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Social Disposition by Asteria

Format: Novel
Chapters: 3
Word Count: 20,208
Status: WIP

Rating: Mature
Warnings: Contains profanity, Strong violence, Scenes of a sexual nature, Substance abuse, Sensitive topic/issue/theme, Spoilers

Genres: Drama, Humor, Romance, Young Adult
Characters: Albus, Dominique, Fred II, James (II), Lily (II), Louis, Scorpius
Pairings: James/OC, OC/OC

First Published: 07/06/2017
Last Chapter: 03/22/2018
Last Updated: 07/18/2020




Clarissa Wilde embarked on her sixth year with a group of vaguely psychotic friends, the odd homicidal tendency, one too many shots of firewhiskey and a piqued interest in one Albus Severus Potter.

"I think my guardian angel has a serious drinking problem."


Chapter 1: Blurred Colours
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DISCLAIMER: You may recognise the odd little bit of this fic because I originally wrote about six chapters of a Scorose one, decided I hated it, abandoned it (it's still on the website) then dissected it and used some bits of it in this. So yeah just don't worry, I'm not plagiarising other people's work (only my own).

“You slept with who?”

“Crystal, I need your straighteners”

“Jimmy Parkinson?
Heidi why did you stoop so low?”

“No, go get your own you lazy bitch.”

“He was drunk, I was even more drunk.”

“Stop shouting guys I need sleep.”

“I hope you burn your damn hair off.”

“You can’t blame it on the Firewhiskey.”

“You’ll stay far away from me or deal with the consequences.”

“You can’t handle your liquor.”

“I will burn your fucking cat.”

“Why is Constance staring at us again?”

“I’ll have you know, I’m a professional drinker.”

“It’s a little unnerving”

“I don’t have a cat”

“You say professional, we say lightweight.”

“Has anyone done the charms homework?”


“What do you think?”


“Course not.”

“Yeah, I did it a week ago.”

“Fuck off Maisie.”

It was a relatively average saturday morning in the madhouse - more commonly referred to as the Hufflepuff Sixth Year Dormitory - Stella was snoring lightly, most likely dreaming about Gabe Wilkerson, a Ravenclaw prefect from the year above who had become her latest subject of infatuation. Ray, on the other hand, had seemingly made it her morning goal to annoy Crystal as much as possible though with her emotionless persona and halcyon attitude it would prove a harder feat than initially expected. Somewhere between taking down a fully grown mountain troll without any form of weapon and winning a house quidditch match against Slytherin whilst severely inebriated, I’d say. Like managing to piss off Crystal, they are both theoretically possible events yet ones which are rarely achieved.

Maisie was sat cross-legged on the side of Heidi’s bed, trying to convince her that the alcohol fueled, ill-intended, late night rendezvous with Jimmy Parkinson was nothing that she should regret although we all knew Maisie was lying through her teeth.

The girls of Dormitory H12 were somewhat famed within our own house; fiercely loyal and grossly underestimated, we weren’t considered the sort you should mess with.

In a way, it's strangely reassuring to know that, unlike the rest of my friends, I’ve managed to retain the majority of my sanity throughout my time here at Hogwarts, although I’d argue that Ray had begun her school life with a negligible amount of mental stability anyway. Setting Daria Fawley’s hair on fire after a particularly arduous potions lesson in first year, which saw the term ‘mudblood’ thrown around in reference to Ray’s muggle parents, was a notably fond memory of mine, hallmarking the day that she set out on her surprisingly short road to lunacy.   

One downside of being relatively level-headed among a group of lunatics and heathens is that it can get a little lonely at times in my slowly shrinking bubble of sanity since it's just me and my rather obese cat, Tiny. In my defence, I named him that before my younger sister, Tilly, thought it would be a good idea to feed him sausages every night after I'd gone to bed.

Actually, scratch that.

Tiny's now sitting in the corner of the room with a food bowl on his head, he's just as mad as the rest of them.

“What time is it?” Stella, who had clearly been awoken by our shouting, groaned as she cocooned herself further into her duvet.

“Half past get the fuck up.”

“Always the charmer Ray.”

“Agreed, now get your lazy arse out of that bed.”

“You don’t need to repeat yourself,” she mumbled into her pillow, “I ignored you perfectly fine the first time.”

“I think I liked you better when you were asleep.”

The seven girls that resided in this dormitory quite frankly took each and every preconception about Hufflepuff, that floated around the gossip ridden walls of this school, and buried them at least ten feet underground. Potentially eleven in the case of Ray Danvers who is about as far from sweet and friendly as Voldemort is from being heralded as the great philanthropist of his time.

What can I say, we rejoice in putting stereotypes to shame.

“Well you can go back to sleep if you want,” Maisie Longbottom said with a genuine smile as she sat back down on her own bed, “unless you’d rather hear about about Heidi’s late night escapades with Jimmy Parkinson.”

Stella’s head emerged from underneath the pillows, hair madly disheveled, but her interest was clearly sparked, “Like the same Jimmy Parkinson who has cheated on every single one of his girlfriends, screwed everyone else's girlfriends and then slept with both Slutty Sarah and Loony Laura.”

“On the same night.”

“At the same time.”

“The one and only.”

Heidi’s head hit her bedside table with a dull thud, “I regret my life choices.”

“Suddenly mine don’t seem all that bad.”

“I have too much sex,” she decided, looking mildly disgusted at herself, though waking up to Jimmy Parkinson snoring away is enough to make any girl feel slightly queasy, “it’s unhealthy.”

“Don’t be ashamed,” Maisie frowned, not liking the fact that somebody in the room was unhappy, “sex is perfectly natural and healthy.”

“Yeah well so are goddamn salmon fillets but if you ate a kilogram of them every day you’d get vitamin A poisoning and die.”

I wouldn’t say that Heidi’s comparison was of complete accuracy but, at a push, I guess I could see the angle she was taking with this, or at least attempting to anyway.

“I don’t think anyone has ever died from having too much sex,” Crystal reasoned, “the worst you’d get is a little slut shaming and an STD if you’re careless.”

“Well I say we castrate the boy and then parade his manhood around the school as a warning to any fuckboys who dare approach us,” Ray concluded as she painted her middle nail a deep crimson shade which was apparently intended to represent the blood of her enemies.

Her words, not mine.

“He’ll need to grow a pair first.”

“You’ll probably get a few strange looks.”

“And a restraining order,” I added.

“Calm down Lucifer.”

Ray looked up at Crystal, who was absentmindedly flicking through the pages of today's Quidditch Weekly spread, “Actually, I prefer to be called the ruler of all that is evil,” she blew gently on her nail,  “but I will answer to Lucifer.”

“More like the root of all that is evil,” Stella mumbled from under her duvet.

For that comment, she received the middle finger, followed by a smile that was about as fake as Britney McLaggen’s boobs. Despite many of today’s teenagers attempting to fake it with chicken fillets and an insane amount of padding, no girl can naturally go from a 32B to a 34D over the course of the summer holidays. I'm telling you, there must be some enlargement charms involved.

“Why are you only painting your middle finger?”

“So it looks pretty when I swear at people.”

Maisie looked reasonably satisfied with that answer.

I’d spent the past half an hour reading over the homework to familiarise myself with the incantations for Monday’s lesson, mostly staying out of their conversations. Partly for my sanity’s sake, partly because I’ve been sitting here for half an hour and I still can’t work out the connection between the aguamenti charm and the imperius curse. Ray said that they could both be used to drown people that got on her nerves but, based on the vaguely horrified look Professor Chang gave her, I doubt that it was the correct answer.

“Stella, why have you been smiling like a lunatic since we told you about the Jimmy incident?” I asked, clearly being the observant one in our somewhat dysfunctional friendship group. Her head snapped up so that she was looking at me, mouth twitching strangely as she attempted to keep a straight face. Most of the girls in the dormitory had ceased conversation and were waiting for Stella’s confession with a hint of curiosity sparkling in their eyes, even Constance had stopped reading one of her violent crime novels for long enough to pay attention.

“If you are laughing at my misfortune I will cut you,” Heidi deadpanned, “better yet, I will get Ray to cut you.” At the mention of her name, I swear to Merlin I saw her eyes light up at the prospect, that girl needs some serious help.

Like professional help.

Not like the time Maisie tried to ‘talk about their feelings’ with her and came back with no hope for the world and cried about social injustice for an hour. Considering she’s basically optimism personified I’m surprised Ray managed to stomp on her sunshine quite so severely though she was back to her usual cheery self within a day.

“You did bring it on yourself, to be fai-” Crystal’s statement was cut short with a screech as she dodged the pillow that came hurtling through the air towards her. When her head reappeared from behind the mattress, she had an eyebrow raised, but simply got back onto her bed and resumed reading the article that had seemingly caught her attention.

But back to Stella, whose current expression mirrored that of a first year who had gotten away with stealing a fizzing whizbee or two from the Honeydukes’ pick and mix section for the first time - mostly guilty with a slight unfounded sense of pride.

“Spit it out Zabini,” Heidi pretty much growled.

Stella was no longer smiling but had instead resorted to twiddling her thumbs together as her gaze had become focussed on small crack in the wall over Heidi’s shoulder that had been there ever since Crystal had drunkenly decided to do quidditch drills in the dormitory about a year ago.

“Well,” she began hesitantly, brushing her hair from her eyes in a nervous gesture, “I may have gone to 17B.”

The room fell into silence for a few seconds before a sea of voices erupted, filling the room. with noise


“You broke the girl code man.”

“Since when did we have a code?”

“Since you just broke it.”

“Don’t get too worked up Heidi, you might burst a capillary.”

Even Maisie looked mildly annoyed which I believe expressed the true gravity of this situation. I mean c’mon, the girl practically walks on sunshine and eats rainbows for breakfast, I highly doubt that angry is even within her emotional capabilities. The continuous back and forth of insults didn’t stop as Heidi proceeded to verbally abuse anyone who seemed to vaguely side with Stella.

“Well I think it was a good move.”

Conversation ceased and everyone turned to look at Ray, who was the voice of that comment. She didn’t even look up to meet our gazes, instead she just shrugged, putting down the bottle of nail varnish in favour of tying up her hair using her wand.

“What, she saw an opportunity to make money and took it,” she said, going back to coating her nails in the polish, “it’s only logical.”

“Talk about disloyalty.”

“Honey, you’re not a ravenclaw, don’t pretend to know anything about logic.”

Before this argument developed into a full blown catfight and Heidi tries to claw someone's eyes out with her newly manicured acrylic nails, I should probably explain what was going on.

17B, also known by a variety of other more mysterious names, is an abandoned potions classroom in the dungeons that has become home to a probably illegal betting business run by some of Slytherin’s future convicts. People gamble their money away on many things, with quidditch being the most popular choice, though there are often bets going around about who’s sleeping with who which is clearly what Stella put a couple of her galleons towards.

“Right okay,” Stella voiced with a certain decisiveness, swiftly bringing the attention back to her, “I know we made a pact back in third year not to place bets on one another unless it was quidditch or whatever.”

“Oh so now you remember,” Heidi said bitterly, “do you have selective memory or something?”

