Chapter Text

“What? D’you reckon this is my thing? Throwing myself into every near-death situations that presents itself?”

“That’s exactly what I think.”

“Right. Well, let’s just say there’s a reason you’re not in Ravenclaw.”

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Spotify Playlist for Cassandra

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volυмe : ▁▂▃▄▅▆▇▉

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These are the songs that inspired/reminded me of this fic. (Click the link above)

So In Love  –  Orchestral Manoeuvres in The Dark

There's a Storm Comin' - Richard Hawley

Karma  –  Sarah Kinsley

Ball of The Dead Rat  –  The Teeth

Forget About - Sibylle Baier

I’m Still Standing  –  Elton John

If It Wasn’t For The Night  –  ABBA

Yeats’ Grave  –  The Cranberries

NFWMB  –  Hozier

Ballad Of You & I  –  Hotel Lux

When You Die  –  MGMT

Spiracle  –  Flower Face

Becky  –  be your own PET

About You  –  The 1975

A Pearl  –  Mitski

Mushroom Cloud  –  Tempesst

Algernon –  Nickateen

Memories  –  Conan Gray

Mini section for T Swizzle:

Cardigan   –  Taylor Swift

The Great War –  Taylor Swift

Would’ve, Could’ve, Should’ve –  Taylor Swift

You’re On Your Own, Kid  –  Taylor Swift

The Alcott - The Nationals (ft. Taylor Swift)

CHARACTER MOOD BOARDS:

Slytherin

___Draco Malfoy___

"Anyone want to bet? What about you, Weaslebee? Actually, bad idea. You don’t have any money to bet with, do you?"

___Cassandra "Cass" Crouch___

"MUST I DO EVERYTHING, HERO!?"

___Pansy Parkinson___

"They’re supposed to be shredded not grated, you buffoon!"

___Blaise Zabini___

"Actually put some effort into it, m’kay?

___Millicent "Millie" Bulstrode___

Millicent’s eyes widened. “And I thought Dumbledore was moody.”

___Tracey Davis___

“What’s yeh secret then?”

___Theodore "Theo" Nott___

"Oi! Give it back, ye wankstain!"

___Daphne Greengrass___

"It just wouldn’t kill you to be nice.”

___Vincent "Vince" Crabbe___

“Pissed yourself, did you?”

___Gregory "Rory" Goyle___

“Bastard told me te ‘breathe quieter’ the other day.”

Gryffindor

___Harry Freakin' Potter___

“No, leave him or I’ll turn you into a shoelace.”

___Roonil Wazlib___

 “Pssh! What dragon? I don’t see… where…? Hermione, what’s she talking about?”

___Hermione Jean Granger___

“Dragon? Ahahaha. Whaaat?"

The little dragon sneezed and the teapot’s lid was blown off.

___Neville Longbottom___

"You smoke weed?"     "Oh yeah, loads of times."

___Ginny Weasley___

On the way to the dungeon, they saw Dumbledore award ten points to Gryffindor just because he liked Ginny’s socks.

Her mum had knitted them for her, and to be fair they were rather snazzy, but that wasn’t the point.

Hufflepuff

___Cedric Diggory___

"It's Diggory, not 'Pattinson' --  actually why are we using surnames? Just call me Cedric!"

Ravenclaw

___Luna Lovegood___

Luna probably would have tried to befriend the Whomping Willow if the annual list of all-the-things-that-could-kill-you-at-Hogwarts hadn’t been read out by Dumbledore 

Chapter Text

Cassandra Crouch and The Audacity of These Bitches

First Year - Chapter One

Something yanked on her sleeve.

“Oi! First-year! Come on, wake up! We’ve arrived-”

Cass bolted upright and hit her head on the boy looming over her. They both hissed.

She grabbed her forehead. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to-”

“-It’s fine,” he snapped. He was older than her with a pair of wireframes perched on his beaky nose. His hair was a vibrant red and he stood, tall and proud, as if someone had stuck a long stick down whatever dress he was wearing.

It was only when he strode out of the compartment doors and into the corridor that she took the opportunity to look around. She was on a train with big cushy seating and carpeted floor. Why? She had no idea.

Cass leaned towards the carriage window to peer at the station they had arrived at. Hogsmeade, the sign read. She snorted. A hilarious joke, of course. But then she glimpsed the turrets and spires behind all the station and steam. Her eyebrows furrowed, her mouth curling open to one side, clearly expressing the ultimate "what the fuck...?" as if that would get her any answers,

Apparently, she had been staring for too long, because the redhead poked his nose back in. “Well?” he pressed. “No time to dawdle.”

She scrambled over to him. What she had initially put down as a black dress was actually a long robe...a long robe with a red lion crest over his heart.

He was so tall that he had to squint down at her.

“What?” She asked, partly at his disapproval and partly at the whole situation.

“Tsk! Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Many things apparently. My name for one.

He sighed and heaved a large suitcase down from the rack above the seating. He couldn't help himself from checking the tag on the handle, and then his whole demeanour changed. Instantly. A smile was plastered onto his pale face. “...Cassandra Crouch. Ah! I admire your father greatly. His dedication to the D.M.L.E. was truly an inspiration. Why, I almost passed out when I heard he was demoted. Such a shame. I myself have studied his doctrines several times. Must be lucky, having such an influential father!”

Despite the grin fixed in place, his last words held an edge of bitterness. He pulled her hand into a violent handshake.

“Where are my manners? I’m Percy Weasley, Gryffindor prefect.”

She blinked. “Weasley… like the book character?”

“Book?" He frowned. "I’m not familiar with this book. Which Weasley was this? Many of my ancestors have accomplished remarkable things. I hope to prove the same when I become the Minister of Magic.” He passed Cass her suitcase and she lugged it into the train corridor. “Well, I hope to see you in Gryffindor. Stick close to the other first years now."

He shut the carriage door behind him, moving on to scout the next row of compartments, no doubt looking to catch out more dawdlers. As his figure receded, she focused her eyes on her own reflection in the door, relieved to find a girl, who looked exactly how she'd expected, staring back. The same brown skin and the same dark eyes hooded by unbent eyebrows. Her mirrored hand reached up to tug down at the wavy brown hair grazing her shoulders. When she let go, it bounced up again. She looked down at her uniform.

Okay. Yep. This is weird.

Maybe I'm dreaming, she thought, but then she rubbed her forehead where she had smacked into Percy's nose and concluded that it hurt too much to be just a dream. All of the rowdiness of the corridor left her with no space to breathe, let alone time to panic about being related to Barty Crouch Junior, or that Percy Weasley didn’t look a thing like the guy who played him in the movies, or that she was now standing on the bloody Hogsmeade Platform, looking behind to the bright red steam train, as if magic was really...  real .

Some kid with slicked blond hair shoved past her to the front where all the other students her height were surrounding a humongous man with a face obscured by a mane of shaggy brown hair — a knotty beard with two braids on either side of his mouth.

His voice easily boomed over the chatter. “Firs’ years! Firs’ years over here!" Hagrid passed a friendly smile down to someone. "All right there, Harry?”

Cass craned her neck to see where the giant was looking and caught sight of a boy with the worst case of bedhead she had ever seen. His skin was a warm brown, and his scar - holy shit! - his scar was a light-coloured gash that ripped from his forehead in all directions like the roots of a tree, a hideous brand that had stretched down across his eye, significantly paler than the other, like an oyster. Everyone stared at Harry. It was almost like looking at a spider, where you couldn't possibly fathom looking away in case you lost sight of the damn thing. Cass couldn't tear her eyes away until-

“C’mon, follow me — any more firs’ years? Mind yer step, now! Firs’ years follow me!”

The rabble stumbled after Hagrid, pouring down the path like a river current and interrupting her desire to sprint into the forest and have a nervous breakdown once her finally legs gave out. The boy in front of her walked cautiously, as if he were looking for something on the floor, but it was so dark that she wouldn’t have found it surprising if he was just trying not to trip on his robes.

“Yeh’ll get yer firs’ sight o’ Hogwarts in a sec,” Hagrid called over his shoulder, gesturing to the dark void of forest in front of them, “jus’ round this bend here.”

During the steep trudge down, the boy in front slipped. Cass tried to grab onto his shoulders to save him from the mud, but they both ended up falling instead.

He had landed on her entirely and with such force that for a moment, she was sure he had broken her legs, and was once again reminded that this was all too real.

“I'm so sorry! The mud!” He explained, helping her up. He looked like he was about to cry, so she didn’t hold it against him, not when a buzz of excitement shot through her.

This was real. She was really at Hogwarts.

“I’m Neville Longbottom,”— Cass almost laughed, a little light-headed at the situation. He actually didn’t look like the Neville she remembered from the movies, he was blond for starters — “you probably heard about my toad Trevor. I was just trying to see if he was in that bush over there. I could have sworn I heard him.”

“Hey, no worries. I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

Neville looked a tad less green. “I hope you’re right. My Great Uncle Algie gave him to me. If my Gran finds out I've already lost him… what’s your name then?”

She tightened her grip on the suitcase and stuck out her hand like Percy had done. “Oh yeah, um, Cassandra Crouch?”

Neville recoiled, like she had grown horns and spat fire at him. He scrambled to the front, muttering sorry’s and excuse me’s as he went. Her face fell. Clearly, she should have just made up a last name, but she couldn’t even remember her old one, the one from before she had woken up on the train.

The chatting got louder as a narrow path had opened onto the bank of the inky black lake. Resting atop a high mountain on the other side, was the castle she had spied from the station. Hogwarts. It was way bigger than she had anticipated. The light glittering from its windows were reflected on its shore like gold coins.

“Leave your cases on that pile. No more’n four to a boat!”

She made out the figures of Harry and (a ginger boy who she could only assume to be) Ron in the darkness. They were followed into their boat by a distressed Neville and a bushy-haired girl, with buck teeth and dark skin. Hermione Granger, by process of elimination.

Cass decided to avoid all of the blonds there, as she couldn’t be sure which one was Not-Tom-Felton Draco Malfoy. She got into a boat with three other girls instead. They were jabbering away about Quidditch, and which spells they were excited to learn and what they would give right now for a nice hot meal.

“Everyone in?” shouted Hagrid, who had a boat to himself. “Right then — FORWARD!”

And the fleet of little boats moved off all at once, gliding across the lake with swan-like grace. For a moment, the conversations died down, everyone too busy staring up at the towering castle ahead. Some croaking came from beneath the plank Cass was sitting on. She ducked under, and sure enough, there was a massive toad. The other girls were just as relieved to find Trevor. A girl went round, asking everyone in the boat which house they wanted to be in. Cass had taken official quiz once and it had sorted her into Gryffindor, so she was excited to make friends with Harry, Ron and Hermione, but mostly, she was excited to get out of the cold.

“Heads down!” yelled Hagrid as the little boats carried them through a curtain of ivy that hid a wide opening in the cliff face. They glided through a dark tunnel which seemed to be taking them to a kind of underground harbour.

They clambered out onto rocks and pebbles.

Cass picked up the toad firmly to prevent him hopping off again. It wriggled in her hands desperately. 

“Let me," said Hagrid, a massive hand enclosing around the creature, his fingers acting as cartoonishly thick prison bars.

Free meeeee, the toad seemed to croak.

"Oy, you there! Is this your toad?” said Hagrid.

“Trevor!” cried Neville blissfully, holding out his hands and cradling him close to his chest. The toad settled down his writhing.

The students followed the glow of Hagrid’s lamp, leading them through a passageway in the rock, coming out at last onto smooth, damp grass right in the shadow of the castle. They walked up a flight of stone steps and crowded around the huge, oak front door.

“Everyone here? You there, still got yer toad?”

Neville nodded with a gulp and Hagrid raised a fist, as big as a frying pan, knocking three times on the castle door, the sound echoing throughout the cave. The door swung open at once. A tall witch in emerald-green robes stood there. Her dark hair, pulled back into a tight bun, made her look like a severe ballet teacher.

“The firs’ years, Professor McGonagall,” said Hagrid.

“Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here.”

The stone walls of the entrance hall were lit with flaming torches, the ceiling was too high to make out, and a magnificent marble staircase facing them led to the upper floors.

This is it, Cass buzzed, this is where Harry stands up to Draco for the first time. The whole “red hair and a hand-me-down robe” shebang! She was planning to back Harry up but, to her horror, they all kept walking, past the voices from a doorway to the right. The rest of the school were probably in there already — but Professor McGonagall showed the first years into an empty chamber off the hall, barely large enough to fit all of them.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” said Professor McGonagall. “The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your Houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your House will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your House, sleep in your House dormitory, and spend free time in your House common room.” She went on to tell them each of the names and how the house point system worked, “I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever House becomes yours.”

Cass thought of all things she would soon be doing to score those house points for Gryffindor. Winning Quidditch games with Harry. Answering questions correctly like Hermione. Whatever it was that Ron did. She couldn’t remember. Admittedly, she'd only seen the first or second movie.

McGonagall continued. “The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting.”

Her eyes passed from Neville’s cloak, which was fastened the wrong way round, to Ron’s smudged nose, and then landed on Cass, who took her cloak off realising it was caked in mud. Harry desperately tried to flatten his unruly hair.

“I shall return when we are ready for you,” said Professor McGonagall. “Please wait quietly.”

She left the chamber.

Ohh, maybe now it’s the scene. Cass looked between Draco, Ron and Harry. When nothing happened - again - she went over to Draco and nudged him. “Isn’t that Harry Potter?” she said. “Maybe you should, I don’t know, try to make friends with him or something?”

His face scrunched up in disgust and he shoved her back. “No one asked for your opinion.” He raised his voice, “And besides, Saint Potter made it very clear that he only makes friends with poor people.”

Harry and Ron sent them both a glare.

Cass panicked. “Jeez, it was just a suggestion. He might be poor but at least his family loves him”.

“CARE TO REPEAT THAT!?” Draco spluttered.

Then something happened that almost made her fall over— several people behind her screamed.

Ghosts streamed through the back wall, moving across the room and in too deep of a conversation about something called a ‘Peeves’ to notice the first years.

“Move along now,” came a sharp voice. “The Sorting Ceremony’s about to start.” Professor McGonagall had returned. One by one, the ghosts floated away through the opposite wall. “Now, form a line,” and follow me.”

The Great Hall was truly a spectacle. It was lit by thousands of suspended candles, as well as the silvery ghosts that floated above where the rest of the students sat. In front of them were the tables, furnished with long cloths of green, blue, yellow, and red, and laden with glittering golden plates and goblets. At the end of the hall were four great hourglasses and another long table for the teachers.

Professor McGonagall led the first years up here, so that they came to a halt in a line facing the other students. Mainly to avoid all the staring eyes, Cass looked upward in awe at the bewitched ceiling, a dark canvas sprinkled with stars and comets.

Professor McGonagall placed a four-legged stool in front of the first years and on top of that, a raggedy pointed hat.

For a few seconds, there was complete silence. Then the hat twitched. A rip near the brim opened wide like a mouth — and the hat began to sing. Cass didn’t catch most of it though, but it was something to do with the houses and the whole hall burst into applause when it had finished. It bowed to each of the four tables and then became quite still again.

Professor McGonagall now stepped forward with a scroll that unravelled to the floor. “When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted,” she explained. “Abbott, Hannah!”

The girl sat down on the stool and put the hat on. A moment’s pause—

“HUFFLEPUFF!” shouted the hat.

The table on the right cheered and clapped as Hannah went to sit down at the Hufflepuff table, the ghost of the Fat Friar waving merrily at her.

“Bones, Susan!”

“HUFFLEPUFF!” shouted the hat again, and Susan scuttled off to sit next to Hannah.

There were two new Ravenclaws after that, and then ‘Brown, Lavender’ became the first new Gryffindor. ‘Bulstrode, Millicent’ became a Slytherin, and then…

“Crouch, Cassandra!”

Cass jolted. Oh shit, that’s me.

She shimmied her way over, ignoring the whispers and the way some of the first-year students like Ron stepped in front of Neville defensively as she passed him. At that moment, Cass made the connection. If she was a Crouch, then they all probably thought, knew, she was Barty Crouch Jr’s little sister. That psycho.

She kept her head high, sure that she would prove them all wrong when she’s sorted into Gryffindor. For luck, she employed the same chant that Harry did in the movie.

Not Slytherin, Not Slytherin.

Apparently, the hat has misheard her, because before it even brushed a strand of hair on her head-

“SLYTHERIN!” The hat boomed across the hall, and Cass almost fell off the stool.

Her eyes widened. She looked at Professor McGonagall, who was already pulling it away, “That’s not fair! It didn’t even touch me!” A green and silver crest appeared on her robes. She immediately tried to pick it off in vain. She needed to try the hat on again.

McGonagall looked somewhat sympathetic but stern. “I'm afraid, Miss Crouch, that the sorting hat is over a thousand years old and has never been wrong. I suggest you find your seat over there.” She gestured to the long table under the large banner of silver serpentine, one that wriggled all over the green velvet, fangs flashing. Cass frowned. She was about to put in another protest, but the Professor moved swiftly along, calling out “Finch-Fletchley, Justin!”

