cruella de vil (

holocron) wrote,
@ 2011-09-17 21:02:00

hogwarts100; ficlets

begin
derek & company,
1972 fall

He couldn't believe someone actually let Tilden Toots get on the train with his collection of soil samples.

It was bad enough Derek had to share a dormitory with him, where he kept all sorts concoctions and experiments beneath his bed and in his armoire, despite his Housemates repeatedly and forcefully removing them. Now he was evading him on the train because he'd got it into his head to start some mad new experiment with soils, and was thrusting jars in Derek's face and asking him to smell. Derek had tried running away from him at the station, but Tilden was shockingly fast for someone who couldn't turn himself up to a lesson that wasn't in a greenhouse on time.

And so, sans Vinny, he'd been trapped for forty-two of the longest, dreariest, smelliest minutes of his life in a compartment with Tilden Thurstan Toots, and if he didn't get out soon, he was going to go mad.

"I wanted to really examine the properties of manure and how they affected growth properties, but I discovered fragrance was affected, too!" Tilden thrust a jar at him. "So will you sm—"

"I'VE GOT TO PISS!" Derek yelled suddenly, leaping out of his seat and far away from the deadly jar. "I've got—to the loo—I'll just—I'll be back, just—don't—go anywhere."

"All right, Derek! But why are you bringing your trunk, Derek?" Tilden asked, wide-eyed, as he watched the other boy lug the large thing out of the compartment.

"Er," Derek paused in his movements and drew out the sound so it had a thousand syllables. "I've also… got to change…"

Although Tilden normally had difficulty following a normal string of conversation, as Derek was dressed head-to-toe in his school robes, he couldn't blame the puzzled expression that settled on his housemate's face.

"Well, you see, I'm not fully dressed," he said, averting his eyes and stretching his syllables as he tried to find a suitable lie. "I was really rushed this morning, so I'm swinging in the breeze, as it were." Derek pointed at below his waistband Tilden cocked his eyebrow, like he didn't know what this meant, but was afraid to ask.

"I'm not wearing any pants, Tilden."

"Oh!" His cheeks coloured red and he looked down at his hands. "Okay, well, I'll save your seat for you! I won't let anyone in, because—"

"Okay, 'bye Tilden!" Shaking his head, Derek pulled his trunk along, trying to keep an eye out for Vinny or Kelvin in the compartments he passed. It was as he passed Occupied Car With None Of His Friends No. 7 that he heard a bit of a commotion in side.

"Give that back, please," a boy was saying. There was cat-calling and jeering, and the sound of some dull thuds, but Derek needed to hear only one thing to justify sliding the door open and scowling at its passengers.

Caradoc Dearborn and Evan Rosier stood on either side of a vaguely familiar looking boy, painstakingly turned out, and sitting in the tensest, most proper fashion he'd ever seen a thirteen-year-old boy sit. The Slytherins were tossing around an old, rather decrepit book, which was giving their hostage small convulsions every time it seemed like they might drop, scratch, tear, or dent it, which was essentially every second it was in their possession. Derek wondered why he didn't just try to grab for it and go, but their torture included the usual jaunts and jabs and probably some very against-the-rules wandwork, and the boy (E-something? Edgar. No, that was Bones. Edmund? That was probably it) didn't look all that interested in fighting for his property if it meant jinxes and hexes were slung at him.

"Dobbs," Caradoc sneered once he'd realised the intrusion was not that of an authority figure's. Not that that stopped him from shoving Evan for not keeping a better look-out, however.

"Couldn't wait until the train actually reached the school to be an arse, could you?" Derek asked casually, leaning against the door.

Caradoc assumed an innocent expression and looked quizically at Evan. "What, this? Just enjoying some academic conversation, weren't we, Eddie?" He waved the book in Edmund's face. "Ancient Runes is so fascinating."

Sensing there may have been a trap of some sort in the words, Edmund, looking rather pale in the face, stared very determinedly at the floor, but flinched as Caradoc flicked through the pages.

It was a little foolhardy thinking Derek could take the both of them on at once, but he hoped the ashen-faced Edmund would prove useful in a fight. He looked like a Ravenclaw, which would come in handy if there were wands involved. Derek sized him up again from the corner of the eye and then decided his odds might have been better alone. "Well, I'm certain that's fun, and all, but I just thought you'd like to know I passed Fawcett on the way down here," Derek said cheerfully. "I'm sure he doesn't still remember the ruckus you started at the match finale last year, or be itching to take away points for it."

Caradoc looked as if he badly wanted to protest that point, but realised it was actually true. If he tried to call Derek's bluff and Fawcett did show up, the Slytherin house wasn't going to be very happy with Caradoc, which he didn't care about, but was a nuisance. "Way to stifle the academic spirit, Dobbs," he jeered, throwing the book rather hard at Edmund and elbowing Evan out of the compartment. Derek watched them all the way down the corridor just to make sure they didn't double back.

"Thank you." Edmund brought Derek's attention back to the compartment, whose heart then began sinking at the idea of being stuck with a second Tilden. "This is a very valuable book and I—"

"It's fine," Derek said breezily, not a little disappointed that it had been one of his lesser heroic rescues. "I'm Derek. They're prats."

Edmund said nothing, but Derek rather got the impression that he agreed, which Derek liked. As he stood, he gestured at the trunk by Derek's feet, and said, "You can sit with us, if you want."

Derek rather fancied "us" would be a bunch of similarly-turned out Gobstones players, but since even that beat Tilden and his smelly compost, Derek agreed.

"It's just there," Edmund slid the door open and pointed about four doors down. "I was supposed to get snacks from the trolley, but then they pulled me inside." Edmund didn't sound very sad or remorseful over it, though. He stated it as if such occurrences were matters of fact. "You can meet my friends." Edmund opened the door, and Derek's eyes almost popped out of his head, because the nerdiest boy he had ever met was sharing a compartment with and naming himself friends with undoubtedly the two fittest girls he'd seen in their year.

