ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀɢᴇ: ʟᴏᴏᴋ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴏɴ! ʜᴏᴡ ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴏɴ ꜱᴇᴇᴍꜱ! ꜱʜᴇ ɪꜱ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ʀɪꜱɪɴɢ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴏᴍʙ. ꜱʜᴇ ɪꜱ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ꜰᴀɴᴄʏ ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ʟᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ.
ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʏʀɪᴀɴ: ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ᴀ ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇ ʟᴏᴏᴋ. ꜱʜᴇ ɪꜱ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇꜱꜱ ᴡʜᴏ ᴡᴇᴀʀꜱ ᴀ ʏᴇʟʟᴏᴡ ᴠᴇɪʟ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴏꜱᴇ ꜰᴇᴇᴛ ᴀʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ꜱɪʟᴠᴇʀ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ꜰᴀɴᴄʏ ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴅᴀɴᴄɪɴɢ.
ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀɢᴇ: ꜱʜᴇ ɪꜱ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ᴡʜᴏ ɪꜱ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴠᴇꜱ ᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱʟᴏᴡʟʏ.
—ꜱᴀʟᴏᴍᴇ, ᴏꜱᴄᴀʀ ᴡɪʟᴅᴇ
Chapter Ten: St. George and the Dragon
A basilisk, Tee.
So that's who he had been speaking to. What, to be more exact. He had been almost hoping it was a person.
But what type of person was he, Tee wondered, if he could communicate with such a monster, and in here, no less.
That's what attacked Anthony. That's what killed Madam Pince.
He continued to listen, unaffected. It was not his fault, after all.
Everyone says it's the Serpent of Slytherin. And that the Heir's controlling it.
The Heir. The Heir of Slytherin was him; he'd managed to infer that much. And the title had a vestige of familiarity to it.
Control was a funny way to describe it. Like he could control anything, being stuck here and all. It wasn't as if the serpent queen was waiting on ceremony for his instructions every time she wanted to feed; only came to whine and complain about the apparent installation of hundreds of weasels in the school, to which, Tee would remind her that whatever her problems were, they were much preferable to his.
But it doesn't make sense. Harry told me that Madam Pomfrey told him that it was only Muggle-borns it attacked last time, that it Petrified nearly all of them...
But Anthony's a half-blood. Madam Pince was pureblood.
To the basilisk, blood was blood. Flesh was flesh. It hardly mattered to the serpent's bloodlust.
None of it makes sense.
Indeed, it did not make sense. Tee found that he liked things to make sense, although they rarely did.
Tee, I'm scared.
Fear was his constant companion.
What's going to happen to Harry?
What's going to happen to me?
What's going to happen to us if they close Hogwarts?
Tee considered this. He gazed into the abyss, as if expecting an answer from nothing, and the abyss, nonetheless, gazed back.
They wouldn't really close Hogwarts, would they?
There will be blood. And the snakes say there will be more. That the Heir will come.
Tee?
There went his chances of leaving this... this microcosm of hell.
The terror that gripped him was undeniable, and Tee struggled to get ahold of his emotions.
And you no longer require my help?
Harry's in remission. He's not better.
Then I will be there.
Did you find the sulfur? And the mercury?
She did not respond for quite a while.
Yes... and no.
Flamel has them... I can get at them.
But he counts his ingredients religiously. He's a perfectionist to the point of insanity.
I'll have to master a duplication spell. He'll notice eventually, of course. But it'll buy me some time.
Do that, then, he responded. When she left, he felt somehow more lonely that he remembered ever feeling.
I suppose there's no knowing how lonely you felt before when there's nothing to compare it to but being alone.
He reached out, but the basilisk, morose and irritated by the scent of weasels, was uninterested in anything but moping.
Hardly a sufficient distraction.
"He's going to get fat," said Daphne critically, watching Ruby offer Hephaestus yet another piece of codfish.
"It's either that, or he goes after the weasels," Ruby responded, closing the diary and slipping it back into her bag, as if this were a normal evening. "Have you finished packing?"
Daphne nodded, fiddling with the napkin in her lap. "Have a nice Christmas... I suppose we won't be seeing each other for a while."