Cass dragged her feet to the Slytherin table. It’s not that she thought all Slytherin’s were evil per se. It’s just that she knew she was a Gryffindor, the golden trio were going to be in Gryffindor, and that’s who she wanted to be friends with. The main characters. If she was going to be stuck in the wizarding world, she might as well enjoy it.

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

The next ten minutes were agony. Seamus, Hermione and Parvati were all Gryffindor, as expected. Goyle, Malfoy, Parkinson were all predictably Slytherin. She didn’t really pay attention to the other houses. And then finally:

“Potter, Harry!”

Of course, as Harry stepped forward, loud whispers broke out like little hissing fires all over the hall. Hundreds of eyes followed him as he stepped up.

“Potter, did she say?”

“The Harry Potter?”

“He’s overrated,” Malfoy explained.

And then there was the “GRYFFINDOR!” Cass had been waiting for, but it hadn't been hers.

Percy Weasley fully leapt out of his seat and jogged over to The Boy Who Lived, and shook his hand vigorously, while the Weasley twins yelled, “We got Potter! We got Potter!” at the top of their lungs. Ron was soon to follow him. Harry sat down opposite the ghost in the ruff.

Cass followed Harry’s gaze to the High Table where, at the end nearest to him, sat Hagrid, who caught his eye and gave him the thumbs up. Harry grinned back.

Cass tightened the grip around her fork, and it bent completely in half. She dropped it in alarm. Please wake up, please wake up, please wake up…

“See that one?” Malfoy pointed at Cass from the opposite side of the table once Blaise Zabini sat down. “Mental case. Rabid like her brother. Best we stay away, we don’t want to catch something.”

Blaise looked like he couldn’t care less, opting to inspect the embellishments on empty plate before him.

And there, in the centre of the High Table, in a large gold chair and pointy purple hat was Albus Dumbledore. His silvery hair was the only thing in the whole hall that shone as brightly as the ghosts. The wizard had gotten to his feet, beaming at the students, his arms opened wide.

“Welcome!” he said. “Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!” He sat back down. Everybody clapped and cheered. Cass didn’t really understand why; he hadn’t said anything particularly important, let alone wise, but then again this whole affair had put her in a pretty foul mood.

The dishes, golden plates which had once been empty were now piled with peas, carrots, chicken, and Yorkshire Puddings. There were cauldrons with giant ladles pitched on their sides. Some were filled with mashed potatoes and others with a rich gravy.

Everyone began to dig in, Ravenous, as if they had not eaten in years. Cass, on the other hand, was not hungry, especially after getting an eye-full of the Bloody Baron, who sat next to Draco, and was staring blankly and unblinkingly straight at, or perhaps straight through, Cass. His wholly disturbed expression, and the robes he wore, stained with silver ribbons of something that must have been blood, urged some bile to make its way up her throat.

Thankfully, the feeling subsided when she noticed Harry Potter piling his plate with a little bit of everything. She thought about how this must be like a dream to him after living with the Dursleys for so long, and couldn’t find it in herself to be jealous. So, she ignored the Bloody Baron as best she could and tucked in.

Inspired by Harry’s cheer, she even tried to be friendly to the other Slytherins she hadn’t spoken to, but they didn’t really seem like talking to her after what Malfoy had said.

When everyone had eaten as much as possible, the remains of the food faded from the plates, leaving them sparkling clean as before. This cued the desserts: ice cream sundaes with the little cherries on top, black forest gâteau, apple pies, chocolate eclairs, trifle, cookies and strawberries. All for the taking!

Mouth full of ice cream, Cass began plotting her next move. Was it better to have a word with McGonagall or Dumbledore about being transferred to Gryffindor? If memory served - which it apparently didn’t about most of her life before a few hours ago - then Dumbledore was a former Gryffindor. If anyone were able to see that she was a Gryffindor and have the power to do something about it, it was the headmaster himself.

Draco made his fifth distasteful comment about muggle-borns of the evening and that was the last straw.

There was no time to lose. She couldn’t be associated with the likes of Malfoy. Lumped into a group of racists and snobs. Cass abandoned her sundae and stood up, each of her steps as wobbly as the jelly Draco was choking on, as now he, and others, were staring as she marched towards the Headmaster of Hogwarts, reassuring herself that they were just silly characters and totally nothing to be scared of with each step.

“Hulloo,” She greeted.

Dumbledore, who has been fascinated by his apple pie, now peered up at her through his half-moon spectacles.

“Listen - heh - I know being in Slytherin doesn’t necessarily mean that I can’t make friends with people in other houses, but you’ve got to admit that it’s almost impossible with the separate tables and everything.”

McGonagall looked horrified, but Dumbledore remained silent, so she continued her noble campaign, “I just feel like house rivalries create a toxic environment. How is anyone supposed to grow as a person when they’re surrounded by people who all think the same - you get what I’m saying? So, I have a proposition. Either we get rid of the houses altogether, or I beg you to at least let me be in Gryffindor because I am not going to survive seven years stuck in Slytherin with all this talk of blood purity. It's terribly morbid, you know. I don't belong with dark wizards. And that hat is clearly rigged because it didn't even touch- ”

“I have a proposition, Miss Crouch,” snapped McGonagall sharply. “Perhaps you return to your seat before you belong to none of the houses.”

Okay...Rude .

“Not so hasty, Minerva, she makes a fair point.”

Aha! Dumbledore is reasonable after all!

The wise old wizard then turned towards her. “I do wonder, however, if there are other reasons for Miss Crouch’s… uncertainty.”

A heavy hand grabbed her shoulder and she almost jumped out of her skin.

Cass looked up. She had been so wrapped up in her business pitch, that she had failed to notice Severus Snape creeping up next to her. He looked a lot younger than he had in the movie, but the greasy black hair and long Roman nose were too iconic to ignore.

“Clearly, Headmaster,” he said in a tone that suggested he was bored out of his mind over the whole matter, “there has been some sort of mix up.” Cass nodded along enthusiastically. “But as Head of Slytherin, I feel it is my duty to point out that I have observed similar pattern in previous years.” Wait, what? Cass stopped nodding; eyebrows knitted together. “Miss Crouch is simply not used to competing with other competitive people, and this display of distress - trying to wheedle her way out of it - I’m sure you will all agree, is actually rather Slytherin of her, whether she realises it is or not.”

"Wheedle!?" Yelled Cass, absolutely causing a scene. "I'm not wheedling anything! What does... what does wheedling even mean?"

Snape grabbed the back of her robe. "Watch your attitude, Crouch! That's five points deducted."

"What?" Cass spluttered.

“Thank you, Severus.” Dumbledore smiled at her with the same politeness Percy had offered her on the train. “Miss Crouch, making friends can be daunting, but I’m sure you will start to feel at home by the end of term if only you gave it a go.”

She had given it a go, she thought. A right crack at it! It hadn’t worked, so why should she stay in a house that everyone hated and filled with horrible kids like Draco?

As Snape herded her back to the Slytherin table, she corrected her approach, cogs turning; it didn’t matter that she was in Slytherin. She would gain the trio’s trust one way or another. Cass would just have to plan her moment very, very carefully.

>

Chapter Text

First Year - Chapter Two

After a brief warning about the castle's restricted third floor, Dumbledore conducted the whole school through the official Hogwarts song, marking both the end of the welcome feast and the start of the school year.

Cass followed the other Slytherins down into the dungeons. It was a dingy, dark place with a strange smell that the first years suspected came from the potions classrooms.

A prefect led the way, her wand chasing the shadows away with the light at its tip. Cass turned out her robe pockets to find nothing but lint and wondered how she was supposed to learn magic without her own wand.

The prefect stopped at a wall and informed them all that the passwords would change every fortnight. Any traitors who revealed the password to outsiders would be sleeping with the house-elves. The prefect’s name was Lacerta Marchesi and after uttering the password “cursive”, the dungeon wall opened up, the bricks folding themselves up like an accordion. She warned them all to mind the steps.

The Slytherin Common room, in a few words, exceeded expectations. Medieval tapestries depicting the adventures of Salazaar and the famous Slytherin alumni covered the walls. The fireplace crackled with dancing blue flames, illuminating the shelves of heavy tomes and empty potions bottles. The walls and floors were made of grey stone, but Cass was pleasantly surprised to feel the heat radiating from below and see the many rugs spread around the green velvet seating.

Beside the suits of armour were plants with lilac and turquoise leaves, great crawlers that coiled up the columns of the high ceiling. From this ceiling hung a gigantic serpentine skeleton and wrapped around each bone was a continuous string of fairy lights. Cass swallowed. If that used to be a basilisk, she could only imagine how intimidating a live one might be. The entire back wall of the common room was a clear view into the depths of the lake. Sure, it was a little creepy, she decided, but it had some undeniable charm too.

“First years, you’ll find your dorms to the right. Before you get settled in, I’d like to redirect you to this list on the notice board. You’ll find that each of you have been paired up with a fifth-year student; they will be your mentor, and you would do well to listen to their advice.”

A buddy system? Cass was happy to see that Draco looked as unprepared for this announcement as she was. Once Lacerta had yawned and waved them goodnight, the group huddled around the board. Cass found her name near the top, and beside it, in swirly handwriting:

Marcus Flint

She groaned.

She was relieved to find that her suitcase – which had seemingly abandoned her during the sorting – was at the foot of one of the for-poster beds of the girl’s dormitory. Pansy Parkinson had five times the luggage as she did, stacked up to create a little hill.

Her eyes were beginning to ache with how much green she had seen in the past ten minutes. The room was brightened by a silver chandelier which automatically came to life once they stepped into the room, so that made the green even more vibrant.

She shared the room with Pansy Parkinson, Millicent Bulstrode, Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis.

Pansy's features were all harsh. A blunt haircut, an air of suspicion and a pale, slender frame that was hidden by her school robes. Millicent, on the other hand, was a chubby girl who wore her silky brown hair in a high ponytail. She chatted away, and took the bed next to Tracey, a gorgeous girl with faux goddess locs and skin darker than Cass' shade and much cooler in tone.

Deep down, Cass knew the smart thing to do would be to make friends with them, but  that could wait for the morning now. She concentrated on unpacking the suitcase, putting spare robes into the drawers beside her bed and changing into some pyjamas, but she couldn’t for the life of her figure out how to get the latch to open. She squatted down and pried at it, but it was stuck, as if the metal had welded to the case.

Pansy sighed dramatically. She waved her wand and the latch and the suitcase flew open. Muttering, something like “pathetic” under her breath when she saw the wand perched atop Cass’ folded clothes, as if she had locked it in there mindlessly.

Cass thanked her anyway.

The wand was about ten inches long, the dark wood sleek and polished. She frowned. It rather plain. Pansy’s in contrast had a bone-like colour with intricate carvings engraved into the wood. She flexed it carefully and perked up a bit when she found it was only slightly pliable; she was pretty sure that meant the wand was loyal. What core lay inside, she wondered.

It became painfully clear that the dorms were not a safe space to drop her guard, especially with Millicent's constant snobbery. “I was so relieved when the hat placed me here. Imagine being a Hufflepuff!”

“I’d probably jump off of the astronomy tower,” giggled Daphne. She was a girl with a velvet green ribbon woven into the crown of her strawberry blonde plaits. "You didn't look a tad bit nervous, Pansy."

Parkinson scoffed. "Nervous? What for? My family have all been in Slytherin for generations. It's a no-brainer."

Cass ignored the girls, so they ignored her in turn.

As she snuggled under the soft duvet, she debated whether it was worth making friends with them at all when soon she would be friends with the Gryffindors. To be fair, the girls hadn’t said as many out-of-pocket things as Draco had so far. She resolved that breakfast was a prime time to take note of their personalities and decide from there.

It was, however, nearly impossible to fall asleep. Cass could hear Millicent waffling on about some of the more vicious duelling spells, and then there was the lake water, lapping against the windows. Her stomach was churning. Her confusion over this magical world – over herself - was gnawing at her.

She knew about three things about herself in total. She was certain her name was always Cassandra, but the ‘Crouch’ part was admittedly a strange, unfamiliar addition. Perhaps Barty Crouch – senior or junior – would have any ideas about her origins. She’d rather avoid them both altogether if possible. It was also without a doubt that she was eleven years old, and her twelfth birthday was some day in November… although she wasn’t sure which. And finally, she was going to chase down every last detail she could learn about herself, whether this was her world or not.

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

Every breakfast, Draco’s owl Eurus brought him buckets-full of sweets, courtesy à la Lucius Malfoy. Draco didn’t share any of it. Cass wondered if wizards could get diabetes.

She hadn’t received any letters of her own, not even from Barty Crouch Senior, but that wasn’t very surprising. What loving father could produce such a twisted son?

She had tried wandering over to the Gryffindor table three times already but, just like clockwork, McGonagall would appear out of nowhere and whisk her back to where she started.

After such failure, she grumpily dug through her bag, pulling her timetable out. It was virtually flawless, with many opportunities to make friends with Harry and the others, as Slytherin had most lessons with the Gryffindors.

Now acquainted with her dormmates, the only people in her class she didn't know were the Slytherin boys, except Draco Malfoy of course. And yes, she knew Crabbe and Goyle in the same way that people know that with clouds come rain. Zabini and Nott were however, a bit of a mystery. For one, Zabini's constant scowl frightened away any desire to befriend him and, as far as anyone could tell, Nott was the laziest boy she hadn't the pleasure of meeting yet, as he was still in bed.

The class most students had really been looking forward to was Defence Against the Dark Arts, but Quirrell’s lessons turned out to be a bit of a joke.

When she wasn’t staring at the back of his turban, Cass found herself scribbling a note to throw at Ron, who had annoyingly been seated far away, but was the closest of the three of them.

Her letter looked a little like this:

I’m Cass. I’m not actually related to the Crouch you’ve probably heard of, I’m nice. Do you want to be friends?

p.s. Voldemort is hiding in Quirrell’s turban.

When the professor wasn’t looking, she scrunched it up and threw it at Ron.

It hit him in the eye and landed on the floor. Cass gave the friendliest smile she could muster as compensation. Ron looked across to her and mouthed “shove off” before kicking the letter away.

In a desperate attempt to save this interaction, she tried to mime the opening of the paper, but he turned back to whatever Quirrell was talking about.

Her smile faded, but she scribbled another letter.

Can we be friends? Heard you're a huge chess fan like me.

The last bit might have been a lie, but Cass saw it as a great incentive for the Weasley to talk to her. Besides, she could always learn, she mused, it couldn’t be that hard.

She threw it at him when Quirrell had his back turned, but her throw was terrible. She almost choked when it ended up hitting Quirrell – well, Voldemort really – square in the face instead.

“Sorry, professor!” She gave a sheepish wave before he could react. “I was aiming for the bin!”

Quirrell muttered something under his breath, then did something with his mouth that made it almost resemble a smile. His eyes were like a cat’s when it had spotted a mouse, blown wide, ready to pounce. Whatever feeling that was, he swiftly buried it and continued his rant about vampires.

After darting past Peeves the Poltergeist, the first-years made it to the gnarly dungeons.

Potions with Snape was no better.

He looked positively revolted when he saw her walk in with the others, so she sat at the back, hoping the heads in front of her would act as a kind of shield in case he decided to spit at her or something.

Snape started class by taking the register, which was really just a bit of parchment floating in the air. He paused at Harry’s name. “Ah, yes,” he said softly, “Harry Potter. Our new— celebrity.”

After Blaise Zabini had answered his name, Snape waved his wand and the parchment disappeared. He fixed his darkly outlined eyes on the class.

“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making,” he began, speaking in barely more than a whisper, but the professor had the gift of keeping a class silent without effort.

 “As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. Well, it’s not magic - it’s art!”

Cass blinked.

“…I don’t expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses...”

Should we give you and your potions some privacy or…?

“…I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death — if you listen carefully to my instructions, which you will find in here...” Snape trailed off and picked a book off his desk, opened it up to a page demonstratively, but Cass was too far at the back to see what it said.

More silence followed this little speech. Cass and the students looked through their own potions textbooks which looked nothing like the one the professor held. She began wondering where witches and wizards could buy eyeliner from.

“Potter!” said Snape suddenly. Harry flinched. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Hermione’s hand had shot up.

“I don’t know, sir,” said Harry.

Snape frowned, but Cass was sure he was having the time of his life bullying the joy out of James Potter’s son. “Tut, tut — fame clearly isn’t everything.”

He continued ignoring Hermione, whose hand was stretched up as high as it would go without her standing up.

“Let’s try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?”

Cass sighed. “I thought you were supposed to be teaching us, Professor... not Potter.”

The whole class turned around to stare at her, absolute disbelief scribbled all over their faces.

Snape snapped his book shut.

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

“hOw did yOu geT dEtenTion on ThE fiRsT dAy?” screamed Marcus.

