Chapter 5Chapter Text
There was no funny business during the night, and in the morning we all fell into a silent rush as we changed into our robes and prepared for the day. We emerged into a common room bathed in the cold turquoise light coming through the windows. I could glimpse hints of algae and some fishes darting past the glass, but there was no time to recreate myself in the fascinating sights before Prefect Farley gathered us and set us in motion.
She guided us back towards the Great Hall, all the while giving us a primer on house unity which I guessed was motivated by my own presence. It essentially summed up to 'please keep all bullying of Sarramond confined to the common room' and 'don't make us look weak in front of the other houses'. On the one hand, I appreciated not having to spend the whole day looking over my shoulder —assuming the little snakes did as told, that is— but on the other hand she was pretty much giving them a green light to 'air their grievances' in the common room.
I guessed I'd just have to avoid spending any more time than strictly needed in the dungeons, then. The castle was large enough that it should be no problem: I could do all my homework and studying at the library, spend my free time exploring its secrets, and there was always the Room of Requirement if... well, if I required it.
The Great Hall welcomed us with a cloudy morning sky, a healthy breakfast, and a lot of excited chatter coming out of the Gryffindor table for whatever reason. Our own table felt more subdued, still only half awake as we silently grabbed bowls and food, toasts and eggs.
On the bright side, that also meant I only got a couple of scathing snorts during breakfast: one from Parkinson when I opted for the apple juice rather than the pumpkin one, and another one when I muttered "Charms first? How charming" under my breath upon receiving our schedules. But that last one was from Zabini, who had also snorted dismissively at something Malfoy had said about his family being on the Hogwarts' Board of Governors, so I guessed it didn't really count.
Our first class was with the Hufflepuffs, so we filed towards it together after breakfast, and that was my first experience with inter-house rivalry: because I saw Wayne Hopkins as we entered the classroom and waved at him, but he totally pretended not to see me and took refuge deeper into his group of housemates.
Oh well, his loss. Little wuss.
The Charms classroom was divided in two, with benches in each side facing each other across a central isle. We Slytherins claimed the left side of the room, opposing the Hufflepuffs to the right. I ended up seating next to Tracey Davis by the edge of our group —the hidden hierarchy manifesting itself once more— and we opened our books as Professor Flitwick reached his podium and commenced his roll call.
"Let's start, then!" he said after that, picking up his own wand. "Has any of you performed a spell before? Raise your hands."
About a quarter of the Hufflepuffs and more than half of the Slytherins rose hands. Instead of following their example, though, I took my wand, muttered "Lumos!", and rose it high above my head with its point shining bright; a perfect textbook example of the wand-lighting charm if there ever was one. Everyone turned to look at my display.
"Ah! Well done Miss... Sarramond, was it? Two points to Slytherin, thanks for demonstrating. Now, those of you who have cast a spell before will surely have noticed how..."
Oh.
I placed the wand back on the desk, its light turning off.
Oh... that felt good, earning points.
Hmm...
An idea started to take shape in my mind. A simple one: I didn't know how to prove I wasn't a Muggleborn —which I suspected I pretty much was anyway. But perhaps I could prove that I was a plus for Slytherin. If my housemates saw me as someone who wasn't dragging the house down, but that was a net gain to have around... well, that might get me some allies, at least. Some leeway.
And now I knew how to do that: earning points. Simple enough.
Yeah... that could help.
Professor Flitwick told us to go to a page in the book full with the diagrams depicting the basic wand movements, and that we would be practising some of those today: two kinds of swishes and a loop. We used our own wands, simply repeating Flitwick's motions as he went here and there correcting postures and sharing encouragement: "a little slower, MacMillan", "relax your arm, Nott", "that's great, now repeat it once more."
It felt oddly familiar, and as we approached the end of the class I realized why: this is what learning to play an instrument was like.
When my foster parents had enrolled me into those dreaded piano lessons, this is what they were like: playing scales, C major, correcting hand postures, then repeating those again and again until your hands learned the movements: committing them to muscle memory.
The wand, I figured out, was an instrument.
It all clicked then, with that very thought. If the wand was an instrument, each spell was a melody. Melodies you'd need to learn, to practice repeatedly before you could play smoothly. And magic, it was like music: something of an art, a craft, but also with rules of harmony and mathematics —or, arithmancy in this case— underlying it.
And just like with music, every time you performed the same song the result would always be slightly different. It explained why wizards sometimes did things ineffectively, or why they'd pay someone like... say, Madam Malkin to tailor their clothes rather than doing it all themselves. It was more convenient that going through the pain of learning a bunch of spells that you wouldn't use that frequently anyway. And if you only cast those spells —played those melodies— once a year or so, you'd be at risk of forgetting the motions or mangling the exact invocations by the next time you needed them. Easier, then, to pay someone who used those spells every single day, who had mastered them thoroughly.
It also explained why some wizards were better than others. Just like some musicians were merely competent while others were virtuosos, even after going through the same training process. Hogwarts, I guessed, would train us up to a common standard: learn to play this music competently enough, learn the most common spells to heart, and at least gain some familiarity with a few of the less used ones.
But your individual focus, your drive, would determine the end results. Just like in piano lessons, you had the kids like me who would do the bare minimum to pass the class, and the annoying music nerds who liked playing different instruments and kept practising even when on their own time; the ones who might end up composing their own songs and becoming professional musicians.
And then you had the true geniuses: your Mozart, your Wagner.
Your Dumbledore, your Tom Riddle.
So part of it was talent, part of it was drive. One of those, I could control. I focused on my movements, then, trying to perfect them, trying to grab the wand just so, to move my wrist and elbow just like Flitwick was explaining.
It helped, seeing it as another instrument, a weird sort of piano lesson. Because I knew what to expect from those, the mental state they demanded. And yeah, I hadn't liked playing the piano before, but then again, a piano could not rewrite the laws of reality. So I was a teeny bit more motivated now.
"Very good, Sarramond! Now try the reverse loop. Yes, just like that, one more point to Slytherin!"
And... I was better at it than most, too. Maybe because all those piano lessons had granted me a more precise control over my hands' finer movements. But also, because it was magic. And while I had never been too musically inclined —always had trouble telling notes apart— magic felt... more natural; easier. I could feel it underlying the motions, a sense of intensity that I could intuit and regulate. I knew how the mix of wand movements and incantations made my magic tremble and stretch. I hadn't tried it yet, but I guessed that was how non-verbal spells worked: you just replicated that feel, that twist of the spell on your magic.