The brunette let out an aggrieved sigh at the sound. "What took you so long, G and I were—" She broke off when upon seeing that her friend had returned not with snacks, nor alone.

"I made a friend," Edmund announced almost apologetically.

The brunette's lip curled as she gave Derek a slow once over, then bestowed the same look upon Edmund. "A Hufflepuff? Really, Edward?" Edward! That's what it—nope, couldn't pretend he knew it.

Derek made up his mind right then to pull one of her plaits—hard. The blonde, on the other hand, who he immediately decided was much prettier, gave him a shy smile and a wave, and he liked her immensely in comparison to the snooty brunette.

"But Rachel," Edward protested, "he saved me from Ca—"

"Edward said I could sit with you," Derek said loudly, looking at the blonde and giving her his best, most charming look, as he sensed an ally in her.

Derek saw Rachel's eyebrows shoot up and her lip curl further. "I think it's a bit crowded in here—"

"Oh, you should!" the one called G exclaimed. "That makes four so—now we can play Exploding Snap!" She clapped her hands together and looked exceptionally delighted.

Thinking no invitation could be better, he kicked his trunk against one of the berths and sank down smoothly beside her at the table. "I love Exploding Snap," he told her quite untruthfully, leaning on his elbow toward her and smiling.

"Oh, hex me," Rachel muttered, rolling her eyes and gesturing (or more like shoving) Edward further into the seat so she had (more) space. Derek stomped on her toe under the table. Rachel shrieked and tossed the Exploding Snap deck at him as several of the cards exploded, and Edward couldn't help but think he'd somehow made a very grievous mistake.

back

daze
octavius & sorcha
1974 spring

Octavius was sulking in the third floor corridor.

And he was perfectly within his rights to do so, no matter what his supposed best friend had to say on the matter, because some people (like supposed best friends) simply didn't understand the concept of boundaries.

Charlie knew Octavius had fancied Maggie for what had to be months, now. She'd been single for a good while, and he thought it was finally his time, after exams were over, Charlie knew that! Then, what should he walk in on, but Magnolia Brand and Charles I-Am-A-Traitor-And-Proficient-In-Backstabbing Spinnet flirting over their Astronomy homework.

"But she offered!" Charlie protested when Octavius accused him. "What was I supposed to do, say 'no thanks, I'll just keep my D'?"

Octavius merely glowered at him, because his friend should know very well that it wasn't what they were doing that was the problem, it was—it was the other thing they were doing that was the real offence, here!

The silent intimidation must have worked on him, because then Charlie put his hands up and said, "All right, all right, but she was flirting with me! I can't help it if she wan—if she does that!"

That had been the last straw, and Octavius turned right around and marched out of Gryffindor Tower, wherever his feet chose to take him, so long as it was far away from housemates who didn't happen understand loyalty, only one of the most sacred tenets of Gryffindor.

His feet had made it to the third corridor before tuckering out just a little. As he replayed the conversation in his head, Octavius could grudgingly concede that perhaps yes, all right, it wasn't really Charlie's fault, but he didn't have to encourage her! Charlie swore he hadn't, but Octavius had seen him throw her that smoulder he practised so often in the mirror in the hopes that it would one day lure Danielle Kettleburn away from her very long-term boyfriend. No, Charlie was supposed to be polite and maybe even a little distant, to properly highlight the attentive, caring, and possibly sexual traits a (boy)friend like Octavius could give her! That was a brilliant plan, wasn't it? It was… eyaach.

He stopped in front of a portrait of Merwyn the Malicious and scrubbed his face. Now that distance had been put between him and the situation, he had some perspective, and that perspective was telling him he was a bit of a dunderhead. It had to be the stress of their impending O.W.L.s. In fact, exam fever was a particularly nasty plague this year. A duel had even broken out at breakfast this morning, resulting in the girl speaking entirely in rhyme and the boy unable to stop doing jumping jacks. Nearly everyone had done one mad, stupid thing in the last week and a half (usually more than one), and Octavius, it seemed, was no exception.

"This is all a bit rubbish, Merwyn, wouldn't you say?" Octavius asked the portrait, and then felt like an ass, because ordinarily this conversation wouldn't have been strange, but Merwyn was a still-life, so he was just frozen there, giving Octavius a contemptuous snarl he more than likely deserved. He paused for a moment, just in case Merwyn felt like becoming a bit more animate. "That's what I thought," said Octavius heavily when the grouchy expression failed to change.

"That's not a chap in a red cloak, is it?" he heard a voice behind him. It was more a statement of defeat than an actual question, as the answer was exceedingly obvious. When Octavius turned, he saw a good-looking bloke sigh and squint at a crumpled piece of parchment in one hand while scratching at his temple with the other. "How am I such rubbish at a guessing game? I mean, I'm a Ravenclaw."

"Well, sadly, no," Octavius said, pointing up at the portrait, "this is my good friend Merwyn."

The good-looking bloke gave him a strange look, which Octavius couldn't really blame him for. "Scavenger hunt?" he asked instead.

The other boy nodded. "I don't know what the prize is, but I win it if I finish in," he glanced at his watch-face and swallowed, "fifteen minutes."

"I think that one's in the, er… second alcove about two lefts down that way," Octavius pointed along a row of suits of armour.

"Cheers," the good-looking bloke said, jogging off in that direction. Octavius stared after him wistfully, because if he was procrastinating studying for exams, he wanted to be on a scavenger hunt with the promise of a great prize, not sulking because his romantic life was a bust. He shouldn't even have been sulking, as he desperately needed to go over his Potions essay once more. Preparing to shelve his bad mood, he sighed and turned the corner to head back to the Common Room. Striding down the corridor, he heard a rattle, and then whoosh! something grabbed his wrist and yanked, hard.

He didn't even have time to feel disoriented, as he was abruptly slammed against a wall and then had the literal stuffing kissed out of him. Octavius gave a startled struggle at first, but those lips knew exactly what they were supposed to be doing. He didn't even mind that those hands gripped his collar so tightly, he risked suffocation, because holy hippogriffs, had he ever had a kiss like this? What had he been doing all of his life that he'd blasphemed with the label, "kiss"? His hands unfisted and slid forward to grasp the waist of this magnificent creature, and he swore he could hear birds singing, doxies buzzing, the wind blowing, the sun—CRACK!

