It was strange to be back at Hogwarts.
The sights, the sounds, the magic… All unfamiliar once more in a rare recapturing of her first year, watching the spires of the school emerge over the trees as the boats slid smoothly across the lake. Everything appeared majestic -- fantastical, even -- but, by that same token, almost unreal. Distant and untouchable. Dream-like.
Cleo was beginning to second-guess her decision to come back to school. Of course, there were things she had loved about Hogwarts, but they seemed hazy and indistinct after all this time. The train ride had been hellish ordeal: Sitting alone, each painful mile that separated her from home crowded around her and loomed at her compartment door, propped up uncomfortably against her sides. Years acclimated to life at home made it all the more difficult to accept being parted from her family for ten prolonged months. It had only been eight hours by then, and she'd already felt spent.
And, when Cleo stepped into the castle for the first time in two years, it became very clear that this was no longer a place she recognized.
Or-- whatever. Maybe that was hyperbole. She was prone to it. Her mother had said much the same. You're acting like we're sending you into exile.
Though, Mum could never really know what it was like at Hogwarts, could she?
She'd never understand what it felt like to arrive at Hogsmeade station under the bleary drape of evening. The pervasive disquiet. The reserved optimism. The hushed wonder. The skittish camaraderie. The experience had largely remained unchanged from when she was eleven: The castle stood, a Colossus, large and imposing, its maw stretched wide and welcoming to approaching students; every time she passed through those gates, Cleo couldn't shake the feeling of being swallowed whole.
And now, she didn't even have the luxury of anyone waiting for her on the other side. No one to ground herself with, no one to help her reorient. Inadvertently, she'd stumbled into adulthood and all its horrendous trappings -- including the harrowing prospect that, in the end, time itself did not have the courtesy to hold its breath.
It went on without her. Friends graduated, priorities adjusted, things… changed. Inevitably. Even the atmosphere of the school had, in her absence, distorted into something wholly alien.
That's what she liked about home: She knew where things stood. Hogwarts, as far as she was concerned, was new terrain all over again. One she'd have to traverse on her own.
That evening on the first night, Dumbledore had handled her with care, as if one misplaced word would shatter her. To his credit, she felt like it.
He waved his hand over the top of an empty porcelain bowl at the head of his desk and, within seconds, it was teeming with hard, yellow candies. "Sherbet Lemon?" he offered, a knowing gleam poised over the peak of his half-moon spectacles.
It was odd, how comforting that was. The familiarity of it, at least. Not everything had changed.
Cleo shook her head with a sheepish grin. "No, thank you. I'm sorry. I didn't think I'd be this nervous."
He dismissed her with a dainty wave of his hand, that affable half-smile overtaking his features. "Considering your situation? I would say that is perfectly natural, my dear."
Right. Sure. Though, she couldn't make herself respond, eyes unfocused and tethered to the salmon colored blur of Dumbledore's robes.
Leaning forward, the Headmaster allowed his head to dip. "Might I have the pleasure to be the first to welcome you back to Hogwarts?"
She blinked, glancing to his face. It was a good start, she supposed. "Thanks," she acknowledged. "Didn't think I'd be back." Her fingers squeezed her chair's armrests in a brief spike of anxiety.
If he'd noticed her slip up, he didn't let on. "I imagine the adjustment must seem daunting. But!" At this, Dumbledore's expression became reassuring. "Do remember that you won't have to do it alone. We are here to assist you."
He meant it. Of course he did. Though, all the same, it was only a marginal comfort. Still, this wasn't the time for personal angst; he was her Headmaster, not her therapist. This meeting was meant to be strictly business. "Right, uhm, you mentioned when we were writing each other that I should, ah--" her body bent to the side as she reached to dig into her bag, "-- bring my leave of absence paperwork, timetable request and O.W.L. results so we could make sure my schedule was appropriate and officially finalize it…"
At this, she produced a manilla folder from her bag, belatedly realizing how ridiculous it looked only after she'd set it on his desk. It was garish among the archaic decor and, embarrassed, she pulled it back on her lap, only to remove the papers and place them where the folder had been before.
"If I'm honest with you, I'm only really concerned with Potions and Herbology," she put in, a nervous hand combing itself through her hair. "I'm fine with either dropping or being put in non-N.E.W.T. courses for the others."
The Headmaster scooped up the papers with delicate precision, surveying them with interest. "Your O.W.L. results seem to corroborate your interests, Miss Croft," he observed, before glancing up at her. "However, if I may make a suggestion… While wandwork does not appear to be your strong suit, I would advise letting Charms and Defense Against the Dark Arts remain on your timetable. Your grades would allow you into the professors' respective N.E.W.T. courses."
Cleo leaned forward, countenance self-effacing. "Would N.E.W.T. Defense really be necessary? It's just-- I'm rubbish at dueling, and I can't even produce an offensive spell--"
He lifted a hand to forestall her. "I think, in light of current events, it is wise to have more knowledge than less. And there may come a time when knowing how to defend yourself will become invaluable."
Ah.
Cleo let out a sigh, a soft plop sounding as she fell back in her chair. She considered the Headmaster a bit longer before her head tilted and lips twisted. "Yeah. That display at dinner was certainly… interesting."
"It is nothing for you to worry yourself about," he instructed. Easy for him to say. "I am well able to bear the ire of those who disagree with me."
She wasn't concerned with his well being, but she knew better than to correct him.
"For now, I am content for you to re-acclimate yourself to Hogwarts, and to do well in your studies. Is that something you think you can do?"
"I can certainly do my best," she promised with a forced chipper affectation, head lifted toward the ceiling. "I've got more than myself to think about, at any rate."
"Of course," he agreed. "Well, Miss Croft, I see no reason not to approve your timetable, though your Head of House will need to take a look at it as well."
"Oh, that's fine." There was a moment of hesitation before she glanced back into her bag, top row of teeth grazing her bottom lip. "Actually, there was one more thing…"
Dumbledore's gentle attention was wholly focused on her. "Yes?"
Her hands fidgeted in her lap. "You… also mentioned something about uhm," she broached, timid. "... a way to contact home? Is that, ah," she frowned, "still on the table?"
"I have made arrangements for you already," he reassured her.
She didn't know she was holding her breath until the air rushed from her, relieved. "Thank you, Headmaster. Really."
"No, thank you, Miss Croft," Professor Dumbledore returned. "It is my pleasure to assist bright, promising students such as yourself."
She didn't know about that. But... Dumbledore was always exceedingly kind.
Especially to those who didn't really deserve it.
Even after a month into the school year, Cleo had found no opportunities to speak with her Head of House. It wasn't for a lack of trying, either. Every attempt hit a wall, with Professor Snape being either impossible to reach or refusing any attempt at contact forthright. The most she'd received was a brief note the first week, approving her timetable, but there was nothing to indicate that he would meet with her in person. From what she gathered, this had become a problem in general.
She was able to observe this herself when returning to the Slytherin common room at the end of the first night, only to discover Snape notably absent when the Head Boy and Girl were offering the new Slytherins orientation. Rumor stated that from last year onward Snape's presence had dipped into a gradual wane, first with a cut in office hours and private lessons, then with a drop in the frequency of his visits to the common room, until at last he'd abandoned most of his duties altogether.