Perhaps it was my unusual circumstances playing a part here, too, making it easier for me. I remembered having been a Muggle, lacking this particular sense. So now it was simple enough to spot the difference, to put my focus on that weird new sensation that I'd never had on my past life.
An unfair advantage, I thought as I noticed Tracey Davis looking at me out of the corner of her eye; she was one of the few Slytherins that hadn't raised her hand before; and even I could tell her own wandwork needed more work: the loops too sloppy and lopsided.
No... earning points wouldn't be enough, I realized. That would only get me resentfulness, like it got —would get?— Hermione. If I wanted allies it wasn't enough to be known as a bright precocious witch at best, a know-it-all at worst. I also had to make sure whoever associated with me would benefit personally. And I was starting from a bad position already, because of the stupid blood thing.
Hmm...
"Say, Davis," I whispered, turning halfway to the girl next to me. "Want me to teach you the wand-lighting charm?"
She frowned and looked at me, then at my wand, then back at me. I could almost see the internal battle: I was toxic, in terms of in-house reputation; but she was barely one step above me and so far none of the pure-bloods in our house had deigned to address her. So like it or not, I was her natural ally. It was me or nothing.
Well, me or figuring out the spells on her own. But if that was an option, she would have raised her hand before, right?
"What do you want?" she said at least, narrowing her eyes at me.
"Not much. Just help me out in some other class, yeah? When there's something you know that I don't. You can sit next to me in the other classes too."
I almost said 'act like we're friends', but I bit my tongue. It would have sounded too desperate at this stage.
She considered for a few moments longer, then gave me a quick nod: "Fine. I'll sit next to you, but only today. Then we can meet after dinner."
"Yeah, wait for me in that empty classroom in the dungeons, the creepy one next to the bathrooms."
"Why not in the common room?" she asked.
I paused and gave her a look.
She shrugged. "The creepy room's fine too. I'll be there."
Yeah, Charms class went swimmingly.
The same wasn't true of Potions.
It started the moment we entered the classroom —gloomy and smelling of all sorts of strange pungent ingredients— and we took our seats. Because we were supposed to sit in pairs, except that we were an odd number of Slytherins.
It only took a moment before I realized that —of course— I was the only one left standing. It might have been my own fault, because I had ambled up to the bookshelves by the side to look for a particular Potions textbook —annotated by a particular Half-Blood Prince— which I retrieved and quickly placed into one of the pockets in my robes. But by that time Tracey Davis was already with Sally-Anne Perks, and Blaise Zabini was with Daphne Greengrass, and Theodore Nott was with Goyle, and the rest of them were a no-go.
So yeah, flashbacks to primary school right there, when Elliot and Miles had managed to taint my reputation so much that nobody wanted to partner with me at class. My own generally acting like a freak sure hadn't helped, truth be told, but I still blamed them. They were the ones who spun that tale about the worms, after all.
So because of that, and because the rest of the class were all Gryffindors, I was sitting on my own when Severus Snape burst dramatically into the classroom, wrapped in his dark fluttering robes and stepping on the flagstones as if they owed him money. I was expecting that; as I was expecting his famous little speech on the virtues of potion-making over wand-waving —not that I agreed, of course, wand-waving was brilliant! But what I wasn't expecting was him suddenly stopping by my side and looking down at me like I was something Filch's cat had dragged in.
His voice was a cold, angry whisper: "You. Why are you sitting on your own? Weren't the class' instructions on the schedule not clear enough for you?"
"But..." I started, confused. I could hear Parkinson's sniggering noises. "We are an odd number of Slytherins this year. Uhm... sir."
"Then sit with one of them!" he said, aiming at the Gryffindors. At one very particular Gryffindor, in fact: Hermione, also sitting very alone, looking like she wished the Earth would swallow her.
Wait, what? Why is she alone? Was she always alone in Potions in the original story? Was that... supposed to happen?
"But... but she is a—" a main character, I couldn't say. So I bit my tongue.
Snape wasn't having it, though: "A what? Speak aloud."
"A... a Gryffindor!"
Which made the entire Slytherin wing burst into laughter, and all the Gryffindors in the room stare daggers at me, Hermione the most. And shit, was Draco nodding at me? Ugh.
"Silence!" commanded the human-sized bat, but his voice had a faint trace of amusement. "More the reason, then, to have someone watch over her and make sure her cauldron doesn't meet an... explosive end."
He pointed his finger at me, then at Hermione's desk with an air of finality. So I gathered my books and other stuff and sat next to the frizzy haired girl with a sigh, as Snape drawled his way through the roll call.
"Ah, yes," he said when he reached Potter's name. "Our new... celebrity."
And we were back on the rails. I guessed. Pretty much? The girl next to me and trying to burn a hole through the side of my head with her gaze begged to differ. I guessed she could have very well been sitting on her own in the original story, which meant I might have stepped onto any number of butterflies just by virtue of existing here, of providing a partner for her that shouldn't exist in the first place.
Or maybe I was thinking too hard about it, because I wasn't sure of what the original Hermione seating arrangement in Potions had been like. Who could remember that? And wasn't the pairing a movie thing, and not in the books? I couldn't remember. Perhaps this was another of those strange changes, like the missing Quirrell.
And hadn't I decided to dive into the thick of it myself, anyway? I had even tried to trick convince the hat to sort me into Gryffindor, after all. So why was I worrying so much about this?
Because it was scary, maybe, and also unexpected. Because the more the world veered away from the events that I knew, the more vulnerable I felt. That had been the true reason I wanted into Gryffindor, hadn't it? Not to change the plot into something different, or better; but to make sure the events happened as they should. To nudge things back into place. To make my world more predictable.
This, this what the opposite of that.
I tried to put all those thoughts behind me and focus back on Snape's little speech "...shimmering flumes, liquids creeping through veins..." but Hermione's silent fury on top of everything else about this situation was making me too nervous, so I finally turned to face her.
"I'm a what?" she snapped at me the moment I turned, her voice a whisper laced with venom.
"What?"
"You were about to say something else, didn't you? So what was it, then? What am I? I bet I've heard it before: a know-it-all? A smart-arse? A swot?... Or were you about to call me a Muggleborn? Or something... worse?"