Ruby acknowledged it with a nod of her own, then glanced down the table. Many students had already left, including Pansy, but she counted Theodore, Blaise, Mafalda, Alastair, and Gemma amongst those present, all looking equally depressed.
Holiday cheer, indeed. Hagrid had dragged dozens of fir trees into the Great Hall, as if this were a normal year, and they stood along the wall, uniformly bare and solemn and green, waiting to be decorated.
She looked up at the professors' table next; Dumbledore in the center, as usual, sans Flamel, who preferred to take his meals in private... McGonagall... Snape... Sprout... Sinistra...
"Alastair?" whispered Ruby, nudging the Head Boy. "Alastair, where's Lockhart?"
He said straight up, surprised, and followed her gaze.
"Haven't got the foggiest, sorry." And then he went back to glumly pushing mashed potatoes around on his plate (as he had been for the past twenty minutes), and, Ruby noticed, staring at Harry, who as usual was sitting close to Ron and Hermione and far away from everyone else.
Oh, of course, she thought numbly. The Heir of Slytherin.
Just as the collective low mood of the room became nearly unbearable, the double doors of the Great Hall were thrown open with a loud bang, clattering against the stone wall.
Oh, what now? Another dead body? Just what we need.
In preparation for whatever the latest disaster news was, she gathered Hephaestus into her arms for comfort, despite his mewled protests, peeking over the top of his fuzzy head as he squirmed. Around her, students started to gather their belongings and whisper amongst themselves. She saw Neville Longbottom clutching his toad, Trevor, in much the same way.
Out of the corner of her eye, Ruby saw Dumbledore get to his feet, followed by Snape and McGonagall. Daphne stood up, straining to see who had just entered the room until Mafalda scowled and tugged her back down by the back of her robes.
"Professor Lockhart," said Snape, his tone even more poisonous than usual, "what is the meaning of this?"
"This?"
Now, Lockhart stepped into the hall proper, with a flick of his wand, the candles nearby floated towards him, like a crude kind of spotlight in the comparative darkness of the Great Hall.
Instead of his usual aquamarines and turquoises, he was dressed like a Roman gladiator in black dragonhide and a crimson cloak, and carrying a bronze, blood-stained shield that had recently been polished to a shine, and a short sword that resembled a gladius, similarly blood-stained and polished (Ruby remembered what they were meant to look like from hours of wandering aimlessly through museums, and Lockhart had done a commendable replica).
Yet, Lockhart himself, though glistening with sweat, was without a speck of blood; his blonde hair looked as if he had used his infamous Occamy hair gel, somehow wavy without being frizzy, slick without being limp, and styled without looking stiff; the envy of teenagers everywhere who fruitlessly attempted to tame their hair into good behaviour.
He sheathed his sword, placed his hands on his hips in a Bloody-Baron-esque manner, and laughed, looking around.
What is he laughing for?
Ruby was not alone in her anger at his frankly inappropriate demeanour, and nor were the Slytherins; the Hufflepuffs looked stony, the Ravenclaws disapproving, and the majority of Gryffindor House downright murderous.
Cliché, yes... but if looks could kill, Lockhart would be deader than a man killed by a basilisk many times over.
"Oh, ye of little faith. See what gifts ― indeed, it is gifts I bring."
"He's dressed wrong for Santa Claus," muttered Mafalda, matching Snape's sneer. A few nervous laughs rang out, then petered out at Snape's stern glare.
"I discovered," continued Lockhart in a booming voice ― he must have magnified it magically, "I discovered it ― the ― the Chamber of Secrets!"
A collective gasp went up.
"I hungered, I thirsted for it," Lockhart went on, near enough sparkling from all the attention.
"The question is," mused Theodore, "when did he manage the costume change?"
Ruby laughed nervouslt, remembered she was supposed to be ignoring Theodore, and turned away.
"And it came to me ― if you'll believe it ― in a dream!"
"Seems fortuitous," Ruby heard someone on the Hufflepuff table mutter. She turned towards the voice, following Daphne's lead, and saw that the speaker was Cedric Diggory; a fourth-year, Seeker, almost definitely next year's prefect, and practically everyone's darling.
It was one thing for her and Mafalda to do it, but if Perfect Diggory was opening his mouth on Lockhart, there had to be something fundamentally wrong somewhere.
