At precisely a quarter past eight, Eleanor knocked sharply on the door of Professor Umbridge's office. The sickly sweet voice drifted out immediately.
"Come in."
Suppressing a sigh, Eleanor turned the doorknob and stepped inside.
"Ah, Miss Seymour. Late, I see," Umbridge cooed, not bothering to mask the glee in her voice. "That means you will attend detention tomorrowandthe evening after. Tardiness must be corrected."
Eleanor said nothing, merely met Umbridge's gaze with cold contempt. The woman was clad in an offensively bright set of baby-pink robes that looked like they'd been cursed into existence. The lace collar quivered as she moved.
"Please, do sit down," Umbridge gestured to a table adorned with a lace doily, as if it were a tea party rather than a punishment. A long parchment lay in wait.
Eleanor placed her bag on the floor and began to search for a quill.
"Oh, no need for that, Miss Seymour," Umbridge chirped. "You'll be usingmyquill. A very special one."
She handed over a thin, sinister-looking black quill, its tip unnaturally sharp.
Eleanor narrowed her eyes. Something unpleasant began to dawn on her.
"You don't mean—"
"Oh, I do," Umbridge interrupted, her voice nauseatingly gleeful. "You'll be writing lines for me, Miss Seymour. 'I shall show respect to my betters.' You may begin."
Eleanor sat stiffly and wrote her first line.
The pain was immediate. As the words formed on the parchment, they carved themselves into the flesh of her left hand, glistening red and raw. Her own handwriting.
Umbridge hovered nearby, clearly hoping for a reaction. Eleanor gave her none. She bit down her pride and her pain. She would not give Umbridge the satisfaction.
At ten o'clock, Umbridge clucked her tongue. "That will do for tonight. I shall expect you tomorrow. On time. And do adhere to the uniform policy, there's a good girl."
Eleanor stood without a word, slung her bag over her shoulder, and fixed the toad-like woman with a glare that could have frozen fire.
Back in the dormitory, she avoided the curious glances of Lucy Vane and Berenice, rummaging instead in her trunk until her fingers found the crinkled plastic bag.
She paused. Her stomach twisted with something close to shame. She couldn't let them see.
Sliding the bag deep into her robes, she slipped out of the common room and wandered the castle's dim corridors until she found a deserted passageway on the fifth floor. Her legs gave out, and she slumped against the cold stone wall.
From the plastic bag, she measured a small spoonful of the white powder onto her hand. With practiced motion, she pressed one nostril shut and inhaled deeply through the other.
Relief was immediate. The sting in her hand vanished. The ache in her chest evaporated. The world blurred at the edges, the castle melted away, and Eleanor floated.
It became a habit. Each night after detention, Eleanor slipped away to her lonely corner of the castle and numbed the pain. But the bliss was short-lived. With every hit, the emptiness inside her grew, louder and more insistent.
By the first of October, her body was exhausted and her soul ragged.
Quidditch practice had gone abysmally, and George Weasley stormed out alone for a walk, seething.
The pressure of N.E.W.T.s, joke-shop experiments, and endless training churned in his chest. He passed the tapestry of the Werewolf Saga—and stopped cold.
A girl lay crumpled beneath it.
Ebony curls fanned across the floor. One hand bled freely, the other limp beside her. White powder clung to her nose. A small bag lay abandoned nearby.
"Bloody hell," George whispered. He knelt, his heart thundering.
He touched her wrist. The pulse was faint. Her skin was ice.
"Merlin's beard," he muttered, lifting her in his arms. He sprinted up the staircase, headed for the one place he might find help. He knew instinctively he could not take her to the Hospital Wing.
The abandoned classroom on the seventh floor.
He laid her gently on the dusty sofa and bolted for the Gryffindor common room. Hermione was still awake, curled in a chair with a thick tome in her lap.
"Hermione. I need your help. Now."
She looked up, startled. "George? What—?"
"It's Eleanor Seymour. She's unconscious. Bleeding. And this—" he held up the bag, shaking—"was beside her."
Hermione blanched. "This is... Muggle. Cocaine. Oh no. This is bad, George. Really bad. Where is she?"
"Seventh floor classroom. Please. Hurry."
Within minutes, Hermione reappeared, bag stuffed with potions.
Together, they hurried back. Eleanor hadn't moved.
Hermione knelt beside her, eyes scanning. "She's overdosed. And this—" she took Eleanor's hand and winced. "A Blood Quill did this. That hag. This explains Harry's hand too."
"But those are illegal!" George said. "And what's an overdose?"
"Too much of a drug. It overwhelms your body. She's built a tolerance—needed more to feel less. Eventually, it's too much."
"Can you save her?"
Hermione didn't answer at first. She poured a purple potion into Eleanor's mouth, followed by two more.
Finally, Eleanor began to cough. Her eyes fluttered open.
"Easy," Hermione whispered, reaching to steady her.
But Eleanor shoved her away. "What are you doing here?"
George stepped forward. "What areyoudoing? I found you!"
Hermione wisely took that as her cue to leave.
"Oh, youfoundme? How noble," Eleanor snapped, voice hoarse. "Did you come to save the sad Slytherin girl?"
"Yes! Because you nearly died! What were you thinking?"
"I wasn't," she snarled. "And why would it matter if I had? My mother's lost everything, Rosier's after me, my whole family's a bloody lie. You never even wrote! And now my father—mynot-fatherwants to sell me off to some mouldy Muggle duke."
George stared, floored.
"I'm called a Slytherin, a Half-Blood, a whore, a fake. But I'm more than those words. I'mme."
With that, Eleanor pushed past him and fled, leaving George alone with nothing but the lingering scent of smoke, potion, and despair.