"A Muggle—? Granger, I told you I was raised by Muggles myself!"
"Oh, and am I supposed to believe you? You might have been lying. You were sorted into Slytherin, weren't you? There must be a reason for that."
"I'm resourceful and morally flexible, apparently. Look, can't we just—?"
"Be quiet, I'm trying to pay attention to class."
"Be quiet?! It was you who—!"
"Shhh!"
"Ugh!"
I opened my Potions book a little harder than strictly necessary, while Snape commenced his interrogation-slash-humiliation of The Boy Who Didn't Know The Answers to the amusement of Draco Malfoy and his gang:
"Potter. Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"
"I don't know, sir."
Hermione did know, as evidenced by her stretching her hand as far as her arm allowed while keeping her buttocks on the seat. I considered telling her not to interfere, that Snape wasn't really looking for the answer, but instead I shook my head and focused on my book and notes. The way this was going, she'd think I was trying to stop her from earning points or something. And we still had the entire class ahead of us.
Joy.
Snape, no surprises there, didn't call on Hermione to answer his questions, and pretty soon we were deep into the brewing of the boil cure potion. I had known we would be making a potion, of course, but hadn't remembered which specific one so I hadn't read ahead. Also, I'd rather read on charms or defence, to be completely honest. Potions reminded me too much of both cooking and chemistry, neither of which I had liked in my before memories.
We worked out a simple system —or Hermione did, and I followed along— where I prepared the ingredients and she did the boiling in the cauldron, stirring it clockwise and counter-clockwise according to the instructions. It didn't go unnoticed to me that she had assigned me the dumbest part of the work —'just use the pestle to crush the snake fangs, you can do that, can't you?'— but that was fine. I trusted her not to mess up the brewing, and I was hoping letting her take the leading role would assuage any bruised egos, let her blow off some of her steam.
Speaking of which, we were adding the porcupine quills when we heard a loud hiss across the class followed by a scream of terror.
"Idiot boy!" erupted Snape, rushing towards Neville Longbottom and Seamus Finnigan.
Oh, that was today?!
I could see how causing this whole ruckus on his first day at Hogwarts would help to cement Longbottom's reputation. In front of the Slytherins, no less, who were already mocking him relentlessly as we all stood atop our stools and watched Snape clean the mess next to the whimpering boy.
I had to admit, it was sort of funny, the big brooding bat scolding him, apparently blind to how Neville's face sprung ever more fiery red pimples with every passing second. Not that I allowed even a ghost of a smile to appear on my face, for fear of invoking Hermione's wrath once more. I was pretty certain she was observing me out of the corner of her eye, in fact.
Our own potion we completed without incident, and it more or less acquired the colour it was supposed to —a bit smokey, though, which made Hermione harrumph about me adding too many nettles. Whatever. At that point I was practically bouncing in my seat to get out of the bloody classroom, which I did the moment we poured the potion into the vials labelled with our names and she walked up to Snape's desk to hand them over.
I joined my housemates as they left the dungeon and we moved together towards the last class of the day: Defence Against the Dark Arts. Malfoy spent the entire walk there recalling Neville's incident:
"—and did you see Potter's face when Snape turned on him?!" he laughed, imitating the sullen frown.
"Snape is such a sensible Professor," commented Parkinson as I passed by her side, her voice full of false, twisted sweet honey. "He makes sure to put all the smelly trash together, away from the better students. Don't you think, Draco?"
He gave a chuckle. "That's very true. I say... Sarramond! Did you make a new friend? One better suited to your own status?"
I turned to face the two of them and shrugged. "Can't say that I did. But it looks like you made an enemy, no? What's going on between you and Potter? Lovers' spat? Did he steal one of your plushies or something?"
That got a laugh out of Goyle, of all people. It was short lived, though, stopping abruptly the moment Malfoy gave him a narrow look.
"I'm not the one going to bed wrapped in faeries, Sarramond," he replied, to general merriment. Then he turned to speak to the rest of the group as if I wasn't the one who had just asked: "I tried to be his friend, you see. I invited him to join proper wizarding society, as my father taught me, and what does he do? He spits in my hand and chooses the likes of Weasley! Why, he thinks he's better than me!..."
He went on like that until we reached the Defence classroom, and then some. It was easy, not getting in Malfoy's sights: just mention Potter. He was like a moth drawn by a flame. Zabini's knowing grin and slow nod told me he had noticed my manoeuvrer. I returned the sentiment with a wink.
Professor Xenia Duskhaven was already there and waiting for us, standing ramrod straight, her hair black with grey stripes. She was wearing a velvety green cloak and held her wand horizontal to the ground, grasping each end with a hand. She looked like a statue. One I eyed with curious fascination, as she was the wildcard, the odd new thing that wasn't supposed to be here.
Like me, I supposed.
The desks and chairs had been pushed all the way to the sides of the classroom making a space in the middle, so we simply gathered around and stood in place in front of her. Her voice sounded like steel, unyielding and cold: "I am Professor Duskhaven," she said the moment we all had entered. "Welcome to Defense Against the Dark Arts. Today's lesson will be on identification, which is the first step..."
She went on explaining, and we all started to relax. That is, until two minutes later she said out of the blue: "Tell us, Mr. MacDougal, what are the Dark Arts?"
One of the Ravenclaws across the room went very pale, stammering something that only halfway resembled a word.
"No?" she continued, without even looking his way. "Does anyone know the answer?"
Her open question was met with silence, obviously. And I almost groaned at the realization that she was one of those teachers, the ones who are always asking random students, forcing you to pay attention to every single word unless you wanted to be turned into an example, ridiculed in front of the class.
"Mr. Nott? Perhaps you'll be able to give us a definition."
Theodore tensed, but spoke in a clipped tone: "It's magic that's used to cause harm."
"Correct, and yet incomplete. During your schooling, in this class you will learn how to protect yourselves from both dark curses and creatures; you will learn how to escape a grindylow or distract a rougarou. But neither of those are the most dangerous threat this class is meant to prepare you against. Neither is that threat a dark wizard or witch, as terrible as those can be. No, the real threat is in the class's very name: Defense Against the Dark Arts. That is the greatest danger you will face in your future: The Dark Arts themselves."
She paused to look at the gathered crowd, fixating in our eyes, her hands and whole body still.