To complete the circuit, Ruby glanced up at Dumbledore; his expression was inscrutable, but his posture was tense.
"And so, I went down to the Chamber, mastered my fear, though, with my long history of fighting fearsome foes and dancing devilishly with danger, I was well-prepared. Taking inspiration from the Greek myth of Perseus slaying the terrible Gorgon Medusa, of the stone stare, I used my trusty hand mirror to aide me, and then, with this goblin-forged sword which I discovered during my travels; see Holidays with Hags for details on my time in Greece, dear students," he added with a wink, "I raised it high thus, and with one mighty swing, I slew the heartless beast which had terrorised faculty and students alike!"
"Yeah, but can you prove it, Professor Lockhart?" Mafalda drawled, as soon as it had sunk in, and several people sent her angry looks.
Lockhart, surprisingly, was not taken aback.
"Indeed I can, my dear Miss Prewett," he said, then retrieved something inside his robes, and slammed down a bone the size of his arm on the Gryffindor table; Ruby saw Harry jump in surprise.
Murmurs started up, moving through the crowd of students like a wave.
"It's a fang!" someone said. "A basilisk fang!"
"BEHOLD!" intoned Lockhart, and, holding the fang like a javelin, he flung it towards a nearby banner. As the fang clattered to the floor, black ate at the Gryffindor red, just as it had on the carpeting where Anthony had been attacked.
"Well, fuck me," whispered Mafalda, her mouth hanging open in disbelief. "Lockhart actually did something useful for a change."
Lockhart, pleased with the commotion, threw his hands up as he strode towards the professors' table.
"And a Merry Christmas to all of you! No, no, don't thank me, the least I could do..."
Now, if he could just pull some phoenix tears out of his pocket, thought Ruby, shivering with grudging relief, we'd be sorted.
We've been saved! people began to whisper. Professor Lockhart saved us!
"Professor Lockhart saved us!" shouted a small, mousy-looking Gryffindor, leaping on top of a table.
"Lock-hart, Lockhart, Lockhart!" everyone began to shout in unison. The room began to fill with euphoric energy, and Peeves, who had been a little out of sorts lately, somersaulted across the tables.
"He's good, I'll give you that," mused Mafalda. "If he's lying, I don't know how."
But despite Mafalda's comment, Ruby found herself chanting along, head light, heart racing, swept up in the terrifying optimism.
It was much later, when everyone was filing out of the Great Hall, that Mafalda Prewett thought of a plan.
She wanted to believe it, she really did...
Her grip tightened on the maple-and-phoenix-hair wand that never left her sight, partially because of the curious nature of maple wands, one that had been told to her when she held it in Ollivander's shop for the very first time.
It was shining with a dim light, one that meant a challenge was at hand.
After all, if a witch could not trust her wand nor her intuition, what could she trust?
Decisively, she waited until Alastair and Gemma were absorbed in each other's company, and with a faint twinge of jealousy, she spun on her heel, and marched up to where Dumbledore, Snape, McGonagall, and Lockhart stood.
"Professors."
McGonagall, unsurprisingly, was the first to notice her.
"Miss Prewett." She frowned, and when she did, she resembled her cat form. "How may we assist you?"
Mafalda swallowed nervously. What am I getting myself into?
"A-Actually, I wanted to speak to Professor Lockhart?"
Her voice rang in the silence of the empty Great Hall, and Mafalda cringed internally as Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, obviously remembering her numerous complaints about his teaching methods. She swivelled around to look at Lockhart, who coloured instantly.
"Sorry," said Mafalda, with an awkward shake of her head. "Suppose Pliny the Elder was wrong about basilisks being tiny, then... but then, he did say that a menstruating woman can scare away lightning and thunder if she walks around naked."
She turned around to have a look at the fang; of course she was not foolish enough to touch it, but on observation, it looked genuine enough.
Her lingering was enough, however, to make Lockhart feel uncomfortable; which, was, of course Plan B.
"Miss Prewett!" he said quickly. "My office, if you will? I will be with you in just a moment."
"Of course, thank you, sir," she murmured, and left the Great Hall, thoughts racing as she mindlessly wandered up the familiar route to the Defence Professor's office, which, to her surprise, was unlocked.