"OW!" he yelled, pressing a hand to his stinging cheek, eyes flying open in the dark. "OW! That—WHAT WAS THAT FOR?"

"You're not House!"

Perhaps his head was still spinning from the force of that slap, but he thought that was the most melodious albeit ire-filled voice he had ever heard in his life, though he didn't understand a word she was saying. Of course he wasn't a house, what a preposterous notion. Goodness, his heart was really thundering along there. He swallowed weakly and pressed his fist to it while the sounds of shuffling filled the air. He winced when light flooded the classroom a moment later, courtesy of the kisser's wand.

When Octavius opened his eyes again, he thought his jaw dropped. Staring back at him was the most furious, beautiful creature he had ever seen in his short existence. She was—there was no other word for it—a siren.

She shook her wand at him in a way he would have found very menacing, had he been able to look at it, or anywhere else but her face. "Are you a bit slow in the fecking head?"

Well, maybe a Selkie, then.

"N-no—" he stuttered, shrinking back into the wall but somehow wishing she would step much, much closer.

"You don't just go prancing into classrooms you're not invited to and snogging whoever is in them!" the girl screeched, the lighted tip of her wand looking like a dancing flame in her green eyes. "IT'S RUDE!"

"I didn't—" he said, mystified, transfixed, and wholly unable to take his eyes off her. "You—you pulled me in here—"

"Now I have to go find him!" This girl spat everything at him like it was a curse word, and it was the most lilting thing he'd ever heard. "This was supposed to work—see what you've done, you've gone and mucked up everything, you—" She gave him a furious once-over and tossed her head of glorious hair. "Bloody Gryffindors!"

Octavius was still pressed against the wall, which was by the door, so he couldn't see her flounce out, but he felt it. The door had slammed shut in her wake, plunging Octavius into darkness once more, but he didn't notice. No, he just slowly slid to the ground and remained there for an amount of time he could not later justify, thoughts of supposed best friends and Merwyn the Malicious and manky Potions essays entirely forgotten.

back

hair
sorcha & penelope
1974 fall

Sorcha hurried down the corridor, relieved to see a blonde girl hovering outside the door to to the third floor toilets. She'd wasted precious minutes trying to decode the third year's hastily delivered and rather muddled directions.

"Is she still in there?" she asked, stopping short in front of the door.

Nodding, the other girl said quietly, "No one's bothered her so far." Whatever remaining brightness was in her expression dulled. "But I think she's too distraught to notice even if they did."

Scowling at the door, Sorcha turned her attention back to the Prefect. "Thank you for getting me, Izzie."

The sixth year Hufflepuff's mouth was unnaturally pressed into a thin, disapproving line as she shook her head slightly. "I just wish I had caught it in time. I mean, she should know better, being a Pre—" Isobel stopped herself before further impugning a member of her house. "Honestly, those girls."

Sorcha's expression darkened further, and if she didn't have a first year in there who desperately needed her attention, she'd be taking care of it herself. "I'm sure you did what you were able."

Giving her a commiserating look, Isobel touched Sorcha's shoulder before scurrying off.

Steeling herself, she knocked twice and cracked the door open hesitantly, spotting her sister curled beneath the sink on the far end of the room. She couldn't help the intake of breath at the sight that greeted her, which made her sister's head, which had been resting on her knees, shoot up.

One look at Sorcha, and little Penelope's face crumpled.

"Oh, Ducks," she murmured, hurrying forward. Sorcha crouched in front of her sister with her hand pressed to her mouth in a poor attempt to hide her horrified expression. "What did you do?"

Littering the sink basin and forming a halo on the ground around her sister were long, lustrous locks of black cherry hair. Penelope's little heart-shaped face peered up at her through a jagged fringe which sprouted from something akin to a black cherry cotton ball atop her head.

"Is it very awful?" she asked in a wavery voice.

Sorcha's hand slid from her mouth as she mutely shook her head, dropping to a sitting position across from Penelope. The normally riotous curls still left on her head looked as if they'd endured a rigorous Shocking spell regiment, and were perhaps Petrified for good measure. The sides and back were unevenly shorn, and the front spilled into her eyes. "Oh, why, why would you—"

"I thought it would make it better," Penelope said in a hushed voice, her lower lip jutting out tremulously.

"Make what better?"

At this question, she shrank further into the wall, if such a thing was possible. Looking very determinedly at the floor, she tugged at the hem of her school robe. "I o-overheard some girls talking," she mumbled, "and one laughed and asked w-who I thought I was, m-making mooncalf eyes at—Galvin Gudgeon." She gulped a little, trying to stem the flow of tears creeping steadily upon her. "Nevermind that I w-was a first year, but why would h-he ever pay attention to someone with a r-r-rat's nest like mi-ine!" The last word was a wail, and Penelope's eyes filled with tears as she buried her face in her hands.

Feeling quite ready to kill, Sorcha's hands fluttered uselessly before gathering the crying girl into her lap. The hot spark of temper that so liberally blessed their family seemed absent in its youngest member, but Sorcha knew better. As much as it aggravated her, she also knew that Penelope's fuse was long and solid; until the proper amount of kindling was applied, she was more apt to be hurt than angry. Hogwarts had been an adjustment for her, and the little girl they all loved was floundering amidst her own peers. But since she wasn't prone to dramatics, Sorcha thought there must have been much more to the story than her sister was letting on—particularly if she'd tried to chop off all her hair.

"You can't let it get to you, Ducks," she tried to say sternly, laying her head on top of Penelope's now-fuzzy one. "They're not worth it."

Her sister gave her garbled assent and curled up further in Sorcha's lap, drawing up her spindly legs. "Everyone's going to tease me," she said quietly. "They're all going to stare."