"The Dark Arts are a living force in and of itself," she continued, relentless, "an evil presence in our world, intelligent and always evolving. Dark creatures and spells are but manifestations of its nature. The American Magical Congress did a study on the effects of the Dark Arts across the magical population, and I'm of the opinion you all should know its results: in a group of young wizards and witches such as is gathered here, at least one —possibly up to three— of you will be gravely hurt if not killed by some sort of dark curse or creature during the course of your lives."
There was a tense gulp from somewhere in the group. But Duskhaven hadn't finished; she examined the Slytherin side of the crowd and said: "And at least one of you will be corrupted, becoming a dark witch or wizard yourselves. If you are lucky, you will be sent to Azkaban. If not, the Dark Arts will consume you until only a husk of your former self remains."
The silence was so deafening you could almost heart everyone's heartbeats.
"This class will teach you how to resist the external threats, those posed by creatures and hexes, but resisting the corrupting influence of the Dark Arts is more difficult, and often not explained at all. But remember this: as with all magic, intention is key. A perfectly common spell such as the severing charm can be considered dark magic, if you were to use it to cut someone's jugular vein and cause them to die. Yes, Miss Sarramond?"
"Uh... does that work the other way around too? Say if I use the Imperius Curse to force someone evil to do something good?"
The woman fixed her eyes on me for a long beat.
"That, Miss Sarramond, is the fastest way to become corrupted by the Dark Arts there is."
I blinked. "Uh... but the intention—"
She tilted her head marginally. "—is not always clear enough, specially when regarding Unforgivables. Would you be using the Imperius Curse because it's the best choice, or because it's merely the easiest? How could you be sure you're not lying to yourself?"
She lowered her voice, the steel in it becoming marginally less intense: "The Dark Arts are corrupting by nature, and you wouldn't be the first witch to fall into their abyss by accident. First you find a dark spell in an old tome, abandoned in some tomb; you keep it somewhere locked, but at hand, just in case; and then someday you use it during a crisis, for a noble reason. Maybe that's true the first, even the second time. But the more you use it the easier it will be to keep using it, and the blurrier the line will get. The dark intent within the spell also influences us, alters our own nature, our perception of what is fair. Soon enough you go looking for something more powerful, more effective.
"There have been many dark lords and ladies in the world's history, but they always end up falling, their rules ending. Their dependence on dark magic is their weakness: they allow it to twist them into monsters, creatures of chaos that aren't truly human anymore. Always remember this: dark magic works on us; it pollutes our intentions."
I... wasn't sure I agreed. And it wasn't just because of Snape's Potions book —with its Sectumsempra curse— weighting my pocket and conscience. No. It was because it sounded like a magical version on the Just Say No campaign against drugs. Too all or nothing, black or white for my liking. My fore-memories told me the actual world was full of grey. And I liked grey, it felt more comfortable that way. Plus, I remembered some of the good characters in the Harry Potter books using dark magic at some points, without any of them becoming twisted or addicted to it.
I didn't discuss it further, though, and soon enough Duskhaven instructed us to spread across the classroom.
"Many at your Ministry of Magic consider the Revelio charm to be too taxing on a first year. Nonsense! I have been teaching it successfully to students your age at Ilvermorny for five years now, as having the proper information on the threats around you should always be your first priority when in danger. The hand movement follows an inverse raido runic pattern, like this, and the incantation is: 'Revelio!' Try it now."
We spent the rest of the class trying it out, to mixed results. None of us managed to perform it to Professor Duskhaven's standards, but after half an hour or repeated attempts I got a glimpse of something half-hidden in the ceiling. I turned to look at it, but it was already gone and I didn't manage to see it again. It didn't help that it was the last class of the day and my mind was starting to lose focus out of sheer exhaustion. I was eleven, after all.
But still, I had to grit my teeth and keep going, because I had to meet with Tracey Davis after dinner. I managed to slip unseen into the shadows of the dark, empty classroom —more of a dusty storage room where they kept unused furniture, with old chairs and desks lining the walls, topped one over each other— and looked around for her.
No one was here.
Odd. She had left ahead of me, I was sure of that.
For a moment, I tensed, anticipating a betrayal. That would be an easy and quick way for Davis to gain some clout with Parkinson and her ilk: just tell her I would be here. At night. Alone.
Shit.
Shit!
I raised my wand and shouted "Lumos!", illuminating the classroom, but the abandoned furniture projected dark eerie shadows on the walls, and most of the room remained hidden from view as I scanned my surroundings for the trap I had surely missed.
Then I remembered our recent lesson: "Revelio!"
A silhouette, perched on a desk, a wand in its own hand. But it was too late: the shadow was already moving, climbing off the desk. Shitshitshit.
"Took you long enough," said Tracey Davis. "I thought you had changed your mind."
Oh, it was her, the silhouette. I relaxed a bit, but still kept my eyes open. "You alone?" I asked.
She looked at me surprised. "Yes? I mean, it's not that... but I don't want them... you know. Don't want people to know I got help from you? Sorry."
I stared at her, my heart calming down. Yeah, we were alone.
"So, can we get started?" she raised her wand and performed the motions of the lighting charm, but it only gave out a soft glimmer.
"Yeah, right. Right. But you know, this isn't free."
She crossed her arms. "I told you I'd help you and sit with you. It's not my fault there was no sitting in Defence."
"I'm talking about Potions. You left me alone with Granger. Granger! She hates my guts!"
"That doesn't count. You took too long."
I shrugged "You never put a time limit. So now I want more: you sit with me in class everyday, and the Great Hall too, and we walk together in the hallways."
Yeah, I was thinking of using her as some sort of anti-bullying protection, so to speak. Not as a human shield, mind you, but simply because the two of us together would make a harder target than if it was just me on my own.
"What?! I won't follow you around the castle like I'm your bloody house-elf!"
"Only if we're going to the same place, then. Like between classes."
She mumbled something under her breath. Then said: "Fine! But then I want more too: you help me with all other charms, not just the wand-lighting one. And with the homework too."
"Okay, but you also need to come to the library with me."
"What? No!"
"Not always, but at least twice a week. We'll do the homework there, and the practice here."
"Hmph! All right. But you also have to help me with Potions' homework."
"Perks not up to the task?"
She frowned at that and started walking towards the door. "If you don't want to–"
"Wait, wait! Just joking. I will help you, but I won't do your homework for you. That fair?"
She nodded and put her hand forward.
I grinned as I took it. "Brilliant! We have a deal, then! So, let's get started on that charm...!"