Alright -- perhaps not completely. But to students who had grown accustomed to a Head of House who took his position with the utmost severity, the variation was disrupting; some continued to struggle with the adjustment. From the outside, people could observe Slytherin's shift: The blatant refusal to sit in on meals, the distinct aversion of Dumbledore. Within the belly of the beast, however, more subtle things were at work.
Anyone could say what they desired of Hogwart's most reviled teacher, but his presence within his own House kept things in line. Without him, things had grown more and more chaotic. Slytherins found a freedom to act without reprimand; to start arguments, assert authority, even begin implementing pressure on unwanted and undesirable students.
When Cleo had arrived, she'd vowed a strict distance from politics. It wasn't a decision made lightly but, in the end, it was an impossible one nonetheless. She could no more distance herself from her identity than she could her own shadow. And, if the Welcoming Feast was anything to go by, tensions were at an all time high.
Somehow, she'd managed to land herself smack in the middle of it. It was just her luck, really, returning at the quintessential rise of a genocidal fascist.
Her inability to stay neutral was, perhaps, what had prompted her to speak up in Potions, despite unfavorable circumstances and at the risk of causing an upheaval in the only class that managed to give her respite.
She'd heard plenty about Professor Snape's tendency of humiliating Harry Potter, though she'd never had the chance to witness it herself before. From the stories she'd heard, this seemed comparatively mild; it was perfectly understandable that he reprimand anyone who wasn't careful with this potion. One wrong move would easily turn it corrosive.
Still, it felt like there was something more to this. Snape's eyes swept across the gathered students. Calculating. In that instant, Cleo surmised -- this was not just a question to see who was paying attention; it was a test of ambition, laid out like bait, just to see who might take it.
If she wanted her Head of House's attention, then here was a golden opportunity. It was that rationalization, at least, that prompted her to speak in the first place.
In the end, however, her efforts weren't remotely what Professor Snape had in mind.
Nor was this the attention she sought.
"Miss Croft. A word."
His accosting froze her in place. "Professor?"
He stood just ahead of his desk, arms crossed before him as he watched the rest of the students file out the classroom door, his displeasure plain.
When it was only the two of them left in the room, the professor's gaze returned to her. "Never do that again."
"Sir?"
His next statement was carried on a sneer. "Undermine me."
Her head shook, expression feigning confusion. "Sir, I honestly don't know what--"
His eyes narrowed. "Is that the hint of a lie, I detect?" he commented, voice pitched low. "I believe I made it quite clear that I am not a man to be fooled."
"What was of concern to me," she asserted, "was to finish my potion. Properly. As is the purpose of this N.E.W.T. level course. I apologize if, to that end, it appeared as if I purposefully attempted to undermine your authority. That wasn't how I intended it at all."
The professor hummed a doubtful acknowledgement. Then, taking a different track, he said, "You are aware that it is to your benefit, if Potter gives up this class?"
She squinted. "What Harry Potter does or doesn't do isn't a concern of mine," she told him, firm. "I have no intention of allowing external factors, disruptive or not, to inhibit my performance."
"Rightly so," he stated, matching her stern tone. "Wouldn't want any wayward attachments clouding your judgment."
She watched him, mouth slanted in a dangerous half-scowl. That was low. Even for him. "Was my work unsatisfactory, Professor?" she inquired, careful to keep her voice neutral. "I'd be more than receptive to hear any proper, appropriate critiques you may have."
"Your work was passable," was his retort. "This is merely a warning, Miss Croft."
"I'll endeavor to meet your standards," she assured him. "Though, perhaps I'd benefit from your consideration?"
"Consideration," he intoned, the word seeming to leave an unpleasant taste in his mouth.
Allowing the facade to slip, Cleo stepped toward him, more urgent in her speech. "I've been asking for weeks to meet with you," she reminded him.
The man performed an exaggerated glance around the room. "We are meeting now, unless I am mistaken?"
"A proper meeting," she insisted, "with you actually acting like my Head of House."
At that, Snape sighed through his nose. "I cannot currently take office hours."
"I'm in my sixth year and you oversee my academics," she emphasized, adamant. "You can't keep ignoring me."
There was clearly something in her statements which irked him, since his frown twitched further downward. "And I assume you believe everything to be about you?"
"What do you want from me?" The words burst from her, incredulous, bordering on desperate. "An apology? I'm sorry, okay? I'm really sorry. I made a mistake and I didn't listen to you. There is nothing I can do to take that back." For the first time, she squared her shoulders to him, unflinching. "That is a decision I have to live with, but I want to make the best of it."
Snape surveyed her expression, mouth set in a grim line. There was an eerie silence in the classroom for the space of several seconds, the lack of bubbling cauldrons lending an off-kilter slant to their encounter. At length, the professor's gaze broke away from her as he pivoted around to the other side of his desk. "Anything further?" was his dismissive query. "I have a class in ten minutes."
"Please," she implored, hands gripping the strap of her bag tight. "Just one meeting. Please, Professor."
He let out an abrupt sigh as if he'd been holding it in the past minute and a half. "Fine. Nine forty-five, my office. I would advise against wasting my time, or you will come to regret it."
Her head dipped into a singular, curt nod. "Yes, of course. Thank you, sir."
Snape waved her away, his attention already elsewhere. But it hardly mattered-- finally, she was going to be able to speak to him.
At that thought, she let out a sigh of relief, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes as she exited the classroom. She adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder before heading in the direction of the common room.
The dungeons had always had a subterranean mystique; the sounds of the rest of the castle weren't present within the narrow, maze-like halls which made up Slytherin's domain. In a way, it was a comfort to be able to escape into silence, to forget the chaos above when things became overwhelming.
Then again, silence also had the tendency to magnify any disturbance.
There were footsteps behind her, synchronized with her own. Slowing her pace, she felt both vindicated and disturbed when the other footfalls matched hers. It was paranoid, but she maneuvered through a series of random, aimless detours in an effort to reassure herself, only to find it doing the opposite. Her pursuer was obstinate, following hot on her trail.
Whoever it was, they weren't exactly subtle.
She turned to face the seemingly vacant hallway, scowling. "Is this fun for you?" she questioned into the emptiness, arms stretched against her sides.
A surly blonde withdrew from one of the alcoves, shoulder in a casual bent against the wall, fingers curled around a book that hung precariously over his left hip. "Of course. My, nothing gets past you, does it?"
Her stare was unwavering. "What do you want, Malfoy?"
Every move he made was calculated; from the slight eyebrow raise, to the way his arm elegantly heaved upward as he surveyed the cover of the book. "‘Chemistry and the Living Organism'," he recited, smirking. She observed as his patrician profile jerked toward her, carrying that smarmy sneer with it, more amused than was comfortable. "Interesting choice."
Her blood ran cold as one of her hands plunged into her bag, fingers probing to find the familiar, ragged texture of a certain book spine. With dread, she realized it wasn't there. She hadn't even noticed it was gone.