He might have spelled the drawers against intruders, thought Mafalda, regarding the mahogany desk with suspicion. But if it were cursed, it wouldn't be anything particularly nasty, would it? Lockhart didn't strike her as security-conscious.
She walked around the room, taking note of the framed newspaper articles about Lockhart, the flowers from adoring students and fans, a stack of unopened fanmail, and last but not least, the infamous peacock-feather quill. Her fingers itched to pull it apart, fibre by fibre, until it was nothing but a pretty heap of fluff.
Enough was enough. Not willing to deny her curiosity any longer, Mafalda went behind the desk, grasped the dragon-headed handle of the top drawer — and at that moment, Lockhart opened the door, hair askew, wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a tweed jacket.
Embarrassed, she flopped down in Lockhart's chair, crossing her arms and attempting to look leisurely while he made a point of leaving the door wide open.
He cleared his throat awkwardly.
"Miss Prewett."
"Professor Lockhart." She reached for one of the wilting red roses on his desk, twirling the stem between her fingers until the moisture caused it to snap, heavy bloom drooping. "Can I ask you some questions?"
His expression softened as he took the chair opposite her, so that Mafalda was the teacher and he was the student.
Why so humble, Lockhart? Are you really telling the truth?
"Ah, your uncles... Fabian and Gideon Prewett? Five Death Eaters, and they fought like heroes," he said, in that 'understanding' tone that she was throughly sick of. Mafalda did not think Lockhart understood; after all, he had been younger when her uncles died than she was now.
They fought like heroes. So easy to say what everyone said, empty words.
"Until Dolohov killed them with a sword imbued with basilisk venom after they had been brutalised, yes," she said coldly. Mafalda paused, and watched as Lockhart grew confused. "Makes you wonder where they found the venom, sir. Herpo's basilisk is sure to have crumbled to dust by now, and its venom evaporated or run into the ground."
Lockhart held her gaze without faltering. "Do you mean to suggest..."
"Yes, I mean to suggest that the Chamber of Secrets was opened before, sir, by someone clever enough to conceal all traces of such an enormous monster, and cunning enough to obscure the identity of said monster. What I want to know," she said, leaning forward, "is who is that person? Who is the Heir of Slytherin? How are they still here?"
"Of course," said Mafalda, settling back into Lockhart's chair like a cat who had found a particularly warm corner, "you're in the best position to know, sir."
However, she herself was the first to admit that playing coy was beyond her usual abilities.
"What do you want, Miss Prewett?" Lockhart asked tiredly. He had taken his glasses off and was fiddling with the stems.
For fashion, she wondered? Or prescription?
Fashion, most likely. Mafalda found it difficult to imagine a nearsighted Lockhart.
"I want to know who else you saw. I want to know where the Chamber of Secrets is. I want to know how you opened it. Because, if you can't tell me... then it stands to reason that you must be the Heir of Slytherin. You opened the Chamber, and you subdued the beast."
By the time she finished, a cold sweat had broken out against Mafalda's skin, and she shivered under Lockhart's gaze. And if I'm right, he'll surely kill me.
"Here is the entirety of the matter, Miss Prewett," said Lockhart, steepling his fingers. "On a certain midnight, under a cloak of invisibility, I followed a floating book to the second-floor girls' toilet, where I watched it hover above one of the sinks and descend into the hole that it revealed. There lay the entrance to the Chamber, and there, I fought and slayed the beast. When I returned, the book disappeared as I tried to reach for it. Miss Prewett, I am highly aware that you find me arrogant, distasteful, silly, vainglorious, obsessed with the trivial, et cetera. You have made such opinions abundantly clear."
"I-I have?"
True, she hadn't gone out of her way to hide her contempt, but Mafalda hadn't thought Lockhart self-aware enough to pick up on it. Once more, she reached for her wand.
"Braggart, I admit to, though it is well-deserved that I celebrate my many victories," Lockhart continued. "Fraud, I most certainly am not. And I would appreciate it, Miss Prewett, if you would abstain from rifling through my personal belongings — yes, my dear, I am aware that you have attempted to open my drawers, and do not think for a second that I do not see through your poorly-veiled attempts at an interrogation. Slytherin though you are, master of subterfuge, you are not."
"Oh."