Stella ignored her, as most of us did when she was in one of her foul moods, and carried on with her explanation, “but if you recall, we also said that if any one of us wins, we will split half of their earnings between us all.”

I liked where this conversation was going.

“How much did you earn?” I made another input into the conversation, asking the important question that seemed to have slipped everyone else's minds.

“Well I haven’t gone to collect it yet but erm, thirty five galleons,” she looked up at Heidi through strands of tangled black hair, guilt evident in her dark eyes, “Honestly I am sorry, truly, I just needed some money for christmas presents, you know.” She audibly sighed, “How about I split the profits between the six of us, would that work?”

“Stella Grace Zabini, are you trying to blackmail me?”


“Hmm,” she looked thoughtful for a moment, “Well it worked, you’re forgiven.”

From an indignant outcry to a quick resolve.

In the better part of five minutes the argument was all but over, for that's the way we do things in Dormitory H12: hastily, badly and with rather dubious morals.

The following ten minutes brought with it a rare but comfortable silence as Crystal continued to lazily flick through the pages of Quidditch Weekly letting her gaze linger across the torso of the new Wimbourne Wasps seeker who, I admit, was more than a little attractive. Ray had finally stopped painting her nails and instead had resorted to straightening her hair, though the rather harsh scent of acetone continued to attack my nostrils for longer than I would have liked.

Constance Noble, on the other hand, was glaring at nobody in particular - not an irregular occurrence for her. See, I guess you could say she was like the black sheep of the dormitory who never spoke a word but instead stares intently at everyone as if they'd killed her entire family.

Actually, I take that back, she stares at everyone like she could kill their entire family.

I've only once heard her speak, which was on the very first day, when I asked her what her name was and she replied with “I know 72 different ways to murder someone and 38 of those can be done with my bare hands.”

I think it’s safe to say that she has unnerved me slightly ever since.

With a small groan and a somewhat exaggerated yawn, Stella stretched her arms, dragging herself out from her refuge under the covers, “anyone want to come and collect the money with me?”

The look Ray gave her suggested that she took personal offense at the suggestion that she should do any form of exercise but I stood up, closing my charms textbook with a gentle thud, before placing on the small wooden cabinet next to my bed, “I’ll come, I fancy a walk anyway.”

With a smile of gratitude, Stella picked up the glass of water next to her bed and took a small sip, face contorting in disgust when Heidi informed her that it was at least three days old and she saw Tiny drinking out of it this morning. Within about two seconds, one perhaps, the water was no longer swirling inside her mouth but dripping down the face of a particularly angry looking Heidi, likely mixed with a considerable amount of saliva. The whole room went silent, waiting with baited breath for her to scream, shout, have some sort of violent outburst though none came. Instead she let out a deep breath, scraping her hair from her face before she spoke, “Zabini, you're walking incredibly close to the fire today, I suggest you leave before you get burnt.”

“Sweetie, I’ll be dancing in the flames.”

Stella has always flirted with death, not in the heroic sense one might imagine which involves jumping off bridges or fighting an angry death eater but more, she’s never been afraid to piss off either a short-tempered Heidi or Ray with her violent tendencies and believe me when I say both of those are very dangerous things to do.

Just ask Felicity Carter, I don’t think her eyebrows ever grew back properly.

Opening the small wardrobe to the left of my bed, I started to filter through the array of clothes I had filled it with, in search of the mustard coloured house hoodie we’d been given at the start of the year. I shoved aside school jumpers, blouses and a gold sequined dress that Heidi had convinced me to buy but I swore I’d never wear it in public, however hard she tries to convince me.

“I can’t find anything in this damn cupboard,” I moaned, throwing an armful of tangled black jeans onto the floor in frustration. I pulled open the bottom drawer of the cupboard, giving it an extra tug as it stuck, like usual, only halfway open. Shoving aside a rather hideous beige sweater my grandma had knitted me last winter, I began riffling through the clothes, still desperate to find my hoodie.

Maisie giggled, walking over to me with a fond roll of her eyes, “well maybe if you kept it tidy, you’d know where everything is.”

“Thanks mum.”

With a firm wave of her wand and a mumbled incantation, my clothes began to dance around the room, rearranging themselves into neat piles before returning to my wardrobe. I began rummaging again, this time careful not to mess up the immaculately folded clothes that Maisie had sorted for me, “it’s not here dammit.”

I let my body fall to the floor with a gentle thud so that I was lying flat against the hardwood panels, looking under my bed for the missing hoodie and any potential culprit I could blame it on instead of my own lack of organisation. Icy blue met brilliant yellow as our eyes interlocked and the stare off, which I fully intended to win, commenced. See the issue was that the pair of particularly vivid eyes just so happened to be connected to a rather furry grey body which in turn happened to be sat on a mustard yellow jumper, my mustard yellow jumper which was now covered in cat fur. Tiny let out an indignant hiss as I attempted to swipe the hoodie from underneath him, batting at my hand with his claws out intending to hurt me. My own cat cares more about a piece of horrifically coloured material than me and people seem to wonder why I have attachment issues. I was just going to ignore the fact that it hadn’t been washed in a fortnight, was covered in grey fur and had a small wet patch on the sleeve which I hoped to God wasn’t what I thought it might be.

As I pulled the material over my head, Stella walked towards the door, still donning a lacy tank top and a almost non-existent pair of very small shorts.

“Aren’t you going to change out of your pajamas?” Crystal asked, peering over the top of her magazine.

She looked down at her attire in response, pulling on the silky material of her top so that it covered perhaps an inch more skin before humming in satisfaction, “no.”

There are some days when I can’t decide if that girl is either brain dead or just plain crazy but honestly, I’m starting to think it’s a mix of both. Crystal gave her a vaguely credulous expression, clearly not surprised at her choice, though as Stella made a variety of dubious decisions on a daily basis it was barely out of the ordinary.

“The corridor will be dead at this time,” she reasoned, “It’s like nine o’clock on a saturday morning, everyone will either be at quidditch practise, eating breakfast, or fast asleep like I would have been if you idiots hadn’t decided that right now was the best time for a shouting match.” She grabbed a navy cardigan, one of Heidi’s I believe, from one of the mahogany wardrobes that stood tall against the back wall of the dormitory. It did little to conserve her modesty, only covering her arms but I guess it was better than nothing at all. Heidi eyed her suspiciously, contemplating whether she should berate her for taking the cardigan without asking but she soon decided against it, despite her current foul mood.

“I like to make it known that I played no part in that,” the blonde girl who was sat on the end of Crystals bed spoke up, her blue eyes sparkling the sunlight that was pouring through a break in the curtains.

“I know Maisie,” Stella said, walking over to wrap her arms around her in a friendly hug which was gladly returned, “that’s why you’re my favourite.”




“What were you saying about the corridors being empty?” I asked not ten minutes later, nodding towards the seventeenth person to stare at her since we set out on our quest into the realm of snakes and gambling, more commonly known as the dungeons. Not all of them were checking her out, most were just surprised to see someone walking the school in such revealing pajamas, so gave her a fleeting look of confusion before returning to their conversations. Unlike the last sixteen people however, this guy did not choose to walk on past us.

“Look at you in those tiny shorts,” Pervy Peterson, the aptly named Gryffindor, confirmed my point as he unashamedly let his eyes roam over her body a few too many times. He opened his mouth, most likely to make another derogatory comment, but Stella beat him to it, ready to take him down as brutally as possible.

“Well Gerald,” she began her insult with his full name as he was known to hate it, “at least people actually want to see me with my clothes off.”

Straight to the point, I like it.

He clearly wasn’t expecting that as his eyes widened in shock, blood rushing to his cheeks to make his embarrassment apparent.

“I mean that time you accidently charmed your clothes invisible in Professor Chang’s lesson last year,” she continued, head shaking with a certain degree of exaggeration, “let’s just say I hope I don't have to see little Gerry again any time soon.”

“Or well, ever,” I made a feeble input, recalling the mental image that had unfortunately been seared quite firmly into my memory. The boy that stood to his left let out a loud snort, earning himself a rather harsh elbow in the ribs from his somewhat shameless friend. Once Peterson’s face was a suitable shade of red, which I can assure you didn’t take long, he bolted down the corridor with a surprising amount of speed.

The smug expression that was plastered across Stella’s face hung about for at least ten minutes, fifteen perhaps if I’m pushing it slightly, but someone needed to put him in his place and I was glad to be the one who bore witness.


The certain foisty smell that always seemed to cling to the walls of the dungeons was particularly strong today, a mix of bundimun secretion and stale ashwinder eggs I’d say, or maybe it was just the doxy droppings. Not that it mattered, neither were particularly pleasant. Stella was taking longer than expected, we’d only been back at school for two days after the summer holidays so many people were collecting money they’d won over bets about who would be the head girl this year or whether Brian Dawner got the Ravenclaw quidditch captaincy. I’d been waiting for at least quarter of an hour and was starting to consider leaving her to make her own way back when I heard it.

“Get off me - HELP,” the voice that tore me from my thoughts sounded angry, distressed even. Ever since the summer of second year, when I threw some obnoxious boy about twice my size into the black lake for reducing Maisie tears, I’ve been named the sole guardian of our group so hearing someone cry out for help sent my protective instincts into overdrive.

Before I could even give my brain a moment to work out what was happening, my feet were pounding heavily on the dungeon floor as I rounded the corner in a run.

The younger boy looked maybe thirteen at most, fear etched onto his features while his back was pressed firmly to the wall, wand at his throat. Another person, clearly much older, towered over him in a defensive manner.

“It wasn’t me,” the child whimpered, hands up in surrender.

“Oh don’t play the sympathy card with me,” the owner of the wand was apparently quite angry, “I’m not stupid.”

“Why would I lie to you?” the boy was beginning to tremble slightly.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe so I don’t hex your arse to Australia and back?” he snapped, “I feel like that would probably be motivation enough.”

It didn’t take long for me to jump into action.

The tip of my wand pressed firmly into the back of Potter’s neck, his entire body tensed uncomfortably as it made contact, hands rising in surrender. He held still for a moment, neither of us moved and the young boy stood with his back pressed firmly against the wall, the fear slowly leaving his eyes.

“I’m going to give you a chance here,” he broke the silence with clear confidence. In those few moments he had managed to compose himself, shoulders now relaxed and voice assured, “you walk away now and we both pretend that none of this happened.”

“Not going to happen,” I laughed humorlessly as he began to turn his head to me, “don’t move.”

I applied an ounce more pressure and he turned back to face the wall in response. I gestured towards the end of the corridor with slight jerk of my head and the kid took my hint, ducking under Potter’s arm to make a hasty retreat until he was no longer in sight.

“You don’t underst -”

“Oh but I think I do,” I cut him off abruptly, “What I see here is you, a sixth year, attacking a first year, how very bold of you.”

In that moment I became increasingly aware of the fact that I had Albus Potter of all people pushed up against the dungeon wall, a feat which many of the student body would want to achieve though I’d assume under different circumstances.

“He stole something from me.”

“What? Your dignity?” I raised an eyebrow despite his back still being turned to me, “hate to break it to you, but you’re not getting that back any time soon.”

“It was something important,” he was starting to tense again, frustration rising.

“Oh right, forgive me. Of course it was your hair gel.”