He turned the book over on its back, lips curling into a thoughtful frown. "I don't care to slum it often," he prefaced before his pale grey eyes locked on her, imperious. "But I must admit, considering how often I see you so engrossed in this, I felt compelled to have a look myself." His expression darkened. "I wasn't disappointed."
Her stare darted to the cover. Swallowing, she lifted an arm, expectant. "I'd like my book back, please."
He stood there, watching her. For a good while, they were at an impasse, neither of them budging from where they stood. Then, breaking the tension with a frustrated sigh, Cleo stepped toward him, reaching for the text.
In some childish ploy to entertain himself, he lifted the book up and away from her. Her mouth opened to object, but he was quick to relent, relinquishing the book into her hands with an impish leer.
She made quick work of distancing herself from him, back turned as she opened the front cover of the text. However, when only the title stared back at her, she wheeled around, glowering.
"Give it back."
His countenance was suddenly neutral. "I'm not sure I understand--"
"Don't," she rebuked. "I'm not in the mood. Give it back."
"Oh," the boy feigned a gasp, as if he'd just recalled something. "You mean this?" He produced a small square of paper from his robes, clutched between his fore and middle finger. "Forgive me, I didn't think it meant anything, considering the fact you so carelessly left it behind--"
"I said, I'm not in the mood," she threatened.
But he continued speaking as if she hadn't said anything at all. "-- or perhaps not? After all, it is rather heartfelt-- Didn't know you had it in you, Croft. I had no idea Gabriel meant so much to you."
A chill settled at the base of her spine, slithering down in a cold panic that threatened to unsteady her. Her defiance sounded dismal. "That may work on first years and your friends, Malfoy, but it won't work on me."
There was a sudden shift in his demeanor. The nonchalance faded from him, overtaken by menace. "Look, Mudblood, if you think you're safe just because Snape likes you--"
Liked her. What a joke.
"Safe?" she snorted with a self-deprecating laugh. "Whatever would make me think that?"
This had the unnerving effect of silencing him. However, soon, the tautness of his frame eased and he took a step forward, pressing the now-crinkled piece of paper against her chest. "Your display in class was bold," he remarked. "Did you get what you wanted? I did notice you stayed after class--"
Her fingers grasped the edges of the paper, wrenching it from his palm with difficulty. However, he dropped his arm without resistance, leaving her room to breathe, to tuck the paper safely into her sleeve. "If that's all," she dismissed in a paltry attempt to sound unimpressed. "I'll be on my way. I have actual things I need to do."
She'd already begun walking away when Malfoy erupted in a vicious snarl aimed at her back: "Did I say we were finished, you--?!"
But whatever bile came on the coattails of that threat couldn't be heard. She'd proceeded halfway down the hall by then, quick in her pace, but careful not to burst into a full run, as much as her body desperately wished to.
The air burned through her lungs as she finally allowed herself to breathe deep, expression twisted and contorted in distress. She braced the book and her sleeve close against her chest, only barely registering the wisp of brown hair and round glasses that flinched against the wall as she passed the intersecting corridor. Someone watching. Of course.
Not that it mattered, anyway. She just wanted to be as far from here as possible.
The next turn came fast and, as she released the breath she'd held back, Cleo sprinted away when she could no longer be seen.
A loud bang wrenched Cleo from reverie, and her eyes refocused on the Slytherin common room once more. A few of the rowdier fourth year boys were off in the corner, engaged in a game of Exploding Snap that was so uproarious that it drew the attention of the whole room.
She wasn't used to the atmosphere here anymore, not by a long shot. There was a time when the common room was a place of respite, peaceful as a library, if a little too dark and moody for a proper reading spot. When they still existed, Cleo's friends would idle away their time with her in the front parlor, gossiping in between essays, making complaints about class over stupid little board games.
Now, the room belonged to whomever exerted the most force to claim it.
"Idiots," the third year next to her seethed with a glower so heated that Cleo could only imagine he hoped it would combust the disruptive pair on the opposite end of the room.
The girl across from him, Jodie, turned the page of her textbook with a scowl. When she spoke, it was with a barbed voice, pitched higher above the din. "Not like anyone's trying to study or anything!"
Cleo crossed her legs with a sigh made inaudible by the ruckus. "It's my mistake," she excused. "Should've realized the library was a more sensible choice."
Another girl on the far end of the couch watched the two boys, expression veiled. "Bet you I can hex ‘em from here--"
Cleo tapped her foot against the edge of the table. "Erica," she called. "Not worth it. Focus."
Erica turned back around on the couch, disgruntled. "Focus? I can't even hear myself think!"
"We can still relocate," Cleo pointed out.
"And give them the satisfaction?" the boy, Leigh, objected with disgust. "Never."
Right then, another explosion bellowed across the room, causing Jodie to yelp and drop her Potions text.
"Oh screw you guys!" Erica shouted, shoving herself over the back of the couch.
Leigh frowned as he dipped down, picking the dropped textbook from the floor. "You okay, Jodie?"
She took in a breath, teeth gritting. "Fine," she spat. "So stupid. If Snape were here--"
"Well, he's not," Erica commented as she glanced over her shoulder at the rest of the group.
"Obviously! " Jodie shot back, irritated.
"Okay," Cleo cut in, diplomatic. "Would it make you feel better if I went down and got him?"
Leigh scoffed. "What's the point?"
Jodie's jaw tightened as she leaned forward to snatch her textbook from his hands. "No, it'd be a waste of time," she stated, matter of fact. "It would kill an hour, he'd never show up, and I wouldn't be any closer to understanding Golpalott's Laws."
"You're still on that?" Erica mocked. "It's really not that hard."
Leigh rushed to defend Jodie's honor. "Of course you would say that."
Cleo's eyes closed. She wasn't in the mood to field any argument between thirteen year olds. Especially not amongst the pervasive noise. "What has you stuck?"
The girl brushed her hair behind her ear. She clearly didn't feel comfortable admitting her difficulty. "Well…" Her eyes darted to Erica, clearly waiting for another rebuttal, but when the other girl was silent, she continued, "I mean, the first one is no big deal, right? First law, all antidotes contain bezoars. Easy."
"Right," Cleo urged.
"Right," Jodie echoed, fiddling with a page in her textbook. "But then, the second one? I mean, it doesn't really… make sense?"
"The fact that all antidotes must contain the poison they treat?" Cleo asked, raising an eyebrow. "What part confuses you?"
"If all antidotes are meant to cure poisoning," she said, gaining steam, "then wouldn't having the poison in the antidote sort of… ruin the purpose?"
"Not in this case, no," Cleo told her. "For the purposes of magical antidotes, the poison becomes a very necessary component."
"Yeah, Jodie," Erica chimed in, a bit snobbish. "How else is the antidote supposed to identify what poison it's curing?"
Jodie puffed up, eyes narrowing. "Well, sure, I guess--"
"I don't understand why you lot care to know every little detail," Leigh droned. "It works because it works, that's all that matters to me."
"And that's why you'll never get better than an A in Potions," Erica sneered, her words punctuated by another loud bang from the corner.
"I'm not sure about identifying," Cleo smoothed over with a sigh. "It works more like..." She paused, a prominent frown overtaking her features.