Making friends, the Slytherin way.
Chapter 6Chapter Text
The owl landed right in front of me during breakfast, stepping on dishes and almost causing my apple juice to spill all over my robes. It was enormous, the largest bird I'd ever seen —at least that close and in person— in both my lives. All talons, menacing sharp beak and imposing golden feathers. It carried a small letter tied to one of its feet.
"You couldn't just drop it from above, like all the other owls?" I asked it once I'd recovered from the initial commotion.
The owl looked at the nearby bacon plate, then at me.
"Right, stupid question." I untied the letter under the combined gaze of all the Slytherin first years. Then I took a piece of bacon and offered it to the owl. Its beak closed with a terrifyingly loud snap right next to my fingers, and the animal took off again; leaving behind a cloud of dust and feathers that got into my hair.
"Arsehole of a bird," I muttered under my breath as I examined the letter. It had the stylized 'M' logo of the Ministry of Magic. It was also, technically speaking, the first letter I'd ever received by magical post, since the acceptance letter had been handed directly to me by the Headmaster.
I broke the seal with some trepidation and started reading, even though I already had a fair idea of what its contents would be.
Ministry of Magic
Department of Magical Records
Subject: Inquiry regarding family history.
Dear Miss Sarramond,
We are writing in response to your inquiry into the existence of ancestral records tied to your family name. After a comprehensive examination of the various parchments and archives within possession of the Ministry, we regret to inform you that the surname 'Sarramond' does not appear in any of our records for extant families in wizarding Britain during the last fifty years.
As for your question regarding your birth date: no, we do not have any records of an infant born to a magical family on that specific date. But we encourage you to get in contact with St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, as their own records might differ from ours, due to the confusion and uncertainty prevalent during the Wizarding War.
Should you have any further questions, please do not hesitate to get in touch again with our department.
Yours sincerely,
Fenella Lancet
Junior Archivist
Well, it was worth a try.
I folded the letter into my pocket, muttering a quick "later" to Tracey who had been trying to read it over my shoulder. We had grown somewhat closer since we started sitting together, but I didn't want to air my failure in front of the whole table. I went back to my breakfast, and soon enough the conversations resumed around me, the novelty of me receiving a letter quickly forgotten.
I had owled the Ministry a couple days ago, as Prefect Farley had suggested. I had also made some attempts at finding something in the Library. That was challenging, though: there were just too many volumes about heraldry and old family lines and searching through all of them was like looking for the metaphorical needle in the haystack.
You would have thought my surname was weird enough that it should be easy to find, or remember hearing. It was also a name that... sounded magical, to my ears at least. Maybe because it was so odd and uncommon. Mine was the kind of name a witch would have, so I had fooled myself into being hopeful. Maybe I was a lost child, after all. Maybe, just maybe I belonged to a magical family.
But no dice.
I figured the better option would be to ask the Muggle authorities. I was in the Muggle foster system, after all, so someone must have written down my name into some form at some point in the past. It was just a matter of finding out where that name had came from. The problem being that I couldn't exactly do that while at Hogwarts, could I? An owl wasn't an option, and I didn't know if the Muggle post reached us all the way here. I'd need to ask one of the professors, maybe.
But the St. Mungo angle was promising. I would go to the owlery and send them a letter after Herbology today; it didn't hurt to try. And maybe I should also owl the French Ministry of Magic at that. After all, I—
"Miss Sarramond!" said an icy voice behind me. I turned to look.
"Oh, good morning Professor McGonagall?"
She looked thunderous and livid, barely constraining her anger.
"Miss Sarramond," she said, chewing each word. "I distinctly remember telling you to return those spectacles when we were at Diagon Alley," she said, referring to my superbly stylish sunglasses. The very same sunglasses that I was wearing right now, in the Great Hall.
What can I say. If you've got the looks, you've got to flaunt it.
I'd already worn them the day before at lunch, in fact. They had garnered me a lot of stares, as expected, and some envious scoffs from my housemates; but no comments from any of the Professors; so I figured McGonagall had already forgotten about the whole thing. Evidently not. Or maybe she just hadn't been present at lunch yesterday, I wasn't sure.
"Uh... you won't believe it Professor, but these aren't the same ones you saw," I replied, trying to project confidence. "These ones actually belong to... Greengrass! Daphne is allowing me to wear them because I loved them so much."
"You are correct, I do not believe it. Now, hand them over at once."
I shot a desperate gaze towards Daphne next to me. She met my eyes for a moment, then let out a soft sigh.
"She is not lying," she said, her voice neutral and almost bored. "They are a gift from my aunt Antigone, for my being sorted into Slytherin. She has a horrid sense of taste, of course; I would never wear such a thing myself."
"Ouch," I muttered to her.
I turned my gaze back at McGonagall, who looked like she wanted to murder the both of us. But I suspected if she opted to pursue this particular thread, Greengrass' family would have her back to hell and beyond, even more so against the famous Head of the Gryffindor House. I saw the Professor arrive to that realisation herself.
Checkmate.
I must have looked too pleased with myself, though, because she changed tacks: "Regardless, those are outdoor wear, and this is the Great Hall. You are not allowed to wear them in here."
I pointed at the bright sun visible through the enchanted ceiling and deadpanned: "Doesn't that count as 'outdoors'?"
McGonagall's lips went so thin that they disappeared from sight. Next to me there was a sharp intake of breath from Tracey, her eyes comically wide.
And I braced myself, because I knew adults, and I knew what came next. I had first-hand experience on this. This, this was me crossing the line. Purposefully. This was when she exploded at me, raged at me, gave me detention. This was Mrs. Coverdale sending me off to my room.
But I never got to witness it, because suddenly Snape was there, almost like he'd just popped into existence out of nowhere, like a greasy-haired Batman or something. He said: "Minerva. I believe disciplining the students in my house for... transgressions against the dress code falls within my purview, not yours."
She turned to face him and replied in a lower volume, saying something I couldn't hear well enough but that sounded a lot like 'bald-faced liars'. Snape, though, he just gazed over his shoulder at the ruckus coming from the Gryffindor table and said: "I'll see to that. But perhaps you should put order in your own house, before someone gets injured. Not that it would be a loss."
They locked eyes for a moment, then McGonagall rushed to the other side of the Great Hall, barking "Fred! George! Stop that right now!" as she went. I guessed the Weasley twins were about to pay dearly for my cheek.