“Or what? Will you set your little fanclub on me?” I forced a giggle for effect, “What will they do? Attack me a mascara wand and pour nail polish in my eyes?”

“Not quite, I’ve heard spray tan is their weapon of choice.”

“Oh, so is that why their ring leader looks like -”

My wrist was caught in his grasp before I could retaliate, spinning me round at an incredible speed so that my back was pressed against the corridor wall and he was staring down at me with a hint of amusement. Viridian met azuline as our eyes locked momentarily until he allowed them roam, taking in every inch of my body before a lazy smirk graced his lips and his gaze moved back to my face.

Evidently, he had caught me off guard.

“Clary Wilde, I knew I recognised that voice” his demeanour shifted quickly, all traces of anger replaced with a certain arrogance that didn’t quite sit right with me, “I don’t think I’ve paid attention to you since you set Slughorn’s hair on fire in our second year.”

“Ah I do consider that one of my personal high points in life.”

“Good job by the way,” he leaned against the wall, his body angled in my direction, “his hair never did grow back quite the same, people seemed to think that you’re the reason he left.”

“What can I say, I was just doing my civic duty to all the students he tormented over the years.”

“Well I applaud you.”

“Why thank you,” I replied with an equal amount of sarcasm, “now how about you leave that poor kid alone before I send every single hex I’ve ever learnt in your direction.”

“I am not going to duel you,” he laughed slightly as if this entire scenario was some form of twisted joke to him. It was from that moment, when his narcissism made itself clearly apparent, that I was almost certain that I would hex him regardless of whether he backed away or because there was nothing I loved more than taking someone’s ego down a few notches.

“What makes you so certain that you would win?” I asked with a small smile, “your arrogance amuses me.”

His body shook with a subtle laughter as if the answer was completely obvious and I was just too stupid to understand, “I am right at the top of my defense class, I know more hexes than you do days of the year and I’ve invented more than one of my own spells so doesn’t that make me someone who could beat you with ease?”


He gave me a questioning look.

“That makes you the second person to underestimate me today,” I faked an insincere smile, pulling my wand from my jeans as I did so, “which therefore makes you stupid.”

Well, if throwing a couple of perfectly aimed hexes at Harry Potter’s second born isn’t going to liven up your day, then you’re probably the kind of person that actually enjoys sitting through one of Professor Binns’ double history lessons.

Fortunately for you, I am not one of those people.

Expelliarmus,” he began the duel with a predictable, yet easily dodged, spell which I merely stepped aside to avoid. I threw back a variety of hexes in retaliation, all of which he managed to block with relative ease. It didn’t take long for a crowd to accumulate, some of the youngest children looked on with sheer excitement at what was probably the first display of violent idiocy they’d seen in the corridors since we’d only been back for a few days.

Devising a change of tactics, he pointed his wand at a pile of books that had been left outside of one of the classrooms, “Oppungo,” he spoke, and the novels rose into the air, dancing around for a few seconds before setting their sights on me.

Reducto,” the curse hit the ensemble of hardbacks, blasting them into a thousand pieces of flaming paper that rained down on the hoards of people who were watching eagerly, hungry for gossip.

You could see the Rita Skeeter wannabes in the audience, the writers of the Hogwarts Herald gossip column, more commonly nicknamed The Hogwarts Heroin because it sucks the goddamn life out of everyone in this school but once they got a taste, the student body couldn’t survive without it. They scrutinized, analysed, dissected; you could almost see the cogs turning, thoughts whirring and the headlines forming all at my expense of course for Potter is one of Hogwarts’ golden boys so in their eyes he could do no wrong.

Stupefy,” I yelled, quick to respond, and a column of blue light erupted from the tip of my wand, just grazing Potter’s shoulder as he jumped out of the way, nearly bowling over a poor first year in doing so. A blur of colours illuminated the dungeons as our spells crackled through the sky, ricocheting off each and every surface they unwittingly encountered.

“Someone, stop me please,” I said with a laugh as I sent another jinx flying in his direction, “I’m having too much fun.”

The older students watched the events unfold with only slight amusement visible on their faces, although this was entertaining, it was also mundane, they’d seen it happen countless times before and this was no different.

“Go on Al, cling onto what little dignity you have left,” someone shouted from the audience, eliciting a discontented groan from Potter. I tore my gaze away from my opponent to steal a fleeting glance at whomever voiced that comment; tan skin and dark brown hair that shone a slight red under the torch that was bolted firmly to the dungeon wall.

My respect for Freddie Weasley had just grown massively.

My little lapse of attention nearly cost me the duel as I turned back to see a powerful stinging jinx heading directly for my face, “PROTEGO,” I yelled the shielding charm with mere moments to spare and sent back a counter-jinx for good measure.

I was clearly the better dueler of the two of us, though only just, but it was nice to have a partner who could somewhat match me in my abilities. Someone who could actually tell the difference between their confringos and their reductos, unlike the boy in my defense class who had accidently sent three people to the hospital wing and nearly decapitated a fourth last week. With a final flick of my wrist, the small pink spark hit his feet, knocking him to the ground with a considerable lack of elegance. I’d caught him off guard and wasn’t wanting to waste the opportunity, “expelliarmus,” I muttered and his wand flew across the corridor, landing safely in my left hand.

He groaned slightly as he sat up, expression awash with humiliation whilst his palm dazedly rubbed the part of his head that had made contact with the floor. I twirled his wand between my fingers, brushing my thumb over the intricate engravings that spiralled around the handle. See my father is something of a protege to the great Garrick Ollivander, or Gary as we know him, and has been helping run the store for as long as I can remember so I guess I’ve grown up surrounded by wandlore.

Willow, that’s easy enough to tell.

15 inches, that’s longer than average, quite rare actually.

And the core, I couldn’t tell. Unicorn hair, dragon heartstring and phoenix feather - those are the three main cores that Ollivander uses and, well, it didn’t feel like any of them.

Honestly, I wanted to know what it was but if I stood there feeling up his wand for too long I fear I’d begin to look a little strange.

I could have told him something interesting about the type of wood and how it reflected on his personality, but that’d be no fun now would it?

So instead, I settled for something a little more intelligent.

“Oh and Potter, you know what they say about a guy with a big wand?” I smirked as I threw the length of wood in his general direction, hitting him in the chest.

He raised a lone eyebrow.


And with that wondrously depreciating comment, I left.



Author's Note:

Hey guys.

I'm writing two more serious fics at the minute (I should probably only write one at a time oops) and felt like I needed something a little more humourous and so this fic was born.

I hope you enjoyed a little trip into Clary's life and the wild times in dormitory H12.

But please, tell me if you like it because if you do I'll be sure to write more of the girl's questionable escapades.

Also, the line: “Actually, I prefer to be called the ruler of all that is evil,” she blew gently on her nail,  “but I will answer to Lucifer.” is a take on a line from Grey's Anatomy which is owned by Shonda not me.



Chapter 2: Let’s All Cry Over Spilt Milk
  [Printer Friendly Version of This Chapter]

 “I swear this school has some sort of vendetta against vegetarians,” Heidi sighed as she pushed a lone egg yolk around her plate, staring longingly at the pile of slightly charred bacon that sat at the centre of the table. After watching some Channel 4 documentary on the reality of abattoirs over the summer, she’d embarked on a life of vegetarianism and had made it her goal to force others to follow suit which basically meant she verbally abused Ray every time she went to McDonald’s during the holidays. Suffice to say she’d so far lasted three weeks, relapsed twice then claimed both times she assumed they were quorn sausages and said that Hogwarts school be sued for mislabeling the food plates.


“Don’t worry, you’ll probably only last another week at most so you won’t have to deal with this for long,” Stella commented without even looking up from the slice of toast she was generously coating with butter.

“You’re all just jealous that I’ve taken the moral high ground.”

“I get to eat burgers, you don’t. Don’t worry there is no jealousy here.”

The hall was relatively full for once since we’d come down for breakfast much later than usual which I put down to Stella's inability to wake up on time. However, I do admit to oversleeping a fair few times last year so I didn’t voice that opinion in fear of sounding hypocritical.

“I’m proud of you Heidi, you should keep it up,” Maisie replied with a smile.

“Thank you, at least someone understands,” she said before turning back to guilt trip the rest of us, ”think of all those poor animals that have been murdered just to feed you.”

“Like those poor pigs that you used to eat every morning?” Crystal patronised as she scanned through today’s copy of the daily prophet, slowly sipping at a cup of particularly strong black coffee.

“That bacon was so processed it was practically meat free.”

“Really?” I asked with a feigned air of disbelief, “there’s just something about chargrilled pig flesh that doesn’t exactly scream vegetarian to me.”

My sarcastic comment was promptly cut short when I noticed danger approaching in the form of a rather brave looking first year who was about to offer Ray a bowl of greek yoghurt in a friendly but harmless gesture, unaware of the monster that lay beneath her pale skin and rouged lips. The bowl had been passed down the table and had eventually reached the young boy that sat next to Ray, he turned to her, extending the dish towards her with a smile, “do you want the y-”

“No child, I do not want your yoghurt,” she began, voice laden with an unhealthy amount of frustration, “I am lactose intolerant and about this close to shoving that spoon -”

“- Yes, she would love it thank you very much,” Maisie jumped in grabbing the bowl out of his shaking hands before patting his head in a way that was more patronising than clearly intended. Considering she was eating strawberry ice-cream for dinner yesterday I’m almost certain she doesn’t have an intolerance to lactose, just some severe anger issues and a disdain for small children.

As Ray went back to eating her cheerios and the rest of the group continued to chatter, I let my mind wander to the regrettable events of yesterday morning. The news of mine and Potter’s little altercation had spread around the school like fiendfyre and apparently the production of this week's Hogwarts Heroin issue was halted so that they could scrap all of the intended articles and instead plaster the front page with a photo of me getting attacked by a swarm of first year potions novels.

To say it had brought about a few problems was an understatement.

My older brother always used to tell me that half a bottle of firewhiskey was a suitable solution for dealing with any issues but it took him two stints in rehab to finally understand that you can’t just drink away alcoholism. But back to the plethora of unwelcomed problems that were currently plaguing my usually mundane existence.

The first problem arrived in the form of Potter himself.

He was pissed.

Incredibly pissed, and it therefore wouldn’t be long until he made some attempt to avenge his ego, most likely at my expense.

The second issue, one which I had not actually considered, was Potter’s little fanclub.

Since precisely nine-twenty-three yesterday morning, when I threw a perfectly aimed stinging jinx at that precious face of his, they had been plotting my demise in the most theatrical way possible. I had heard quite a few good ideas floating around the corridors actually, but after about ten minutes of deliberation I think I managed to wrangle it down to my three favourites:

Charming all the clothes I was wearing to smell like fish then feeding me to the giant squid.

Transfiguring me into a bludger then leaving me in the quidditch store so that I would get bludgeoned to death by my own team at the next practise session.

Tying me to a chair in the dungeons with a small vile of poison and forcing me to listen Celestina Warbeck until I decided that death was a better option.

They must have some right little psychopaths hauled up in that exclusive little group of theirs. The second one would worry me slightly if it wasn’t for the fact that half of them could barely transfigure their animals into glass goblets with much success, never mind attempting something as advanced as that.