Leigh barked out a laugh at her reluctance. "See? Even the tutor doesn't know."
Cleo shifted in Jodie's direction, ignoring the slight. "Poisons, venoms -- they're all unique toxins. No two toxins are exactly alike. They may end with the same result, but often how they… achieve that goal varies, understand?"
The girl crossed her legs, propping her chin on her palm as she considered this. "The goal of killing people, you mean."
"No need to be morbid," Erica criticized. "But yeah. Killing people."
She pushed the textbook toward them on the table to capture their attention. "The point is -- how these toxins cause harm happens in different ways. Certain toxins attack very specific parts of human physiology. Sometimes, you die," she noted with a significant glance, "and sometimes you don't, but the toxin's still causing some kind of harm somewhere. We have to think of the added toxin in the antidote as… the tracker, understand? You take a diluted amount and add it to the substance, and suddenly the antidote itself knows where to look for the poison."
There was a breakout of cheers and whoops by the Exploding Snap game, followed by three booming clacks in quick succession. Still, Cleo was pleased to see all three brains whirring. Surprisingly, it was Leigh who spoke first. "Sure, but it doesn't seem very efficient."
"Efficient?" Cleo asked.
Now that he was in the limelight, he looked as if he regretted speaking at all. "I mean," he soldiered on, defensive. "If bezoars just cure everything, then what's the point?"
At the risk of sounding ridiculous, Cleo took a second to exhale before resting her hands on her knees. "Because that's just how it works everywhere. Muggle or magical, panaceas -- cure-alls -- can't exist. One antidote could work for one type of toxin, while being entirely ineffective against another, understand? And bezoars-- well, they don't work the way you think they do, anyway."
Erica cut in, snooty. "Everyone knows that bezoars can cure any poison. That's why the first law says they're in all antidotes!"
"That's actually not why at all," Cleo interrupted, even-keeled. "If that were so, antidotes wouldn't be necessary. There's a reason why bezoars are only used when a toxin has been recently ingested. And why they're completely ineffective against toxins that aren't ingested -- venomous bites, for example. Because…"
"Because?" Erica prompted, impatient.
Cleo's nose scrunched. "Well -- they don't cure anything, really. They work more like…" Activated charcoal, really, but… Her head canted as she twisted her lips in thought, concluding with an example more readily understood: "Like a sponge."
Jodie's head canted. "How come?"
"Bezoars are just a mass of indigestible… stuff, see? What makes them magical is what creature they come out of… since non-magical creatures, including humans, can develop them. But their function is to soak up the toxic substance in order to keep it from spreading around the body. And that's the role they take in antidotes."
"Right," Jodie intoned, albeit distantly, before her expression scrunched up into bewilderment once more. "But-- okay, so the bezoar enhances the curative properties of the antidote, and the diluted poison tracks the toxin in the body but… What do you even mean?"
Cleo pursed her lips. "What do I mean by what?"
"Track it," Jodie clarified. "Track it to where? Why does it need tracking? Where does it go that it even needs to be tracked? Poison just… does what it does, right?" The girl paused a second, brow furrowing. "Wait, what does poison even do?"
Cleo's head bobbed side-to-side as she considered this. "As I said, how a toxin harms you varies, because one may target your heart while another may target your kidneys or liver-- some may even cause complications that severely injure but will result in death if not properly attended to. And that's not even covering blended poisons that wreak havoc on different parts of the body at once--"
"Golpalott's Third Law," Erica put in, preening.
Cleo wore a tired half-smile. "Right."
Jodie was chewing on the frills of her quill in thought. "Could you give an example, maybe?"
It took her a few moments of deliberation before she settled. "Venomous Tentaculas," she announced, abrupt, looking between each of the third years. "Do you know how they kill you?"
"Ugh," Leigh moaned, evidently reliving some painful memory. "Their mouths have great bloody fangs on."
Even Erica appeared affected, the corners of her mouth turned down. "Professor Sprout mentioned that they could swallow you whole."
"If you're the size of a badger, maybe," Jodie corrected.
"But the venom," Cleo urged, trying to corral them back to the point. "What do you think it does?"
Silence followed this question. None of them made any outward indication that they didn't know, but simply watched her expectantly, their lack of chatter a stark contrast.
She looked at each of them in turn, patient, before answering. "So…" she hummed, before sighing. "When you touch, you can feel, right?" She stared out into the room, cringing. "Obviously. But there's a reason for that. If you can imagine, there's an entire system in your body that processes those sensations through, well -- your nerves, yeah?"
Leigh's reply was deadpan. "We know what nerves are. We're not stupid."
She grimaced. "Right. So when a Tentacula bites you," she continued, her own hand clamping down on her wrist for added effect. "The venom targets your nervous system and… pushes it into overdrive. Everything seizes up, like… Like Petrificus," it felt like the most apropos example; she could probably spend all evening discussing sodium channels, concentration gradients, action potentials-- "So it's not a flaccid paralysis, see? It's one that forces all your nerves to constantly feel things. And in that paralysis, your other organ systems begin to shut down. Your heart stops beating; your lungs stop breathing. Everything you can think of just -- stops."
The three looked at one another, expressions grim. Jodie ventured, "That's… uhm, scary."
"Yeah," Erica concurred, a mite pale.
Leigh frowned. "Honestly, who cares?"
Cleo tilted her head. "What?"
"Why bother knowing all that?" he questioned, disgruntled. "You use the poison to track it, the bezoar to soak it up, so-- What's it matter, all these useless details?"
Cleo looked away, biting the inside of her cheek. "It matters," she began, "because otherwise you can't figure out what to brew in order to combat that toxic effect. Understand? Knowing how the death occurs makes it possible to brew an antidote to prevent it from happening. You know what roots, what seeds, whatever ingredients you have can be put together in order to combat the deadly effects. The bezoar is only one part of many."
"All the elements serve one purpose..." Jodie said, more to herself than anyone.
Erica's curiosity seemed rooted elsewhere, however. "Say, how come Professor Sprout never told us all that?"
"Because it's all very complicated," Cleo said. "Something only Potion Masters bother themselves with."
Leigh sat back in his chair, sullen. "Well Professor Snape's never mentioned anything like that either."
Jodie was flipping through her text rapidly. "What you said about Venomous Tentaculas-- can you tell me what section it's in? I can't find it."
"Uhm, the symptoms of the bite should be at the beginning--"
"Yeah, I see those," she dismissed. "But what about that stuff about what it does to the nerves? I don't see it anywhere."
Shit. Right. But, like--
"Well, I mean, that stuff about nerves," she remarked, "I'm inferring, slightly, y'know, with comparison to similar bites from other venomous animals and, uhm, knowledge about human physiology and-- it's not really in these books."
"Then… where did you learn all this?" Jodie asked, polite.
"Muggle school," Cleo answered, careful.
Erica's eyes about popped out of her head. "You went to Muggle school?!"
The girl's tone was unsettling enough for Cleo's muscles to tense on reflex. "... Yes."
Her next response wasn't any better; she actually scowled. "That's awful."
