stepped on; Justin had half-carried, half-dragged her back to the castle to see Pomfrey.
Then it was Clara's turn. Those still waiting were a wary distance away after the previous incident. Ron Weasley was talking very loudly and impatiently about lunch.
"Yes, yes, come on." Grubbly-Plank latched onto her coat sleeve and dragged her towards the apprehensive unicorn. "You can approach it, Miss . . .?"
Clara swallowed. "Davies, Professor."
"Miss Davies." The teacher stepped around her, placing her impatient hands on her shoulders to steer her forward; Clara reluctantly stopped in the same spot Hannah had been standing in. "No need to look so disturbed. Miss Abbott's incident was perfectly avoidable; just be careful and gentle."
Gentleness was something Clara possessed in abundance. But care? She was about as careful as a drunk troll. Her mother had bewitched all of their crockery at home to avoid them smashing whenever a plate or bowl inevitably slipped from her hands.
She leaned forward tentatively, reaching out towards the unicorn's soft white fur. Slowly. So slowly. She didn't even breathe. She bit down on her tongue and swallowed thickly to dispel the cough that threatened to escape her. Her fingertips just brushed against its fur and–
Clara coughed. The unicorn jolted. She leapt back and landed arse-first in the snow.
Grubbly-Plank hushed the unicorn. The class quietly snickered. Clara continued to cough, covered in snow and beginning to turn a vibrant shade of red.
In the absence of Hannah or Justin to come to her rescue, Sally-Anne Perks stepped out of the queue, laughing unabashedly. "Are you alright, Clara?" she checked, her voice not completely sincere.
Clara almost made the mistake of indulging herself in bashful laughter. Almost. Because if Malfoy had witnessed her come even close to a laugh, she knew she would never hear the end of it.
Was suppressing any positive emotion for the sake of a petty small rivalry exactly what her St Mungo's healer would tell her not to do? Maybe. But what did that woman really know anyway? She hadn't attended Hogwarts in decades.
"In future, just ask me for a lozenge if you need one, Miss Davies," Grubbly-Plank remarked, raising an eyebrow as Clara stood up and dusted herself off. "Next!"
"Davies, we were looking all over for you!"
Clara had taken a single step out of the Great Hall. She'd managed to snag a sausage roll and wrap it in a napkin before it went cold, and now she could curl up in the confines of her curtain-covered bed and snack in peace.
Except she couldn't. An arm looped around each of hers. Once she registered the two redheaded, towering presences practically dragging her through the castle and out into the snowy courtyard, she realised that there was no talking her way out of this one.
If she were braver, she could scream and make a scene. But contrariwise, if she were braver, she wouldn't be in this situation to begin with.
"So we've been thinking about our new goal in life," Fred started. "You know, getting you to laugh."
"And then we realised something," George continued. Clara was getting good at telling them apart by the overeager timbre of their voices alone. "Isn't it possible that we've been going about this the wrong way?"
"Maybe jokes aren't your thing," Fred suggested.
George nodded. "But there's more to comedy than just jokes."
Clara's head filled up with some worst case scenarios. Commedia dell'arte. Slapstick. Mime. Worse: musical comedy. Then she inwardly gasped — not clowning.
Fred and George deposited her onto one of the shorter walls and stood back in front of her. There was no one here to save her now; no one in their right mind spent their precious break outside in subzero temperatures like this.
"That's why we," Fred motioned between himself and George, "the Weasley Twins, introduce to you . . ."
He drumrolled. George joined in. Clara took a silent nibble out of the corner of her rapidly cooling sausage roll.
"Our stand-up show!" George announced extravagantly. During the long, pointed silence, he reached into his coat pocket for a crumpled scrap of old parchment. "The name's a work-in-progress."
"And I know what you're going to say," Fred said. "Why stand-up? Why not, say, clowning?"
"We're working through a list, actually," George explained. Clara shuddered at the idea of . . . Merlin, just the thought of the thought made her shudder again. "But we'll circle back to the good stuff later–"
"Can I go inside now?" Clara interjected. She stared down at her thinly-covered arms. "I'm not wearing a coat."