I have to admit that the last idea was quite inventive but, personally, I was hoping for the former. Me and the giant squid are actually pretty tight since I used to feed him fish fingers every time I went swimming in the lake so I would hope that he’d look past the smell and try his best to avoid eating me as a belated thank you.

“Potter’s staring at you Clary,” Stella warned, jerking me out of my reverie.


“Is it a stare of adoration?”

“Not exactly,” Crystal answered Maisie, “I’d say it's somewhere in between I want to murder you in a particularly violent way and can we have angry sex then pretend it never happened.”

I took a moment to consider both of those options, neither of which particularly appealed to me. I felt I had more to give to the world before I’m brutally murdered by the second born of the chosen one, be that St Mungo’s finest healer, curer of magical maladies, and all round miracle worker or the second saviour of the wizarding world - there’s bound to be some neo-Death Eater maniac who wants to take down the ministry in the near future.

When that day comes, I shall be ready.

Regardless of what I do eventually become, though I would assume a waitress or a cleaner is a little more likely than master doctor or mystical heroine, I’m not quite done with this life yet. However the alternative was equally as bad. There was no way I was going to get in five feet of Potter in a crowded corridor, never mind in his bedroom, or a cramped broom closet or wherever else people get freaky these days.

“Can’t I just marry Stella instead?”

“Yes,” she cheered, earning a few strange looks, “I’ll be Edward and you can be my Bella.”

Out of all of the fictional couples she could have possibly chosen, she went with Twilight’s infamous duo.

“Are you telling me I’m weak, good for nothing and utterly infatuated with you in every way?”

“Well, I am a looker.”

“Oi Wilde,” a  familiar male voice tore me from my conversation before I could reply. Nate Westerfell, fellow quidditch player and lover of all things that annoyed me, looked down at me from where he stood, light brown hair falling in front of his eyes, “Wood said to speak to you about tryouts.”

I’d forgotten that Dylan had even left me with that job so hadn’t thought all that much about it. Despite my love for quidditch, running around in a muddy field instructing clueless second years as they clung onto their brooms for deal life didn’t really appeal to me all that much. Last time I held tryouts, I had to spend at least half an hour trying to entice one of the girls, who was going for keeper, down from the goalposts as it turned out that she was afraid of heights so she panicked and attached herself to one of the hoops. In the end I had to bribe her with sugar quills so my emergency sugar stash was all but empty for at least two weeks.

“Why don’t we do them tomorrow?” I suggested having not really considered it, “then we can see who’s really dedicated, and get more practise in as a team as the other houses aren’t  holding their tryouts until the end of the week.”

The real reason I wanted to hold them tomorrow is so that I could miss a double history of magic lesson because I don’t think I could stomach one of Binns’ goblin lectures this early into the term.

“Good idea,” he agreed, “let's have them early, seven?”

Merlin, I’d have to be up at like six so I have time to set up, I can’t even remember when I last saw that time of day. I going to have to set at least three alarm clocks if we do this.

One to actually wake me up.

A second, around five minutes later, to tell me that ‘no, smashing the first clock and pulling the covers over my head does not count as getting up.’

And a final one, which I would have Stella hide somewhere around the dormitory the night before, that would force me to drag myself out of bed and turn it off. Knowing Stella, she’d probably charm it to play Celestina Warbeck which would give me all the more motivation to find it quickly.

“Sure,” I agreed halfheartedly, “just need to get the word around, I’ll pin it on the bulletin board later.”

Nate’s face remained blank for a moment before lighting up in some sort of eureka moment which probably meant that the next few minutes were either going to be painful, embarrassing or an unfortunate mix of the two. Shoving aside a toast rack and an unsurprisingly full dish of hard boiled eggs, he climbed onto the end of the breakfast table, extending a hand in my direction so that he could pull me up alongside him.

“LISTEN UP BADGERS, QUIDDITCH SEASON IS NEARLY UPON US,” he yelled across the great hall, silencing the room with a single mention of the well loved sport, “AND THIS YEAR HUFFLEPUFF SHALL REIGN VICTORIOUS.”

A large cheer erupted from along our table as the other houses watched on with half assed smirks plastered across their faces, like the idea of Hufflepuff winning a quidditch game actually amused them. I mean I, of all people, should know that we’ve come last for four consecutive years but there was no need to be rude about it.

It's not that our team are just truly that pathetic, believe it or not we actually have a lot of talent hauled up in the commonly underestimated Hufflepuff basement. Unfortunately for us, our old captain, Josh Korder, who graduated last year could barely fly in a straight line at the best of times, never mind catch the snitch during a high speed dive. And when people say that a team is only as good as their seeker, they generally tend to be right. That's why the majority of the school believes his dad bribed the old captain to recommend him to McGonagall.

Don't say that to his face though, he really doesn't like it.

Nate learnt that the hard way.

But all that aside, this year's going to be different; I’m the co-captain now.

In reality, that title doesn’t exactly exist, I was given it by our actual captain, Dylan Wood, as a sort of ‘sorry I got the captaincy and you didn’t’ to make me feel better about the whole situation. If I’m being honest, I wasn’t all that upset over it, it’s unanimously agreed amongst our entire house that he deserved it and I stand by that decision. Plus this is his last year, I’ve got another two to go so there’s hope for me yet.

“So as you know,” I continued, in a voice still loud enough to carry across the hall, “three of our players graduated last summer which means there are spaces open for those wishing to play keeper, beater or seeker.”

One of the younger girls, who was sat a few heads down from where I stood, looked slightly disheartened at that statement so I could only assume neither of the three places I mentioned were her prefered position. I smiled at her gently and her eyes lit up, returning the gesture.

“However, last years team still will have to come to the trials and earn their place back, so if any of them didn't keep fit over the summer you might be able to take their position,” I explained, staring down the table at Crystal’s brother - Hufflepuff Captain, one of our chasers and self confessed fitness enthusiast - Dylan Wood, “yes Dylan, I’m looking at you.”

For that comment, I received series of laughs from the large proportion of our house who knew about Dylan’s obsession with protein shakes and five-in-the-morning runs.


I know that it’s particularly short notice but I chose Monday for a reason, we’ve been back for a few days so they should have been expecting trials some time soon plus I need to be able to root out the ones who are dedicated enough to wake up at the crack of dawn and prioritise quidditch when necessary.

“Like I said earlier, we’re looking for a new keeper, beater and seeker, but any chasers are more than welcome to try out as well.”

Professor Proctor - the rather old fashioned and unfortunately child-hating muggle studies teacher - was looking less than impressed by this point but at least good old McGonagall had a small smile playing on her lips. You’d think a man who despises teenagers so severely would avoid teaching like the bubonic plague but no, like a vet who’s allergic to small animals or a quidditch player who hates exercise, he braves the school day just to make our lives a living hell.

Lucifer salutes you kind sir.

“So if you fancy yourself a slice of eternal glory and a legion of loyal first years, then get your arse down to the quidditch pitch on Sunday,” Stella, who wasn’t even on the team, added sounding slightly like one of those incredibly annoying muggle infomercials.  

Nate swiftly leant to the side to avoid a stale bread roll which had come hurtling towards him from the general direction of the Slytherin table where a rather guilty looking Dimitri Nott sat.

“Don’t worry Nott,” Nate laughed, brushing a strand of deep brown hair from his eyes, “your aim may be a little off but I’ll make sure mine isn’t when I knock you clean off your broom during our first match.”

“Okay Mr Nelson that’s enough for now thank you,” McGonagall rose from her seat, clearing her throat with a small cough as she tried to suppress a smile.

“GOOD LUCK TO YOU ALL” we both chorused, bowing in unison to the round of applause we received from our house.

“Well that was certainly one way of announcing things,” Maisie noted as she helped me down from the table, nearly knocking over Crystal’s half full mug of coffee in the process.

I received an indignant sound from Stella as I swiped a slice of buttered toast from her plate, taking a bite before she could retaliate, “you can blame that spectacle on Nate’s idiocy.”

“I’m going to assume that you meant to say my utter genius,” the man in question smirked, sliding into the space that Maisie and Stella had made for him.

“Modesty suits you Nelson,” Crystal rolled her eyes, voice laden with sarcasm, “you should try it sometime.”

He shot her a sickeningly sweet, but ultimately feigned, smile to which she responded by sending her eyes skyward as she reached across the table for a custard cream.

“So, how's your love life Heidi?” Nate asked, ripping a dry bread roll into smaller than necessary pieces before placing them into his mouth one by one. For some reason, one which I don’t quite know myself, he asks a different one of us that very same question each week. Last time it was my turn to be quizzed though he insisted that drooling over a life sized poster of the new Wimbourne Wasps seeker - Damien Amore - didn’t count and told me that I was probably sexually deprived.

I was too proud to admit that I agreed with him.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I stared at Britney McLaggen’s boobs if that counts?”

Crystal choked on her mouthful of coffee, clearly not expecting that response, “if that wasn't a little bit funny I would have slapped you for being derogatory.”

“To be fair, they're so in your face that you cant really not look at them.” Each of us hummed in agreement with varying degrees of nodding. As much as I hated to admit it, since he was objectifying her, he was right.

“Well to answer your question she’s slept with three different guys since you last asked her, and one of them was ji-”

Stella let out a shrill screech as Heidi stamped down on her foot with force, stopping her mid-sentence, exactly as intended. Heidi looked triumphant as she went back to picking at the mountain of eggs that remained on her plate as the darker skinned girl rubbed her injured foot discontentedly, all of us falling into a comfortable silence. With Stella and Heidi being our group’s two loudest personalities - unless you count Ray during one of her outbursts - little spats like this one were far from uncommon and in fact happened on a daily basis so we thought nothing of it. Nate, on the other hand, wasn’t around us nearly as often so misread the silence for tension and decided to attempt to break it, “well I’ve slept with loads of girls.”

Crystal finally tore her eyes away from the article she was reading; she neatly closed the newspaper placing it next to her as she leaned across the table, arms folded, preparing to rip Nate’s lie to shreds, “really, and who may those ‘loads of girls’ be?”

“Becky Mortar,” he gestured behind him to where the dark haired Slytherin in question sat, “Ally Ness,” this time he nodded towards a blonde girl that was sat at the Ravenclaw table, “Amanda Hocking -”

“Isn’t she a second year?”

Crystal looked horrified and, considering Amanda is actually a seventh year Gryffindor, it took me a while to click onto what she was doing. Once I realised, I quickly mirrored her facial expression and nodded in agreement, “she’s like, thirteen.”

His face paled considerably.

“Wait what - no no no - I didn’t -”

“I’m joking,” Crystal smiled wryly, “you really need to work on your lies.”

Nate breathed a hefty sigh of relief and sent the two of us a downright murderous glare.

See, you need to start with something believable,” she began to explain, despite his grumbled protests, “you sleeping around? Not ever going to happen.”

“Will power can only do so much,” I added, not even trying to hide my smile. The one he sent the both of us in return was far from genuine, especially considering the fact that he had simultaneously given us the middle finger. Laughing, I went back cutting up my bacon as the conversation lapsed back into friendly chatter.