"Yes, well," Cleo breathed, diverting her gaze to the textbook as she busied herself with turning a page. "I don't really--"
Another horrific bang reverberated against the walls of the common room. The three of them all performed a synchronized wince, and Erica burst out, "That's it! I'm throwing that lot straight in the supply closet--!"
Leigh put a hand on her shoulder, hindering her. "It's really not worth it."
"That weird room is scary and gross..." Jodie pointed out. "Besides, Filch is more like to hang you up by your thumbs in there--"
"Uhm, excuse me?"
Cleo's head wheeled around, yanked by the little voice over her shoulder. What she found was an unassuming first year, stood straight, hands locked behind her back. Her hair was a collective of brown, wiry curlicues, a few falling in front of her eyes. Although appearing shy, her gaze was resolute, holding Cleo's with a forced confidence.
"Hello," Cleo greeted with a wan smile.
"Hi," the girl returned. "Can I talk to you?"
Cleo's head tilted. "Sure? What do you need?"
The girl looked at the other three students with a frown. "Not here," she insisted.
Cleo's stare fluttered, nonplussed, between the girl and the study group. When it settled on her again, Cleo leaned inward, lowering her voice. "Can I ask what this is about?"
"It's important," the girl supplied, unhelpful.
Cleo looked up again, this time to survey the occupants of the common room. She spoke as she did so. "Just a warning: I'm not a prefect, so if you need--"
"I know you're not!" the girl exclaimed in a harsh whisper, impatient. "It's still important!"
Cleo winced. Okay. It was a little mean of her to just… assume. And it was that thread of guilt that led her to stand, without question, to excuse herself from the group and follow the kid. The girl took her hand with urgency, fingers clasped taut against hers, leading her out of the portrait that guarded the common room and through a seemingly random series of dungeon corridors. Cleo didn't know how long the two of them walked together in silence, but when they stopped, the girl stepped away to look both ways down the hall, on guard, before placing herself near Cleo again.
For the first year, it must have seemed like an unplottable and untrackable area of the dungeon they'd sequestered themselves in. For Cleo, who'd long since memorized the layout of the dungeons, it wasn't random at all.
But it was adorable, in a way. The drama of it. The attempt at subterfuge.
It enthralled the girl's voice when she spoke. "I heard what you said," she announced with gravity.
Cleo blinked. "What part?"
The girl's expression skewed itself all incredulous. How piteous it must have been for her to work with someone so clueless, Cleo mused. "The Muggle part," she emphasized.
On edge again, Cleo drew her shoulders back, frowning. "What about it?"
The first year let out a long-suffering sigh. "You're not supposed to talk about it?" her voice lilted like she was delivering a reminder.
"I'm... not?"
The girl pressed her hands on her hips, looking Cleo over. "No… We're not supposed to talk about it at all."
"We?"
She let out an impatient exhale. "I'm like you?"
"Like me?"
Clearly, she was growing more exasperated. "You know."
Cleo's brow crinkled, bewildered, before it smoothed over as her breath rushed out of her on the advent of her realization. In a moment, she bent toward the girl so their faces were on the same level. "Oh-- you're, uhm. You're Muggleborn?"
The word worked like an invoked spell and a panic shimmered over the girl's irises before she shushed Cleo with a firm hand pressed up against her face.
"Not so loud!"
Cleo's eyes darted to the warm palm drawn over her mouth. She knew this routine; it was comforting in a way difficult to describe, but the script remained the same. She didn't wrench the child's hand away, instead she nodded with an apologetic flair and waited for the girl to catch her breath. After a moment, she evidently trusted enough in Cleo's silence to drop her arm.
Cleo was careful to speak in a lower register that time. "I didn't know we weren't allowed to talk about it."
Grateful, the girl took on the same tone of voice. "It's not a school rule," she clarified. "But… don't you remember what Snape told you?"
What Snape told her?
Her confusion must have been obvious, since the girl continued, words flowing from her as if they'd jog a memory Cleo had misplaced. "Your first night in Hogwarts? You had to go talk to him in his office?"
She couldn't remember that at all-- since it never happened. This was new.
There was no use in denying it, however. It would only serve to confuse the girl further. Instead, Cleo's hands propped themselves on her thighs as she anchored herself back up to her full height. "Your orientation, right?"
"Sorta."
"What'd he tell you?"
"That it's important I keep my family to myself," the girl explained. "That I'm not to talk about home at all, or really let anyone know I'm Muggleborn. It's safer that way."
Safer. That was one way of framing it. Professor Snape's motives were apparent, but… What could be said? She'd witnessed it herself in the short month she'd been here: The targeted bullying, the political tensions between housemates. It was just, for Cleo, she'd never made pretense for wanting to hide who she was, anyway.
However, she didn't see the purpose in arguing. As much as Cleo wanted to rant about how wrong that felt, to tell a child never to speak of where she came from... laying her critiques at this girl's feet was equally inappropriate.
"That seems sad," Cleo finally remarked, crestfallen.
The girl's eyes jumped to the ceiling as she shrugged. "A little."
"What about friends?"
The girl squinted at her. "What about them?"
"What about making them?" she questioned. "What if they want to know about you? What did he tell you to do? Lie?"
"Well," the first year faltered. "No… Just…. Never tell the full truth."
"I… see."
"So… I wanted to look out for you," the girl admitted. "Since you didn't seem to remember."
"That's very sweet of you."
The girl shook her head. "We have to look out for each other," she stressed. "That's what my mum taught me, anyway."
A hint of smile ghosted over Cleo's lips. "What's your name?"
The girl's back straightened. "Thea."
"Thea," Cleo repeated, testing the name. "That's pretty. Short for anything?"
Thea's nose scrunched up with displeasure. "Nothing good. I hate my name. It's stupid."
At that, Cleo softly chuckled. "Couldn't be that bad."
"You wouldn't understand."
"No?" she mused, a glint in her eye as her hands pushed themselves into her pockets. After a moment, her shoulders lifted into a conceding shrug. "You're probably right..."
"Clytemnestra Croft!" Her eyes focused on the vastness of the Great Hall's ceiling, displaying a beautiful, pale blue, cloudless sky. A mimicry of outside, where she'd rather be, instead of here, in Defense Against the Dark Arts. The subject alone made it difficult for her not to completely dissociate.
But, that was not a smart thing to do in Professor Tenenbaum's presence.
"Fifty points from Slytherin for letting your classmate die!" the professor hollered at her, irate. In a haze of embarrassment, Cleo couldn't help but wonder how such a frail-looking woman could shout her ear off from across the expanse of the Great Hall.
Professor Tenenbaum was like that, she'd discovered. Full of appearances that deceived.
It was difficult to say just who would fill in the position after the fiasco of the previous year's professor (a wretched old crone named Dolores Umbridge, Cleo was tersely informed), but the woman they found sitting at the front of the class at the very beginning of the year… She wasn't what anyone had imagined.
Bridgette Tenenbaum. A former Curse Breaker (now cursed, as she found fit to point out with a self-deprecating laugh) and strikingly beautiful woman with cropped hair, snarking grin, vivacious eyes and missing appendages.
Her left leg and ear, to be specific.