“SHE LOST US THIRTY POINTS TOO!” Pansy, the snitch, screeched from across the common room.

Blaise, who was trying to read by the fire, told them both to shut up.

“I didn’t mean to,” said Cass. “Snape was being-”

“Merlin, it was Snape?! You don’t just pick a fight with our Head of House, are you thick?” Marcus Flint seemed just about as unhappy about being her mentor as Cass was.

"She might be," said Pansy.

“You know what? I’m not liking this judgement. I already have detention, I don’t need this.” Cass spun on her heel-

“Levicorpus!”

Some force grabbed her ankle and pulled her whole weight upwards. “Oh great. Assault me, that’ll fix things!” she shouted, dangling mid-air.

“You’re a bit too big for your boots, Crouch. I’m Captain of our Quidditch team, if you even come close to costing us the house cup perhaps I'll talk the giant squid to drown you.”

“Fitting that your only friend is a literal squid.”

“Finite.”

The jinx lifted. Draco happened to be passing at that time and, like some sort of sadist, almost doubled over cackling when her head smacked into the floor.

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

If there was one class Cass was especially looking forward to, it was Quidditch. The Weasley twins had the right idea; flying around and hitting things was the way to go. And it was better than breaking Draco’s face in. Speaking of Draco-

“Look!” said Malfoy, darting forward and snatching something out of the grass. “It’s that stupid thing Longbottom’s gran sent him.”

Neville had just been taken to the hospital wing by Madam Hooch after losing control of his broom. She had volunteered to take him herself, wanting to clear up the whole evil-Crouch thing. She had, technically, never met her brother before, so it wouldn’t be a lie to say that she has never and will ever associate with the likes of him.

Alas! Neville had made a big scene refusing to let her take him to the hospital wing, so Hooch quickly carted him away herself.

The Remembrall glittered in the sun as Draco held it up.

Everyone stopped talking to watch.

He smiled nastily. “I think I’ll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find — how about — up a tree?”

“Give it here!” shouted Harry,

“Don’t be a prat, Malfoy!” said Cass. This was the moment she had been waiting for! To show Harry she was good and not another one of Rowling’s two-dimensional Slytherin cut-outs, damning the consequences! Sticking it to the man!

Malfoy ignored her altogether, eyes still turned on the chosen one as he leapt onto his broomstick took off, up towards the courtyard roof. “Come and get it, Potter!” he called.

Harry grabbed his broom.

“Harry!” shouted Hermione Granger. “Madam Hooch told us not to move! You’ll get us all into trouble.”

“I’ll get it,” shrugged Cass as she swung her leg around her broom. “I’m already in trouble.” Hermione looked at her as if she had just committed a war crime while she wobbled into the air. She started to sweat. Not because flying was particularly exhausting physically, but because it took all her energy to climb higher and higher, shoving her fear of heights as far down inside her as possible. Finally, she levelled with Draco by the roof where he was already deciding which end of the drain to stick the Remembrall in.

“Did Potter send an envoy?” Draco sneered.

“Hilarious. Just drop it, Malfoy.”

Draco laughed then – like a jerk – shouted “what a splendid idea!”

In her peripheral, there was Harry Potter, taken to the air and rising.

Draco tossed it into the air and then it fell, hurtling towards the cobbles below.

Her heart stopped.

What was once a clear, round shape became just a speck during its descent. Every muscle in her body tensed. It was going to smash into a thousand pieces.

There came a blur; Harry had managed to rapidly sweep onto his broom as if he was planning to catch it before she could find out what sound it would make as it hit the floor. He leaned forward, urging his broom handle down into a steep dive, racing the ball.

He took a hand off.

Reaching out.

A foot from the ground, he caught it, just in time to pull his broom straight, and he toppled off onto the cobblestone with a thud, the Remembrall still clutched safely in his fist.

Cass hobbled down after him. By the time she landed, he was swarmed by his fellow Gryffindors, beaming with pride and clapping him on the shoulder. She grinned.

“HARRY POTTER!” McGonagall was running toward them.

Harry got up immediately.

“Never — in all my time at Hogwarts —” Professor McGonagall was almost speechless and her were glasses fogged up completely from her sprint, “— how dare you — might have broken your neck —”

“They stole Neville’s Remembrall, professor!”

Um. Excuse me, what does she mean by “they”? Cass was astonished. Surely Parvati had just broken a world record for fastest wrong conclusion made. No one else seemed to recognise the Gryffindor’s monumental achievement unfortunately.

“Be quiet, Miss Patil!”

Quite right.

“Harry was only trying to help!” Ron protested.

“That’s enough, Mr Weasley! Potter, follow me.” She marched off, Harry’s legs struggled to keep up, head low.

Cass wasn’t worried; even though Harry looked a bit green, she knew this was the part when Harry became the youngest Seeker in the history of Hogwarts.

The real problem was that all the Gryffindors seemed convinced that she was just another one of Draco’s minions, and with Peeves wreaking havoc in the corridors, it wouldn’t take long for that notion to spread.

Okay, so she wasn’t some sort of mastermind when it came to making friends, in fact, she could admit she was more annoying than anything. So far, the term was going terribly. She should have played it safe instead, been quiet, did the work, accepted that maybe she wasn’t as good or as brave or as much of a Gryffindor as she had previously thought. But she couldn’t.

On the other hand, she entertained the idea that the hat had sorted her based on traits she valued rather than her own personality, but if that were the case, then surely she’d be in Hufflepuff with her eagerness to make friends. She knew that wasn’t right either. It wasn’t friends she was eager to make. If that were true, she would have had some by now. 

She slumped down on the wall of the second-floor bathroom, out of breath after Peeves had chased her with one of Filch’s brooms in a re-enactment of the disastrous flying lesson. What did she want? What was she after if not friends?

She riffled through her bag. Once she found her quill, she used the sharp end of the nib to slash away at the embroidered crest on her robes. It wasn’t as sharp as she had hoped, but she had managed to get a corner fraying. Although, fifteen seconds later, the mutilated snake looked as smug as it had at the start, and perfectly secured to her dark robes.

Cass threw the quill across the room. She wanted to cry so badly but couldn’t bring herself to.

Moaning Myrtle emerged from a cubicle. “Hiding, are we?”

Cass nodded.

“Take it from me,” said the ghost, “you’re much better off out there than stuck in here.”

Chapter Text

First Year - Chapter Three

Cass was not ashamed that Myrtle Warren was her first friend at Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Over the month, they bonded, and despite being the same age mentally and in appearance, Myrtle possessed an odd sort of wisdom from being dead for decades. Her wisdom would work itself into her speech rather unexpectedly, as if someone else held the switch to it, and kept this switch in their pocket where it could get flipped back and forth on accident. It was actually a bit alarming that no one seemed to take issue with a dead child being in the bathroom. But, as people usually did with uncomfortable topics, Myrtle was just avoided.

For detention, Cass was instructed to clean up the sludge left in the cauldrons and organise the workstations in the potions classrooms. Of course, she was forbidden to use magic – not like she had learned enough spells to help with that anyway – so all the scrubbing made her hands beet red.

Snape, meanwhile, hunched at his desk, scratching large x’s onto the assignments he was grading. Sometimes he got so frustrated with their answers that he would start laughing, like a maniac, startling Cass. He would then rush off to see Minerva McGonagall so they could laugh at it together. Once he got back, the potions-master would loom over her to check she hadn’t slacked off in the two minutes, as if that mattered.

As it turned out, he was suspicious for good reason. It was during one of his little trips that Cass took out a small flask from her pocket and began filling it with the contents of the cauldron she had pretended to scrub. The sixth years had just used the room. She knew that because Lacerta Marchesi and her friends had left the room just as Cass had arrived.

From the textbooks left out, it was evident that they had been brewing the draught of living death. First years were not allowed to attempt such advanced potion-making, their curriculum consisted of herbicide and cures for boils. Cass bottled about three tablespoons of the clear liquid before Snape returned, just in case it would come in handy. Maybe if Draco got a bit too mouthy. Or if Millicent didn't stop snoring as loudly as a hoover.

Snape escorted her up to the Great Hall.

After the labour, Cass was grateful to sink down into the bench and load up her plate with steaming garlic bread and cheesy pasta bake. And what luck! There were profiteroles and all kinds of sweets for dessert! Suddenly she didn’t give a toss about Snape, or that the only space available was beside Draco Malfoy.

As he prattled on about his father having Hogwarts wrapped around his finger, Cass considered how she could win back her teacher’s opinions of her. And then there was the issue of Harry, Ron and Hermione. She resolved that she may be stuck at Hogwarts, but that meant they were stuck with her too, and for the next seven years. That was plenty of time to make them see her in a positive light, so long as she didn’t mess anything else up. She needed to iron out her plans, a proper way to prove herself worthy as the main character’s friend. Come to think of it, there were Voldemort’s horcruxes still lying about! Just because she was in her first year didn’t mean she couldn’t be productive.

If I…but then how…

“TROLL! IN THE DUNGEON! …thought you ought to know!”

Ah. That’s how. Thank you, Universe.

Quirrell hit the floor with a thud, but Cass didn’t bother to look up from her food.

Some started screaming, jumping out of their seats. Others gaped at the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher who had just put on the best performance of his life. It took several firecrackers from the headmaster’s wand to restore order.

She poured some more water into her goblet and sipped it.

Dumbledore’s voice carried across the great hall thanks to an amplifying charm. “Prefects, lead your houses back to your dormitories immediately…”

She rolled her eyes.

“Unless a teacher tells you otherwise, please-”

“Sir!” She called out.

Every pair of eyes other than Albus Dumbledore’s searched for her in the masses, but that was because the old wizard’s gaze had connected to her immediately, as if he had expected some outburst on her part.

She swallowed and set her goblet down calmly. “Slytherin’s dorm is in the dungeon.”

“Yes?” said Dumbledore.

Her eyes narrowed. Is he dense? …No. She instead considered whether Dumbledore had known what he was doing all along. “Sir, that’s where the professor just said the troll is.”

The scariest thing happened.

Dumbledore looked almost angry. Since when was he allowed to do that?

Then, as if some mason were chipping away at the hard stone of his face until it softened, very gradually. Anger was washed away into an expression which suggested deep contemplation. It felt like the whole school was holding their breath, waiting for his reply.

After an age, he nodded with a wry smile. “Quite right, Miss Crouch. An oversight on my part.”

He lowered his wand and said something to Minerva. She said something back, and it went back and forth for a hot minute until Minerva looked quite defeated at Dumbledore’s resolve.

“Slytherin house,” he said, “will remain here. Teachers will follow me to the Dungeons.”

What? No, she couldn't stay here. Away from all the action.

The other houses began filtering out, jittery. Theories were formulated. She heard some Ravenclaws speculate that Peeves had brought in the troll as a Halloween prank.

A Hufflepuff joked that “it was Quirrell! All that garlic he keeps on ‘im might ward off vampires, but it prob’ly drew some trolls to us ‘nstead.”

So close, yet so far!

Draco, who stood a few metres from where she sat, pointed out that “Crouch has been awfully calm. As if she knew it would happen. Wouldn’t be surprised if the Troll was hers. Probably a relative.”

I’m being violated, left, right and centre.

Cass glared at him.

“It’d still be in Azkaban if that were the case,” said Pansy.

Cass stood up with such force that she almost knocked the bench over.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “No, Parkinson, didn’t you hear…?”

Ignoring his continuation, she stomped over to Quirrell.

 “Alright, Di Caprio, up you get.” She nudged his arm with her shoe.

“Best to leave him to Madame Pomfrey, Miss Crouch,” advised a stern Professor Flitwick as he passed, waving her away. Flitwick was the one of the few staff members who didn’t despise her. Before her detention, she had even impressed him with how high she could wingardium leviosa the feather into the air.

Her leg was itching to kick Quirrell in the face repeatedly, or at least until he dropped the act. She refrained, reminding herself that she was playing the long game, and sat back down to eat what was left of her garlic bread while Professor Barbage shut the doors from the exterior as Quirrell had been carted out and the last of the staff and students who would not staying with them had whizzed off, leaving the Slytherins alone in the unprotected hall.

“Have no fear, students!” Nearly-Headless-Nick piped. “Through hard-work and perseverance I became one of the most accomplished swordsmen during my time in King Henry’s court.”

The ghost of Sir Nicholas had valiantly volunteered to remain with the Slytherins (not that anyone had been listening), always enthusiastic at the prospect of battle. It was unfortunate that such noble sentiments would go to waste if a troll did happen to wander into the hall; it was almost certain that any pass he made at the creature would also pass through it.

She knew she needn’t worry about that though; the troll would go into the girls’ bathroom, which meant she needed to be there too.

It was embarrassingly easy to sneak out of the Hall.

Marchesi was too busy complaining about how this was cutting into her valuable study time; Flint was trying to see if he could cheat the hourglasses into giving Slytherins a well-deserved two million points for being left without protection; Malfoy was busy writing himself a eulogy in case the troll got to him before his parents did; Pansy ignored the situation altogether and told Zabini all about the midnight duel that Cass hadn’t been invited to apparently. 

Cass shuffled across the walls like a spider, more conscious that a professor might be lurking anywhere down the corridor than the troll.

Predictably, Snape was nowhere to be found. He had likely slipped away during the chaos to check up on Flamel’s stone. Which meant that Quirrell had gone too. It would be better to head straight to the girl’s bathroom instead of going on some insane solo mission to catch Quirrell in the act. As if she could out-finesse him with her shaking spell work! She wasn’t the ‘chosen one’.

She smelt it before she saw it. Its putrid odour put the potions classrooms to shame. Twelve feet tall with granite-grey skin. It was holding a huge wooden club, which dragged along the floor because its arms were so long.

Cass stood fixed in the doorway.

Hermione was shrinking against the wall opposite, looking as if she were about to faint. The troll was advancing on her, knocking the sinks off the walls as it went.

Why am I just standing here?

“Confuse it!” Harry said desperately to Ron, and, seizing a tap, he threw it as hard as he could against the wall.

Cass screamed at her feet to move, but all she could do was watch the havoc within.

Just move!

“Oy, pea-brain!" yelled Ron from the other side and he threw a metal pipe at it.

Why can’t I…? A jinx? No…

The troll had little space inside its head for concepts as big as ‘diversion’. As such, it was mindlessly passed between the two Gryffindor boys.

…just regular fear. How disappointing. Her shoes were stuck to the floor.

"Come on, run, RUN!" Harry yelled at Hermione, trying to tear his friend toward the door, but she was still flat against the wall, her mouth gawking.

The creature started toward Ron, who was nearest and had no way to escape. His eyes were pooling with anxiety. This Gryffindor boy who valued courage, was all out of the stuff.

The spell broke.

Cass dug her wand out of her pocket, remembering what she had read. Trolls were strong but awfully stupid, they were confused by noises and bright lights. If only she knew the confundus charm, maybe she could have convinced it that Ron was just another toilet! Cass gripped her wand, pronouncing clear words “Lumos maxima!”

A binding light came from her wand and the troll growled. It stumbled away from Ron, large hands shooting to cover its eyes, still holding the club. WHACK! The troll screamed in pain and dropped its club and it almost landed on Cass.

Cass squinted at Hermione through the light. "What are you doing? Move!"

"Come on, Hermione!" Yelled Ron.

Hermione's eyes darted towards Cass, and she saw, to her guilt, some of the hope leave their eyes when the girl realised she wasn’t an adult here to save the day.

"Move!" Cass said again, and this time, Hermione scrambled away.

All the shouting and echoes had driven the troll berserk. It made a bellow between a roar and a human scream baring its grimy teeth at her. Her hair whipped back and stray bits of saliva strayed her face. The sheer stench of its breath was enough to knock her to the floor.

Something clattered to her feet. Her wand. She had been stupid enough to drop her wand. 

This nightmare had to end. She had clearly overstayed her welcome here. Now the Universe was out for blood.

The troll flung an arm into Harry Potter, knocking him against the wall.

Apparently not her blood specifically then. 

"  Wingardium Leviosa!” came Ron’s voice this time.

The club flew high, high up into the air again, turned itself slowly over -- and dropped, with a sickening crack, onto its owner's head. The troll swayed then fell flat on its face, making the whole room shudder and dust fall from the ceiling crevices.

Harry got to his feet, shaking and out of breath. Ron was standing there with his wand still raised, staring at what he had done.

Cass slowly got to her feet. "Good on you, Ron, good on you."

The Gryffindors looked at her, not sure if she was mocking him or not.

“Is it -- dead?” asked Hermione.

“I don't think so. I think it's just been knocked out.” Harry endeavoured to inspect it, but winced when he took a step forward and abruptly stopped.

Potter looked back at her, mouth pressed into a thin line as if he was about to say something to her, maybe ask how she had found them, but loud footsteps made the four of them look up. Professor McGonagall burst into the room, clearly on a warpath, closely followed by Snape, then Quirrell. The latter took one look at the troll, let out a faint whimper, and quickly sat down on a toilet, clutching his heart.