“So I heard about you and potter yesterday,” Nate stated seconds later in a somewhat belated attempt to change the subject. In doing so he’d brought up perhaps the single topic I wanted to avoid.

“Well so has the entire school apparently.”

“He needed to be put in his place,” Stella said which prompted a chorus of agreements.

“You should slip some billywig venom in his pumpkin juice when he’s not looking,” Nate suggested, pulling a tiny vial of fluorescent liquid from his trouser pocket, “that will certainly wake the fucker up.”

Initially I thought he was joking though the mischievous glint in his eyes said otherwise. Nate Westerfell, Hufflepuff’s resident trickster and one half of our quidditch team’s beating duo, was up for just about anything as long as it could be considered somewhat fun but he rarely thought about the consequences his actions held. Hence why he’d accumulated nearly three hundred detentions so far and had been suspended from playing quidditch on two separate occasions much to Dylan’s dismay.

He was actually almost thrown off the team last year by our ex-captain until she realised that his replacement had about as much hand-eye-coordination as our not-so-dearly-but-most-certainly-departed professor Slughorn and let him rejoin.

“Language Nate, first years,” Maisie chastised, gesturing towards the group of boys that were sat next to us, “they’re only children.”

The smallest of the group, height-wise at least as he was a little on the plump side, spun around in his seat to face her, determination in his eyes, “oi, who the fuck are you calling a child?”

She looked slightly taken aback.

“How old are you, like seven?” Ray turned on the boy with such vigour that he stopped dead in his seat, face paling noticeably, “if you talk to my friend like that again I will pour this fucking coffee over your head.”

She grabbed the nearest cup to her, holding it up in a threatening manner, and in that moment, I didn’t doubt that she would actually do it if nobody stopped her.

“Hey no,” Crystal’s attention left the news article for a second time as she grabbed the mug of coffee from Ray’s hand, spilling some as she did so, and placed it back down in front of her, “throw your own coffee at him.”

Before Ray could hunt down the nearest scalding hot latte to taunt him with, the boy made the cowardly but ultimately wise decision to bolt out of the hall to avoid any potential first degree burns. She glared at his retreating figure until he’d left the room before turning back to the group of us, “what were we talking about again?” The anger left her voice almost as quickly as it had arrived, “Clary spiking Potter’s drink?”

“I’ll pass thanks,” I mumbled through a mouthful of cereal. The last thing I wanted to do was aggravate an already unfavourable situation, “what about you Stella?”

She looked at me thoughtfully for a few seconds before answering, “no, I may not be sharpest wand in the shop but neither am I completely stupid.”


“I beg to differ.”

“You thought taxidermy was another name for tax affairs.”

Sometimes I forget how truly supportive of one another we are.

“It’s not my fault that muggles can’t come up with better names for stuffing dead animals,” she tried to defend herself from the onslaught of disagreement. I never actually admitted that I thought it meant the same thing for a fair few years when I was younger.

“If she drugs Potter he’ll set his army of angry redheaded blood relatives on her with pitchforks and poorly articulated hate speeches,” Ray spoke up for the first time in a few minutes, “that Rose Weasley can throw a surprisingly good stinging jinx if the situation calls for it.”

I felt like there was most likely a story behind that statement which, knowing Ray, probably involved a large amount of unnecessary insults followed by a variety of ill-intended hexes. Before I could ask her about it, a fluttering of pages filled the hall and the sound of chatter dimmed slightly as people's attention turned towards the main doors.

That sound could only mean one thing.

The Hogwarts Heroin.

And presumably my subsequent downfall.

I let out a loud groan as a few hundred copies of the school newspaper flew through the entrance, nearly bowling over a particularly small ravenclaw, before arranging themselves in neat piles at equal intervals down each house table. As the gossip-starved lower years scrabbled for a copy of the paper like their lives depended on it, I slowly began to sink down in my seat with about as much finesse as anyone who was making this much of a fool of themselves possibly could. By the time the papers had reached us, my head was almost completely under the table so all that could be seen was a slightly ominous looking tuft of blonde hair poking up from behind a plate of bacon. A few seconds had passed and I was comfortably sat under the Hufflepuff table, away from prying eyes and surrounded by my friends feet, without anyone even noticing. I don’t think I’d ever been more thankful for Maisie putting freshening charms on all of our shoes a few months ago otherwise I’d be surrounded by the smell of foot sweat and grime and I dare say that isn’t all that pleasant.

“Where the hell did Clary go?”

Nate’s foot swung out sharply, as he went to cross his legs, and kicked me right in the shin eliciting a small yelp which all but answered Heidi’s question. Moments later, a torrent of loose black curls appeared under the table followed by Stella’s head, “you okay down there?”

“How bad is it?”

She gestured for me to move along and make space on the floor as she joined me in my new hiding spot, bringing a copy of the heroin down with her. She got herself as comfortable as she could on the hard stone tiles, crossing her legs and ducking her head a little so she didn’t hit it, before unfolding the paper and placing it in her lap. About two thirds of the front page was filled with a photo of me and Albus dueling in the potion’s corridor, the crowds watching on in excitement. I stared at the picture, smiling slightly as I extended my wand in his direction a small jet of light repeatedly shooting from the tip as the photograph looped.

Fortunately, my back was turned to the camera in favour of seeing Albus’ face.

Unfortunately, I was wearing my Hufflepuff Hoodie which therefore narrowed to about a quarter of the female population of Hogwarts.

Oh and the headline had my name in it, that didn’t help.

“Clary Wilde lives up to surname as she viciously attacks Albus Potter,” Stella read it aloud as if it would make it any better. She turned to me expectantly, trying to read my expression to gauge a reaction.

I guess I’m going to have to say something.

“Could have been more inventive,” I sighed deeply, “I’m actually a little disappointed.”

“How about,” she paused for a moment to think, “crazed Hufflepuff slaughters narcissistic wanker?”

“Much more accurate.”


So far, the day had passed by with little deviation from the norm, save for the few weary stares I received, as I was making my way to first lesson, from a group of first years who had been present in the crowd during yesterdays altercation. I gave them a smile in the hope to reassure them that I was not just some crazed Hufflepuff and that I’m actually a decent person but I think I just scared them even more since they seemed to cower away slightly. What annoyed me more than anything, was the fact that people seemed to believe that this was some sort of unprovoked attack when in actuality I was saving some small child from little Potter’s wrath.

They should be brandishing me a hero, not a lunatic.

Though right now, I didn’t think I wanted either.

Anonymity would be good.

Muggle studies was my first lesson of the day, which was made only slightly more interesting by the fact that Stella, despite her family being the reformed sort of purebloods, could barely tell the difference between a CD player and a television and was therefore getting incredibly confused when the copy of ‘Queen: Greatest Hits’ wasn’t doing much as she shoved it repeatedly into the DVD player. That was followed by a considerably more relaxed double potions lesson with all of the girls, well, it was relaxed until a particularly angry looking Rose Weasley threw an entire cauldron of hair colouring potion over Scorpius Malfoy who then proceeded to hex her in retaliation. So both of them trailed to the hospital wing - Scorpius with his green hair and pink eyebrows, and Rose with her newly formed but surprisingly cute cat ears - arguing the entire way.

As I’d managed to avoid all the main hoards of gossip crazed students, I was having a lovely average morning devoid of most drama and bavardage, I’d even managed to crawl out from under the breakfast table this morning without anyone noticing. However, that all changed on my way to lunch when a certain green eyed halfwit apprehended me in the potions corridor and dragged me unwillingly into the nearest empty classroom.

“Potter, I’m sure you’re used to girls being delighted when you drag them into dingy old chambers,” I taunted as he pulled me further into the space, closing the door behind us, “I, on the other hand, will issue a restraining order if you don’t let go of me in five, four, three, two…”

He released his grip on my arm.

“You can’t do that.”

“I have an uncle who’s pretty high up in magical law enforcement.”

“So you can do that,” he cocked his head subconsciously, looking at me for a few more seconds with a thoughtful expression, “but you won’t.”

He wasn’t exactly wrong.

Although I had great fun hexing his arse down the potions corridor yesterday, and considerably less fun dealing with the consequences of that today, there was no way I was going to get the law involved in some small secondary school arguement. He took a step towards me and I pulled my wand from my inside pocket with a credible amount of speed.

“Woah woah,” he walked backwards again with his hands up in surrender, an amused smile playing on his lips, “aren’t you a little hex happy.”

He laughed.

He actually laughed.

“Last time I checked the saying was trigger happy.”

“Last time I checked wands didn’t have triggers.”

No, they didn’t. But guns do and I have faith enough in my magical abilities to say that I’m pretty sure I could transfigure the cauldron on the desk next to me into one if he continues to annoy me. Not that I would actually shoot it of course, I’d probably just wave it threateningly and hope he’d get the picture.

“Are you going to keep pointing that at me,” he gestured towards my outstretched wand.


“Merlin, you’re stubborn.”

I guess you could say I am stubborn but I’m also hungry and I don’t take kindly to kidnapping or, if I’m being slightly less melodramatic, getting dragged into rooms against my will. Right now, down in the great hall, I’m pretty sure that there's a slice of chicken pie with my name written all over it and if I find out that some greedy first year has eaten it before I get there, I’ll tell Ray that Albus was bad mouthing her and then watch him fight for his life.

“But that’s not what I'm here to talk about,” he continued, “so yesterday -”

“- you’re pissed off,” I spoke over him before he could finish his sentence.

“Of course,” he said as expected, “but I’m willing to put it all aside.”

You what?

I didn’t believe it.

Not one bit.

This was probably just some half-assed plan to trick me into putting my guard down so that he can strangle me in my sleep and throw my lifeless body into the black lake to make it look like an accidental drowning.

Could he kill someone?

I looked at him closely, as if it would actually help me figure it out.

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

“I’m trying to work out if you’re above murder.”

What?” he looked both shocked and a little confused, “actually, forget it, I don’t want to know, just listen. Yes I’m fucking angry but you thought you were doing the right thing so let’s just put it all behind us.”

The urge to hit that smug expression off of his face overwhelmed me.

“Would you mind repeating that,” I deadpanned, “I’m sorry, it’s just it sounded like you said that I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“Erm yes,” he looked at me like I was stupid. I’d have him know that I got O’s in almost all my essays last year. The only reason I got a T in that care of magical creatures practical was because I hexed a niffler - nothing dangerous or painful of course - since it stole my earrings.

They were probably the only nice pair I had since they weren’t from Primark.

“I did not think I was doing the right thing,” the frustration was seeping into my voice, “I was doing the right thing.”

“Yeah of course you were.”

“Oh really so you weren’t going to hex that poor -”

“- you had no clue what was going -”

“- attack a small child -”

“- could’ve killed me -”

“- wish I had -”

“- you attacked me -”

“- perfect hex -”

“- stole something -”

“- was like twelve -”

“- fucking kidding me -”

“- bruised your ego -”

“OKAY OKAY ENOUGH,” he shouted, abruptly ending our war of words, “I came here to try and call some sort of truce or whatever so we don’t try and kill each other.”

I folded my arms across my chest and stared him down.

“Look,” he extended his right arm towards me, “I won't hex you unnecessarily.”