Sorcha bit her lip. She had never been one for false modesty; much like her mother, Sorcha was well aware of her physical attributes and her experiences in the world had only reaffirmed her attractiveness. Poor Penelope wasn't quite the ugly duckling, but nature had very obviously failed to be as kind to her as to her siblings. Big, peculiar eyes in an odd, angular face. Untameable hair, even in its shorter incarnation. Disproportioned legs on a small, skinny frame. But Penelope was such a wretchedly good person, and so Sorcha could never think of her little sister as anything but beautiful, even if…

Staring wistfully at the locks surrounding them, she knew not even the most complex of vanity spells would be able to repair the damage. But as she gazed thoughtfully at the top of Penelope's had, she straightened with a sudden realisation. "So we'll give them something to stare at," Sorcha declared. "We'll dye it pink."

Penelope craned her head to look up at her sister with widened eyes, her shocked silence at the suggestion broken only by a lingering hiccup from her crying jag. "But I'll—I'll be in trouble," she whispered nervously.

"I'll dye mine too," said Sorcha decidedly, tossing her own rather glorious hair behind her shoulder in defiance. "We'll be the bold, fashionable Fawcett sisters. Everyone will be jealous, so they'll start doing it as well."

Penelope knew that wasn't true, at least not for her, but gave a watery giggle anyway.

"And I wager," Sorcha said, dropping her voice for effect as her eyes glinted mischievously, "that if we write him a heart-wrenching enough letter, your brother will do it too."

Penelope's eyes widened to the size of saucers as she contemplated this latest proposal. "But he isn't a student here," she said in a hushed voice, awed at even the prospect of her nauseatingly dignified brother doing such an undignified thing.

"No," Sorcha's lips had curled into a full-fledged smirk, "he's on a professional Quidditch team. Just the sort of high-profile publicity our fad needs, wouldn't you say?"

When they were finally able to pick themselves up off the floor from laughing so hard at the idea of a pink-haired Drystan, and Penelope had washed her face, she looked a little flushed as she darted a quick hug around Sorcha's middle. "Thank you," she said quietly, staring at the floor.

Because her throat closed up a little, Sorcha put her hands on Penelope's shoulders and pulled her away so she could glare at her. "This is your one free pass, Pen. The next time, I expect to hear all about how you Transfigured that girl into a frog, do you hear me?"

Though horrified at the idea, Penelope bobbled her head obediently and faintly murmured, "Yes."

Satisfied, Sorcha slid her arm around Penelope's shoulders as they made their way out of the toilet. "You know, Drystan had to rescue me similarly my first year." She smiled a fond, only marginally evil smile. "I punched my Housemate in the face, and there was such a ruckus…"

back

good-bye
adamina & company
1977 spring

The end of term, as usual, had sent all the students into a frenzy preparing for the departure of the Hogwarts Express the following morning. And it was wearing on Adamina's very last nerve. All during the Leaving feast, Will and Rhys had been at each other's throats over some ridiculous scarf one or the other had borrowed earlier in the term and refused to return, Amycus and Severus were in some sort of snit over their Potion exam (which had been finished and graded for nearly one week), and she loved her friend dearly, but if Mira mentioned her inane fight of the week with Sirius Black one more time, she was going to scream.

Adamina was already primed for this waspish mood, having heard enough of the incessant sniping that masqueraded as friendly chatter between her sister and her vapid friend earlier in the common room. So greatly tried was her patience that she actually threatened to take away House points from them for being an intolerable nuisance, which garnered her some not-very-polite words from her sister.

Acknowledging her momentary inability to be a kind, understanding, and gracious person stemmed from personal issues, she muttered an excuse to her table and slipped out of the Great Hall, even before the awarding of the House Cup. She felt… itchy, like her legs required stretching. So Adamina checked the halls were all clear and made her way out of the front doors and onto the castle grounds when the coast was clear.

The night air was cool, and only a touch muggy. The ceiling in the Hall had shown a clear, starry sky, and she had wanted nothing more than to come out and see it for herself. Adamina even unlaced her shoes so she could walk barefoot on the grass. She knew she'd be in great trouble if she was caught, even though it was the last day before the end of term, so she resolved to make it a quick jaunt. Just enough time to dip her feet in the lake and walk off her sulk. This wasn't the way she wanted to be feeling on the last night some of her friends would spend here.

Pursing her lips as she walked into the lake, wiggling her toes in the cold water, she knew what she needed to shake this funk off. Just for a moment, just one quick moment… She darted a glance over her shoulder and did a quick sweep of the grounds. All quiet, not a soul about. Breathing deeply, she began to walk forward, raising her robes as she did so. She'd already unlaced the stays at her neck, and when her hem reached her thighs, her calves were barely submerged. Taking a deep breath, she began to hike them further, preparing to pull—

"A-hem."

Squealing, she lost her footing as she began to spin around, falling hard on her arse, tangled in her robes half over her head. The water was barely to her knees when standing, and not much more dire as she lay sprawled on the sandy bank, but it took her a good minute to wrestle her robes back into place and stand, sputtering. There, in the shadows of the thicket of trees on the lake's shore, she could just make out a shoe and some leg in the moonlight. As she marched towards the interloper with balled fists, her eyes adjusted to the shadows and she saw the surly features of someone sitting against one of the trunks. It was him, that surly boy who had surled all over Mira, Bianca, and she that day on the steps. Timothy Greengrass.

"WHAT," she shrieked, heedless of her volume and the need to be quiet, "IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?" Cheeks pink with rage, she stomped closer and whipped her wet hair back violently, snapping, "Is this something you do often? Just—just creeping about in the shadows out here, like—like some sort of voyeur!"

Tim's gaze rolled from her face down to his lap, brow quirking in the slightest as he took in his sitting, far from skulking-in-the-shadows, position. Not to mention that he'd stopped her. "I was here first," he rumbled rather placidly. "You even looked right over me."

Adamina opened her mouth to argue, then shut it with a snap. That wasn't… out of the question for her to do. The sensible way to proceed now would have been to march right back to the castle in a huff. She had just caught this distasteful boy spying on her. No matter if he'd stopped her before—well, not before she embarrassed herself, as her body was quite spectacular, but—before she'd done something inappropriate.