Cass scoffed. How were they buying this? She made a mental note to check if Hogwarts had a drama club, and if by some chance they did, she’d sign Quirrell up immediately herself.

Thoughts of a Voldemort-Quirrell production of Jekyll and Hyde evaporated when McGonagall fixed her with a hard stare like she was about to rain hellfire down on this eleven-year-old girl. “What on earth were you thinking of?" McGonagall shrieked. Harry looked at Ron, who was still standing with his wand in the air. “You're lucky you weren't killed! Miss Crouch, why am I not surprised? You always seem to think you should be in the centre of everything!?”

Cass opened her mouth to take the blame that she deserved, but she closed it, knowing that this was where Hermione and the boys made peace.

Sure enough… “Please, Professor McGonagall, they were looking for me.” Hermione might have hung her head, but Cass could see she had more dignity than she did. Hermione, who was top of all her classes. “I went looking for the troll because I thought I could deal with it on my own, you know, because I’ve read all about them.” Hermione, who, as a muggle-born, was so petrified of being expelled from the magic school that she reserved herself to her studies. Hermione Granger, who would, just like Cass, probably rather be bludgeoned by that troll than taken away from all of this.

Snape moved away from the troll he had examined. “Unquestionably foolish, Miss Granger, but that does not explain Miss Crouch’s part in all this in the slightest.”

“I- um...” She attempted to speak for the first time, but her throat tightened, pitch getting higher. She looked at Harry again. He was cradling the arm he had landed on when the club hit him.  “I was trying to help-”

Dumbledore walked in. “Ah. Harry,” he smiled. “You found the troll.” Both Snape and McGonagall sent the headmaster a glare. “What have I missed?”

Quirrell, of course, had recovered. “We were simply wondering why this Slytherin girl would disobey strict instructions and sneak off after a troll..."

Cass folded her arms. "Why am I being singled out? Granger gets to go troll hunting and I don't? I heard the commotion and came to help. It was the decent thing to do!"

Quirrell offered a sympathetic smile to Cass that made her want to scream like a banshee and attack him. “I only wonder… no...”

“Speak, Quirinus,” said Dumbledore.

Quirrell looked directly at Cass, the smile not quite reaching his eyes. “I only wonder if the troll had help getting up here. How else would you explain this creature of dull wit navigating two floors above the dungeons?”

McGonagall, surprisingly came to her defence. “A first year would hardly have the malicious intent let alone the means-”

“-true, but her brother-“

“Merlin! Can people stop going on about him?!”

The teachers paused their discussion.

“We have no evidence for such accusations,” said Dumbledore, turning his gaze to the first years. “Nevertheless, I think every one of them has learned a valuable lesson. Five points will be taken from Slytherin for Miss Crouch's stunt. Miss Granger should not have gone glory hunting. For that, five points will also be taken from Gryffindor.”

Snape looked smug.

“But Mr Weasley and Mr Potter have also shown themselves to be truly brave and loyal friends. For that, they each receive five house points.”

None of that is fair, old man. They literally took down an adult mountain troll.

“In the future,” there was only one person the headmaster could be addressing now, “I should hope, Miss Crouch, to see that you have become comfortable in your own skin, enough that you have it in yourself to abandon these desperate ploys to prove yourself a Gryffindor.”

Cass blinked.

A ploy? Did he genuinely believe she had orchestrated all of this?

Wasn’t it? A voice came. Her own. You’ll stop at nothing to insert yourself into the narrative. You can’t fathom being unimportant. You are so desperate for attention it kills you. You starve for it, but every time you get it, it repulses you because you don’t know what to do with it.

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

Exactly back where she started.  

Scrubbing Cauldrons used to be a lot more fun when she had an idea of what to do next. In addition to the five points gone, Snape had issued her a months-worth of detentions simply because he could as head of Slytherin, even though he probably wished it was Potter he had scrubbing the floors instead.

Marcus Flint was forced to keep an eye on her, so she didn’t leave the common room to wander the corridors when she wasn’t supposed to. Not that she'd try anything.  Barely anyone living spoke to her. Other than her teachers, the students in her year - including the Slytherins - seemed to forget she existed to a point where she would get a thrill when Pansy asked her to turn the lights off.

This confirmed her worst fear. That the old wizard was right. She craved the attention, and now, without it, her energy was gone too. 

Chapter Text

First Year - Chapter Four

There was no wand-waving in History of Magic, which was a huge problem for Cass as she wasn’t particularly interested in The Soap Blizzard of 1378.

It wasn’t her fault per se.

The November chill had long since crept into the castle and Professor Binn’s monotony had put half the class to sleep. Ironically, the ghost’s philosophy was that students needed to learn how to be responsible individuals who listened carefully, which is why he never wrote anything on the chalkboard.

The lesson passed in an excruciatingly slow fashion; it was almost as if the professor wanted his students to experience his own purgatorial state with him, and half the time, he whispered rather than spoke.

Not a single note was made.

He said something, and then, her classmates began to stir. Not because class had ended, but because the translucent professor had told them to pair up.

Wishing for the ground to swallow her up, she glanced at Blaise, who sat next to her, but he immediately stood up and went over to Theodore Nott, another Slytherin. She searched for a spare Hufflepuff she could go with, but alas! They all had friends.

Then Crabbe and Goyle paired up. Draco did not.

He sat two rows in front of her and swivelled around in his chair to see who was available, a grimace forming once he caught sight of her. He didn’t move from his seat.

“Great,” she sighed.

Cass collected up her things and strode over, dropping the heavy textbook down beside him loudly.

He ignored her sourly. She sat down.

It seemed Draco hadn’t taken any notes either, but he had made a surprisingly decent sketch of the Whomping Willow.

“What did he tell us to do? What’s a soap blizzard for?”

“How should I know?” he shrugged.

“You sit at the front!”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You can hear him better.”

“Do you know what it’s for?” he accused.

The idea of working with Draco certainly wasn’t thrilling. He was an utter prick. She had seen him shove Neville down one of the moving staircases earlier that day after he put a leg-lock jinx on him. He sort of rolled down like a roll of wrapping paper would.

Unfortunately, Cass was on a completely different staircase, so she just leaned over the bannister and shouted at Draco from above until she saw McGonagall’s pointy hat coming closer and closer.

Cass smiled condescendingly at Draco. “It’s incredibly empathetic of me not to skin you alive by the way.”

“Trust me, the feeling is mutual.”

“Trust you ? Not likely.”

“Oh yeah. I forgot. You think you’re better than all of us.”

Was that what they really thought of her? Some snob?

“I’m just waiting for them to teach us the fire spell so that you and that heavily hair-sprayed mop you call ‘hair’ can go up in flames together.”

He rolled his eyes. Perhaps he could sense her false bravado. He turned to the pair sitting behind him. “What do we have to do?”

Beyond her wildest expectations, Parkinson had somehow managed to pay attention. She had once pegged Pansy as some sort of vapid socialite. Clearly that opinion had been skewed by bias, but she didn’t want to think about that otherwise she would have to start thinking that maybe she had misjudged Draco — or the whole of Slytherin — too. It was far easier to accept that Pansy might be a little more studious than she initially believed.

Apparently, they had to research and present on the repercussions of the blizzard. Cass groaned. She loathed the idea of teaching herself the lesson and then doing the homework on top of that, but there was no way around it, she couldn’t do one without the other.

Draco gathered his things into his bag as the bell went. “I suggest we meet in the library tomorrow.”

“That’s the first good idea you’ve had.”

He looked so done with her. “If you’re late, then you’re doing it by yourself.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Afterwards, she had Herbology with the Gryffindors. They were especially lively in anticipation for the Quidditch match on Sunday.

The class were led from the greenhouse down to the edge of the lake and were given boats and a long pole with a net to swat away the grypts, tasked with collecting some sort of weed from the lake.

As it was already getting dark outside, Professor Sprout suggested that it was a marvellous opportunity to practise the Lumos charm they had been taught the lesson before. Draco thought it was a marvellous opportunity to catch a cold.

The Professor picked the groups herself.

Cass climbed into a boat with Neville and Lavender Brown. Clearly, Sprout had not gotten the memo about the whole Crouch-Longbottom history, but Cass wasn’t about to remind her about that now. Not when she could finally make amends for something she had no memory of.

She silently rowed into the depths, ignoring their cold expressions directed towards her. Cass was waiting for them to speak, but when they didn’t, she cleared her throat. “Here looks like a good spot.”

Lavender leaned over one side. “I can’t see anything.”

Her tone was jagged, but she was right. The sun had disappeared. The water was nothing but a filthy mirror.

Cass took out her wand, but before she could even utter the spell—

“Lumos!” Neville’s voice rang out.

The light from his wand was nuclear. It was as if Neville had pulled down one of the stars overhead into their boat, and all they could see was white.

Lavender fell backwards screaming and the boat rocked violently. Cass attempted to grab her hands and steady her, but the boat completely flipped and they all plunged into the icy black water.

The cold cut through her entire being. Into her ears. Up her nostrils. The cold was trying to wake her up.

She quickly resurfaced with a gasp.

Lavender clung to the side of the capsized boat coughing. Her hair was dripping wet.

Neville thrashed around in the water with his eyes squeezed shut. Cass swam over to him while trying to avoid being hit in the head. Treading water, she offered out her hand. “Neville, grab onto me.”

“I don’t want your help!”

“Neville, it’s fine-”

“-DON’T TOUCH ME!” he sobbed.

She stopped moving, stopped breathing. Her eyes fixed on the drenched blond boy. Salty water dripped into her eyes.

A larger boat with a lantern tied to the mast glided out of the darkness and stationed itself next to them.

“Is something the matter?” asked Professor Sprout. “Oh, Neville! Had a bit of an accident, have we? Come, let’s get you to shore.”

She hoisted him and his waterlogged robes into her boat, then Lavender, then Cass. There were plenty of blankets to go around.

The quiet strangled her, like it had two cold hands. It clawed around her neck, unrelenting, tightening. It was trying to put her to sleep. For good. And it was failing. She breathed again, but it was the sharp rapid kind.

The Gryffindors sat sniffing, bundled in several dry layers, and distanced themselves as far away from Cass as the boat would possibly allow.

What a joke, she thought, that she had been convinced a few smiles could erase her brother’s crimes. 

It had been spelt out to her now. Could they ever be friends? Was that such a stretch of fantasy? Absolutely.

Well, well, well. If it isn’t the feelings I’ve been trying to avoid.

Something dripped out of her nose onto the back of her hand. She lifted it up absent-mindedly, like she was not all there.

Blood. Black in the moonlight.

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

That Saturday in the library, Draco fully expected her to do all the work. They sat in one of the alcoves furnished with desks and lamps after spending hours walking up and down and around the labyrinthine library.

Tracking down a book related to the Soap Blizzard of 1378 was hard enough, but then they had to make sure it didn’t fly away as books often did at Hogwarts.

Cass found the book they were looking for on the upper balcony. It was deep red with gold lettering.

Draco caught the thing before it had taken into the air. Now, he lounged - completely convinced he had done his part of the project - with both his legs on the desk and leaning back in his chair. How easy it would be to kick him out of it altogether, she thought, but Cass wasn’t in the mood for violence.

While Draco tried to balance his wand on his nose, Cass flicked through the book.

Apparently, The B lizzard was a complete accident. The spell had been cast by Burdock Muldoon, Chief of the Wizard’s Council, in a desperate attempt to slow the plague. Muldoon had never anticipated the soapy cloud would engulf the London sky. The incident resulted in his removal as well as an increase in witch burnings due to the frightened muggles. Then the economic crash occurred because Muldoon was replaced by Elfrida Clagg, who tanked the value of galleons. It got better after Gringotts established its first bank in the 15^th century.

The book was certainly ten times more useful than one of Professor Binn’s lectures. It was too valuable to leave in the library.

Cass tried to find the Librarian’s desk in the antechamber. She almost passed a dark corridor on the way, but something enticed her to stop. At first, she wondered if it was one of the secret passages that Filch was rumoured to use to get across the school fast, but it was the gated entrance to the lower floor. The restricted section.

At the end of the corridor was Harry, with Mrs Pince sneaking up on him.

“What are you looking for, boy?" she snapped.

Harry almost jumped out of his skin. “Nothing," he said.

Madam Pince brandished a feather duster at the Gryffindor. "You'd better get out, then. Go on -- out!"

Cass tried to scramble away before Harry could see her, but he did. Harry followed her.

The three-minute walk back to her desk felt longer than it should have. Even though his footsteps were non-existent, she could almost feel Harry’s green eyes, judging her, haunting her, as they trudged through the library together.

He sat with Ron and Hermione, while Cass went to Draco. The only thing separating the two groups was a single bookshelf.

She presented an ultimatum to Draco. He could only borrow her notes on the Soap Blizzard (which covered the lesson they had slept through), but only if he promised to do the homework task.

Draco, surprisingly, agreed without much fuss.

They did, however, bicker about whether their presentation should come with diagrams or not, but she quickly let Draco win the argument when she happened to overhear bits and pieces of the trio’s discussion. They each took it in turns guessing where they had heard the name ‘Nicholas Flamel’ before.

She was disappointed when they moved on to talk about their Astronomy essay, but then an idea struck.

She could literally just send Harry a letter that told him all about Flamel. Better yet, she could warn him about Quirrell like she tried to do with Ron. That way, they would either stop Quirrell early, or at least start trusting her after Harry faced him near the end of the school year.

She was painfully aware by now however, that her plans usually ended up crashing and burning. Harry might find it suspicious, for example, that she eavesdropped on them, which he would inevitably piece together once she told him about Flamel and his stone.

Implicitly admitting to that wasn’t the best way to make friends. She resolved that the letter would be an anonymous tip, informing Harry that she had seen Quirrell on Halloween, heading for the off-limits third floor.

Once the trio had dealt with Voldemort, she could tell them she was the one who sent the tip, and she’d be a hero in their eyes, regardless of her green robes.

The plan was fool proof, which was perfect since they all seemed to be fools, always assuming the worst of her.

The owlery was only open to first years on weekends, so she opted to go immediately, agreeing with Draco to finish their project the next day.

Annoyingly, Potter didn’t receive the letter. She had watched the windows for all of breakfast the next day, waiting for one of the Hogwarts owls to swoop in and drop it into his lap or at least his cereal. Nothing.

How peculiar.

Cass went to repost the letter, choosing a different owl this time. One that looked more reliable in her opinion.

On Sunday, Harry didn’t get the second letter either, which made no sense; owls didn’t abide by the same ‘no post on Sundays’ principle that muggles did, and obviously since the letter was from a Hogwarts student, to a Hogwarts student, there was no excuse of delay.

Something was definitely going wrong with the owls.

At breakfast, she interrupted Draco, who was busy explaining the rules of Quidditch to Goyle but had somehow linked it well enough to be able to boast about how his mother owned half of the wand-maker’s in Britain. “Can I borrow Eurus?”

He almost dropped his toast. “Absolutely not!”

“Just this once.”

“Why do you need her?” said Draco.

“To send a letter obviously .”

“And why can’t you use one of the shabby school ones?”

Why do you keep questioning me like that? I’m literally smarter than you. “They don’t know right from left.”

Draco thought about it. “Eurus doesn’t like strangers. She bites them. She’s loyal to the esteemed House of Malfoy through and through.”

That was an understatement. Eurus was a feisty bird. She had gone for Finnegan’s face one breakfast simply because he was in her way. She had scratched him all over and might have taken an eye out if McGonagall hadn’t intervened. Eurus didn’t fear people, they feared her, but she was clearly an intelligent beast and always delivered her letters on time.

“Tell you what,” said Draco. “If you finish our project by yourself, I’ll give you some of Eurus’ treats. That way she’ll behave.”

The offer wasn’t very fair since he had barely helped anyway but was in no position to complain.

“Fine.” She said.

“Fine.”

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

She had to work on the project for most of the day, but the afternoon, of course, was reserved for the first Quidditch match of the season, something she had been looking forward to.

Nothing especially remarkable happened during the event. Predictably, Harry’s broom was jinxed, she revelled in watching Hermione set Snape’s robes on fire and lastly, every Slytherin judged Cass when she leapt from the bench to cheer at Gryffindor’s victory.

After dinner, she waited for Draco in the common room. He took his sweet time. While Marcus Flint was busy sobbing by the fireplace, Pansy and the majority of Slytherin had gone to bed a little early. They weren’t taking their defeat well it seemed.

Finally, Malfoy arrived with some excuse about Peeves. He gave her the owl treats all the same, thrusting the box into her hand and muttering that he was going to bed too.

It was almost curfew but, confident that she could evade the teachers (most of which were probably off celebrating Slytherin’s loss), she began her trek to the owlery.

She was cautious, staying in the shadows.

Just before she reached the castle entrance, she glimpsed two shadows around the corner and ducked behind a gargoyle.

There was the form of what once might have been Severus Snape, hair greasier than usual.

Filch cringed at the sight, cradling Mrs Norris close to him soothingly. “Have you been crying in the supply cupboard… again?”