Mafalda felt her cheeks heat at that, for some strange reason. Did she — did she actually like this side of Lockhart, a young intelligent professor who did not wear Occamy hair gel and reek of cologne — no, you sound like his fangirls, Mafalda!
Desperately, she tried to think of something clever and acerbic to say, but failed miserably.
"I have had a most tiring day," said Lockhart, reaching for a bottle of something amber and pouring it into a crystal glass that he had taken from one of the shelves. "I have no idea who the Heir of Slytherin is, but I can assure you, it is certainly not me. I fought for my very life in that Chamber."
He reached for another glass, looking back at Mafalda. "You're of age — no, never mind, a male professor drinking with a female student is inappropriate, especially at this time of night."
"I'm glad you think so," said Mafalda. "I think I'll go for a fly, actually... clear my head."
Why am I telling him that?
She coughed, was acutely aware that she disliked her side profile, and looked down.
"Ah. I played Seeker for Ravenclaw during my time at school, but of course you knew that."
Mafalda stifled her sniff of contempt, and regarded the desk.
"Professor, why've you got droppings on your desk?"
Lockhart jumped, nearly spilling the contents of his glass down his front.
"Ah... infestation, must be all the weasels about? Bloody glad that nightmare's over."
And then, he took out his wand and wordlessly Vanished the mess.
She should be wary of the wolf wearing lamb's clothes; after all he did know what he was doing, putting seven books on the list for no less than 35 Galleons, when some people could barely afford to purchase school supplies even with their Hogwarts allowances. He was still selfish and rotten, never mind how charming, or clever, or capable he might be.
How about that fly, then, she thought, getting up and striding over to the door without another word. And what's all this about a flying book?
"Professor?"
"Yes, Miss Prewett?"
"I believe you. And what did the book look like?" she asked, pausing on the threshold.
Lockhart shrugged.
"Very ordinary looking. It was too dark to see the colour of it. Vintage, perhaps. Why?" He quirked an eyebrow.
"I- It might be a clue, sir."
"Perhaps," he said coolly. "Perhaps one should not look a gift-horse in the mouth and leave the detective work to the experts, Mafalda."
"I, sir..."
"Gilderoy."
Barely managing to keep her composure, Mafalda gathered her remaining dignity, shut the door, and raced off.
That quiet fly in the cold winter air was looking more-and-more welcome, especially now that she'd broken out in a hot sweat — cold sweat — damn it all, you idiot!
It's not appropriate for a teacher to flirt with a student!
But he wasn't flirting; it's not his fault I decided to get all hot and bothered!
Stupid, stupid hormones.
At least I didn't make a complete fool of myself.
I didn't find out what I wanted to, either. I can't help but think... what if he knows more than he's letting on?
As she turned the corner, a horrible, icy shudder like falling in freezing water passed through her.
"Gah!"
Mafalda turned around to see the Bloody Baron floating down the corridor.
But here's someone who might! Slytherin's ghost, not to mention the Head Ghost. If anyone knows the secrets of Hogwarts and the Founders, it must be him.
"Your Lordship?" she shouted. "Excuse me?"
The Bloody Baron turned, reaching for his sword.
"You," he said, narrowing his eyes as his chains jingled around him. "Prithee, what do you demand, ungrateful wench?"
Mafalda held herself back from rolling her eyes.
"Could you tell me about the legend of the Chamber of Secrets?"
The Baron seemed to perk up.
"Ah, a harrowing tale that is," he said, admiring his blade. "What do you wish to know?"
"What are the qualities of the Heir of Slytherin?" The Baron gave her a reproachful look, and she hastily tacked on, "My Lord."
He coughed, but clearly could not resist the urge to show off his knowledge.
"Ambition, cunning, and all of the ordinary qualities which Slytherin valued... as well as being one, who, like the great Salazar himself, was an outsider, a person of little means who strived to massive heights."
"Really?" Mafalda had never thought of Salazar Slytherin as an outsider; after all, hadn't he been one of the main instigators of blood prejudice?
"Quite, girl," said the Baron. "He had humble origins in Vasconia, where his kinsmen were snake-charmers who travelled from village to village, performing tricks for meager amounts of money, until they were outed as witches and sailed to the green shores of Hibernia to avoid persecution."
