November 2nd, 1991
The answer was, of course, the three has persevered.
But I still spent the evening in that odd tower, chatting with the snakes and basking in the power the Samhain rite had given me. That was when I had found a portrait of an old wizard and had the grand idea to chat. Thus, I found myself popping the portrait off the wall at its very own behest.
The answer to what was behind the portrait was none so interesting as the fact that the item in question was hidden at all. It was a stone of grey marble enchanted to release a peculiar set of sounds. The stone itself was jagged, but the streaks of silver and green through the dark grey base were beautiful. Had it not made noise when tapped by my wand, I likely still would have kept it. It had also been wrapped in a piece of parchment with a note dated 1010 AD —which meant the English used was of an entirely different sort and was liable to give me a headache.
Within two hours of being sent up the tower —Slytherin’s tower, apparently— Severus came to bring us back down to the dungeons and settle into our own House dormitory.
When asked what happened he responded with a curt, “nothing of consequence,” eyebrow twitching ever so slightly he then strode out of the common room until the following morning he addressed all of the House. Draco and I were irritated at his nonchalance as he strode in —though I was mostly upset as it meant I was unable to run and Draco was simply in a terrible mood that was also adding to my irritation. The disdain in Severus’ voice, however, soothed our animosity. It was always interesting when Severus despised something. It was not unnoticed by the House that Severus was walking with a limp, either.
“An imbecile tried to fight the troll. By some wretched miracle it worked and the troll has been captured.”
Though Draco and I tried to catch him, Severus all but darted away from the common room —but that day was potions so it wouldn’t be as if he could escape infinitely. So we went about our day —and I spotted the three menaces chatting before potions. Tibble and his golden cronies close as in elsewhere. Noticeably, however, Neville was not interacting with the three so much.
When I ran back my memory, it seemed that —in potions at least— he had slowly been chatting less and less actively with Tibble and the Weasel. He was still utterly hopeless in the course though. Absolutely dreadful. It was a nice reminder that this world had Fate’s guiding hand —and sometimes she guided it to explode a Wither-me-not Potion.
And, in a pleasant turn of events, I had not heard a whisper of first year being given an exception to playing quidditch. Of everything, that had put me in the best mood.
Until, of course, Severus entered the classroom with murder written in his eyes.
Ah. Right. Tibble remained a nosy menace —and Severus was still bound to attempt to protect him.
It did make me wonder, though, if Tibble was not to play Quidditch, what would Fate lead Quirrell to attempting at the match? The thought flitted away as soon as it appeared. Tibble dying is none of my concern —arguably it is helpful.
That thought was forced out. What? Was I going to murder Tibble? How did that work out for wizards in elsewhere? No. He is protected by a being larger than fate. He is protected by destiny. Killing him would be as impossible as turning my family away from the dark arts.
Instead, I tucked my scarf closer to my nose to warm myself. November had brought the cold, and with the cold came unstoppable shivering. I used to resent it —that no matter what happened, winter was unbearable. But unlike in elsewhere, where winter could be a death sentence for mortals, the winter in Britain was tinged with sifting decorations and old world rites and singing and family. It eased my resentment. And fueled my rage at Tibble four-fold.
One day, after my plans are finished, after the plot is through, after the golden git’s protection is ended, I think I’ll destroy him. A smile curled my lips, unfriendly and feral. Not kill him, no. Simply destroy him. Yes, that is quite nice.
I had not, it seems, successfully pushed out thoughts of murder and retribution.
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No explosions had occurred in potions that day —and Severus refused to speak of his limp. So Saturday came —and with it was the first Quidditch match of the season. Gryffindor vs. Slytherin.
Adrian, Marcus, and Terrence were all on the team —and though none were prodigies, they didn’t slouch. Without their dearest Tibble, I could only hope the team collapsed.
Most of the snake pit were with us towards the front of the Slytherin stands —Pansy and Draco were surrounded by Vince, Greg, and surprisingly Daphne, meanwhile Theo, Blaise, and Millie were by me. Blaise and I were locked together, as I hid from any onlooking professors in an attempt to cast a warming charm.