The potions-master stretched a weak smile across his face. “I don’t do that anymore, Argus, don’t you have some portraits to dust or something?”

Cass was tempted to follow their interesting conversation, but reminded herself of the mission.

Once in the owlery, she searched for Eurus.

The bird was asleep, perched on a piece of wood. From the ring of space around her, it seemed as though even the other owls were scared of her.

Cass took out a treat and waved it in front of the owl’s beak. Eurus abruptly opened one yellow eye, then another. They were like two large lemon slices. Attentive and undoubtedly bitter.

She reached out a hand and pulled it back before Eurus could snap at it. Cass added a few more treats into her palms and the bird changed its expression. It somehow managed to share the same smugness that it’s owner often wore.

The bird didn’t chew.

Cass held up the letter. “Could you deliver this?”

The owl’s eyes turned to slits.

Cass added a “please” and Eurus snatched the letter out of her hand with a huff.

She walked back to the castle quickly, before the drizzle turned into a downpour, arms tucked into the heat of her robes.

It was late and she had the presentation with Draco in the morning, so she longed for her soft bed. She needed sleep, craved sleep.

She turned the corner, striding past a suit of armour, a tapestry, a few sleepy portraits, a cat .

She did a double take.

The feline was thoroughly cleaning her fluffy ears. Cass bent down to check if it truly was Filch’s cat. Mrs Norris looked up at Cass with her big eyes and meowed in her signature princess-like tone, showing off her sharp teeth. Yes. Definitely just a regular cat.

She thought it was best to leave. Filch could show up any second now. Him and his cat were like magnets.

Then a second cat sat down beside the first, a glint in its eye.

Cass sprung up but it was too late. Minerva McGonagall transformed back. Strangely enough, she didn’t look furious at all. In fact, she looked rather pleased to see her.

“I was wondering when you would arrive, Miss Crouch.”

Ah. Draco had snitched on her.

“That will be another five points from Slytherin then. This way.”

The head of Gryffindor marched her back to the dungeons and Snape was summoned. His eyeliner was still smudged but had dried. He took another five points off her just to prove a point apparently and sent her to bed after a long lecture.

Snape looked exceptionally disappointed in her. Cass told herself she didn’t care.

The next day, she got up early and practically ran down to the Great Hall. Ignoring the almost-empty Slytherin hourglass, she instead turned her attention to the Gryffindor table, gripping her goblet of apple juice.

Potter sat down. Potter ate. Potter chatted. Potter got up and left.

Potter did not receive any post.

Draco stormed in through the doors and made a beeline to her. being all “Oi, Frog brains. What the hell did you do to my bird?”

Huh?

“She’s delusional! She’s mad!” Draco was actually the one who looked a little unhinged at this moment. “Thought you could pluck Eurus like a turkey!?”

“Wait, what? What’s happened?” asked Theodore, who loved drama more than air.

“I go to see Eurus like I do every morning and she was dishevelled! Feathers everywhere! Attacked! Maimed!”

“I didn’t do anything!” protested Cass. How could she when the bird was so vicious? That owl was more likely to have beaten her up than the other way around. Did someone come into the owlery after her?

“Stop lying!”

Every Slytherin and a few Ravenclaws had physically turned to watch the scene. Cass looked away from them to the Teachers’ table where Dumbledore sat, chatting pleasantly with Flitwick. Her eyes shifted instinctively to Quirrell, but she found he was already looking at her thoughtfully.

When he crossed his arms, she saw the fresh claw marks all over his hands. It dawned on her that she hadn’t picked up the letters she had thrown at Ron back in his class. How likely was it that Quirrell had picked them up, unscrunched them… and read them on a whim?

As Draco continued his verbal abuse, her stomach dropped.

She was so stupid.

Chapter Text

First Year - Chapter Five

“Nice earmuffs, Potter. Did your mum make them for you?”

“Don’t you have a train to catch, Malfoy?” said Ron.

“I do.” He had that stupid smug expression again. “I heard your parents left you and your tribe behind, Weaslebee. Can’t say I blame them. I’m sure money’s tight enough as it is without them having to spend their last sickles on you.”

Hermione and Harry held Ron back from absolutely beating the shit out of Malfoy in the snow. Snape still saw the kerfuffle and thirty points were taken from Gryffindor.

Snape was insane when it came to giving and taking house points. It depended on his mood. If someone were to save his life, he’d probably award a meagre five house points, but heaven forbid a git like Malfoy gets a (deserved) smack around and suddenly your whole house hates you for the bajillion points you lost them.

Before the holidays had rolled around, Cass had found her name on the list of students staying behind, which wasn’t very surprising. Since Barty Crouch Senior had yet to send her a letter of acknowledgment, she knew they wouldn’t be the type of family who built gingerbread houses and played board games together. That was fine. She reminded herself that she wasn’t meant to be here anyway. He wasn’t her real dad.

She was happy to see that most of Slytherin left for the train station. Good riddance; there would be no more Draco, and no more Pansy leaving her clothes all over the floor in the girls’ dorm. Cass had finally had the nerve to complain after she had tripped on a pair of Pansy’s school tights.

“Can you please clean up the floor?”

“Do I look like a house elf?” Pansy had said.

“I’d rather not answer that,” Cass quipped back.

Pansy and the other girls had locked her out of the room for the week.

She bunked on the Common Room sofa, the one next to the window-wall, until she had woken up in a cold sweat to a massive eye next to her face; the giant squid that inhabited the lake had passed by. Since then, she strictly remained near the fireplace on the other side.

On the bright side, Millicent's cat Inkus, who had the habit of sitting on sleeper's faces in the night, remained with the girls. In the warmth.

That was another reason to look forward to the holidays — she would finally get her bed back. Every night on the sofa resulted in a harrowing back ache. She felt like a tired old woman with brittle bones

Marcus had tried to negotiate with the girls. Tracey Davis wasn’t keen on letting her back in. Apparently, she snored, loudly, which was news to her. Marcus offered to teach them a silencing charm in exchange for his mentee being allowed back in, but Tracey said they’d have to ask Pansy, as she was the one who was still hurt about the house-elf joke.

Tracey did, at the very least, fetch her a pillow.

Cass thanked Marcus for his efforts, but he insisted that he was only doing it because he was her assigned mentor, so it would look bad on him if she was left struggling. Rather charming thing to say.

She didn’t think about it too much. Now, Cass practically had the entire house to herself, which was the best Christmas present she could ask for! The only other Slytherins staying over the holiday was Blaise and Marchesi, and one other student she hadn’t spoken to before, who she was sure was in Flint’s year. Apparently they had been kicked out of Ilvermorny, but that was just a rumour and rumours weren’t meant to be trusted.

Cass had one of her own that had spread through the castle like the flu over the last month. Apparently, Lavender Brown was too embarrassed to admit that she fell into the lake and capsized the whole boat with her, so instead, Cass was now the one who had pushed her in. Lie that it was, Cass vowed to do the real thing to Lavender if she happened to walk past her on the pier.

Hopefully, the rumour would subside since most of the school were going home and would likely find more interesting things to gossip about in January.

Blaise didn’t seem to be in the festive mood. In fact, every time she entered the Common Room, he always slammed shut whatever heavy book he had his nose in and left.

Such was the case when she and Marchesi entered one frosty morning, eager to warm themselves by the fire. Blaise bolted up the stairs like a spooked deer, which was especially annoying because he uprooted the sleeping cat on his lap, and Cass wanted a pet so badly. One that would curl up on her lap like that and she’d never get up, ever. Unless she really needed the toilet or something.

“Christmas isn’t really your thing, is it, Ebenezer Scrooge?” Cass called after him.

“He’s a Pagan.”

“Oh.”

“Merlin’s underwear! It’s like nobody raised you to think before you speak!”

Not entirely, untrue. If someone had raised her, she obviously couldn’t remember it.

“Yeah, okay, but what does him being Pagan have to do with the fact that he keeps avoiding me?”

Marchesi rolled her eyes as she peeled off her gloves and hung them by the fire. “Probably nothing. Maybe he’s shy… maybe he just doesn’t like you.”

Cass spluttered. The girl might as well have just used the killing curse on her. It would have hurt less and saved everyone the hassle of dealing with her it seemed. The majority of the sixth-years had been in a bad mood because their N.E.W.T. mock exams were in the New Year, and Marchesi was a particular overachiever.

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

How magical the castle looked when Christmas day arrived.

After lying there for half an hour, she flung the warm covers off and hopped out of bed. Cass checked the Common Room tree just in case. Surprisingly, amongst the rabble, were three gifts for her, each with different wrapping paper.

The first was a silver parcel. She sat there in her pyjamas and tore the wrapping paper off. Her smile disappeared when she saw what it was. Dumbledore had sent her a sewing kit and a new embroidered Slytherin crest.

Wonderful.

The second gift was from Crouch. It was a fancy quill that came with a brief note written in beautiful calligraphy. As it turned out, the note was from the manufacturer, not Crouch.

Cass threw the note on the fire.

The third was cylindrical and metallic beneath the blue wrapping paper. She opened the lid. It was some sort of tea and it smelled fantastic, like lavender and berries. On the white side of the wrapping paper was a message.

Hope you enjoy!       

-- Your secret Santa

That wasn’t good.

No one had told her they were doing secret Santa. Her best guess was that Draco or Pansy had thrown her name into the mix without telling her. She panicked. Who was she supposed to give a gift to?

Maybe that was why Blaise kept avoiding her? Was he salty because she hadn’t gotten him anything? No. He had always been flighty with her.

She breathed in the smell of the sweet tea again. Unfortunately, she wasn’t the biggest fan of tea, but there was someone on the other side of the Common Room who definitely was, someone who, she supposed, deserved it as she hadn’t heard him say anything related to blood status… yet.

She got up and walked over to him. “Hey, Blaise?”

“Mmm?”

“Merry Christmas.” She handed him the tin.

He took it and sighed in disapproval without even looking inside. “Do you think I have frogspawn for brains?”

Drat! He knows I’m re-gifting. “What do you mean?”

“My mum is Morgan Zabini.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Morgan Zabini." Blaise repeated.

Cass shrugged. The name didn't ring any bells.

"Merlin! Someone lives under a rock. She owns the Pureblood Apothecary. I could smell the mistletoe from across the Common Room. You’re trying to poison me!” Then Blaise smiled suddenly. It was the first time Cass had seen him do so, but it suited him. “You’re trying to poison me. Okay, next time, do better. Nothing so obvious. Actually put some effort into it, m’kay?”

“Um. Sure?”

He was certainly an interesting soul.

Under a sneaking suspicion, she took the tin from his hands and pulled the tag from her robes again. Come to think of it, the handwriting was familiar. She went back to her room and pulled out a marked copy of her DADA homework. Sure enough, the handwriting matched.

Quirrell had tried to murder her.

That also explained why the note was so friendly, no one else was that condescendingly nice to her.

At least he had kept the festive theme with the mistletoe.

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

She spent the morning with Myrtle, gifting her the old radio Tracey Davis had wanted to get rid of. Cass had charmed it to take commands since Myrtle couldn’t touch anything. It responded to “Merlin” which made Myrtle giggle, because the name of the famous Slytherin was a more serious wizard-swear back in her day. 

When happy, Myrtle looked a shade less dead. “If I could hug you to death, I would!”

That she had no doubt about. Cass was tempted to become a ghost herself. It was perfectly possible. She knew she had unfinished business; she hadn’t figured out why she was here. If she were to become a ghost, she could stay in the bathroom with Myrtle for as long as she liked. Quirrell also couldn’t kill her if she was already dead. Neither could he give her bad grades.

On the other hand, the downside was the Skurge charm that witches and wizards used to shoo them away. She shuddered to think of Draco using it on her at all the worst times.

There were also the things Myrtle had described about being dead which haunted her whenever she remembered them. The cold that didn’t go away; being treated as something sub-human, equivalent to a portrait; watching the first-years grow up and graduate from Hogwarts while you were left behind, confined to a bathroom; being asked how you died all the time.

Part of the reason Myrtle had liked Cass from the beginning, she explained, was because she hadn’t asked about the circumstances of her death. Cass felt a little guilty at that, because hadn’t needed to ask.

After they tested Merlin out, she watched Myrtle dance around the bathroom for a while and then headed downstairs.

The movies didn’t do justice to the splendour of the Great Hall during Christmas lunch. There was not one, but twelve sparkling trees with tiny icicles hanging off each branch and decorated with tinsel of each house colour, without managing to look hideous somehow. The ceiling made it look like it was snowing inside and the whole room smelled of cinnamon and orange. Much to her distaste, bunches of holly and mistletoe decorated the walls like bunting.

Some of the teachers had remained behind and it seemed as though Dumbledore had encouraged the house leaders to sit with the losers who got left behind over the holiday.

Of course, the Gryffindors were having a blast with McGonagall discussing new Quidditch tactics and funny anecdotes about when she first started her career as a Hogwarts. All the Weasley kids were there because their parents were visiting Charlie in Romania.

In contrast, Snape didn’t talk unless it was to tell someone to pass the gravy. As Blaise discussed charms with Marchesi, Cass took it upon herself to make conversation, especially as the potions-master sat directly opposite her, grading papers with his signature downturn of his mouth.

“Sir?”

Snape continued with his reading while his other hand picked at the Brussel sprouts in his gold plate. “Miss Crouch.”

“How did the presents appear under the tree in our Common Room?”

“The same way the food gets onto the tables.”

“House-elf magic?”

“Indeed.”

“Right, well I got this secret Santa gift-”

“Congratulations,” every note to his tone was utterly uninterested.

“Yeah, well not ‘congratulations’ actually, because it was tea and-”

“Is this your attempt at small talk, Miss Crouch, because you are failing miserably and, as you can see, I am busy.”

“The tea was poisonous.”

Snape looked up at last.

“I swear it. You can have a look.”

“It seems you are quite proficient at making enemies.”

“It was Quirrell. I’m certain. He sent it.”

Saying it outright was a gamble, and she was fully prepared for a full face of disbelief, maybe even one of those dismissive nose exhales, maybe anger. Not concern. Never concern.

He put down his student’s assignment.

“What makes you think that?” said Snape.

Of course! He already had his suspicions about the man. Affirming those suspicions was a  different task altogether.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. What could she say that didn’t get her into trouble? She couldn’t very well tell him that she had seen it in a movie.

Then the professor leaned in and muttered something she couldn’t quite catch. She felt a bit odd, like she had a headache coming on. It was a strange sensation but somehow it was familiar too.

She pictured the thinnest needle of ice being fired through her eye like a dart, then she saw the outside of the Great Hall as she had passed it, then the Common Room, and then she saw Blaise smiling at her with the tea tin in his hand.

“Mistletoe?” Snape prompted, leaning out again and the pain subsided. “And why would Professor Quirrell target you?”

“Wait- are you reading my mind!?”

Piss off, you weirdo!

Snape blinked in shock.

Catch you trying to give me a detention for this? I think not! You’d have to admit that you were mind-reading in the first place, you gnarly bastard!

He narrowed his eyes then hissed as quietly as he could “I see you’ve inherited your brother’s vulgarities”. The head of Slytherin had probably expected his words to sting, but Cass didn’t give a fuck about Barty Crouch Junior.

Snape got up and moved back to the teacher’s table where he belonged, lifting both his plate and parchment into the air with his wand. He took a seat next to the caretaker. Mrs Norris was also invited to the feast, and you could hear her scampering up and down the hall thanks to the collar of sleigh bells Filch had gifted her that morning.

How was he allowed to mind-read so casually? Right under Dumbledore’s nose too! It was totally unethical. Sneaky bugger.

She only stopped her staring contest with Snape once the wizard crackers appeared out of thin air. Blaise took hold of one and offered her the other side. The BANG! was louder than a cannon and it left a glittering cloud of pink lingering in the air.

Blaise and Cass each got a packet of luminous balloons that were allegedly impossible to burst. Snape did one with the headmaster and Dumbledore threatened to fire him if he didn’t wear the fancy yellow hat for the rest of the feast. It was strange to see him in a colour other than black. Three white mice came out of Harry and Ron’s cracker and Mrs Norris gleefully chased them under the tables.

Dessert arrived; thick yule logs and fruit cake, candy canes and dripping mugs of hot chocolate covered the table. Before they got started, Dumbledore made a speech, and honestly, the way he spoke about the wizard Jesus’ birth made it almost sound like he was there. Of course, he was subtle with his phrasing, as to not offend the few muggle-borns in the room.

Afterwards, Cass seized a mug of hot chocolate with a mountain of whipped cream.

“Hogwarts serves the best food, I swear,” said Blaise, who was depositing a massive slice of yule log onto his sparkling clean plate.

Cass hummed in agreement.

“The only time the food at my house gets this good,” he continued, “is after my mum’s latest husband conveniently vanishes from the face of the earth. She always buys us a massive cake.”

Cass didn’t even blink at how problematic that sounded. Instead, she joked, “maybe your mum can do us all a favour and marry Snape next.”