Instead, she folded her arms and glared him down. No, she was going to stay right where she was (or even move a little closer), because she sensed gifting him with her company would be more of a burden than a boon, and she felt he could use more of a reason to scowl in his life. Although, she thought whilst taking a good look at him, he did look marginally less sulky than he normally did. That was when she saw something clutched in the hand propped on his knee, a little while roll with smoke wafting from it.

She frowned at it for a moment, then jerked her head up so her nose was firmly in the air. "Well, I don't care if you were here first. I'm not leaving. So you can just—sit there in the shadows and continue to do whatever it is you are doing, and I am going to sit right here."

Tim merely sighed and looked down with something akin to resignation across his face. "Fine," he said, not sounding particularly bothered, but not overjoyed, at the prospect of her blessing him with her effervescent company. "Just don't talk."

She gave him her best sneer as she dropped to the ground, hugging her knees to herself.

The silence lasted a total of twenty-three seconds before Adamina asked, "What are you doing?"

Sighing, though it didn't sound very heartfelt, he gazed at the white roll in his hand. "Nothing."

Her nose wrinkled, both at the lie and at the object. "Well, your nothing smells awful." She really could not stop staring at the smoke billowing lazily from that thing. Her father smoked a pipe, and she'd certainly seen those foul Muggle cigarettes on enough occasions to recognise the similarity between them. And if Adamina was not mistaken, it was having quite a peculiar effect on him.

Catching her staring, he asked, "Want a drag?" in what she was sure was a snide voice, could such frivolous things as emotion be discerned from Timothy Greengrass's voice.

Her first reaction was to retch violently at his suggestion, but then she paused before actually simulating the action with her finger in her mouth. That would be just what he expected, wouldn't it? Adamina wasn't a good girl, and she doubted anyone would choose that word in that sense to describe her. Caring, kind, fair, generous, loving, etc., of course, but not good. "Proper," perhaps. But the girls of her dormitory enjoyed their good times as much as (or more than) anyone else, and this was obviously of a different class. As was this boy. She could hear her mother's voice in her head, repeating some side comment or the other about how the Greengrasses were respectable before going to seed a generation or so ago. Her mother lectured her on being proper all the time, and this would most certainly be a flagrant offence.

"Give me it," she demanded imperiously.

Giving her a long, slow blink instead, Tim replied, "I was joking."

That thing really smelt disgusting, but a challenge of sorts had been issued, and Adamina Hooke was never one to dismiss a thrown gauntlet. "Well, I am not." She reached out and plucked it deliberately from his grasp, studying it intently. She'd seen him put it to his lips and breathe. Simple enough. Surely she would have no trouble doing the same. All she had to do was place her lips around one end, and—there—now she just had to inhale—

Hacking, she nearly threw it back to him as she waved her hand frantically around her face and tried to get the smell and haze clinging to her to dissipate. "That," she spat, "is foul!"

Adamina might have been mistaken, but something that sounded eerily like a chuckle, albeit very rusty, issued from Tim's mouth. "Yeah," he said finally. "It is."

Then silence grew, broken by nothing larger than the murmurs of the nightlife and the steady drip-drip of Adamina's wrung-out hair. Strangely, it wasn't the awkward, stretching-on sort of silence. Perhaps there was something to his no-talking edict, as this was actually restful. She'd known coming out here was a good idea. She just hadn't expected her present company to be included in that descriptor.

Even if he was a voyeur.

Feeling overall pleasant and loose, she was almost close to dozing when she felt Tim stir and stiffen beside her. Turning her head to look at him, she saw his face was still passively composed. Perhaps she had imagined whatever it was. Adamina was feeling quite peculiar, after all.

"Why are you out here?" he asked suddenly.

Blinking rapidly, she adjusted her legs and worked her bottom lip before replying. "I've just… had some problems that have been bothering me. I came out to think."

Exhaling a steady stream, Tim drawled, "What," flicking something on his wrist absently, "could there possibly be for you to worry about?"

"I don't believe that is any of your business," she said coolly, disliking his tone and the idea of sharing her personal problems with this strange boy.

"Just a loyal subject concerned for the well-fare of the resident princess," he said languidly.

Expression hardening, she sneered and asked, "Wasn't it your rule about being quiet?"

"No, tell me," he pressed, "I'm interested to know. House-elf not shine your shoes perfectly enough? Or perhaps a bad hair day? Or no, someone usurped your precious sunning spot on the stairs."

"You—" She clenched her teeth. Why expect a stranger to understand? He'd evidently formed his own strong opinion of her, so how was he any different? Adamina Hooke never had problems. Her life was perfect, and the worst thing that could happen to her was a run in her stockings. Rather than speak, she leaned over and yanked the cigarette thing from his mouth, hurling it into the lake in a perfect arc. Her eye caught sight of his feet, and for good measure, she tugged off the left shoe he'd begun to toe off some time ago and chucked that into the water too.

Rising before she could yank the other shoe off and throw it at his face, she snarled, "Nothing. I haven't a problem or care in the world." He still looked a bit dazed, as if he was not certain whether or not she had actually just minorly assaulted his person, or if it was a figment of his imagination. "Good-bye, Timothy."

With hair sticking to her cheek and the nape of her neck, and the wet cloth of her robes chafing against her legs, she stalked off for the castle in a worse mood than when she'd set out.

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head
adamina & tim
1977 winter

Timothy Greengrass hated Potions.

Not that that mattered, not when he had an essay due the day after an highly anticipated match weekend: Slytherin versus Hufflepuff. Tim couldn't even pretend he'd be giving the essay the attention it was due, but he thought he'd be able to slap together something decent enough to fill a few inches of parchment if he started now, before the more intensive practices kicked into gear. At least, that was his intention. Starting right now. His hand rested on the textbook he needed, but he couldn't bring himself to pull it off the shelf. Drumming his fingers against its spine for a moment, he finally pushed it aside. In doing so, the gap between shelves widened, and he was greeted with the sight of a familiar head of hair bent over an extremely large book.