Unmoving, I continued to stare blankly.

That ‘unnecessarily’ sounded a little too much like an escape clause to me.

I don’t trust people with escape clauses.

Actually I just don't trust people in general.

“Shake my goddamn hand Wilde.”

“Fine,” I said harshly before reaching out to grasp it, shaking much harder than I needed to, “I’ll try and resist the temptation to push you down the seventh floor staircase while it’s moving.”

He rolled his eyes in a way that said ‘Jesus Christ, she’s a nightmare’ as I made a beeline for the door before he could say anything else. Despite not believing him, I’d stay true to our little truce of sorts for the sake of peace but if he broke it I would drop kick his pretty face so hard that he’d be barely recognisable until the swelling and bruising went down.


It was just me and Heidi left in the dormitory after dinner.

Maisie was off spending a little time with the Potter and Weasley clan, which she considered to be something of an extended family, as Stella had convinced her to try get the dirt on Albus. Crystal was out running since she was the only one in this dormitory who didn’t shudder at the thought of physical exercise, Ray was probably busy insulting some small children and Constance, well that girl is just a bit of a mystery.

“I’ve just eaten two entire share bags of vanilla chocoballs,” I moaned, dragging myself out of bed to put the paper bags in the bin since I’d left my wand in my jacket pocket which was at the other side of the room, “I don’t know whether to feel sick or proud.”

“As long as you don't throw up on me I honestly don’t care,” Heidi deadpanned, not even looking up from the potions essay she was writing.

The door opened a few minutes later with a gentle click, as Crystal walked into the room, her hair madly dishevelled from half an hour of running with her brother. Besides that, she was practically glowing, her breathing was only slightly heavier than normal as she pulled off her trainers and flopped onto the bed with the ease of someone who did so often. Despite being on the Hufflepuff quidditch team, I still got all sweaty and breathless just from the walk up to the divination classroom, I think that’s half the reason I dropped it as soon as I was given the chance.

“Nice run?” I asked, thankful for the arrival of someone who could actually hold a decent conversation. Heidi was in one of her unwarranted bitchy moods, which seemed to be something of a constant state for her at the moment, so it was nice to have someone relatively normal to talk to.

“Good actually,” she smiled, letting out a long breath, “one of these days I’m going to drag you out with us.”

That would be against both of our best interests, I’d likely pass out within the first ten minutes and she’d have to drag my unconscious body through the mud and into the hospital wing where she would be subject to the wrath of Madame Caine. Knowing Crystal she’d probably see it as some sort of strange workout routine.

“The day you decide to do that is the day I decide to stop being your friend,” I replied with only a little sarcasm. Next thing you know, Dylan will be offering me one of his ghastly protein shakes and I’ll have to find a more suitable means of disposing it than pouring in the nearest plant pot because I think I killed poor Timothy Thompson’s fanged geranium last time I did that.

He ran to the herbology teacher, Professor Longbottom, in tears.

“You better be trying out for the team tomorrow,” I told Crystal, not ready to take no for an answer. I would gladly drag her down to the quidditch pitch at the crack of dawn and superglue her to one of the broomsticks. She has been wanting to play seeker for years but that place was taken by Josh who has thankfully now graduated.

“Of course.”

“Good,” I smiled.

If I was going to have to put up with all the small children, I definitely needed moral support.



A/N: Hey guys, I'm back with another chapter and it's reasonably long too :)

Hope you enjoy!

It would really make me happy if you could leave a review.

Twilight belongs to Meyer not me.

~ Charlie ~




















Chapter 3: Frosted Glass Bottle
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F R O S T E D   G L A S S   B O T T L E



Forty four.

That's the number of people who turned up for quidditch tryouts the next morning.

Forty fucking four.

Who the hell do they think I am?

I can tell you this, I am not bloody Helios, I can't just drag the sun back across the sky in some winged chariot if I decide I need a little more time to watch a bunch of complete imbeciles try to knock each other off of their brooms.

But onwards I marched, charging through the mud, armed with nothing but my authority as ‘co-captain’ and the chest of quidditch equipment that was hovering a few feet behind me. My hair was scraped up into an unintentionally messy ponytail, eyes framed in deep purple shadows and if anyone decided to talk shit to me this morning, there is a high probability that I would punch them in the face. Most would call that physical assault but I’ll try and pass it off as something more acceptable like character building.

Yeah that’s right, I was just trying to toughen them up, if they can’t take the pain that  a small fist can cause they’ll definitely not be able to manage a high speed bludger to the face in the middle of a game. These weren’t just some measly tryouts for a secondary school sports team, this was survival of the fittest, natural selection, which is perhaps a slight over exaggeration but that’s besides the point.

Crystal was walking alongside me, dark brown hair brushing against her shoulders as she fell into step with a certain determination in her eyes, “I should have gotten Ray to come.”

It had taken less effort than I had anticipated to convince her to come to tryouts this morning, she was never overly bothered about being on the team, treating the idea, as she did with most things in life, with a certain air of nonchalance. She had potential to be a great seeker, and believe me when I say that after our last one, that was something we really did need. So she agreed to come, only asking for a stake in the emergency stash of sweets that I kept under one of the floorboards in return, something which I was more than willing to give up in the name of quidditch.

“I thought she hated exercise,” Nate, who had joined us on the pitch, said with confusion. He told me he’d come for moral support but I’m ninety-five percent certain he’s just here to laugh at the candidates as I torment them. He wasn’t wrong though, I normally get a glare for even mentioning the word quidditch in her presence.

“I wanted her to intimidate the competition,” she shrugged nonchalantly.

That was a fair point, intimidation firmly held its place among Ray’s arsenal of somewhat useful talents. Last year, she’d managed to goad a little hoard of first years into doing her bidding with just a single well practised glare. It served her well until Maisie realised quite what she was doing and gave her a twenty-four minute lecture on the responsibility she held as an older student.

She didn’t listen to a word of it.

“Anyways,” I added, remembering why I hadn’t woken up to a single complaint this morning, “she’s in detention right now so she couldn’t have even made it if we’d dragged down the stairs by her ponytail.”

The majority of Ray’s evening had been spent sipping caramel hot chocolate and plotting the demise of the particular child that turned her in to the headmistress, though most of her plans were probably a little too inhumane to actually carry out. Mcgonagall had given her the morning to clean the fourth floor girls bathrooms so, considering there was a huge party last night in the Ravenclaw common room, she was probably wiping vomit off of the toilet seats as we spoke.

“Why’s she in detention this time?”

“Remember that kid she threatened to throw my coffee over yesterday,” Crystal answered his question before I got a chance, “yeah, well it turned out he didn’t like that all too much.”

He let out a gentle snort of laughter, eyes moving to the floor, “unsurprising really.”

“The threats or the fear?”

“Both,” Nate smiled knowingly, tying the knot on his quidditch robes a little tighter, “she can be scary when she wants to be.”

Crystal pulled her lips into a smirk, eyeing him with a raised eyebrow. She was clearly expecting him to elaborate on that one but it took him a second or two to get the hint.

“She threatened to gouge my eyeballs out with a blunt bread knife.”

I laughed slightly at the image.

A poor bewildered Nate cowering under Rays reproachful gaze as she leaped towards him, brandishing the serrated knife she stole from the kitchens back in first year.

“I only told her she looked nice,” he said defensively, but the two of us only laughed harder.


Crystal soon parted ways as she went over to join the absurdly large crowd of people who were trying out for a spot on the team, giving us a small wave as we wished her luck. I watched the group for a moment as they all chatted amongst themselves, some nervously pulling at their hair, others over-confidently sharing their quidditch stories while a few were even practising some dives before the tryouts began.

It was one of those increasingly rare occasions that Scotland had decided to bless us with some pretty decent weather, it was perfect really. Warm enough to ensure that our hands don’t freeze to our brooms; cold enough to wake us all up considering most of these people probably didn't even know that this time of the morning actually existed.

Nate had begun to ramble on about, well I don’t quite know what, probably some seventh year girl he’d met at a party who he was convinced liked him though almost certainly didn’t. I’d zoned out pretty soon after Crystal had left, opting for a mental run through of my plans instead.

I’d had a few ideas for these trials, ideas that were perhaps a little out of the ordinary but with a track record like ours, we needed anything but ordinary if we were going to have a shot at winning this house cup. I know how much this meant to Dylan, and even to me, so with it being his last year I was going to pull everything out of the bag to try and help him.

But that meant I may need some help of my own.

I snapped back to reality, halting the boy next to me mid-spiel as he continued to prattle on about how the Wimbourne Wasps shouldn’t have forfeited their match last Saturday.

“Nate,” I asked in that you-know-you-love-me sort of voice. The kind that everyone uses when they want some unnecessary favour, that will usually only act to the person’s detriment, “I need your help.”

He stopped speaking, closing his mouth as he turned to face me, “you’re going to have to give me more than that,” he laughed. I paused for a moment, debating how it would be best to convince him to lend me a hand. I could probably just shove a box of powdered doughnuts under his face and he’d bend to my every will for at least the next twenty four hours so it shouldn't have been too hard.

“I have an idea for a trial of sorts to put the candidates through,” I explained to which he nodded, expecting me to elaborate further.

“I’ll be the first to admit it’s a little dangerous.”

He look at me with something in his eye, a hint of mischief, curiosity perhaps, but either way I kept on talking.


I ignored his call, wanting to finish an explanation before he jumped to any judgement over this. If it all went spectacularly wrong and we ended up with some lawsuit for professional misconduct it would be nice to have someone to share the blame with.

I decided to appeal to his inner child.

“But it will be funny.”


I ignored him a second time.

“Though it might be kind of illegal.”


His final shout halted my speech as I stopped walking, turning on my heel to face him so that I could properly listen to what he had been so desperate to say. He rolled his eyes pointedly wearing an expression that clearly said ‘finally’.

“I would probably jump off the top of the Hufflepuff stands without a broom for five galleons, three pumpkin pasties and a McDonald’s happy meal toy,” he said with slight exasperation, “so you don’t need to convince me to do anything as long as there's at least something in it for me.”

I thought about it for a second, it would take much to bait him.

“For one night only, you can choose when,” I offered, “I’ll bring you whatever you want from the kitchens, but I’ll only go once.”

Three weeks into second year, me and Stella finally managed to work out how to get into the Hogwarts kitchens; by work out, I do of course mean bribing one of the fourth years with a large bottle of gigglewater. Considering you can get them in Hogsmeade for a sickle and a couple of knuts it was a bit of a bad deal on his part so I had no idea why he took it, I’m not complaining though, it worked in our favour. Ever since that night, Nate had tried his downright hardest to convince us to tell him but it was to no avail.

He laughed, almost as if he’d outsmarted me, “I was implying that the players humiliation would be enough for me, but I’ll certainly take that.”

I opened my mouth to protest but closed it again before I could say a word. I couldn’t take it back now, so instead I smiled, and then punched him on the arm as hard as I could, “wanker.”

He pulled away sharply, rubbing the top of his arm where I’d hit him, “moron,” he replied fondly.

That’s the kind of friendship I’d always had with Nate. We never talked about feelings or sat crying on each others shoulders when life inevitably went to shit, we mostly just both verbally and physically abused each other which I was quite content with.