Blaise burst out laughing and suddenly she had this ludicrous notion that everything would be alright after all.

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

When Harry went off after lunch to practise with his broom, Cass made her way over to the Gryffindor table where a red-haired boy with a long nose sat playing Wizard chess. “Mind if I join you?”

He glanced at her. “You don’t have any people from your own house to play with?”

“No.”

“Well, isn’t that a pity.”

She frowned. “And how do you ever expect to get good if you won’t go against an actual person?”

Ron narrows his eyes, pausing for a moment while she just stood there. “Fine, but I’ll warn you now, none of my brothers can beat me,” he says.  

She smiled and eagerly sat down and asked him to explain the rules, which he was a bit surprised at after she had sounded so confident.

They play for a bit, each concentrating completely on the game.

Cass wanted to hear about Ginny; she had always had a soft spot for her character. “Are all of your siblings staying here?”

“If you’re going to make a joke about my family, go ahead. Believe me, I’ve heard them all.”

“No. No! I wasn’t — just that it must be nice having your brothers here with you. Knight to E5.”

“Oh right. Do you miss yours? …you know with him being in Azkaban and all?” Ron looked like he instantly regretted the question. He made no attempt at eye-contact as he said it, instead he concentrated on the board.

Cass blinked. “Erm. Not really. No. Don’t really have much love for murderers, I don’t know about you. Didn’t really get to know him either.”

“Right, right. Bit of a stupid question I guess.”

“No, it’s fine. Not stupid at all.” She picked up one of the mince pies beside them and took a bite even though she was still stuffed from lunch.

There was another stretch of quiet, but this time it was more comfortable. Still, she wanted to talk to him. She had wanted to talk to him since she stepped out of the train and onto the platform, but this was nice. She didn’t want to ruin this.

She didn’t know many things, but she didn’t need the Mirror of Erised to tell her what she wanted. It was this.

She could pretend to be part of this world for just a moment. Another little gift to herself. To hope. To dream that this was normal for her. She could go back to being scared when the snow melted. And there may have been so much she wanted to say, but she didn’t know where to start. “Hey, I think I’m getting the hang of this!”

Ron smiled back knowingly. “Queen to E5.” Ron’s queen moved forward and stabbed her knight. The pieces went flying. “You were saying.”

She put down her mince pie and huffed. “I stand corrected, Weasley. Bishop to 6B.”

Ron obliterated her bishop too.

Okay, never mind, I have clearly underestimated how useless I am. “You know, the things Lavender said about me aren’t true.”

“Yeah, Neville told me.”

She blinked. Neville had told them the truth? “Wait, then why were you being all cagey when I came over to you?”

“You threw paper at my head. Twice. Didn’t Malfoy put you up to it?”

“What? No! There was a message inside.”

“What message?”

“It said…” Quirrell walked into her peripheral towards Percy, who sat at the other end. “Nothing. I wasn’t trying to annoy you, okay?”

Ron shrugged. “Alright. I believe you.”

Wait, really? That was probably the best thing she could possibly hear. Someone believed her.

Quirrell looked at her as Percy spoke to him, and then he looked behind her when the Chosen One jogged over to the table. “Ron! I have an idea about…” Harry looked at Cass warily. “Um. Hi?”

“Tell me later, Crouch is about to get her arse handed to her.”

Harry looked desperate, “I need to talk to you now though.”

“Can’t it wait?” said Ron.

“Not really.”

“Wait, is it about…?” the red-head made a gesture with his eyebrows.

Harry nodded.

Ron got up and waved his wand. The chess set put itself back together, the rook helped the king up, and all the pieces neatly ordered themselves back into the box. “Sorry,” he said and went over to Harry to leave with him.

“No worries. Good luck with Flamel.”

Harry held out his arm to stop Ron in his tracks, then turned to the girl finishing her mince pie. “What did you just say?”

Fuck fuck fuck!

Chapter Text

First Year - Chapter Six

“We both heard you say ‘Flamel’. Don't lie.”

“Yeah, you’re really bad at it,” said Harry, which she thought was a bit rude, all considered; she was trying her best here. “How did you know about him?” he continued, but the Chosen One didn’t actually let her speak. “You were listening in, weren’t you? In the library. You listened in on our conversation.”

Honestly, Cass was too lazy to keep lying at this point. She could be a no-good creep. Just once more. It wouldn’t matter in the long run. They’d be begging to be her friend after she saved them from Voldemort at the end of the year.

“Yep.” She nodded. “You’re not special though, I listen in on other people too. All the time.” She thought she was doing a marvellous job at being sarcastic, but neither Ron nor Harry picked up on her playful tone.  “And I have no idea who Flamel is other than what you said about him and that rock of his, but fill me in when you find out.” She smiled at them both.

“You know I don’t think we will, thanks,” said Harry, and Cass might have been disappointed if he didn’t look so cool with his ‘I’m-so-done-with-you’ expression and that scar of his. It fanned out and downwards, spread across his skin as though lightning had struck him right in the face.

He had no clue the reason she got into so much trouble was because of him. She had hoped, for a while at least, that if she kept annoying Snape, then eventually she was bound to serve the same detention as Harry. That way she could warn him.

But eventually, waiting for Potter and the gang to turn up proved a fruitless pursuit. Instead, every evening she had spent polishing the trophy cupboard, or mopping up the mess Peeves had made (hurling water balloons at the students on the first day back), only accentuated her dark circles further.

It hadn’t been all bad. For instance, the massive Astronomy telescopes were easier to carry after all of the hard labour. Detentions were also a time of deep reflection. It had dawned on her how simple it would be to collect a strand of Snape’s oil-black hair from his desk, should she ever need his likeness for a polyjuice potion. She then contemplated collecting all the teacher’s hairs, even Dumbledore’s, in case they proved useful, but decided against it; that was a whole-n-other world of desperate that she refused to migrate to.

Ron sent her a disapproving shake of his head before he left with Harry.

The next time she saw that same look on Ron’s face was during the Quidditch match in the early spring. Draco had poked Ron in the back of the head.

“Oh, sorry, Ronald, didn't see you there." Malfoy grinned broadly at his two minions. "Wonder how long Potter's going to stay on his broom this time? Anyone want to bet? What about you, Weaslebee? Actually, bad idea. You don’t have any money to bet with, do you?”

Ron didn't answer; Snape had just awarded Hufflepuff a penalty because George Weasley had hit a Bludger at him. Then there was Harry, circling aimless in the hopes of spying the golden snitch.

 Cass, like Hermione, was trying to ignore Draco altogether, but he continued his jibes, stretching his legs over Crabbe as if the boy were a mattress.

“You know how I think they choose people for the Gryffindor team?" said Malfoy loudly, as Snape awarded Hufflepuff another penalty for no reason at all. "It's people they   feel sorry for. See, there’s Potter, who's got no parents, then there's the Weasleys, who've got no money -- you should be on the team, Longbottom, you've got no brains." 

Neville went bright red but shakily turned in his seat   to face Draco. “I'm worth twelve of you, Malfoy.”

The Slytherin boy choked on air.

"You tell him, Neville,” Ron encouraged.

Draco sat there and cackled obnoxiously for a whole minute. When he was done, he wiped a tear away. “Longbottom, if brains were gold you'd be poorer than Weasley, and that’s saying something."

Cass knew she should be busy engineering a redemption arc for Draco – not like he deserved it - but she just couldn’t help herself. “If only your father could buy you a personality with all that money you keep bragging about.”

He looked up at her and scoffed. “I have more of a personality than you. You think skulking around and spitting on everything counts as a personality but it doesn’t.”

“I don’t skulk!” She grumbled, not the wittiest of replies.

“You do. It’s remarkable actually. Anyone would think Filch personally tutored you until you perfected the craft.”

“You’re just mad that a Gryffindor - who was raised by muggles, might I add, was scouted for Quidditch and not you. Wonder how your father felt about that. Did you tell him?”

Draco looked almost as feral as Eurus, and suddenly, it was a very real possibility that he would flip her off the side of the spectator’s stand. Slicking a hand through his hair he swallowed his anger like a frog might swallow a toad – it was unnatural and barely managed.

“Well, that’s just because McGonagall has the strange urge to adopt every charity-case within a certain radius. She doesn’t know talent when she sees it.” Draco elaborated, “if it had been Snape who had found us that day, I’d be flying up there right now, not Potter.”

“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, champ,” she said, and was ecstatic to see that Hermione had smiled a little at that.

“Pansy had the right idea locking her out. Maybe we can think of a way to do that again.” Draco said loudly and to no one in particular.

Blaise sighed. “Both of you need to shut up and focus on the game.”

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

Gryffindor, to no one’s surprise, won the match.

Before sunset, Cass made her way down to Hagrid’s hut. She lugged a massive bag of plant bulbs behind her, following through on her promise to Professor Sprout — she thought it was best to go looking for extra credit when you sucked at the subject as badly as she did,

The teachers were getting harsher with their grading in preparation for exams, even though those were weeks away. In particular, McGonagall had dished out an especially lengthy assignment. Cass had only reminded Malfoy about it to make him shut up.

Basically, last term, Draco had challenged Harry to a midnight duel only to stand the orphan up. The blond was convinced that it was ‘peak comedy’, but Cass and everyone else hadn’t found it very funny the first time he had told it, let alone the twentieth.

That wasn’t the only annoying thing about Malfoy; he also excelled in all his subjects even though no one had ever seen him revise. Every subject except Transfiguration, that was. Once she had mentioned the homework for McGonagall, he had rushed off immediately.

So, as she ran around the school helping the teachers, she couldn’t complain. Not when Draco hadn’t left the library all day.

Truth be told, she was very excited to see Hagrid even though she specifically heard him saying that ‘there wasn’t a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn’t in Slytherin’. Hagrid just needed to get to know her, and sure, she couldn’t really recall an exceptionally good Slytherin other than Merlin, but there were plenty of bad people from other houses - like Quirrell and Pettigrew.

Ew. Pettigrew. She had completely forgotten about him. She had watched Ron smuggle Scabbers some cheese the other day, completely oblivious to the fact that he harboured a mid-thirties murderer in his robe pocket.

She’d have to drown that rat the next time she saw him, or feed him to Mrs Norris.

Cass staggered up the three porch steps, a little winded. The windows were dark, but there was a definite roast smell that came from within alongside the muffled voices.

“It’s rather cat-like actually.”

What is?

Cass didn’t want to get caught eavesdropping again, so she just went ahead and knocked. 

The chatting stopped immediately.

Hagrid poked a hairy face out. “Evenin’…?” He had clearly forgotten her name.

“I’m Cass.”

He dabbed at his forehead with his oven gloves with one hand and kept the door near-closed with the other. “Lovely to have yeh here. Why, er, are you here?”

She lifted the bag. “The bulbs you requested.” Hagrid still looked confused. “From Professor Sprout?” she prompted.

“Ah yes! Yes! I remember now.” He looked back inside for a moment. “The bulbs from… right. Just what I asked for.”

Cass gave a nervous laugh as he took the bag from her like it weighed nothing. The wind blew at the wooden door, and without a free hand to stop it, it flew ajar.

Harry, Ron and Hermione, were sitting around the table in the middle of the room and each of them – including Fang - turned their beady eyes onto her through the darkness.

There was a teapot on the table, and whatever was inside it emitted a very obvious glow. A little tuft of smoke came out of the spout.

“Nice dragon.” She tried to keep it casual.

Ron gasped. “Pssh! What dragon? I don’t see… where…? Hermione, what’s she talking about?”

Hermione didn’t say anything, just sat there, staring at Cass like she had murdered someone, but then Ron elbowed her and she sparked to life. “Dragon? Ahahaha. Whaaat?”

Very natural.

Harry didn’t say anything, surprisingly the wisest decision of the three.

The little dragon sneezed and the teapot’s lid was blown off.

Hagrid stepped outside with Cass and closed the door with his shoe. “An’ I actually have somethin’ yeh might as well deliver to Professor Snape on your way back.”

But Cass didn’t want to go back. She wanted to be invited in for tea like the others had been. She wanted to see Norbert.

He put the bulbs down beside a wheelbarrow and handed her a trowel. “All sorts of interesting things you’ll find beneath this earth. The valerian roots should be ready teh pull. Those are the ones with the white flowers.” He said, gesturing to his plot.

He was trying to get rid of her, she realised.

“Mind they don’t snap at you.”

Cass bitterly acquiesced.

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

She dragged herself into the girl’s dorm after scrubbing and rinsing herself of all the dirt and grime and got out her pyjamas, prioritising sleep over dinner.

Pansy was lying on her own bed reading. Nothing unusual about that. Except there was. She was reading a magazine and it had a man with lobster-red hair and a blue cardigan on the cover and the picture didn’t move at all.

“Who’d you steal that from?”

“What?” said Pansy

“Come off it, Parkinson. That’s a muggle magazine.”

The Parkinsons were part of the sacred twenty-eight. None of them would be caught dead owning something that was made by muggles. Pansy had nicked it from some muggle-born.

“It’s mine.” Pansy corrected. She stuffed it under her mattress and got up.

“Well, why’d you hide it then?”

“Honestly!” Pansy stormed out of the room.

Cass ignored her, got changed and sat cross-legged under the duvet.

She picked the quill Crouch got for her off the bedside table and examined it closer, running her fingers over the dark wood with the silver rings. It was beautiful, but she hadn’t used it yet. It felt wrong, this gift from some guy she didn’t know, but who considered her family.

Maybe she’d give it to Blaise. When he wasn’t reading, he was always scribbling away in some journal or other like he had been doing the other day.

Thanks to the air vents of the dungeons, you could hear different things depending on where you were. Draco’s singing had been carried by the vents from the showers to the Common Room. He actually had a nice voice. A contrast to his usual talking.

Blaise had sincerely told him to join the Hogwarts Choir. Draco had told him to piss off.

As she sat there, turning the quill over, she could hear the pipes rattle and groan and then, of course, the lapping of the lake. She didn’t mind it as much these days. It was delightfully rhythmic.

She didn’t pay any mind when the other girls walked in until one of them threw a book at her.

“OW!”

“What is wrong with you, Cassandra Crouch?!” yelled Millicent.

“What’s wrong with me?! What’s wrong with you?!”

“Can’t you go five seconds without accusing one of us of something? Or is that physically impossible for you?”

“What are you talking about?”

Tracey rolled her eyes. “Pansy is out there - cryin' - because yer called 'er a thief!”

“It’s really not that deep-”

“Yer such a hypocrite! Yer always assume the worst of us, but don’t think we 'aven’t seen you at breakfast, ogling the Gryffindor table as if yer tryin' not to run over there!”

Millicent nodded enthusiastically. “I’m sick of you thinking you’re better than us.”

Cass scoffed. “Says you!”

“What do you mean ‘says me’?”

“Every time you open your mouth you give some backhanded compliment - especially to muggle-borns! You all do!”

"Okay, she had a point there."

The girls paused and looked at Tracey.

"Wait, do we?" piped Daphne.

Tracey looked away. "Yeah, just a smidge. But I know you don't mean it in that way. Just that you've grown up with yer ways, an' I've grown up with mine. "

When the silence resumed, Cass considered making a dash for the door.

"Right. Fine. Fair enough," muttered Daphne. She leaned against a wall, then looked at Cass again. "It just wouldn’t kill you to be nice.”

“That’s all I have been!” Cass protested.

“You barely talk to us.”

“But we all know what you’re thinking,” said Millicent.

“Look who’s making assumptions now!”

Millicent looked ready to throw another book at her. Cass gripped the corner of her pillow just in case. “Well, if you don’t like it here, just leave. It’s as simple as that.” I really wish I could, believe me. “…Just because you’re ‘stuck in Slytherin’ doesn’t give you the right to be such a… such a bitch!”.

Cass blinked. That had been the first time she had heard someone her age, other than Seamus, curse at her.

Wooow.

“Okay. I’m sorry.” She wasn’t. “I’ll make more of an effort from now on.” A complete lie, but the girls seemed satisfied.

They dropped their bags off and went upstairs for dinner. Cass stayed. She was suddenly very jealous of Minerva McGonagall. The woman had the option to turn into a cat forever if she wanted to. She could escape any social interaction whenever she felt like it.

She’d be crazy to attempt to be an animagus now. She wasn’t sure how Sirius, James and Peter had managed to pull it off. Sheer-fucking-will? The power of friendship? Neither option was something she really had yet.

The words stung, and the words sunk in, and she couldn’t keep thinking of the wonders of being an animagus because they. Weren’t. Wrong. She hadn’t been the friendliest, but she also couldn’t remember who had started it. The tension. The side-eyes and exhales. Maybe it had been her after all.

Cass liked to think of herself as a nice person, but she thought about what Daphne and Millicent and Tracey had said over the next week. It was just hard thinking anything about herself when she didn’t understand what she was doing here in the first place, or who she was before. And she couldn’t tell anyone. She had thought about talking to Myrtle, but what really was there to discuss? The ghost couldn’t tell her anything she didn’t already know.