I turned to look at Snape.
Snape looked down at me, unimpressed.
I wiggled my eyebrows, causing the sunglasses to move up and down.
He snarled: "Take that silly thing off your face, you foolish girl!"
I didn't take the sunglasses off, but perched them to the top of my head instead. He shot me an annoyed glare, then turned and walked away.
Compromise, the keystone of a healthy relationship.
"Thanks," I said to Greengrass once he got out of hearing range. "I owe you one."
"Yes you do."
"Come to the library later," I said, gathering my stuff to leave. "I have the Transfiguration homework done already, so you can copy it if you need to."
Zabini across the table chose that moment to interrupt: "Oh? Because she's not smart enough to do it on her own, you mean?"
You trolling prat.
"No! Sorry, nothing of the sort!" I rushed to say to Daphne, ignoring Zabini's amused grin. "Just that maybe... you have other things that you'd rather... be doing, no?" I finished lamely before leaving. But I noticed the heiress had an almost imperceptible smile on her face, so I hoped I hadn't offended her.
Tracey Davis was not as content with me when we walked together towards Herbology. "Merlin! Why did you have to needle Professor McGonagall like that? Do you want to get detention? Over wearing those stupid glasses?"
"I..." I sighed. I wasn't sure how to explain it to her. Or if I could.
Because it wasn't even about the stupid —but oh so snazzy— sunglasses anymore, not really. It was something else, a deeper need within me. It was stepping over the line just to prove to myself that I could; that McGonagall would not cow me like I was a child. No matter the punishment, or whatever retaliations she had prepared for me.
It was that burning desire to be... me. To make my own decisions and follow them through. And the fear that the alternative... if I allowed adults to rule my life, decide on how I was to dress or when I was to go to bed, my old identity would simply... fade away. Vanish into the depths of my memories, like a half remembered dream. That I would then become just one more child. Just Sylvia Sarramond, age eleven, with no traces of Sophie, of who I had once been.
So no. I was not having that. Not when I was with my foster parents, not now, not ever. I would fight whoever it was just to keep my hand firmly on the wheel of my own life.
But I didn't know how to explain all that to Tracey, so I simply shrugged and said: "It's in my nature, I guess."
Which didn't seem to satisfy her, but I guess I had already garnered enough of a reputation as the Slytherin oddball over the last few days that she let it slide.
And that was perhaps why my plan of keeping a low profile had been doomed from the start: because I just couldn't. I hadn't accounted for that need of mine, that almost overbearing necessity of asserting myself, no matter what.
And because I wasn't really an eleven years old kid. Or maybe I was, but I was an uncannily mature one at that, thanks to my fore-memories. So whenever one of my housemates tried to bait or humiliate me on account of my low status, I could simply... let it slide. I didn't get worked up over what at the end of the day were childish insults. My housemates didn't know what to think of me, and I didn't blame them.
And speaking of doomed things, I reached Herbology to discover my puffapod had managed to die over the last two days, its central bulb deflated and starting to decompose already. Professor Sprout handed me some new beans, after giving me some more warnings not to treat the plants so roughly, and taking away two points from Slytherin.
Over the last days —our first two weeks or so at Hogwarts— I had entered into sort of a routine. I went to class together with Tracey —except for Potions, that is— we did our homework at the library —homework which later I also offered to Perks, Goyle, and sometimes Nott and Zabini in exchange of favours, a Galleon here and there, and mostly them not being total arseholes to me— and then Tracey and I had our little tutoring sessions after dinner where we practised spells. We were making good headway there, already ahead of the one Flitwick was currently teaching in class.
But other than that I was on my own: and so I did my best to spend every other minute doing something productive: I'd be either exploring the castle in search of sights I could remember from my fore-memories, taking long walks around the lake while practising my wand movements, reading ahead in the library —I had in fact found those same books that I had been interested in during my visit to Flourish and Blotts— or practising even more spells on my own.
All together I had already mastered the levitation charm and the unlocking charm, the knock-back jinx and the ever so important general counter-spell, that I found in the second year book. I was now working my way through the shield charm: the wand movement was simple enough, but the difficulty with that one —and the reason it wasn't taught to first years, I assumed— was in properly focusing your intention even while you were under attack. And I wouldn't know for sure I was doing it correctly until I used while actually under danger, which was a scary proposition.
All that work was bearing its fruits, though: I shone in Charms —sometimes literally— and Defence, and was already starting to get the beginnings of a budding reputation as someone not to cross wands with. Transfiguration was hard, but most of that came from the underlying theory, which included solving equations to work out which element or shape matched which other. I wasn't used to equations having alchemical symbols or arithmancic runes, but I remembered enough about the fundamentals of solving them that my fore-memories gave me a leg up on the other students my age.
I was competent enough in the other subjects that didn't involve wand-waving: Potions I didn't love, but if you could follow the instructions and be thorough, it wasn't too difficult; plus Hermione was there to ensure I got good grades no matter what. Most of Astronomy so far I already knew from my fore-memories, with the only novelty being the magical effects caused by the planets' movements. History of Magic was soul-crushingly boring, yes, but I'd had other subjects like that in my previous life. So I would simply ignore the teacher and use the time at class to advance my homework. Whatever was required of me to know about History, I could always read from the textbook itself later.
Herbology, though, was the only black mark in my otherwise good record. I hated getting my hands dirty and sticky, the cuts from the thorns, the heat in the greenhouses, the buzzing insects. And the plants, somehow, seemed to return the sentiment: they would puff spores into my face to make me sneeze and get my eyes to tear up, they would dig their roots out rather than stay put, entangle each other's leaves to make it more difficult for me to properly prune them. I wouldn't put it past them to starve themselves to death just to spite me.
But overall, I'd say my main project of getting good at magic was progressing well enough. My other project, that of worming my way into the main storyline events, getting information on what the situation was with Voldemort and Quirrell, and being able to influence Harry Potter and his friends... Well, that was still stuck at zero percent progress.
Hermione should have been the key to unlock that particularly stubborn lock, but she remained determined to give me the cold shoulder. And the only time we spent together was during Potions class, under Snape's ever watchful and unnerving eyes, so I couldn't exactly talk freely to her. She arrived just in time, left just as the class ended —never lingering for even a minute— and generally tried her best to avoid spending with me a second longer than necessary.