She was emphatic to stress that it wasn't the leg that kept her immobile. It used to have a prosthetic, one she didn't find point to wear anymore on account of the wheelchair: A purple and turquoise metallic monstrosity that seemed too immense to accommodate her waif-like size.
And this didn't even begin to cover the strangeness of the man that saw fit to hover nearby, introduced as the professor's "partner in crime." With brilliant blue plumage sprouting from his neck and shoulders, he hailed the students with a jaunty wave, insisting they just call him "Ren", and spent the rest of the afternoon peppering Professor Tenenbaum's first lecture with the occasional wisecrack. From then on, every day they came to class, his features were vastly different; one day, his skin would be bright green and scaly, another day he would be sporting an elephant snout instead of an ear, and on another he would have hooves for hands.
Suffice it to say, those who hadn't thought Dumbledore had gone off the deep end began to think so now.
As it turned out, Professor Tenenbaum was not only perhaps one of the most qualified teachers to grace the Defense the Dark Arts position, but the most rigorous and strenuous one to ever enter Hogwarts. Period. This was a boon to students who enjoyed the subject and wanted more practical coursework; hell on earth for students like Cleo who loathed the boot camp-esque setting.
The professor's well manicured fingers hovered over the sprockets of her wheelchair, prompting it to propel her forward in a graceful glide across the Great Hall of its own volition. The exercise had come to a halt; much to Cleo's dismay, the students fell into a deafening quiet, punctuated by the harsh sound of frenetic, breathless shrieking coming from her partner. All eyes darted between her and the approaching professor.
Cleo's gaze skittered to the classmate she'd ‘killed' -- Neville Longbottom, writhing on the floor, a sharp staccato of laughter puncturing his lungs as he attempted to wriggle away from the relentless assault of… air. Nothing.
"S-S-Stop!" he wheezed in between rasping breaths, arms braced against something that appeared to be angling for his face. "Th-That t-tickles--!"
"Well?" the professor shouted, still halfway across the room. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
Cleo's shoulders tensed, the corners of her lips anchored down into a frown. "He seems fine to me…"
"What was that?" the professor barked, heaving her good ear in Cleo's direction.
Cleo's head shook. "I said I'm sorry!" she corrected, raising her voice.
The professor arrived with aplomb, wheelchair clacking back to the ground with a clang that made Cleo wince. Her presence was overwhelming at times, and even now Cleo could feel the woman towering over her, even though it was she who was glancing down to meet the professor's piercing gaze.
"Sorry doesn't mean anything," Professor Tenenbaum informed her. "Again, what do you have to say for yourself, Croft?"
She was at a loss. "I don't know."
"You don't?" the woman questioned before she surveyed Neville's hysterics, her wand precariously threaded between her fore and ring fingers. With a small twist, the hilt returned to her palm and she made a swift slice in the air with the point. With it, Neville's body relaxed, the onslaught of whatever having ceased its attack on him.
"Let's start," Professor Tenenbaum intoned, twirling her wand back in between her fingers before shooting a glare up at Cleo, "with what happened?"
Cleo faltered and couldn't find herself doing anything other than repeating the phrase the professor seemed to loathe: "I don't know."
The woman leaned back in her seat, arms crossed and tense like braided twigs as she regarded the girl with scrutiny. Cleo shuddered, unable to shake the feeling of being picked apart by unseen hands.
"That's the fifth time this month that you've disrupted my class," she pointed out, every syllable jagged and cutting, enough to make Cleo flinch. "I'm at a loss to understand why. Am I boring you?"
Her entire body went rigid; she could feel every stare burning into her, hear every word thought by the students in the audience to this display. Her heart balled into a fist and she couldn't manage to do anything other than shake her head in response.
"Then am I unclear?" the professor inquired. "Have my instructions been so convoluted that they're impossible for you to follow?"
"No," Cleo murmured, the word withering halfway out her mouth.
"I certainly hope it isn't sabotage?" the woman probed, her eyes traveling to the crest on Cleo's robe in a swoop that was impossible for her to miss. It was a simple downward plummet but, to Cleo, every movement was exaggerated, pointed, purposeful.
Cleo's hand jerked, impulsive, to cover the crest on her robes, her voice a soft, mortified yelp: "No!"
"Then help me understand why," Professor Tenenbaum goaded, "you seem to be struggling with what's essentially a rudimentary exercise?"
Cleo's head turned to catch the line of students watching the exchange. The back of her neck went aflame, lungs strangling themselves. She couldn't find her answer; it had managed to escape her, scattering across the floor, lost underfoot in the seemingly endless crowd.
Professor Tenenbaum seemed to have misplaced her patience, too. "Right," she hissed, jerking her entire body into a pivot, her wheelchair adjusting to face the rest of the class. "Who here can show Miss Croft the proper way to fend off invisible creatures, since she's forgotten? Mr. Potter?"
He didn't appear to shrink from being the center of attention. On the contrary, Potter looked perfectly comfortable.
"Well-- I mean, there's all sorts of things you could do, but I guess the easiest way is a good Stunning charm," he remarked, assuming a dueling stance before seeming to remember: "Oh, er, if you've called them off, then maybe…?"
Professor Tenenbaum nodded. Her wand took a tumble over her knuckles before she made yet another precise, silent slice in the air.
The patter of invisible feet filled the hall once more and Potter, eyes keen, waited a few seconds before he snapped his wand to the side. Without a word, a blast of red light burst from his wand, flashing on the faces of those present as it whizzed by. The spell obviously connected with something, as the bolt hadn't fizzled out, instead latching itself onto something unseen.
Surprisingly, even after Potter had clearly done what she asked, the professor didn't call off the onslaught. For several minutes, it was just him against numerous invisible entities, and only the sound of spells crackling out of his wand could be heard.
Then, nothing. He had to have cast ten or twelve stunning spells, and he stood in the aftermath, untouched and victorious.
The professor was impressed. She'd even begun a hearty round of applause, her grin so wide that it threatened to tear her face in twain. "And nonverbally!" she mentioned with a guffaw, "I'd say that's worth about fifty points to Gryffindor, no?"
A few whoops rippled through the crowd as a red haired boy clapped Potter on the back.
The merriment didn't last long, however. It steeped into a halt when Professor Tenenbaum looked to Cleo again, expression souring. The energy of the room deadened. Her stomach dropped.
"Now you," the professor instructed, her wand poised in her palm like a threat.
Cleo's response was automatic. The panic settled, heavy, into her limbs -- she could already foretell the humiliation, the utter failure. Without meaning to, it sprang into her words, sudden and unwelcome: "I can't."
"Can't?" the woman addressed her, irritation seeming to flare at Cleo's defiance.
Cleo leaned forward, lowering her voice to a beseeching whisper. "Please. Can we talk about this privately? Please."
Professor Tenenbaum didn't appear willing to negotiate. "Miss Croft, if you have no intention to participate in today's lesson, you're free to leave."
"That's not it," the reply rushed from her, breathless, her frame wound tight. "I'm not trying to be defiant, I swear. You have to understand -- I really can't do it."