The guilt gnawed away at her.

No. She knew she was good. She would just have to prove it.

Cass began doing things she never expected to be doing, like holding the doors open for Pansy and saving seats in the library if they wanted it. Pansy and the others never brought up the incident again, and they never thanked her, and for that, Cass was relieved.

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

The exam season had begun, and frankly, Cass wasn't sure is Theodore would make it to second year, as he was one of the laziest people she had met. Once, when she had been roped into testing Marcus on the types of imps, she had specifically asked Nott to float a mug from the cabinet down to her, which would have only taken a flick of the wand.

"Nah," was all he had said, and then he left without explanation.

Nevertheless, the other students threw themselves into exam revision. Herbology had certainly gone terribly and so had Potions. In the havoc, Cass had forgotten about Harry and Dumbledore and Quirrell altogether, until one dinner, over enchiladas, she overheard Draco talking about Voldemort.

She couldn’t not hear him, as he was doing another dramatic re-enactment with a rather convincing voice for Hagrid, although the things he made him say were unsavoury.

Everyone at the table was enthralled as he told anyone who could listen about the terrifying vampire that drank the unicorn’s blood in the forbidden forest

“Potter has a death wish, you see, survivors’ guilt from when his parents died. Anyway, I could have fought it easily, but someone had to get him out of there.” Draco stood up when he saw Harry walk in and waved. “Oi! Potter! Wasn’t that vampire massive?”

“I don’t know, Draco. Was it? You ran away the first chance you got,” Harry reminded him.

“Never mind. Potter hit his head yesterday. He probably doesn’t remember the details right.”

Cass smiled at the irony. Draco’s story had acted as a sign post for where she was in the movie. There was nothing stopping her from what she needed to do next in theory, but how had her plan with the troll worked out? A disaster.

But then she thought about how they had looked at her in Hagrid’s hut. Such alarm. Such suspicion. She wondered if she could ever like being intimidating. If it was something you got used to, like how she had gotten used to the polyphony of the Slytherin dorms.

A promise was made.

The next time the Gryffindor trio looked at her, it would be in admiration, the seconds after she had saved their hides from Quirrell and Voldemort.

It was something she dreamed about. Acceptance. Heroism. Theatrics. You couldn’t be at Hogwarts and not develop a lust for drama; the portraits had trained her well.

She told herself it would be an absolute piece of cake, knowing what she knows. And sure, Quirrell was onto her, but he had no idea how she lived for the applause. How she would do anything to get it. To take it for herself.

He had no idea about her, neither did she, but he didn’t know that. She still held the advantage. It was dangerous and it made her afraid. And she hoped with every fibre of her being that it made Quirrell afraid too.

Chapter Text

First Year - Chapter Seven

It was going to happen tonight. There was no question about it.

Most students looked forward to the summer holiday, all nerves forgotten in the post-exam lull and the blissful promise of fun, but Cass knew better.

There was still excitement to be found at Hogwarts, and she didn’t want to think about going home yet.

Dumbledore had left school grounds, Snape had gotten restless, and the Gryffindor trio had been whispering amongst themselves - more than usual, which only meant one thing; the stage was set.

“Blaise, can I ask you a question?”

“No,” he said.

“Oh.”

“I’m kidding. What do you want?”

She set down her quill. “If you knew - for certain - that someone was going to be in danger, but also that they would be fine in the end, it’s ethical not to help them anyway, right?”

“You’re asking me about ethics?”

She thought about it for a second. “Point taken.”

Everyone knew that Blaise was a little unhinged. He had inherited his mother’s ‘serial killer vibes’, but without the need for demonstration. Most of the time he was quiet. That was what made people uneasy.

Cass turned her attention back to her homework, scribbling away beneath the glow of the fairy-lights that coiled around each of the Basilisk’s ribs.

Five minutes later, she was bored.

What the bloody hell am I doing?

How selfish of her to sit there and do her Potions and mind her own business while Ron, Hermione and Harry were currently experiencing the most stressful hour of their lives thus far!

The decision was made embarrassingly quickly; apparently risking her life sounded way more entertaining than doing Snape’s homework. And besides, Quirrell might be expecting her. She didn’t want to disappoint.

A little unhinged energy might be just what she needed after all.

“Okay, Blaise, here’s the thing: don’t tell me how I know this, but there are three students in our year who are about to do something really stupid.”

His gaze possessed a certain gravity, and, out of all the Slytherins, his opinion was the only one she properly cared about.

“So that wasn’t a hypothetical question?” he sighed. “Well alright. I guess we should probably help them then.” Blaise sat up and closed his book.

Cass jumped up, pleasantly surprised. “Yes! Exactly!”

“Which house are they in?”

“Gryffindor. If we go now, we can catch them before they reach the devil’s snare-”

“-Never mind, I’m going to bed.”

“Blaise! Please don’t tell me you buy into the whole ‘Gryffindor is our enemy’ thing!”

“I don’t care what house they’re in, I’m not going near that plant again. Not after Tuesday. They give me the creeps.”

Last Herbology lesson, Blaise had almost been strangled to death by it. He wouldn’t stop struggling. The boy had grabbed onto Crabbe as a counterweight, but just ended up dragging him into the thick of things until Madame Pomfrey sorted them both out.

Just like the sentient plant had done, she grabbed Blaise’s designer jumper and didn’t let go. “Come on! Where’s your sense of adventure!?”

He opened his eyes wider and smiled. There. Serial killer vibes. “In my room. I’ll go fetch it. Now, get off!”

“No.” Not when she was allergic to being told what to do.

“Off, Cass!”

The sleeve fell away from her grasp. She wouldn’t actually force him.

Perhaps Myrtle could help instead. She wasn’t sure how much use a ghost would be, but Myrtle could be there, cheering her on as she magicked the shit out of Quirrell.

That was another thing. How exactly was she supposed to do that in this poorly quilted plan of hers? As it turned out, time had kept marching on in the past few months and she had thought of nothing very clever.

During such aggressive contemplation, Blaise turned to leave.

He walked a few paces.

He stopped.

He looked back. “Ugh. Fine! But just to make sure you don’t get caught. You have the knack for that and we’ve lost too many points as it is!”

Cass smiled.

"And I'm not doing anything until you tell me why you know all this."

Cass thought quickly. "I overheard them."

Blaise sighed. “And don’t get it twisted,” he continued. “We’re not friends or anything. I don’t do friends.”

“What about you and Theo?”

Theodore Nott was the tallest boy in their year. He had toffee-brown hair and blue eyes. At times, he had such a thick accent that only his fellow Scottish folk – the likes of Goyle and McGonagall - could fully understand what he was saying. Many were also perplexed by his Slytherin status because he had a reputation for sleeping in on school days, a habit that didn't really scream 'ambition'. When he was awake however, he was always with Blaise. 

Blaise looked away. “No, I just let him follow me around.”

Charming.

Cass turned her thoughts back to the rescue mission.

Would the harp still be playing for Fluffy by the time they got there? Hopefully. What about the sleeping draught she had salvaged from potions? Maybe her best bet was to pour some into Fluffy’s bowl before the dog woke up. Dog? Dogs ? It didn’t matter.

“One second, I’ll be right back.”

Cass jogged up to her dorm to grab it. Turning the handle slowly and slipped inside.

Just as suspected. All of them were asleep.

She shuffled towards her bedside table and slid open the drawer, scared to make any noise, lest they should wake up and snitch on her to save house points. That’s all anyone seemed to care about at Hogwarts.

Then her heart stopped. It was gone.

She checked another drawer.

False alarm. There it was. The little flask.

Someone in the room stirred and a whisper cut through the darkness. “Crouch? Where on earth are you going?”

“Nowhere.” She shut the drawer. “Go back to sleep.”

“You better not be sneaking out again,” Pansy hissed.

“My apologies, Professor Snape.” She had meant it as a joke, but all was quiet once again. Cass  sighed. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon.”

She went back to Blaise with the flask.

“Okay, so remember Dumbledore’s warning at the start of the school year?”

“About the third floor?”

“Exactly,” she said. “Basically, there’s a three-headed dog in one of the rooms.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not kidding. It’s guarding something important. Potter and his gang are trying to get to it and they’re going to get hurt. But it’ll be fine,” she held up the small flask, “because we have this.”

The boy examined it carefully. “Ah... I get it. You’re going to poison it like you tried to poison me.”

“Okay, firstly, I didn’t try to poison you, so stop telling everyone that. Secondly, this is the Draught of Living Death.”

“Right. I’m not even going to ask where you got that from, but say you’re not lying-”

“I’m not.”

“-And Dumbledore really allowed a three-headed dog into the school, then you better use all of it. I’m not going into the room until it’s asleep.”

“What if it isn’t asleep? Won’t you help?”

“Your problem.”

Right. Of course.

She looked at him suspiciously. “How come you’re not telling me to get a teacher?”

“Are you kidding? If we save three students from Dumbledore’s favourite house, they’d sing our names through the halls! We’d get medals, maybe even interviews for the Daily Prophet.”

“Didn’t realise you cared about fame.”

He shrugged. “I care about impressing people. You can get away with more if people think well of you.”

A voice startled them both. “What are you two still doing up?”

No, no, no!

It was Marcus in his dressing gown and slippers.

“You should both be in your dorms.” He strode across the Common Room, a stern expression etched into his face. He looked at the pair, then at what Cass was holding, snatching the flask away from her before she could react. “What’s this?”

“Nothing.”

“I’m not an idiot, Crouch. Mysterious liquid in a mysterious opaque flask? You think I don’t know firewhiskey when I see it? Hmm?”

“That’s exactly what I think,” she said, trying to stop any traces of panic from clouding her voice.

Draco was suddenly standing in the Common Room, leaning against a column like a dickhead, incredibly smug. “You an alcoholic, Crouch? Would explain a lot."

Cass grit her teeth. "Shut it, pest."

"Go on! Try it then, Flint. See if she’s lying. She tends to do that, you know.”

“Back to bed, Malfoy!” Marcus sighed, but then he slowly brought the flask to his lips.

The equation was simple. Fluffy was massive. Marcus wasn’t. Who knew what would happen if he drank some? This wasn’t worth dying over.

“No, don’t!”

His hand stilled.

“You caught me,” she said, turning to Draco, who hadn’t budged. “You happy?”

“Very.”

“Well then,” said Marcus. “Consider this confiscated.”

Flint downed the contents with a large gulp.

Blaise side-eyed her.

 “Gaw! That’s disgusting! Who’d you buy this rubbish off of? Hate to break it to you, Cass, but you’ve been ripped off! Swindled!” lectured Marcus, before his knees buckled. The fifth-year collapsed to the floor and Cass was disappointed to find that her first thought concerned whether anyone had heard the thud rather than if he was okay or not.

“What the hell did you do to him?” Draco gasped.

She stood over Marcus, pulling her wand out of her robes. “Quick! Which spell do I use?”

“Magic doesn’t fix death!” Draco squawked.

“It doesn’t!?”

She knew that, but the fool had let herself hope. Everything seemed so real, as much as she wanted to deny it. The exhaustion, the constant fear of going to bed and not waking up back where she belonged. Her eyes glued to her mentor's pale face.

Blaise shoved himself between the two of them. “He’s not dead, you imbeciles. Look! He’s breathing.”

“Oh, thank Salazaar,” Draco wheezed, clutching his heart.

She glared at him. “Yeah, thanks a lot, Malfoy. You’ve just made my night way longer than it needed to be.”

“Oh, of course, my pleasure ! As if ruining your evenings is my sole purpose in life! Get a grip, Crouch!”

“Help us then!”

“I don’t have to do anything. This is all your fault.”

“My fault? You’re the one who told him to drink a sleeping draught! He could sleep through the whole of summer for all we know!”

“Where’d you get a sleeping draught from, you psycho?”

“Found it.”

He scoffed. “You found it?”

“Yeah.”

Draco’s hands clawed at his face in annoyance. “Well, Blaise, you’re the potions expert.”

Ah yes. Morgan Zabini runs the Pureblood Apothecary.

“Draco, you're helping us fix this,” ordered Blaise.

“Me!?” he said, as if it was the most outrageous idea to have ever been uttered.

“Yes. You. Flint just needs an invigoration potion to reverse the effects. Plain and simple.”

“Okay, where do we get that from?” asked Cass, but then she groaned, because she already knew the answer. “Snape’s stash? No! Come on, there has to be something else.”

Draco gave her an unsavoury look. “WELL, WHERE ELSE-”

“-Shhh! You’re going to wake everyone up!” She picked up Marcus’ legs, planning to heave him to the darkest corner of the Common Room where he wouldn’t be tripped over and discovered.

“Where else,” Draco continued, “are you going to find potions? Oh, unless you find it. What a miracle that would be.”

She almost dropped Marcus’ leg. He was so heavy. “I didn’t find it randomly; I took it from the potions classroom.”

“What for?”

“That’s on a need-to-know basis.”

“Does Blaise know?”

“Yes.”

“Well I’m not helping you until you tell me.”

“You promise?”

“Yes…”

“Mmm. Very convincing.”

“I’m a Malfoy. We always keep our word.”

“Fine,” she said. “There’s a three-headed dog in the castle. I need it to take a nap while I go after Quirrell who is actually also Voldemort… sort of..”

Blaise picked up Marcus’ other leg. “Woah woah woah! She didn’t tell me that part.”

Draco burst into a fit of laughter. No, not laughter. That was too tame. Cackling.

“Shut up! They’ll hear you.”

He laughed louder until he was out of breath.

“I’m being serious!” she insisted.

“No, delusional is what you’re being. Insanity doesn’t just run in your family; it practically gallops!”

Once they had stuffed Marcus in the corner, she levitated a blanket over his sleeping form. Hopefully no one would find him by the time they got back. “Fine. Stay here for all I care. Come on, Blaise.”

“You don't even understand what you speak of. If the Dark Lord has somehow returned – which is utterly ridiculous - he wouldn’t have come here! Here of all places! I mean, next you’re going to tell me he’s offered me a sausage roll at lunch.”

“Well he might if we don’t stop him.”

Blaise cut in. “You’re not very charismatic, just let me do the talking.”

She glared at him too, but let him have a go. Draco could talk for all of England. If anyone had a chance at shutting him up, it was Blaise.

 “Look,” he said, “delusions aside, if you don’t help us fix Flint we’re both going to Snape to tell him it was you.”

Cass was pleased to see that Draco Malfoy looked like the embodiment of the word ‘flabbergasted’.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he said.

“It’s two against one. And unlike you Malfoys, a Zabini never breaks a promise.”

All this pureblood talk was rather tiresome, Draco picked his ego off the floor and forced a laugh. “Geez! I was only joking. No need to get your knickers in a twist. Are we going or what?” He swaggered towards the entrance.

She smiled at Blaise, trying to send the message that she was grateful. He nodded back.

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

Not a single soul haunted those hallowed halls.

On the other hand, the very taken souls of Lord Drabden and Iris Pius were there, but the lovers were far too busy gazing into each other’s metaphysical eyes. They did not see them, nor did they hear them on account of Lord Drabden’s dreadfully loud ballad.

The stench hit them as soon as they passed through the wall, but they were still uplifted by the fact that the Potions classrooms were so close by. If they were Ravenclaws, they would have had to pass floor after floor of portraits. There were no portraits in the dungeon to raise any alarm.

At the back of a brewing classroom was the cupboard, but the door was locked, even after she pointed her wand at the keyhole and whispered “alohomora” as convincingly as she could. She thought it was probably warded.

Draco folded his arms. “It’s probably warded. Professor Snape’s not stupid.”

Yes, thank you, Draco. Very helpful.  “There’s only one thing for it then.”

“We confess our crimes to an adult?” he said hopefully.

“What? No. We break the door down.”

“Merlin’s beard! Move!” Blaise shoved them both aside and took something shiny out of his pocket. Tools.

He picked the lock in under a minute.

Cass and Draco stared at him.

“Come on then! In you both yet!”

‘Speechless’ didn’t even begin to cover it. She couldn’t think of anything to say other than ‘that’s not normal’, so decided against saying anything at all.

Draco clapped him on the back. “Is there anything you can’t do, Zabini? Right. I’ll wait here. Keep watch.”

She didn’t like the sound of that. Draco made a career out of being the biggest snitch. That was probably why he wanted to be a seeker so much. That way he would be chasing something he desperately related to.

“No. You’re with me. Blaise can keep watch.”

Cass would keep watch on Draco. She liked him where she could see him.

Malfoy shrugged.

The inside of the storeroom was massive. There were racks and racks of shelves, each housing rows of glowing potions and ingredients. Cases of grey powders. Strange things bobbing around in jars. She could have sworn that something wriggled to her left.

Thankfully, every potion was labelled, but it would have been even easier if the potions were not mingled with ingredients. Knowing Snape, she would have expected the shelves to have been organised meticulously, perhaps alphabetically, but alas.

“Let’s start on the right.”