The majority of the girls had begun to whisper excitedly, giggling slightly as they flicked their hair too harshly and batted their lashes too quickly; Crystal and Nate both smiled fondly with an exaggerated role of their eyes and a fourth year boy let his gaze linger on the toned physique of our captain for much longer than necessary as Dylan Wood dived down towards the pitch with so much finesse it actually hurt. His feet gently touched down on the grass next to me but he didn't dismount his broom. Instead, his eyes scanned across this season’s batch of quidditch hopefuls and he pushed back off again.

“Right can anyone here who is not actually in Gryffindor please leave the pitch,” Dylan called out as he hovered skillfully on his broom a couple of metres above the ground. Silence ensued for at least thirty seconds and not a single person moved, although some quickly looked around to see if their friends had began to leave the pitch and, upon noticing they had not, also chose to join them.

He sighed with a hint of frustration, “Venkman, you’re a Ravenclaw prefect I see you in meetings like once a week, charming your hair blonde does not mean that I won’t recognise you.”

I expected her to look at least vaguely disheartened at his discovery but instead she looked elated simply because he’d known her name. So off she merrily skipped, the whole of the quidditch pitch watching her retreating back, as I continued to internalise the embarrassment I felt for her.

You,” he gestured towards a dark haired girl who was lazily leaning on her broom, “are still wearing your Gryffindor robes, get out.”

He began to point people out at random, singling them out with a flick of his finger.

“You’re basically the poster girl for Slytherin, I swear you’re on one of the other quidditch teams, I don’t trust your face, you’re in our house but I don’t like you, you look shady, Ravenclaw, Ravenclaw, Slytherin, Gryff - no I don’t care if that's unfair, I’m the captain so you will bloody well do as I say - and I swear I can see at least another twelve people who aren’t in our house so scarper.”

A large group of girls, who had spent the past few minutes edging slowly towards Dylan, sighed and began to make their way over to the stands, complaining that their brand new shoes were covered in mud and therefore completely ruined. Somehow it had seemed to have slipped their powder-filled brains that with a swift wand wave and a few muttered words they could just use the scourify charm and be done with it.

One of them was in Ravenclaw too, I'm disappointed.

I’ll hand it to Dylan, he really does manage to attract the idiots. I guess that's what you get for ninety percent muscle mass, bone structure that could rival a wizard-wear model’s and a quidditch captain badge that he wears everywhere he goes.

Our quidditch team wasn't exactly known for our stellar performance on the pitch, or in the sky, during matches, or just in the sport in general really but it need not be forgotten that our beloved captain has remained in the top five on the Hogwarts fit list for at least four years now.

In the corridors of this school, that title is akin to celebrity status.


The tryouts started off no different to any normal ones really, throw the quaffle, catch a snitch, try not to get hit by an incoming bludger. There was actually a fair display of talent this year, followed by one or two shockingly bad attempts; the boy in shirt number thirteen didn’t actually know how to fly a broom, something which I’d always assumed was a rather significant component of the sport.

The biggest surprise of all though was a second year - Oliver McNeil - who displayed a flair for beating, not missing a single bludger we sent flying his way. I don’t quite know how someone so small could put so much power behind those swings. He even managed to hit one right at Nate when I asked him to with near perfect aim, it was pretty fortunate that his reflexes were so fast otherwise that would have ended quite differently. Nate, our current beater, had taken something of a liking to the kid and they actually got on really well which was more important to me than you might think. The last person he worked with for the past three years formed an unforgettable duo of beaters, mostly because they hated each other to such an extent that they sent bludgers flying towards one another more often than they did their opponents.

The candidates, who were now resting on the benches eating orange slices as it was something Nate had said the muggles often do, had been narrowed down to fourteen hopefuls but we needed that to be cut down further to three.  Just as Dylan was about to call them all over to start the next mundane task, I let a hand rest on his arm to stop him. He turned around to face me, his gaze dropping to my hand then back up to meet mine, an eyebrow raised in question.

“I have an idea.”

His expression was pretty unreadable but if I had to take a wild guess, I’d maybe say he was at least a little bit intrigued, or perhaps scared.


This was the same player who dived straight into the path of a bludger to save his younger teammate last year without a second's hesitation.

Dylan Wood does not get scared.

“Okay so it’s a little unorthodox,” I began, giving him little explanation, knowing it would take a lot more to convince him than it would Dylan, “and not really all that safe, but it’s really going to sort the good players from the great ones.”

“Clary,” he stopped me before I could continue, “what the hell are you on about?”

I reached into one of the deep pockets of my robes, fumbling around until the tips of my fingers brushed against the cool glass bottle that lay at the bottom, hidden among some old scrunched up receipts. I pulled it out of the material, extending a hand outwards in front of me to show him what it contained. The recognition in his eyes was almost instant as he stared at the vial, his mouth curling to form a little oh shape.

Disorientation potion.

“Okay, Clary, you know I trust you and all that,” Dylan turned his head towards me, his voice only a little louder than a whisper, “but are you sure this a good idea?”

I looked over to the group of candidates who were chatting animatedly amongst themselves, then back to the small vial of purplish liquid that was nestled in my palm. It was a breach of at least a dozen of Hogwarts finest health and safety laws, or at the very least an abuse of power, but Harry Potter didn't didn’t save the wizarding world by sitting down and following rules now did he? I would like to stress the fact that I’m not trying to compare our next match to the Battle of Hogwarts - regardless of how many times I insisted that the new slytherin beater held an uncanny resemblance to voldemort himself. If I thought there was even a slight chance that the man could’ve gotten laid I would be seriously questioning that boy’s parentage right about now. Maybe I’ll put him in for a paternity test as a commiserations present when we inevitably win the game.

“Not really,” I answered perhaps more honestly than I should have, “but at the very least it’ll be funny.”

I looked at him with a hopeful expression, praying that he would give me a chance. He stared at me momentarily as he slowly drew his lips into a smirk, “you’re a mad one Wilde.”

He called the group of students over with a loud shout then a wave of his hand and they obediently bounded over like a hoard of well trained puppies. Nowhere near as cute of course, though the boy who was trailing a few paces behind the rest did look somewhat like an English bulldog. They all lined up in front of us, eagerly awaiting further instruction which Dylan soon provided as he began to explain what was about to go down, “it's all well and good being able to play in favourable conditions, but those of you who have played, or even just watched, a quidditch game in your life will know that's it's not how it works.”

“Whether it be gale force winds, blizzards or even just a really rainy day,” I continued on, hoping they’d realise the point we were attempting to make. Most of them nodded along in recognition while a few, namely the younger ones, took in what we said like it was the first time they’d considered it.

“Perhaps a bludger snapped the end of your broom and you’re starting to spiral out of control.”

“Or maybe you downed an entire bottle of firewhiskey at the pre-season party the night before,” Nate added with a small smile, “and turned up to the match hungover.”

A chorus of laughs sounded among the group, particularly from the older students who had been at the school long enough to know that it was more than just a funny anecdote. As, yes, he had in fact done exactly that on the day of his very first match. The boy could barely fly straight, or see straight for that matter, nevermind swing a bat and that was when he wasn’t crashing into the Gryffindor stands upside down.

Though the moment that is most vividly remembered was probably when he threw up in mid air while the Slytherin captain was hovering only ten feet below him.

The Gryffindors threw a party in his name.

Pictures of Gregory Flint with semi-digested cheerios sliding down his face made the school newspaper headlines for weeks.

We may have lost the match but even Dylan saw that day as a victory.

“So for those reasons we’re going to give you a task that may seem a little out of the ordinary, but you’re just going to have to trust us.”

He dived head first into an explanation, trying his best to convince them it was safe enough to go through with, though something tells me he was trying to convince himself more than the group. In his defence he did manage to get all of them to agree to it, bar one girl who was unfortunately allergic to wormwood which I accepted as a reasonable excuse.

The aim was pretty simple: down the potion, fly through the hoop, try not to die.


I think.

“It won't mess up my hair too much will it?”

Dylan rolled his eyes obviously as the guy awaited an answer, sending me a look that I managed to interpret quite easily. I pulled out the piece of parchment that had all of their names written in a neat list, marking a thick black cross next to the name Paul Rhodes.


The bottle was handed around, the potion drank, and before anyone else could ask any other useless questions, Dylan blew loudly into his whistle.

A petite blonde girl was the first to take to the sky but she nose dived into the mud before she’d even gotten three feet in the air. She pulled her head out of the ground with an uncomfortable squelch and a shrill screech of fury.  

After that spectacle the rest of the group looked a little scared but two more soon attempted it both getting at least twice the distance she had before succumbing to the same fate. They all stood nervously on the start line before Dylan finally chose to intervene. After a few encouraging - well threatening may be a more accurate term - words from the captain, they all pushed off at once.

All but Crystal, that was.  

The only way I could describe the events that had begun to unfold in front of me was anarchy.

Complete and utter anarchy.

Number seven dived into the lead with purpose, pushing harder than the rest, but soon got caught out by one of the quaffles that were being thrown at the competitors, we thought hoying bludgers towards them was bit too mean, even by our standards. Her broom swerved off to the left, twisting dramatically as she fell, though she soon regained her balance, steadying the Nimbus before we had to intervene. She’d dropped behind a few places but not by enough to seriously harm her chances, she was quite a brawny girl, a good keeper I’d say. I noted the name on the back of her robes, Roberts, turning back to the piece of parchment to circle it.

Fourteen - a redhead with rather scary eyebrows - then pulled out ahead of the group, taking the place of the blonde girl who’d face planted the mud. She showed promise that one, her balance was better than most of the rest and she was pretty comfortable on her broom, but she didn’t seem like much of a team player so I doubted Dylan would choose her. I’d already watched her push two people out the way, nearly knocking poor Oliver clean off his broom, and we couldn’t afford fouls like that in a real game.

Three crashes, two minutes and several scared shrieks later, Crystal was still standing on the start line looking surprisingly relaxed. I knew the girl undertook every challenge she encountered with a certain nonchalance, but this was taking it a little too far, I really wanted her to make the team.

‘What are you doing?’ I shouted across the few hundred yards that separated us. Well, not doing really, I corrected myself mentally.


I raised my eyebrows in question but with a few hundred yards of quidditch pitch between she couldn’t see my expression. “For what?” I yelled, making sure it was loud enough for her to hear.

“Their inevitable failure.”

Seemed logical.

And with that, Crystal started walking across the pitch toward the goalposts with the kind of determination I respected even though she had seemingly missed the point of the task entirely. In her defence, she had passed the nearest player within thirty seconds but was probably because he’d started flying backwards towards the wrong hoops. Her path wasn’t entirely straight, her legs shook and she stumbled around a fair bit as the disorientation potion had clearly taken effect.

By this point, at least two thirds of them weren’t even flying in the right direction. One of the boys was doing some pretty impressive somersaults near the ravenclaw stands, which in any other circumstance I’d be really rather proud of, though something told me these ones weren’t all that intentional.

“Jesus Christ Clary, I don’t quite know if you’re a genius or a sadist,” Nate only just managed to force the words out between his heavy laughter, “but all I do know for certain, is that you’re bloody brilliant.”