The library had become a sparring ground of sorts for them. The last time he'd seen Adamina Hooke in here, she was reading the first comic he'd taken to sending to her, craftily hiding the pages between her Charms book to hide it from Madam Pince's discerning eye. As he walked around the stacks to her secluded little table, he wondered if she was doing the same now. He was planning on ribbing her all to hell for it if she was, and—He stopped short when her face came into view, because she looked—it felt wrong to use the word "bad," but no other word came close enough.

The glazed look in her eyes, and the shadows beneath them, suggested she'd read the most frightening horror story in creation and then stayed up three straight nights because of it. Her hair was mussed and her school robes were rumpled and—this made him stand a little straighter—not a bow in sight. After taking in the whole questionable picture, he would have bet money on an unanticipated hangover, because everyone knew how wild the Slytherin girls liked to get. But he couldn't recall ever seeing her so dishevelled, because of course, she didn't allow it.

Honestly, it was a bit of a relief to know that she could look like a normal, deeply flawed human being.

Seizing the opportunity to have the upper-hand for once, he leaned against one of the stacks and folded his arms. "You look terrible, Hooke," he drawled.

She had been staring at the lines of text as if they were completely foreign and the fact scared her, clutching her fists to her temple. If he wasn't mistaken, the knuckles on her hands turned white as she braced them tighter against her head when she heard him. "Don't talk to me," she said, and although the words were not without rancour, he strangely felt as if they weren't directed towards him. She squeezed her eyes shut and didn't open them again.

"Let me guess, wretched hangover?" he asked, ambling over to take the seat at the other end of the small table, unable to resist needling her as he always did. He almost felt guilty doing so in her condition, but she'd had just the same advantage about a month ago, if he recalled correctly, and had milked it for all it was worth.

The sound she emitted was akin to a slaughtered baby calf, and his lips quirked up a little at the thought of exactly how much she must have consumed to still be so out of sorts now.

"No, I'll bet what it is is that you're starting to catch the nerves about this week's match. I know, the loss is going to be crippling for you all." He leaned back in his seat and rested one elbow on the back of the chair. "I'm sure you'll rally... maybe when you play Ravenclaw."

"If you're not going to leave," she said in a miserable, scratchy voice, "I will do it myself." Her hands moved (or more aptly, fell) to the table in another white-knuckled grip as she eased one leg onto the floor, followed shortly by the other. Her intention was good, until the second ankle buckled under her weight as she stood, sending her crashing to her knees.

Tim was by her side before she could blink again, expression tight. "Shit, you really are—c'mere—" He bent over and slid one of her arms around his neck, holding her waist steady in his other hand. Adamina felt clammy and much, much too warm to him, and he began to doubt the whole hangover angle. With her firmly in his grasp, they took one step forward, and she wobbled again, leaning into him heavily. With a sigh, he stopped and swept her up fully into his arms.

"Stop," she groaned, sounding groggy despite having snapped out of her temporary daze enough to give a rather watered-down flail. "Put me down—"

"Nope," he replied, muttering a few choice words under his breath at he tried to ignore all the stares, low murmurs, and one strangled gasp of offence courtesy of the librarian as he lugged her out of the library. "Taking you to the infirmary."

Adamina fidgeted again, before protesting rather fuzzily, "Don't. I just—I only need to lie down a little, if you take me to the dunge—"

"Not a chance."

He expected her to rebut as she always did, ornery as ever with him, but she only made a small sort of keening noise that had him hastening his steps. Tim scowled rather fiercely at a gaggle of shamelessly gawking first years, until they scattered, and was ready to throw up a few silent and not-so-silent praises when the infirmary door came into view. She hadn't so much as stirred since they'd left the library and he was trying his best to be very calm about this, and was almost succeeding.

"Madam Pomfrey?" he shouted, shouldering the door open while trying to mind Adamina's lolling head. "Madam Pomfrey! We need you to—"

The matron hurried over to them, clucking pityingly as she did so. "Oh, oh my dear," she tutted. "I told you this would happen if you didn't finish that Replenishing Draught." Adamina's grasp around Tim's neck tightened slightly, and she turned her face more into his neck, moaning.

"Set her down there," Madam Pomfrey instructed, gesturing to a bed in the corner, where the curtains were helpfully being drawn back. "Easy, now."

She didn't need to tell him twice. Tim wasn't sure how lucid Adamina was, but he knew his hold on her was uncomfortably tight, even though he couldn't really persuade himself to loosen it. She was sheet white, and if he wasn't gripping her like a vise, he would have been easily convinced that she was a ghost. By the time the covers had been pulled back and the two of them were sliding Adamina into the bed, she'd roused enough to open dull eyes. "Please don't tell them," she pleaded, assumingly to Madam Pomfrey, as Tim didn't understand what it was she was saying. He saw tears beginning to form, probably from the pain of the fever she undoubtedly had, and though he didn't know it, from the humiliation of having it. "Please don't, I'm sorry I didn't—"

"There, there," Madam Pomfrey soothed, tucking the bed covers around her frail frame. Her expert hands drew Adamina's clumping fringe away from her clammy forehead. "I'm sure it won't be as bad as before."

With her patient lulled into a fitful rest, she turned to the nightstand beside the bed and bustled about it, blocking her movements from Tim's view. His gaze darted helplessly to the pale girl in the bed, and he couldn't help but ask, "Erm, Madam Pomfrey, will she—is she…"

The matron whipped around, having quite forgotten his presence in the midst of her preparations. "That will be all, Mister Greengrass," she said firmly, stepping forward and raising her arm. "Thank you."

With a flick of the wrist, she drew the curtains smartly shut in his face, leaving Tim staring at the dull blue material with a gnawing pit of worry rapidly growing inside him.

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illusive
drystan & odette,
1973 fall

She was damn good at hiding when she wanted to be.