The professor examined her, posture relaxing. Maybe, just maybe, Cleo thought, she was relenting. She was ready to let things be.
"You can't," she repeated with disbelief, her head drifting toward the crowd of students once more. "Very well."
A sense of ease shivered through her. Her fingers loosened themselves from her palms. For a moment, she watched as the professor turned her wheelchair away, awash in the relief of simply being left alone. Her eyes closed. She was safe.
Unfortunately, it was in the nature of a moment to be fleeting.
She couldn't say how it happened, nor block the scene in a way that made sense. She could remember the shrill ring of the professor's voice, blaring a word that felt distant and yet, at the same time, too familiar. When her eyes fluttered open, it could only register the color red. An attack. Instinct drove everything else; the sudden rush in her blood, the snapping raise of her arm, the hoarse cry of Protego fumbling out of her mouth.
In the span of a second, it all happened, each action blundering into one another in rapid succession until there was nothing but the loud rasp of Cleo's breathing and the steady drumbeat of her heart pounding in her ears.
The next thing she saw was Professor Tenenbaum's smug grin as she stared back at the girl, arm held aloft, as if she'd proved something.
"So," the woman underlined, "you can't?"
Cleo unraveled.
A terrible sting scraped across her eyelids as she stumbled back, livid. The rush of adrenaline was arresting, but so was the anger. Perhaps even more so. She stared at the woman, aghast, before lurching forward, as if she were barely able to hold herself from tackling her to the floor.
Her shout tore itself through her throat, callow and raw: "What the fuck is wrong with you?!"
A hush fell over the crowd, heavier than the ones before. It was so stark she could hear her own scream echoing in the far corners of the Great Hall, severe and disturbing enough to sober her.
Her eyes widened. She never wanted to take something back more.
But everything around her was already deteriorating. Professor Tenenbaum's baleful glower seared into her.
"Wait," Cleo gasped. "I-- I didn't--"
"Get. Out," the professor uttered, tone dangerously low.
She could hear the dull hum of whispers collected around her, judgmental. She wanted to sick up. "I'm so sorry," she wailed, taking a step forward. "That was so wrong of me. I--"
"I said, get out!" the professor cried, her hands balled into fists. "Or do you require incentive to actually do as you're told?"
Cleo hesitated.
Apparently, this was enough to throw the woman over the edge. "Five hundred points from Slytherin!" the professor roared, "And a month of detention! Is that enough for you, Croft?!"
Frightened, Cleo stumbled backwards, barely able to avoid a few Ravenclaws as she grabbed her bag and bolted toward the doors.
She hadn't expected to collide into anything solid; the brunt of the crash jolted her into a soft yelp, before she looked up to catch a glimpse of a slitted eye gazing down at her.
"Oi, what's the rush?" the voice of Ren crooned above her, jovial as always. Then, after a beat, he tilted his head, the skin of his face performing an iridescent shimmer and tone grown more concerned. "Cleo? You alright?"
"Sorry," she huffed, abashed, as she skirted away from him. "So sorry--"
"What's--?"
She shook her head, eyes clenching shut as she pushed past him. "I have to go."
Rushing down the corridor, she could hear the faint sound of his voice calling after her. But soon enough, it was drowned out by the roar of her hastened footsteps swarming about her, accusing, taunting.
It ended up being too much and, in the midst of her hurried meandering, she crashed around one corner, tumbling to the ground. Her bag emptied itself, haphazard, across the floor, with her following close behind, her shoulder catching itself painfully against the wall.
She wanted so bad to scream.
She managed to muffle a loud cry against the inside of her forearm long enough to force the urge to ebb. Her cheeks felt hot, head thick and heavy, burdened by the intensity of… everything.
"You're losing it," she reprimanded, gritting her teeth. "What were you thinking?"
She pushed herself off the wall, wrenching herself toward her belongings, gathering them up with rough, careless hands. "An adult," she scoffed, heated, to herself. "What adult acts like that? Conducts themselves like that?"
The mish-mashed way she stuffed her belongings into her bag had it threatening to overflow again; this was unfathomably frustrating and, with another yelp, she threw the thing across the hall, watching as it smashed against the stones with a horribly satisfying smack.
She was no more delicate with herself. She threw her back against the wall, drawing her legs up to her chest. Pressing her kneecaps against her eyes, she clenched her jaw, riding out another wave of anger until it subsided into something more bearable.
"Breathe," she muttered against her skirt through gritted teeth, digging her heels into the floor. "Breathe, you idiot."
Eventually, she took command of her lungs. They took shallow, but practiced, breaths. In and out. In and out. In and out, until the pressure bled from her sinew, until strain faded from her, gradual.
When she looked up again, her vision was dark and splotchy. She was exhausted. More than she had been in an entire month.
All over nothing, too. Over something so incidental. Over something she had full control over. She couldn't let herself become that indignant again. To degrade herself like that. How was she supposed to survive, otherwise? How was she supposed to evade discord within her own House if she couldn't avoid making such a spectacle of herself?
She couldn't fail. She couldn't give up again.
Today, so far, had been an unmitigated disaster. But… there was still time left to salvage it. One last chance. With a weighty silence draped about her, Cleo crept to her bag, determined.
Pull yourself together.
She'd skipped dinner, spending most of the evening curled up behind the greenhouses, reading her chemistry text. It was well worn, but there was some solace in treading across covered ground, revisiting a childhood memory: she could almost hear her father reading the words aloud while she sat at their dining table, the scratch of her pencil close by her ear.
The breeze which billowed her robes around her felt nostalgic, too. It was a pity that not many subjects at Hogwarts were taught outdoors; her mother had dubbed their backyard her "classroom" many years before. In the end, her mother ended up teaching her very little, but the afternoons spent studying on the back porch as she watched her mother toil away in the garden remained a comforting, cherished memory.
God, she missed them.
In the very least, thinking of them grounded her. Made her feel more human; more herself. A bittersweet method, but an effective one nonetheless. By the time the sun dove under and away from the view of the crystalline greenhouse windows, she was centered. She didn't know how ready she was for tonight, but at least she'd meet the challenge with a level head.
When it was too dark to make out the diagrams on the page of her textbook, she closed it with a sigh and rose to her feet, staring at the castle as it hunched over in the darkness, ready for bed.
She crossed the grounds, rubbing away the grass stains on her skirt. Along the way, she met no one. A blessing, but an unsurprising one; even the most notorious dawdlers wouldn't hang around the Entrance Hall two and a half hours after supper stopped being served.
When Cleo arrived at the door to Professor Snape's office, she took a second to breathe before rapping her knuckles against the door, awaiting the requisite sound of his voice before entering. The door closed behind her with a soft click and she strode across the room.
"Professor."
His attention was directed elsewhere, his wand guiding a line of hovering bottles into place on his shelf. Then, with a decisive tap, the spell ended, causing them to settle, clacking against the wood in unison.
Stowing his wand away, Snape turned to face her fully. "Cutting it close, are we, Miss Croft?"
Her head made a swift turn toward one of the walls, realizing much too late that there wouldn't be a clock there. She ducked away, too embarrassed to cast a Tempus to rectify the matter. "I apologize if I'm late."