“Bloody hell,” I muttered, “My hands keep shaking.”
“Sure it’s not that you need help, Princess?” Blaise smirked as he shifted once more to hide me from another professor.
“Sod off —this charm is easy. If I can’t do it, bullocks if you can,” I hissed as I focused on Blaise’s robes and tried again, “Focillo.”
I felt Blaise relax at the heat, “I take it back, you’re a queen.”
“Snake,” I snorted and I focused on my own robes this time, “Focillo.”
Relief spread through me as the gentle heat began warming my skin ever so gently.
“Millie—come over.”
Soon enough she was leaning into me, her dark hair tumbling into my face.
“Focillo.”
“Brilliant, Dea.” She sighed as she tucked her hands into her robes, “Absolutely brilliant.”
Now that I was consistently steady, I shot off six more —three at our socks and three at our scarves. We had suffered the first half hour of this god awful cold, and I refused to continue suffering.
That was when a high pitched scream cut through the noise of the snakes. I snapped my head around in search of my brother, finding Draco as stunned as I was. It wasn’t until my eyes landed on the Gryffindor stands that I saw a small figure dangling from the rail by one arm. A small figure with wild black hair that was soon grabbed by a hulking man and a ginger. Of course it was Tibble.
I gagged.
“Looks like he’s the Boy Continues To Live,” I muttered. When I heard Blaise snort, I smiled.
My eyes immediately went to the staff stands to check in on Quirrell and Severus. And, unsurprisingly, they were both muttering and staring at the boy who was fighting to get back over the rail and into his seat. As Tibble did indeed get back into his seat, the few that were watching focused back on the game —the other three houses booing Slytherin’s scores and Slytherin booing Gryffindor in turn. But I kept my eyes on Severus and Quirrell. It would appear my Godfather had found the proper counter spell for whatever jinx had sent Tibble flying —if Quirrell’s frustrated expression and the sweat on Severus’ brow was anything to go by.
I tried, truly, to pay attention. And if I found it worth my while, I could have remembered all the nonsense that fell out of Lee Jordan’s mouth —but Quidditch wasn’t really my cup of tea. Not even when Father loved it so. It was, after all, the reason I was being forced to re-apply a warning charm every half hour in the freezing cold. Without Tibble to nearly devour the snitch, the game had gone in for two hours already.
Until, finally, the snitch was caught by Terrence Higgs, lad that he was.
Madam Hooch blew her whistle and screeched, “SLYTHERIN WINS WITH 190-50!”
Slytherin House’s stands went into an uproar while the other three had varying reactions: Gryffindor booed vehemently, Ravenclaw half-booed half-muttered, and Hufflepuff glowered silently. While I may not be a fan of Quidditch, I am a fan of proving Slytherin is by and far the best House —so I was screaming and cheering and even charmed Terrence’s name to circle the banner the firsties were forced to bring.
Within minutes I was on the pitch, grinning with Daphne, Blaise, and Millie.
“Terrence, you git,” we wrapped the third year in a series of hugs and jostles, “Way to dominate.”
“Oh?” Behind him Adrian huffed, “What about me? Just sod off, I guess.”
Letting go of Terrence, I wrapped my arms around Adrian and laughed —doing so was feeling less and less like a mask with every passing day. It made me forget about the darkness that screamed to hex passerbys —for a while.
I ran my hand over his head, our voices disappearing in the mass of congratulations and chatter, “Not bad, not bad at all.”
“That’s rich, you weren’t out there, I deserve more than that.” His breath was in my ear and I leaned back to look into his bright eyes.
“Well, as the resident Serpent Queen,” I let my face become serious, “What do you want?”
“How about—“ before he finished he leaned forward and, after a half breath wherein time froze, he pecked my cheek, “that?”
I snorted and shoved him back, a smile playing at the edges of my mouth, “Harlot.”