"Hibernia? Oh... you mean Ireland. But his heir?"
"Preferably male," said the Baron. "Possibly not now that none carry his name, although many claim his blood. But I am sure it would be of paramount importance that his heir have incomparable magic power and considerable intelligence, and very likely that they could speak Parseltongue."
Mafalda breathed out, remembering the Obscurus tearing an entire floor apart.
She began to pace as she thought.
"Harry Potter? What if he never survived that night, what if someone did some sort of spell to go into his body instead? What if that person is the Heir of Slytherin?"
The Bloody Baron shrugged.
"You might procure the memory of that night from Potter, and have a look for yourself. Simply a suggestion."
And with that, he floated off.
Potter. Yes, he was the prime suspect for a while; Mafalda had never personally heard him speaking Parseltongue, but both Ginny and Ron had, and, unlike the twins, neither was prone to lying or exaggeration. And though Harry Potter seemed to (notwithstanding the Obscurial business, and did anyone bother asking how he got like that? That business with the Dustleys, or Dodleys, or whatever they were, must have been truly horrific) be a normal student who kept himself to himself, it was always the quiet ones.
But the Potters, as far as Mafalda could tell, were no relation to Salazar Slytherin. None of them had been Parselmouths.
None of them survived the Killing Curse, either.
She couldn't help but wonder if more had happened on that Halloween night than people assumed.
It's not like I can write Voldemort a letter. And how would I even get that memory from Potter? What would it prove? The monster is dead! I can't run around pointing fingers, just because I have nothing else to do.
Someone behind her coughed, and, shaken out of her reverie, Mafalda turned.
"Oh, you," she muttered, her face contorting in disgust.
"Prewett, Prewett, Prewett. What do we have here?"
"Go ahead, call Snape, I'm sure you're itching to, you smug prick," said Mafalda, as Hassan Shafiq — pureblood, not the children of Squibs, uninvolved in the war, and high up in the Ministry, stalked towards her.
"I never liked you in green." His dark eyes wandered from her Slytherin tie to her unmistakably Prewett-red hair, as a slow smirk spread across his face. "Hear you have an interview next week... good luck."
She couldn't help but remember their first year, when he used to pull her hair and call her 'Christmas Tree.' Hassan tilted his head to the side, the movement equal parts innocent and threatening.
"It's all too convenient, if you ask me..."
"What?" snapped Mafalda.
"Dark Lord Potter, that's what. Do you know the story of Saint George and the dragon, as narrated by my most noble ancestors?"
Mafalda shrugged, and began to walk off in the direction of the Slytherin Dungeon, but he only shouted after her:
"A place called Silene, in Libya, was plagued by a bloodthirsty, venomous serpent who demanded human sacrifices daily, chosen by lottery. One day, the princess was selected by the lottery to be fed to the dragon; the king offered all his gold and silver to have his daughter be spared, no one offered to take her place, and so she dressed in her finest clothes and was sent to be fed to the dragon."
"And?" hissed Mafalda.
Hassan shrugged. "The usual. He killed the dragon and saved the princess. I just haven't been able to stop thinking, Prewett... doesn't Silene sound an awful lot like Cyrene?"
"Why are you talking to me about this? You hate me!"
"I do," said Hassan, unashamed.
At least he's honest, thought Mafalda, even as bile stung the back of her throat.
"But you're clever, and you can get much closer to Potter than I can."
How predictable. Mafalda crossed her arms.
"So you want my help?"
"I want you to keep an eye on Potter. He's an investment."
"Shafiq, you do realise Goldstein's a half-blood and Pince was a pureblood? So if this is some kind of pureblood supremacy thing, it doesn't make sense," she spluttered.
"Prewett, you do realise that it is not a matter of if the Dark Lord returns so much as when, now? So, if the power structure is about to shift, I'd like to be holding a nice hand of cards, preferably with some aces in the deck."
"Fine," sniffed Mafalda. "I don't know if Potter has anything to do with the basilisk, but I'll ask Ron to let me know if anything out of the ordinary happens. Goodnight, Shafiq; let's go back to insulting each other now, this civility is nauseating."
"Certainly."
Gah, she thought, although there were no ghosts nor Lockhart nor Hassan Shafiq in the corridor. Harry Potter, eh?