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?”
“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.”
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.
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.
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