A raised eyebrow was his only acknowledgement of her odd behavior. "Sit," he said, settling into his own chair with measured precision.
It wasn't until she was there, in front of him, that the terror truly set in. It took her a few moments to finally acquiesce, but when she did so, it was with quiet, deliberate movements.
His desk was pristine, bare except for a neat stack of what appeared to be essays, but even so Snape cleared them off the tabletop, using magic to roll them all together and stow them in a drawer with a mere flourish of a wrist. Then, his attention fell directly on Cleo. "Before we come to the purpose for this visit-- As your Head of House, I find myself deeply interested in your other classes," he provoked, calculated. Merciless.
The worst part? She couldn't defend herself.
"I'm sorry."
"I simply cannot fathom what reason you might have to be," Snape sneered.
She was too flayed open to be offended by his tone; the wounds were too fresh, too raw. "How I acted was horrible and not only reflects poorly upon myself, but on you as well. I understand that. I take full responsibility. I am so, so sorry, Professor. There's no excuse."
His eyebrows raised and, for a moment, he said nothing. Then, in a more neutral tone, he inquired, "Five hundred and fifty points. What in Merlin's name could you have possibly done to lose that many?"
Cleo's eyes slammed shut. "I failed an assignment and then I severely disrespected Professor Tenenbaum in front of her students," she confessed.
A derisive snort erupted from him. "She does not seem a woman easily offended," he pointed out.
"Well, I managed to do it," she assured him, leaning forward as she buried her head into her hands.
Snape leaned back in his seat, pensive. "And you?" he prompted. "What do you plan to do about it?"
Her words wriggled out from between her fingers, muffled. "Serve my detentions without complaint, keep my head down, control myself."
"Sensible, if a touch lacking in creativity."
Her hair fell in cascades over her shoulders as she lifted her head to look at him, squinting. "Creativity?"
"You will need to do a great deal more than that to earn back those five hundred and fifty points."
Points? That's what he cared about? "Forgive me if I'm more concerned with atoning for the fact I acted in a ghastly manner to another human being."
"Forgive me," he sniped, "for taking a particle of thought for the fact that your actions did not simply affect you, but the entirety of your House."
Her jaw tightened. "What do you suggest I do then, Professor?"
For a moment, he assessed her, dark eyes searching. For what, she couldn't say. Then, when he spoke, he was confident. "Assuming that your inquiry can be taken in good faith," he prefaced with a significant glance, "what I suggest is to go above and beyond what is expected, and to accomplish it with superior grace, to rectify not only poor opinions about you, but Slytherin as a whole."
Her reaction was knee-jerk. "Slytherin as a whole?" she repeated, appalled.
"Yes," was his frank retort, tone a warning, "unless, of course, you would like everyone who bears that crest on their robes to become a target."
"Are you seriously suggesting that Slytherin's current reputation hinges on what I did today," she argued, heated, "instead of like, what, the public demonstrations against Dumbledore? The common room being in constant disarray? Malfoy throwing his weight around as if he--"
"The point, Miss Croft, is not that you have negatively swayed public opinion, but that you have confirmed it," Snape cut her off. "The general opinion of this House has always been abysmal, but yours is not an isolated case. With each instance, others begin to believe that there is nothing redeemable within Slytherin."
"So, no pressure," she seethed, disaffected, hands white knuckling the cushion of her seat.
He offered her a non-committal hum before saying, "As Head of House, the safety of my students has always been my utmost priority."
"Of course," she grumbled, albeit with veiled cynicism, "that's what you assured Thea, right?"
"I can only assume you are referring to Theadora Waters," Snape inferred, "in which case, I told her nothing more than what I tell all first years."
"You told her that she should lie about her heritage," she balked, unable to hide her disgust.
His gaze did not waver. "You of all people should know the price paid for doing otherwise."
"She's eleven--"
"All the more reason to take every precaution, Miss Croft."
It wasn't until she took in a breath to retort that she realized how tightly wound she'd become; all at once the ache in her knuckles, spine, torso, radiated outwards, fanning through every rigid muscle, collecting like nausea in the pit of her stomach.
She swallowed. This wasn't going anywhere. And she didn't need another enemy.
"I don't want to talk about this anymore," she announced, looking away from him.
"Then what precisely do you want?" was his timely reply.
Right. She had come here to accomplish something. Not that she felt like it anymore -- but that didn't matter, did it? How she "felt" about it was immaterial. She didn't have a choice short of giving up, right now, and going home.
"I wanted," she began, words unburdening themselves from her, "to ask you to be my advisor."
He hardly reacted, expression bland as he replied with a solicitous, "Is that so?"
"Believe it or not, yes."
"And why is it you think I should agree to that?"
It was difficult to sell herself when she was beginning to wonder what in the world she had to offer. "I've gotten an O in your class every year since I started at Hogwarts," Cleo said, mustering up the courage to look him in the eye. "I've always gone above and beyond for your projects, your essays, your tests -- I've shown exorbitant interest and enthusiasm in class. You even told me, in my fifth year, that I showed promise."
The man before her threaded his fingers together in front of him, posture imposing. "There are plenty of students at this school with exceptional talents," he mentioned. "And yet, I have not taken a single advisory role for a decade."
Probably because no one would be masochistic enough to ask you.
"I presume it's because you've yet to be suitably impressed."
"None have proved they are willing to put in suitable effort," he corrected, brows drawn low over his eyes.
"Professor," she addressed him, correcting her posture -- business-like, utterly prim. "I wouldn't have bothered with returning to school if I had no intention of making an effort. I told you. I have something I need to do. I'll do whatever it takes to achieve it."
His gaze was penetrating. "If that is the case, then present to me your proposal."
Her eyes widened. "What?"
"Your proposal?" he repeated, impatient. "Your goals? Your reasons for soliciting me in the first place?"
Her throat grew tighter. "I didn't think--"
"That much is quite apparent," he snapped.
All at once, her breath stuttered out of her, dismayed. "But-- but Professor--"
"Let me be clear: you are not the first to waltz in here with delusions of grandeur."
"I'm not deluding myself!" she objected, her tone taking on a sharp edge. "If you'd just give me the chance to--"
"I am not especially inclined to charity at present, Miss Croft," he slashed through her sentence.
She stood abruptly, her chair groaning in resistance at the force of it, hands hovering over the front of her stomach. "Professor, there's--"
A phantom drifted through the room, right then. A familiar voice, beckoning from the fireplace. "Severus," it called. "If you'd be so kind as to join me in my office."
It winded her. All at once her confidence -- the drive, the steam, the determination -- fled from her. There she stood, a wilted little thing, hovering over her professor's desk, her words withering in her throat.
Snape, gaze still trained on her, answered with an annoyed deference, "Of course, Headmaster."
He rose shortly thereafter, his towering height dwarfing her in more ways than he could even begin to fathom, dismissing her with a flicker of his eyes to the door behind her.
And as he drew away to plunge himself into the Floo, her fingers wrung the hem of her shirt. A flash of fire lapped on the edge of her periphery, and her words finally spilled out into the darkness that followed after:
"-- something… I have to show you..."