So that wasn't working.
I would need to think of some new plan to advance on the Hermione front. Not today, though. Today I had other things on my mind, other plans to enact. More... risky ones, perhaps. But today was one of those very important days, the ones I had pretty much marked in my personal notebook of thoughts about the future, the one I kept buried deep into my trunk —and which I still had to shield in some sort of protective spell.
You see, today was the first day of flying lessons.
So by the time both Gryffindors and Slytherins gathered on the Training Grounds under a clear blue sky I was feeling a mix of apprehension and anxiety at the combined weight of both the plans I had for later in the day, and the fact that I was about to rise in the air sitting on a broomstick what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-these-people?!
I seemed to be the only Slytherin afflicted by the pre-flight shivers, though, which didn't surprise me one bit. I assumed most if not all my housemates would have done some flying with their families already, being of magical heritage; I was probably the only one to which this was a novel experience.
I did see my fear reflected in a pallid Hermione across from me, along with Harry Potter who fidgeted constantly and Neville Longbottom, who looked like he was a hair's breath away from emptying his stomach.
At least I didn't embarrass myself when Madam Hooch instructed us to call for our brooms. I imagined the flimsy-looking thing to be a pet, some exotic breed of dog, and called "Up!" like I would have done when playing with my brother's mutt, back in my fore-memories. The thing leaped up to my hand.
Or well, it leaped almost to my hand. I did have to lean a bit and catch it in the air before it could fall back, but nobody saw that so I still counted it as a win.
We mounted the brooms and Hooch corrected our postures, telling me not to grab the handle so tight, and she was about to give us the go ahead when Longbottom did his thing. He shot up above our heads, slid off the broom, and crashed back into the ground. It had been sort of funny when I saw it in the movie, but hearing the crunchy sound of his bone breaking in real life was a little sickening, actually.
"Shit," I muttered.
"Language!" scolded Hooch, but it was almost an afterthought. She had bigger fish to fry, tending to the boy. They retreated towards the castle, leaving us on our own. Like that was a good idea.
And sure enough...
"Did you see his face...?" started Malfoy.
The argument between Draco and Harry resembled what I could recall, and I let myself relax a bit. I had been bracing for the worst, but it seemed I could simply let it play out: Harry would show off with his newly discovered flying skills and get instantly recruited into the Quidditch team by a shocked McGonagall —who apparently had no qualms bending the rules when it benefited her, the hypocrite.
Not that I was bitter about breakfast.
I relaxed a tad my grip on the broomstick, silently thanking Longbottom for his sacrifice. At least I'd have more time to mentally prepare before having to float in the air myself, precariously keeping my balance lest I wanted to follow his path. But the relief was short-lived, because I noticed that the discussion was ending.
And sure enough, Harry was talking to Weasley about something, and Draco was regaling us —once more— with his own exploits on top a broom; about that time he flown with his family over the channel to visit France.
This was wrong.
We were off-script.
I felt my heart skip a beat, felt that odious sensation of the world tilting on its axis, becoming different. Becoming unpredictable. Uncharted and unchartable. My mouth was suddenly very dry.
What was it? What had changed?
Neville's trinket. That must've been it. He was supposed to drop it, then Draco would pick it up. But he hadn't. Why not? Had Neville not dropped it?
Fuck.
"Sylvia?" whispered Tracey next to me. "You all right? It's okay, you aren't going to fall if you don't panic like that. Just let the broom carry you."
I ignored her words, but something about Tracey was tugging at my attention.
Tracey was next to me.
But she wasn't supposed to be next to me, right? She was only next to me because of our agreement.
And because I was here.
So because I was here, she wasn't standing where she was supposed to be. Which meant Malfoy wasn't standing where he was supposed to stand. None of the Slytherins were.
Which meant...
I took a step forward, my eyes scanning the grass in search of... there! A shiny ball-shaped thing, resting a little to my right. Malfoy hadn't seen it. I walked up to it, picked it up and held it in front of my face, making sure everyone would get a clear view.
And the moment I touched it, the ball turned red.
Uhm. Curious.
"That's Neville's Remembrall," said Harry Potter. "Give it to me."
I turned to look at him, but didn't move to return it. I couldn't just give it back! Not if I wanted everything to happen according to plan. But I also had no experience on top a broomstick, so I couldn't exactly take off and play cat-and-mouse with him myself, not if I wanted to keep my bones in one piece.
Come on Malfoy, what are you waiting for? It's time to be a twat.
But I had to do something. Harry was advancing towards me, hand extended. So I took a couple of steps back and towards the other Slytherins, pretending to examine the trinket. He shot me a look of utter indignation, a look that was also mirrored on Hermione and Ron's faces.
Yeah. This... this shit wasn't going to help me much with that "influence the Golden Trio" project of mine, was it? Hell, this was my first actual interaction with Potter. And now he would only think of me as yet another prick in cahoots with Malfoy.
At least Draco's attention seemed to have returned from wherever it had gone off, because he plucked the Remembrall out of my hand. He said: "Nice find, Sarramond! Here, let's put it somewhere for him to find... How about the top of that tree?"
With that, he climbed atop his broom and shot into the air, followed by Harry despite Hermione's protests. She turned to give me a furious look. I shrugged at her, as if saying 'boys, right? What can you do?' but she wasn't having it.
I sighed. Oh well. At least I got to see Harry fly. It was... something. Malfoy wasn't bad either, having been flying since before he had use of reason probably, but the Boy Who Broomed was clearly a level above that. At times it even looked as if gravity didn't have any hold on him at all, and I wondered if there was more magic than the broomstick's own enchantments involved in that. If he wasn't subconsciously altering physics somehow.
To be completely honest, I couldn't really fault McGonagall for bending the rules to accommodate that. It would be a crime to let it go to waste.
For the rest of us, however, things weren't that exciting. Once both boys had landed and Harry was escorted out, Hooch resumed the class. She had us hover at a short distance above the ground as we flew eight-shaped loops. The first seconds had been alarming, I almost panicking as my feet abandoned the safety of the ground; but soon enough I got used to the feeling of being suspended in mid-air by my crotch.
It even got to be a little boring by the end. Though maybe that was because we weren't doing any tight turns, nor were we so high that I could feel any real sense of vertigo —only about the height of the second floor; so it felt sort of like riding an oddly-shaped bike. But I wasn't looking forward to when Hooch would decide we were ready to be thrown into the deep end, and so I welcomed it when the class finally ended and we were allowed to return to the castle. To its solid flagstone floors, walls, and its ceilings.