Fred and George stared at her. Their jaws unhinged a small yet equal amount, the perfect reflection of one another. They turned to stare at each other, agape like two beta fish that had acknowledged each other's existence for the first time. And then they high-fived.
"She talks!" George said in celebration.
"Properly talks!" Fred agreed. "Brilliant!"
Clara silently huffed through her nose. "I'm very numb," she said gently, "and I would really like to go inside now."
"Eh," Fred waved a careless hand, "no worries. If we're being perfectly honest, we've only written a sentence so far anyways."
"And that sentence has a gap for the name," George added with a shrug.
Clara nodded sympathetically. They were trying, that was all that mattered. Whether they were trying to make her laugh or sob uncontrollably was a different question altogether.
She began to stand up, her sausage roll unpleasantly cold again, and tugged her sleeves over her frozen hands.
"But I do have another joke for you before you go," Fred said excitedly. Clara sat back down, her shoulders sagging in resignation. "Why do Slytherins love Herbology?" A short, tense pause. "Because it's in a greenhouse!"
Clara didn't pretend to be amused. "Funny."
Fred wordlessly turned around and walked back inside, leaving George and Clara behind in the snow. George shrugged. So did she.
Clara was still shivering by the time she made it to Potions. After her less-than-pleasant lunch break out in the cold, she'd returned to her dorm to pick up her coat and add another layer of thick purple winter socks to her numb feet, but now she just hoped Snape wouldn't be in an objectively bad mood today. He could be downright cruel with his punishments when it came to minor uniform violations. Hermione had nearly been given a detention once for her black leather buckle shoes being too shiny.
"This is a surprise."
She lifted her head. Malfoy was alone outside the Potions classroom — a very rare occurrence. She wondered where the other Slytherins were. Crabbe and Goyle, at the very least. She didn't think those two could survive without Malfoy's presence nearby.
Malfoy glanced at his watch. "12 minutes early? I take it you finally got sick of Snape's detentions."
She shook her head, almost wanting to roll her eyes. "Snape always finds something else," Clara said assuredly. "Why are you early?"
Malfoy sighed, already slumped against the stone wall but now with his shoulders slouched. "Pucey and one of the Carrow twins — whichever one he's going out with — were having their domestic at the lunch table."
Clara didn't find that difficult to believe. She remembered Pucey and his girlfriend getting into a shouting match out in the courtyard one evening after dinner. It had taken the rumour of McGonagall on her way over to investigate for the two to resolve their disagreement in private and the crowd to disperse.
"I saw Snape a moment ago, by the way," Malfoy drawled, boredly fiddling with the Wimborne Wasps keychain on his bag. "He's giving us a mock test today, and apparently if a single one of us complains about having no time to revise, he'll fail us all."
"A test?" Clara repeated. The sharp urgency in her voice made her jump just as much as Malfoy.
Malfoy stared at her bewilderedly. "It's not a big deal, so long as you don't fail. But you probably won't."
Apparently Malfoy couldn't read the room, because otherwise he would've stopped talking two sentences ago. Clara had left her prescription on her bookshelf. Those breathing exercises were useless, she'd always said so — oh fuck, she was so screwed. She knew nothing. She'd fail this. She'd fail the year. She'd fail her OWLs. And then what? A life of freeloading on her parents and begging anyone to give her a job despite having zero qualifications or–
"Davies, you look really pale," Malfoy observed cautiously. Maybe he thought his comment was helpful to her in some way. She'd never felt such a violent urge to slap someone in her life. "Like I said, this isn't important; Snape would've already told our house, and by extension you, if it was."
Clara breathed quickly. "You'd tell me?"
He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "It's not a secret," he remarked. "Just don't go blabbering to Potter or one of his friends. That attention-seeker doesn't deserve the benefit of foresight."
"I'm not sure I agree. I mean, it kind of looks like he actually just wants to be left alone and stay under the radar, but considering his circumstances . . ." She stared at the ground intensely. "But I don't know. Sorry, I'm probably wrong . . ."