Drystan had been all over the common room—twice—and then the Great Hall, the library (though he didn't know why she'd be there), their locker room... Once he'd heard a very convoluted version of events from a breathless Dobbs, he'd set out looking for her. The best way to start seventh year likely wasn't to have a violent confrontation with one's arch-nemesis on the Quidditch pitch during the arch-nemesis' practise. Not that he knew the details, but that was really all Drystan needed to know. Having arrived at his last stop, he stood and sighed and thanked the various deities he hadn't needed to step in here but once before in the past year, then pushed the door open and jumped over something slimy, green, and not wholly inanimate by the entrance.

"Odo?" he called as he ventured further in, trying to mind a swinging tentacula vine darting much closer to his head than he'd have preferred.

"Go away!" a muffled voice echoed from further in its depths, and as Drystan followed the sound, tried not the sigh at the sight it led him to.

There, crouched under one of the low-hanging, umbrella-sized flowers in Greenhouse 3, hiding her face in her hands, was his very best friend.

"What did he do this time?" Drystan asked in a gravelly voice as he approached her, trying to keep the disgust out of his voice. Whatever it was, it must have been bad if she'd resorted to hiding amidst the rather malicious shrubbery housed in the Herbology classrooms they no longer needed to attend.

Odette sniffed rather phlegmatically and turned her head away. "I don't want to talk about it."

That was too bad, because one way or the other, he was going to be finding out. But Drystan said nothing to press the matter and instead crouched down next to her, trying to guard himself against whatever creeping flora had it in its mind to tangle (quite literally) with him. The pointed silence wore away at her, as he knew it would, and she made an angry, upset sounding noise.

"It's not a big deal," she said without a trace of irony in her voice as she hid in a Greenhouse and wiped away her tears rather viciously with the heal of her hand.

Drystan groaned and grabbed her wrist, giving it a good shake. "It is a big deal. If you won't do something about it, then let me—I've got more than enough reason to." Which was entirely true. His own sordid rivalry with Adrian Mattias was nearly beginning to reach the same legendary proportions as Odette's.

Tears began to fill her eyes again and then, suddenly, the whole story was spilling out, convoluted words about brooms and ransom notes and secret meetings on the pitch and house captainships, and Drystan honestly couldn't follow a word of it between her alternating sobs and rages, but he understood enough to know he should likely be punching somebody about now.

"I just—" Odette said tearfully at the conclusion of her tale, "I hate him! And his—ridiculous accent—and I can't—" She broke off in a wordless bawl and was beginning to get Drystan quite panicked about her continued oxygen flow.

Scratching his temple, he ventured to ask, "Are you certain he doesn't, you know," Drystan had heard this was how some humans handled this troubling emotion, although the degree to which it manifested in Mattias would probably categorize him as psychotic, "fancy you?"

That made Odette shriek and cry harder, and while it would be insensitive to cover his ears whilst his best friend was floundering in pain (at his words, no less), Drystan wished he was close enough to the earmuffs by the Mandrakes to grab a pair.

"THAT'S DISGUSTING!" she rallied herself enough to cry out, now dashing away the tears on the other side of her face with the back of one hand.

Well, he wasn't crazy about the idea either, but it was—well, it was fairly normal for a teenage boy to act like a Azkaban escapee in these situations, he'd thought. "It's probably not ideal, but—"

"—it's not only disgusting, it's ILLEGAL!"

That, he was pretty sure, was codswallop. "Well, I don't think it's—"

"—I MEAN, HE'S MY BROTHER!"

Utter silence followed, punctuated only by her still-hiccuping breaths. Even the lacewing flies seemed to have ceased their buzzing for the moment.

Drystan gaped at her like a fish in a bowl. "He's what now?"

"BECAUSE HIS MUM IS A GIANT SLUT WHO——AND MY FATHER COULDN'T KEEP IT IN HIS TROUSERS AND JUST——THEN FI-FIFTH YEAR, AND I——AND HE—AND HE—AND—"

"Okay, okay," Drystan said hastily when Odette continued to inhale but not exhale, shoving her head between her knees. "Just—breathe."

HOLY FUCKING SHIT. How had this—how did this—how had he not known? Well, quite obviously, actually, but—holy fucking shit! Drystan had always thought, in the last two years, that Mattias had seemed to gun unfairly and unreasonably for Odette. But Drystan realised he'd let himself assume that between the cultural differences and his general state of unhinged-ness, that Mattias was simply really upset over a rather psychotic crush.

Not the case, it turned out.

Odette made a muffling noise and he realized he was still holding her head between her knees. "Whoops," he said, letting go. As she tossed her head back, she gave him a tear-streaked look of disdain, but her face was less purple than before, so he considered it a success all in all.

"You can't tell anyone," she said once she'd gotten her voice back. "I don't want anyone to know. And you especially can't tell him."

It was probably a testament to their friendship and similar temperaments that Drystan had been angry she hadn't confided in him earlier for about half of a second before just wanting to indulge some violent tendencies on the subject in question. "Not a soul," he promised, sidling up closer to her. Odette's tears seemed to finally dry and they indulged in some good old-fashioned revenge fantasies, still huddled under the looming flower, until her voice began to sound steadier and its usual note of contemptuousness was restored. Still, Drystan didn't think it would be particularly helpful to her still-fragile condition to tell her he was going to storm the Gryffindor team's practise shortly after he left here and stuff Adrian's broomstick somewhere very uncomfortable on its owner's person.

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naked
octavius & charlie
1974 spring

"This is not how I intended for that to go."

"I don't want to hear it."

"I just—"

"Ah!"

"But I ca—"

"AH!"

Octavius should have realized, when Charlie asked him how easily his brothers could sneak him firecrackers, that his friend was up to something suspicious. But because he was a trusting friend (or an idiot) who had a vested amount of trust in his friendship (or an appreciation for trouble-making), he had simply relayed the favor to his brothers, who heartily obliged.