I had my chance to make up to Potter and his friends –or friend, since Hermione wasn't part of his little group yet— later that same day, at dinner.
I was finishing my desert pudding when Malfoy returned along with his two minions from his habitual pestering of the Gryffindor table. This time though, he was preening.
"You are preening," I commented.
He pretended he hadn't heard me, talking to Parkinson and Zabini instead: "I just challenged Potter and Weasley to a duel, today at night."
"Oh, Draco!" said Pansy, looking up at him with false adoration. "You simply must let me watch! He doesn't stand a chance."
Zabini, though, seemed more sceptical: "At night? Won't someone hear you? Where will this be?"
Malfoy waved his hand, smirking: "I don't plan to attend; please, I have better things to do. But they have this stupid Gryffindor sense of honour, don't they? So they will be there. I will simply tell that squib Filch and let him go and deal with them himself."
"Consider me impressed, Malfoy," commented Zabini. "That is actually cunning, for once."
"I know! But of course, that is our house strength, after all." Draco leaned back, self-satisfied, not even noticing the barb hidden beneath the taller boy's praise.
I looked at Zabini and gave him a subtle nod; he had an amused glint in his eyes.
I rushed to finish up my pudding after that, making a fairly good impression of Crabbe and Goyle. With a last sip of tea to push it all down, I stood up and moved towards the Great Hall's entrance.
"Wait!" said Tracey, still at the table. "I'm not done yet!"
"Need to go to the loo!" I replied. "I'll see you later!"
I exited the Great Hall, passing by the four hourglasses that tracked house points and leaving its ever-present noise behind for the quiet calm of the Hogwart's corridors. But instead of going ahead and towards the bathroom, I went left and towards the Grand Staircase. I took refuge behind one of the columns right under the ornate stone arch that connected to the corridor, and sat down to wait.
There were a handful of Ravenclaw and Gryffindor students moving about, but it was otherwise empty —and sort of eerie, at night, the staircases projecting long shadows as they rotated on their own under the light of the unnatural braziers, the soft sound of scraping stone filling my thoughts. At some point, one of the ghosts —the Fat Friar— floated upwards and disappeared in the looming darkness up above.
I was nervous. I knew the Slytherins had been told to leave me be —at least, in public, and at least until winter break— and I also knew the homework I traded with Goyle and Perks ended up working its way up the ladder to Malfoy and Greengrass respectively, so they were invested in my not-dying, at least out of pure self-interest. But they were also Slytherins. So I never liked being in a position where a housemate might find me alone and defenceless. Still, while this staircase did indeed connect to the dungeons, it wasn't the fastest route there was to the our common room, and so I hoped if any of my housemates had seen me leave early and decided to hunt me down, they would assume I'd left the usual way.
I bid my time in restless patience, though, and about fifteen minutes later I was rewarded when the first Gryffindors deigned to appear. Still, I waited in the shadows, examining each passing face, until... there!
I stepped out and said: "Oi, Potter!"
It was funny, how both he and Ron did a little jump at my voice. And also heart-warming how Ron shielded Harry with his own body, interposing himself between the both of us wand in hand.
Of course, it wasn't that heart-warming, on account of his bloody wand being aimed at my face.
"You!" said Ron. "What do you want? Come to protect your little boyfriend?"
"My... what?"
"Malfoy, who else? You can turn away now. Tell him we're not calling the duel off, right Harry?"
I felt myself going cross-eyed.
"Malfoy is not my boyfriend... you couldn't be more..." I shook my head, deciding instead to address Potter directly: "I just wanted to apologize for before, on the Training Grounds."
"You should apologize to Neville, not us," said Harry.
"Well, yeah, you can pass it on." I rested my shoulder casually against the wall. At some point in my other life I had watched a nature documentary where they explained how lions react to aggression with more aggression, so if you found yourself in front of a lion —as one does— you should try to act relaxed, and even lie down so as to not provoke them. With no Internet nor Wikipedias, I didn't know if that was true or a mere myth, but it seemed to do the trick with this particular breed of lions, because Ron at least lowered his wand somewhat.
I continued: "I also come bearing gifts, you know, as a... way to make amends? So, I wanted to give you a warning about that duel—"
"So this is all about the duel!" said Ron, "I knew it!"
Very perceptive, Ron. I decided to go for the kill: "The duel is a trap. Malfoy doesn't even plan to attend; he was boasting about how you two would get caught and into trouble if you went."
"He doesn't plan to go?" asked Harry. I almost could see the plain relief in his face.
"That's rubbish, Harry! She's lying. She wants us to miss the duel so that we end up looking like cowards. I mean, just look at her robes! You don't know Slytherins like my family does, but my father says they are all liars and self-ser—, serv—"
I smirked. "Big word, no, Weasley?"
"You slimy git!" he said... aaand his wand was back on me.
Okay, okay... Harry was half-convinced, but I hadn't counted on the younger Weasley and his hate of all things snakish. I'd need to give them something more if I wanted Potter to ever think I could be trustworthy, not to second-guess all I said now and forever. A piece of the honest truth, so to speak.
"You're not wrong, though," I said with a shrug. "I am self-serving. It just so happens that warning you also serves me. It's Malfoy I'm backstabbing here, not you."
"You're betraying... Malfoy?" said Harry, frowning at me as if the mere idea of acting against a housemate was inconceivable. "Why?"
"I have plans, Potter. You see, someday I want to be the Queen of the Snakes; the Black Mamba, if you will, and taking Malfoy down a peg or two would help me loads with that. And I also don't care for this vendetta between the two of you. Don't like it when it affects me, like it did today."
"So you just expect us to believe you, and don't go to the duel?!" asked Ron.
No. I expected them to ignore me and go to the duel anyway. And when they discovered Malfoy wasn't there, they'd see I was telling them the truth all along. So next time I suggested them a course of action they'd be more likely to listen to me. I was playing the long game here.
I shrugged. "That's up to you, no? You've got your warning, so now we're even again. Good luck tonight!"
That seemed to leave the both of them confused, so I seized the chance to step off the wall and walk up to a downward staircase that had just rotated into place. As I started descending towards the dungeons I heard Ron mutter behind me: "I tell you, these Slytherins are all bloody mental."