Dylan was stood to my left, arms crossed over his chest, looking unsure of what to make of the situation. That being said, his eyes flitted between the players - analysing their every move, their strengths and weakness, their sporting abilities - as he compiled a mental list of hopefuls.

“I think that was meant to be taken as a compliment,” I replied, hoping I was right, but he was too busy watching watching the game to reply. With that comment, or lack thereof, I turned my attention back to my best friend who was still wandering across the pitch at considerable speed. In only a few minutes, Crystal had just about reached the goalpost and Dylan had just about reached the end of his tether, “what is my sister doing.”

I just smiled because it was at that moment, as she finally mounted her broom, that I realised exactly what she was attempting to do, “she’s winning your challenge.”

He watched on, his head cocked slightly in confusion until the realisation quickly dawned on him and he drew his lips into a proud smile. Where Dylan had inherited an incredible amount of sporting talent from his father, Oliver Wood, ex-captain of the Wimbourne Wasps turned manager, Crystal had gotten not quite as much, though certainly enough for a school quidditch team. She had received a fair amount of intelligence from their mother, however, and it was clearly the latter that she was choosing to rely on here.

Holding her balance as well as she could, she pushed off the ground, letting the broom raise vertically until she was level with the hoop. As steadily as she could, she flew forwards making herself the first one to win the challenge as she started on her decent.

In that time the redhead had lost her lead and was now flying in aimless circles around one of the stands. What happened next was something of a surprise but dare I say it warmed my heart slightly, enough to put them up a place or two in the current standings. A stocky fifth year girl - Roberta Roberts - who was trying out for keeper had begun to spiral slowly towards the ground, only to be steadied by Oliver who had been flying a few feet below her. The pair had then gripped onto each other, using one another to balance as the surged forward, completing the task as a team.

In response to that, two of the boys both pushed forward at once, trying to compete against each other for fourth place when a bright flash pulled our attention away from the game. As we turned around to the source of the commotion, three more followed, each paired with a little click.

It was the unmistakable sound of a camera.

It took Dylan all of three seconds to start berating the boy who just so happened to be on the school newspaper team; the very same team that labelled me ‘a viscous predator’ in yesterday's article so to say I was somewhat biased against him was an understatement.

Nate contorted his face into something that could only be comparable to the grinch and stuck both of his middle fingers up for good measure. That was unsurprisingly his initial reaction to any situation in which a camera ended up being pointed in his direction which made school photos particularly eventful.  

To give credit where it’s due, despite being half Dylan’s size, the boy stayed rooted to the spot, standing his ground. Nate and I watched on in amusement as our captain advanced on him like a lion would its prey, a never ending string of angry words tumbling out of his mouth.

“Should we stop him,” Nate asked nonchalantly.


Neither of us decided to move.

It was only about thirty seconds later, when he grabbed the kid by his collar, that we decided that we should probably jump into action, “yeah, yeah probably,” I mumbled as I drew my wand from my robes. Nate grabbed Dylan by the shoulders, hauling him away from kid as he put up a protests against our intervention. I pointed my wand directly at him, muttering an apology, before giving it a calculated flick as I recited the incantation for a basic silencing charm.

Only then did I try to reason with newspaper boy.

He looked me up and down - half wary, half calculating - as he tried to figure quite what my intentions with him were. I would have liked to have intimidated him, or at the very least humiliated him, but if I had any hope of him cooperating, I’d have to refrain.

“How about we compromise,” I suggested waiting for a response, and when none came, I continued, “we’ll let you post those picture in your little newspaper, and in return, you or any of your other reporter friends won’t take more at any of our future practise sessions,” I paused, “deal?”

It wasn't hard to tell that he didn’t trust me entirely, and rightly so if I’m being honest. Though my offer was, for once, genuine. I would uphold it and allow him to post those photos in the paper, I wanted him to post those photos in the paper.

So perhaps I did have some ulterior motives.

My hand remained outstretched, hovering in the space between us, waiting to be shaken, “I advise you take it,” I said sternly, “or I may be inclined to destroy that expensive camera of yours.”

It took less that a second for him to grab my hand after that statement, shaking much harder than I considered necessary. He gave my a curt nod, turning on his heel to retreat to the castle.

“Finite incantatum.”

I turned around to tell Dylan not to be angry, but the boy beat me to it, letting out a string of verbal abuse before I could even open my mouth. There were a few choice words thrown in there but the general gist of his spiel went something along the lines of Clary are you mental? Are you actively trying to sabotage our team?

The simple answer to that was, of course, a resounding, “no,” and I did take a little offence to the fact that he believed I’d made it my daily mission to ruin all chances I had of winning the house cup.

Dylan usually relatively relaxed about most things, not to the extent Crystal was, she was on a whole different level entirely, yet today his demeanour was quite the opposite. Quidditch was usually the exception to this, it always managed to get him riled somehow, though even then he was never normally this bad. Didn’t want to bring it up though because it will undoubtedly stress him out even more, so I just let him continue on with his rant.

“People are gonna think we’re a pathetic excuse for a team -”

I mean if I’m being honest, the entire student body already thought that but I decided that now was not the time to point that out to him.

“- we’re going to be bottom of the standings again.”

The standings he was referring to were linked directly to 17B, the Slytherin betting ring. All the teams were ranked based on odds which of course nobody ever truly understood, all we knew was the higher you were on the list the better you were as a team. They normally get the ex-Ravenclaw captain from a few years back, now a Puddlemere United chaser, to come and evaluate the teams but there had been little fluctuation over the years.

Hufflepuff, for example, had been last for twelve years.

“That’s entirely the point,” I sighed, batting at a strand of hair that had freed itself from my ponytail, “if they think, we’re competition they’ll treat us like it.”

He still didn’t look entirely sold but he nodded with a sigh which was his way of saying he trusted me even though I could tell that he clearly didn't. In reality, he had just resigned himself to the fact that there was no way we could stop those pictures reaching the Heroin now.

“Plus the look of absolute shock on their faces when we win will be priceless.”

He smiled lightly.

“Now that I can agree to.”


Both Dylan and Nate had agreed to give me the task of telling the group who made the team, we were originally planning on pinning posters to the Hufflepuff bulletin board tomorrow in some sort of big reveal but we were too lazy to make them and our house had begun to care less about quidditch over the years.

I was beginning to regret abandoning that idea as I stood, not two minutes later, taking the full force of a very angry redhead who did not seem to agree with our decision to deny her a place on the team.

“And on what authority do you have to say I can’t play for Hufflepuff?”

“I’m co-captain.”

The way the girl spoke suggested that she hadn’t come into contact with authority in the past, or at least from someone near her own age. She was probably the sort of person who would boast about how her parents let her do whatever she wanted, claiming that she ‘always went to house parties when she was thirteen’ and that they even bought all the alcohol for her. She acted like her word was gospel and nothing we said mattered, which couldn’t be further from the truth considering we held the power to throw her off the team.

Well, not that she was ever on it in the first place.

“That title is non-existent.”

I didn’t quite know how to respond to that one since she wasn't exactly wrong.

“Just like your place on the team will be if you keep talking to my friends like that.”

Dylan, who had overheard the conversation from a few feet away, had walked over to defend my honour, talking back to her so that I didn't have to. Her attention snapped to him, she looked hopeful almost, as if she truly believed that he would understand her.

“You can't deny the best player a place on the team.”

“You’re right,” he said matter-of-factly, bringing a triumphant smile to her face, “that's why McNeil is making the cut.”

WHAT,” Oliver stood all but five feet away, his face the perfect picture of disbelief, screeching in surprise before Kelsey even had a chance to react. His jaw was hanging open so wide, I was surprised it hadn’t yet disconnected from the rest of his face and hit the floor. His shock wasn’t entirely unfounded, had I not seen him play for myself I would be more than surprised at Dylan’s choice. I generally don’t judge based on appearance, had he been given the role of seeker or maybe even chaser I wouldn’t have thought much of it. Beaters however, are generally built like a recovering steroid addict yet this boy looked more like an extra who’d been snatched from the Oliver Twist set at a young age.

“Don’t act shocked,” Nate whispered in his ear, “you’ll just fuel her argument.”

In response the boy slapped his jaw shut hastily, though with eyes too wide and his posture all too rigid, his attempt to ‘brush it off’ unfortunately resembled someone had just downed their very first shot of vodka, pained but putting on a brave face.

“Oh and plaster on a smile.”

Now the poor kid just looked like he was being held at gunpoint.

Meanwhile, Kelsey’s smile had dropped faster than Mario Seller’s voice did when he hit puberty, turning on me with such hatred that you could only assume I’d murdered her entire family.

“This is your fault you bitch,” she hissed through gritted teeth, so much for Hufflepuff loyalty. I just stood there and took it, idly wondering whether a slap across the face would be taking it a little to far. Her hair billowed behind her in the wind, a great blaze of orange that, in those few moments, I had decided suited her personality quite fittingly.

“Oh and after that comment,” Dylan glared at her, partly in anger, mostly in frustration, “don’t bother coming back next year.”

God I loved my captain.

“Roberts and Wood, you’ve also made it,” he announced, nodding at them both in respect, “congratulations, you both played well.”

Kelsey looked utterly shocked, as if she could barely believe what was unfolding right in front of her. Roberta gasped in surprise, dropping her broom as she brought both hands up to cover her face. Crystal on the other hand didn’t display much of a reaction, she tried to brush it off as nothing but even I could see the small smile tugging at her lips as Nate wrapped his arms around her in celebration. The rest of the players began to file of the pitch, some looking disheartened, others congratulating those who had made it, while one or two were still muttering about Kelsey’s outburst. Dylan turned away from her to speak to us, thinking that it was finally over, but as soon as his back faced her she started up again.

“Neither of them completed the challenges properly, she walked most of it and those two helped each other,” the redhead seethed, jumping headfirst back into an argument with him, first pointing at Crystal, then towards Oliver and Roberta.

“Exactly,” Dylan said like the answer was obvious, “she used her initiative, and those two displayed great teamwork, both of which are vital to a game of quidditch.” He emphasised the same words she did in mockery. Oliver, bless his tiny soul, looked so proud of himself that his eyes were glassy with unshed tears. At first I thought he was about to cry with joy until I later discovered it was because Nate had slapped him so hard on the back as a ‘well done for making the team kid’ that he had nearly choked on the orange slice he was eating.

And so we walked towards the stands, the entire team in all it’s mismatched glory, striding across the pitch with satisfied smiles leaving Kelsey in our wake. All but Asher that was, our third and final chaser, who was currently fulfilling his duties as head boy, though knowing him he would likely be smiling too.

For once, I was hopeful.














 Authors Note:

HELLO I'M BACK, with what I'm sorry to say really isnt the best chapter and is something of a filler I'M SORRY.

This chapter is, I guess your little introduction to Hufflepuff's quidditch team (I hope you like them!) which does not unfortunately feature any Albus because I wanted to set up the other characters first but don't you worry there will be more of him soon.

Anyways I really hope you enjoyed this little update and I would really appreciate it if you could leave a review.

 Thank you guys.

 Oliver Twist belongs to Charles Dickens
The Grinch belongs to Dr Seuss