"Is over-apologising a badger thing or something?" Malfoy asked dryly. "As a rule of thumb, never apologise. Unless you insult someone. And even then, don't apologise unless it isn't funny."
"That's your rule of thumb?" she asked, disbelieving yet somehow not totally shocked. "No wonder people hate Slytherins."
"Who hates Slytherins?" he asked her. She couldn't tell whether he was joking or not.
"No one," she said, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Sorry, I lied. They love you. Especially Neville back in first and second year."
"Neville in first and second . . ." Malfoy whispered under his breath, like he was trying to prompt himself. He made an almost pantomime face of sudden realisation. "Ah, that takes me back. You know, I lost track of how many times I full body-binded and trip jinxed unsuspecting first years."
"You're a saint," she commented, recalling the path of immobile destruction that Malfoy used to quite shamelessly leave.
Now that she really thought about it, Malfoy had always been pretty relentless. She hadn't even known his name until this year, just mentally referring to him as that mean, problematic blond. Other than the glass of water incident — something she still lost sleep over — the only other time she'd had any interaction with him was at the end of second year when he'd thrown a broken quill at her head while aiming for Ron. No apology. Not so much as a glance to check whether he'd poked an eye out. Just a shamelessly innocent expression looking elsewhere while Goyle laughed behind his textbook.
"That's nice of you to say," Malfoy responded with equal insincerity. "You know, I may not be a jumped-up 11 year old anymore, but given the chance I would happily hex Longbottom again, even if just for old time's sake . . . He really is a pea-brained freak, that one, isn't he?"
"And I'm not?" she argued.
"Okay, you're not that pea-brained," he corrected himself. Clara couldn't help but frown — she'd kind of hoped he would defend her dignity a little more than that. "And you're really not a freak — did you just roll your eyes at me?"
She felt her face heat up in response to his tone — not as insulted and accusatory as much as it was amused. "No," she insisted. "Just, you don't have to spare my feelings."
"You think I'd spare your feelings?" he remarked. She could only shrug dumbly. "Davies. Davies, actually look at me."
Clara did not want to do that. The very last thing she wanted to do right now was put herself through the oftentimes mortifying and socially-difficult experience of looking Malfoy directly in the eye and having him look straight back at her.
But she did. And she hated the restless, awkward experience it always turned out to be. Especially with him. No matter how pretty his eyes were to look at. No matter the little bluish flecks that showed up under the dim lights of the potions dungeon. No matter the calm, almost fond glint in his eye.
"As someone who decides who is and isn't a freak, I promise you you're not," he said insistently. "A weird little badger maybe, but not a freak."
January 4th 1995
Dear diary,
Since losing the old diary, I'm going to touch-wood when I say that I think things are starting to return to normal. At least, as normal as it can get when the student body for this year has basically doubled.
To be honest, I almost forgot about the tournament until a few days ago when a Durmstrang boy said, "hey" in that tone guys use to chat girls up and I sneezed when I tried to reply. I haven't recovered emotionally yet
"Seriously, what are you writing?"
Clara jolted, instinctively slamming her diary closed. The thick decorative cover muffled the otherwise telltale sound it made.
Hannah perched on the edge of Clara's bed, trying to peer over at whatever she had written. Clara really hoped she hadn't managed to read much. She wouldn't have even cracked the book out if she'd known her nosiest dormmate was still up and awake.
"Just homework," Clara lied, stowing the book away on her bedside table. "I'm really falling behind on Charms."
Hannah nodded slowly. "That's fair," she agreed, sounding somewhat sceptical. "Well, if you get stuck, I have my answers in my bag somewhere. I really don't mind you using them."
"Thanks," Clara said quietly. Note to self — she really needed to be more subtle in future. "I'll, er, keep that in mind."
{. .}
Author's note: I dedicate this to those who still read this despite my sporadic updates. You're a real one. Icon. Keep slaying.
[Edited 06/11/2024]