Now, sitting stranded in a large tree on the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest, buck-arsed nude, with his similarly-clothed best friend, Octavius saw that there was a downside to his latent "hex first, ask questions later" philosophy. But his friend had been a man with a mission! Charlie was merely righting a wrong, a wrong far too grievous to have gone so long uncorrected. Did the Slytherins honestly think they could loose a nest of snakes in the Gryffindor locker room without retribution? So what if they said they hadn't done it, it wasn't as if they'd confess. It was his first year playing, Charlie had a duty to his team and House to go into their fiercest rival's locker room and plant a fearsome firecracker trap before the match day after tomorrow.

It all seemed so reasonable at the time.

He supposed he had never known true fear until the door to the Slytherin locker room had opened (both assumed the other would be acting as look-out) and they'd been disarmed and body-bound in a matter of seconds. Octavius could not, of course, recall the full conversation, as he was otherwise experiencing pulse-pounding, pants-wetting terror that this would be the day he was expelled from Hogwarts and his parents acknowledge they should have give him up for adoption between Tim and Nona. But when someone (he thought it might have been the captain, but couldn't say for sure since he was frozen facing the wall) said, "Isn't that one a Prefect?", his heart honestly stopped.

There was a moment of relief when someone piped up, "No, I don't want to invite questions. They already suspect we were behind the snakes, and I'd like to keep my badge." But it came a moment too soon.

"Fine," a third voice spoke (no, Octavius corrected, that was definitely the captain), "we'll dole out the punishment our own way."

The next thing he knew, he was on a tree bough, watching as his clothes, and undoubtedly his wand, were carelessly tossed from a retreating broomstick a hundred feet away, the small V-formation of Slytherins flying off into the distant castle.

"Duty to team and House!" Octavius scoffed, readjusting a small, if lethally poky, tree branch around his manly business as a means of modesty and cover from the nip in the air. "Should have been my first tip-off. What, did you have Meadowes feed you that line?"

Charlie, whose fears lay more in the realm of not being able to play in the next match after being a reserve for so long, whether or not spending the night in the tree would affect his ability to father children in the future, and food, scowled at his fickle best friend. "I didn't hear you saying No, Charlie, we musn't! as we marched in there with an armload of explosives."

"SILLY ME!" Octavius bellowed. "Thinking you'd have had a plan!"

"YOU'VE KNOWN ME FOR FIVE YEARS," Charlie shouted, "WHEN DO I EVER HAVE A PLAN?"

Because it was true, and the Prefect badge (here, he looked down at chest, but was left only with the sight of his pale and somewhat clammy pectoral) ordinarily pinned to his robes dictated he hang up his oft-unwitting trouble-maker's hat, he slumped against the trunk in defeat. "I just wish people would stop stranding me naked outside the castle." He sighed and scrubbed his face. "It's not exactly what I pictured my academic career involving."

Charlie made a sympathetic noise. "Your brothers are tossers." Mostly really cool tossers, but he was feeling magnanimous enough to leave that part off. He leaned forward to peer through the thicket of branches to the ground. "Likelihood we would die if we jumped?"

"If you jumped. High. I am staying in this tree. I am staying in this tree until someone realizes I am missing and goes hunting for my presumably pecked-to-death body." Death would be preferable, as he wouldn't have to suffer the humiliation of being found naked in a tree alive.

"Oh, that's a winning mindset to get us out of this! 'Let's just stay here until we freeze to death or the wildlife eat us!' Maybe if you stopped being so pessimistic and helped me think of solutions, we won't have to spend the night out here and freeze!"

"Exactly where do you think they put my wand, Spinnet?" Octavius exclaimed incredulously.

"I'm just saying—"

"OY, IDIOTS!"

Startled, they grappled for purchase and peered down through the branches, only to be greeted by the sight of Delilah Spinnet twenty feet out, waving what Octavius did not dare to hope were two black robes in her fists. "A little birdie told me you might be needing these!"

"DELLY, I COULD KISS YOU RIGHT NOW! SEND THEM UP!" Charlie hollered, waving his hand frantically. But as his sister approached, her maniac smile turned beatific and Octavius felt his rising heart sink further into his chest.

"Oh, dear," she said, folding the robes over one arm and she looked up sadly. "You two simply cannot stay out of trouble. And you!" She waggled her finger at Octavius disapprovingly. "A Prefect, no less!"

"Delilah!" Charlie barked. "Robes!"

She shook her head, and Octavius's sinking heart stuttered three times more strongly than it did when he was being man-handled by the majority of the Slytherin House team. "Oh, no," she said. "You know the magic words, Charles."

He could have groaned. Charlie did, knowing Delilah would make them do everything but dance on hot coals. "Delly, this bough is uncomfortable and something is biting me, and I—"

"Say it!"

The boys exchanged an uneasy glance, as they were thinking the same thing: they only ever lost one article of clothing when she tagged along. Breathing out his nose in annoyance, Charlie's shoulders fell as he called out, "We're sorry we didn't tell you about our plan. Even if you are dating one of the ponce—"

"It was a mistake to try and booby-trap the Slytherin locker room without you," Octavius amended quickly. "We are very sorry. Please give us our clothes."

Appeased, she gave them a smug look. "Now that that's settled."

Charlie clapped his hands together, delighted at the prospect of groveling over and clothing nearer. "Now, send those robes up!"

Delilah was shaking her head no again, and Octavius wanted to cry. "Mmm, I don't think so. Where would the lesson in that be? I think you'll just have to come down to get them."

"DELLY!" Charlie howled. But before either could complain of the likelihood of fatality, ropes issued forth from the tip of her wand, looping around the branch closest to them.

"Well, you can stay," she rolled her eyes disgustedly at her brother. "But you," she beckoned Octavius with a crook of her finger and a lecherous grin that had him gulping, "can come down and get yours." She shook it out and held it up invitingly.

Resigned to his fate, he glared sullenly at Charlie, who was determinedly failing to meet his glare while pretending to be immersed in a decomposing bird's nest.

"Never forgive you," Octavius hissed as he clutched the broken and very poky branch tighter in front of his pertinent bits in preparation to shimmy down the tree trunk, where his dignity lay shattered at its base. "Not ever."

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