Wands glowing, they scoured each shelf, Draco complaining the whole time obviously. If she didn’t know better, she would have guessed he had some anxiety about rule-breaking when said rule-breaking was not his idea in the first place.

Stealing Neville’s Remembrall and taking into the air was one thing, breaking and entering in the dead of night was another.

Draco Malfoy was no Gryffindor. He was nowhere near as brave as Hermione or Ron or Harry, but he would have to do. For now, at least.

They were into the third rack, near the back of the storeroom, when they found the Invigoration Draught. It was on the top shelf, each glass bottle strapped to the shelf with a metal chain.

It was the same orange that Blaise had described on the way, but what they hadn’t expected was for it to glow when they came near. The liquid inside the glass swayed more and more violently, tugging on the chains until it burst with energy, darting around the container as if it was itching for them to pop open the corks.

Cass used a shaky wooden stool to reach. One quick Emancipare incantation and she’d have it.

The door squeaked open and then footsteps echoed on the wooden floor, too heavy to have been Blaise’s.

Cass got down and ducked behind a rack with Draco who looked ready to faint.

As the fluorescence of the potions simmered down, so did the squeaks of the rickety shelf hinges.

She clamped a hand over Draco’s mouth just to be safe.

“Show yourselves,” came Snape’s dreaded voice, “and this will be painless.”

Chapter Text

First Year - Chapter Eight

In her heart, she knew Snape was being unnecessarily dramatic, but then again, who really understood what went on inside that head?

 She had stitched this plan herself – was still stitching it. The lining, the corners, made from all the little scraps of fabric she could find. Mismatched. Probably too mismatched.

You don’t know how quickly everything can fall apart… until it does, and the thread had fallen off her needle ten rows ago.

It hurt to be so wrong about something that was hers.

It was like the room had gotten colder, but that was nonsense. It was exactly the same as before. Her breath was visible. Draco’s too.

He was glaring at her, probably debating whether or not to bite the hand that covered his mouth. If whatever he was feeling at the moment shared some resemblance to ‘betrayal’, then she could relate.

Why hadn’t Blaise warned them? What had gone wrong?

Draco wouldn’t stop thrashing around, scratching at her hand until his nails drew blood. Cass let go, pushed the Slytherin into the wall and shushed him.

Snape called out again, “continue to lurk like rats and I promise this will Not. End. Well.”

She scanned the darkness for an illuminated wand. Nothing. Then the other side of the rack began to glow a faint orange, which meant he was getting closer. He didn’t need light to navigate.

“If we’re caught, I’ll have my parents sue you”, Draco whispered. “Actually why bother? Your father’s government salary wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“You have until the count of three.”

Draco’s eyes widened. “Get us out of this or I’m telling him you kidnapped me!”

So, Cass pointed to the squeezable gap between the racks. They could evade Snape altogether by going contrapuntal to his direction.

Unsurprisingly, Draco took the lead.

He was alert, yet graceful in his movements, like a fox burrowing under the chicken wire fence while hunting dogs nipped at its tail. Yet, Draco Malfoy would have turned up his nose at being compared to such a creature. Foxes were ginger. Weasleys were ginger.

They passed through the gap with ease.

“One.”

Maybe Blaise hadn’t been caught. Maybe they could still make it to Marcus, then to the third floor after. They would walk through that door and see him hiding behind a tapestry or something, and everything would be absolutely fine.

“Two.”

Nah. Fuck that. Only one of them could make it.

She hit Draco with a jelly-legs jinx, because anything can be justified if you try hard enough. This, she told herself, was payback for Neville, for ruining tonight, for being a prat, for being stupid enough to threaten her and then turn his back to her, as if that hadn’t been what she was waiting for him to do this whole time.

“WHAT THE HELL D’YOU DO THAT FOR!?”

Realistically, what punishment would Malfoy get? His father was on the committee as he liked to remind everyone. He would be fine.

Cass snagged the Invigoration Draught, reigniting the glow, then bolted out of the storeroom, hoping Draco’s string of profanities distracted Snape well enough.

Blaise was not waiting outside. That meant she couldn’t give the draught to him as planned.

At first, she directed towards the third floor, but then she slowed and turned back to the Common Room with a cry of frustration, because Marcus was good to her. And as much as Cass wanted to believe that she was some sort of ‘victim of fate’ and that the Slytherins were as bad as they were written to be, she found that she liked Marcus and would much prefer it if he lived.

She looked behind her shoulder to check that Snape wasn’t following, before turning the corner and knocking poor Professor Flitwick to the floor.

Glass

     smashed

            everywhere.

“Professor!”

It was beyond mortifying.

Flitwick got up, entirely ignoring her offered hand and brushed himself off. “Miss Crouch, I am at a loss for words!”

They watched as the draught hissed on the cobbles, flooding in the lines between the stones and gauging thicker divots still. A plan gone to shambles.

Despite being at a loss for words, Flitwick yelled at her for the next five minutes. The Charms teacher had pipes for days, contrary to what his height and usual temperance suggested. She half-expected the whole school to hear, perhaps even the villagers beyond the castle ground.

Flitwick had been with Professor Snape when the wards she hadn’t known existed had been tripped.

She had just given Draco up for nothing.

Cass would have hung her head, too overwhelmed to even consider running again, but there was the urgency of the matter, so instead, she waited as patiently as she could for the three-foot-six wizard to finish, panic clear in her wide eyes.

It wasn’t long before Snape appeared, yanking Blaise and a miserable Malfoy by the hood of their robes. They struggled to keep up with his long strides. “You daft girl! What have you done!?”

Apparently it was his turn to yell.

“Professor, just listen! Marcus needs help!”

“Don’t you think I know that already? Zabini told me everything.”

So that’s why they hadn’t had a warning.

“You poison a student and steal from me? Are you trying to give those Weasley twins a run for their money?”

“What money?” Draco scoffed.

Snape’s eyes burned with fury. “Silence!”

“Sir, is Dumbledore back yet? What about the third floor?”

“What about it?” He was practically spitting his words out now.

It was too late into the night. Why wasn’t he yet aware of the imminent danger?

For what seemed a rare occasion, Cass actually thought before she spoke. The professors couldn’t find out she knew about the stone, because that would just give way to further over-complications.

She did what she always should have done; lied better. “Quirrell lured three students into that death trap you call ‘the third floor’!”

Draco groaned. “With all due respect, professors, she’s not right in the head. She has this delusion that the Dark Lord is working with Professor Quirrell!”

“It’s true!” she insisted. “Harry said he’s after whatever’s on the third floor. It’s out-of-bounds for a reason, right?”

The look of sickness on Snape’s face said it all. His insides were twisting, because he knew she was telling the truth… or truth-adjacent at least.

He shared a look with Flitwick, a silent agreement passing between them.

“I’ll escort them to my office, Severus,” said Flitwick. “And they will remain there until you return.”

Snape nodded to him and took off down the corridor.

The rest of the night happened so fast.

Malfoy sat on Flitwick’s desk, mouth curled in disgust as he watched Cass exist. Blaise wouldn’t talk to her. He wouldn’t talk to Draco either, but it was not like he could while the Professor was there, lecturing them still.

After an age, Snape returned for them, looking a little less pissed off, so she could only assume Harry, Ron and Hermione were alright.

“Twenty points will be deducted from each of you,” Snape reprimanded, “for extremely poor judgement.”

They left Flitwick’s office, returning to the Common Room.

The boy with cropped black hair was perched on the sofa like a guard-dog, but jumped up when he heard them all walk in.

Cass almost cried at the sight of him. “…You’re okay!”

“Barely!” Marcus strode over and looked down at her coldly, hands on hips.

He looked at her. She looked back at him.

He smiled and ruffled her hair fondly, and for a moment, he was her big brother, and everything was absolutely fine. “Glad you’re okay too.” His voice was softer than usual. She didn’t understand. When had they both started caring?

Cass wanted to hug him, but refrained in case that was crossing a line, or his forgiveness wasn’t real and he tried to hex her in revenge.

“Professor Snape filled me in. I’m flattered that you would steal for me, Crouch.” There was a similar playfulness to his tone as when he teased Oliver Wood on the Quidditch pitch.

Snape shot him a death-stare.

“Course it was still very stupid!” he added.

Marcus didn’t seem upset though. Perhaps that had something to do with the fact that Snape had just given him sixty points for his troubles, or maybe he had entered some sort of manic state, confusing murderous intent with elation. It was more likely however, that the Invigoration Draught had just given him an extra kick energy-wise.

“Enough talk, Flint!” Snape ordered. “Let her stew in her shame a while longer.”

Marcus went to his dorm, leaving the three of them alone with the Potions-master.

“If it were up to me, all three of you would be expelled. I hope tonight has taught you a valuable lesson.”

They each nodded.

“Now get out of my sight! I have three hundred sad attempts at an essay which require marking, one of them I distinctly remember to be yours, Crouch. If I see you three gallivanting anywhere, and I mean anywhere, outside the Great Hall, from now until the holidays, you will wish you were never born. Understood?”

It seemed an impractical demand, but Cass was certain that seeing less of Snape’s face was more of a blessing than a curse. She’d happily avoid him like the plague if that’s what he wished.

“Yes, Professor,” they said.

“Good. Get to bed.”

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

“Another year gone! And I must trouble you with an old man’s wheezong waffle before we eat. What a year it has been! Hopefully your heads are all a little fuller than they were…”

Cass was honestly in no mood to listen to Dumbledore.

Between packing her trunk and suppressing the urge to send Harry a ‘get-well-soon’ card, she hadn’t much attention left to spare.

And then there was Tracey who had demanded a play-by-play of all that had happened that night. The other girls had been equally as interested, sitting up on their elbows, as soon as she had returned to the dorm.

They were gutted upon learning that points had been lost, but then she explained that Snape had balanced it out by giving Marcus a whopping SIXTY just for sleeping the entire time, and they calmed right back down again.

At the part where Cass jinxed Draco, Pansy laughed so hard she fell off the bed.

It should have made her feel better but it didn’t. Not with Draco scowling at her across the table every day since.

“Et tu, Brute?” he quipped with utter disregard for the end-of-year speech Dumbledore was currently delivering.  

Cass ignored him.

“That means yerrah traitah, traitah.” Bless Goyle and his Scottish accent.

Cass said nothing,

Crabbe joined in. “Can’t ignore ‘im foreva.”

It was sort of ironic; Crabbe loved to remind everyone of his half-French, half-Malaysian heritage, and he had as much right to talk about it as the next, but all anyone heard was a strong Londoner's accent.

Dumbledore sat back down again.

The food appeared and she looked at Draco finally, trying to keep her voice low. “You’re acting all high and mighty, Malfoy, but if you hadn’t ruined my plan in the first place, we’d have been fine. You guys literally would have done the same thing in my position.”

Blaise cringed. “Well, yeah, ‘cos Draco’s a knob.”

Draco spluttered.

“But you’re wrong,” he continued. “Of course we’d’ve done the same thing, but not to our own. That’s a Slytherin value, but you’re still upset about that, aren’t you? Which is absolutely mad considering the rest of your family were proud to be in this house - I mean, my mum was even friends with your loony brother.”

“Seems Pansy was right, you are delusional. Do you even know his name – his first name?” Draco pointed to Goyle with his fork. “You’ve had a full year to learn it. Go on. Tell me and I’ll apologise.”

Damn. Mind went blank.

“Um.”

Oh! How she felt silly! Several valid statements were being made.

Draco made a wild gesture towards her, absolutely livid. “Point proven!”

That wasn’t really fair when surnames were used more often than not. In the house of the serpent, first names were earned. It was a world of formality, a world of full of nobility, hierarchy and strategic alliances-

Oh.

They were earned.

“Well don’t think for a second that you get to reject us,” Blaise added. “We reject you. You’re not one of us.”

It stung. When, oh when did she start caring? Of course, she couldn’t let them know that she did. The words tumbled out before she could stop them. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me, Zabini.”

“Oh my giddy aunt! Get. Over. Yourself,” said Draco. “Ugh! Can’t believe we’re related. Like excuse me for saying this, but you need professional help.”

Quiet. Quiet. Quiet. Blank. The train was off its tracks. The tracks were gone. What tracks were we just talking about?

And then everything went into high speed again. So, instead of screaming “EX-FUCKING-SCUSE ME?” at him like a maniac, she made a mental note to actually look at the family tree when she could, because since when were they related? Since when?

All she knew was that she regretted everything, and she had this sinking feeling that she might not be allowed back in the Autumn term, especially when Draco started throwing Every Flavour Beans at her from across the table, mostly when Snape wasn’t looking, but one time, he clearly did and even did the unthinkable, the impossible – he smiled.

There was so much to love about Hogwarts; the Tuesday mornings when she would top her pancakes with blackberries and whipped cream; Myrtle’s angry rants after Hermione interrupted her solo performance one time; hearing the Hogwarts choir rehearse on the walk to the library; when the moving staircases helped you get to class faster; that time Marcus had led her foundation Flying class instead of Madame Hooch and Millicent had ended up in a tree.

Magic, of course.

This was her world now. Clearly, she wasn’t going to switch back any time soon.

She sank back and watched the members of Slytherin cheer at their victory of the House Cup for what was apparently the seventh year straight, whooping and clapping and grinning.

“Yes, yes, well done, Slytherin,” said Dumbledore dismissively, and the smiles faded a little. “However, recent events must be taken into account…”

The headmaster distributed last minute points to Harry, Ron, Hermione and Neville, something that was totally unexpected and not at all what Cass thought would happen. 

But it wasn’t just her that expected it. Everyone knew. Everyone knew gold was better than silver. Crimson bloomed from the corners of the green banners and spread until it was covered entirely, and suddenly, red was the most blinding colour she had ever seen. Because it was warm. Because it was not for her. Because it was unfair. She hated that she still cared so much, but what she hated even more than being wrong was being confused.

Why hadn’t the hat listened to her in the first place? She thought it was supposed to take requests. Those were the rules.

The more she thought about it, the more there was… wrong.

Gryffindor did deserve the house cup. That was undeniable. Actually, fifty points awarded to Harry was daylight robbery! Potter just saved countless lives by prolonging Voldemort’s return. Merlin, he literally killed his teacher for it! And all he got was a meagre fifty points? Catching the golden–bloody–snitch was worth three times as much. What rules did this world play by really? Why did the game keep changing?

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

The saunter down to Hogsmeade station was cheerful. They passed the giant squid, who was bobbing on the surface of the lake, lazily sunbathing, and cut through the village.

At one point, Fred and George ran into Honeydukes and bought half the shop in under a minute with their combined earnings from three terms of sweepstakes won from whoever dared bet against the twins.

Neville didn’t run screaming in the opposite direction when she stood within a ten-step radius, which she counted as progress.

The tragedy of the Longbottoms.

Cass was prepared to wait for as long as he needed until he was ready to talk to her properly, even if that moment never came.

Professor Sinistra, the Astronomy teacher, stood on the platform, taking a final register. Beside her, Hagrid dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief in reference to the first years, levitating their heavier trunks into the hold – (“They grow up SO fast!”)

Settled in, the train chugged along the tracks, closed in on all sides by the rolling green hills where sheep came to graze.

Wishing Myrtle were alive, Cass sat in a carriage alone.

Marcus opened the carriage door and handed her a piece of paper. “Okay, clearly you have no friends, so send me an owl before you do something reckless, yeah? Or, you know, if you want to talk or whatever.”

She gave a small smile. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, well don’t expect quick replies, my cousin’s visiting. He’s Chaser for the Bigonville Bombers. Gonna be training me all Summer. You interested in Quidditch?”

She shrugged. “Who isn’t?”

“That’s what I like to hear! Hope to see you at try-outs next year then. Higgs is leaving next year, so we need a new seeker.”

Before he could leave, Cass called out to him. “Wait! I just wanted to say I’m sorry. For everything. It reflected badly on you. I let you down and... well, it won’t happen again.”

“I don’t mind the mischief, as long as you direct it into something good. Like helping me beat those damn Gryffindors. They need to be kept in check, you know? Wood especially! He’s been a right smug bastard since the feast.”

“Worse than Draco?”

Marcus laughed. “Now what did we say about friendly fire?”

“Sorry, it just slipped out.”

“You’ll have more luck with friends next year. They just need a nice long break to forget how annoying you were.”

That was… backhanded.

He went back to his carriage.

Cass watched the fluffy trees of the countryside slowly disappear as urban towns passed the windows.

Marcus was right. This was just a bad beginning. Next year was a clean slate. If being nice to the Slytherins somehow didn’t win them over, she was sure she could make some nice friends in Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw.

She thought it was probably best to leave Gryffindor alone. It only made her sad and she needed to get over it, but that’s what the summer was for, alongside completing the near-infinite homework assignments.

Her stomach growled.

The trolley lady had passed her twice, but since the first day, she hadn’t a single coin. Her next meal would be at home.

Home. A strange word in a strange place like this.

Yet, she couldn’t assume the worst. She refused to make the same mistake twice.

Left to her own devices, Cass reflected on her mistakes and whether it was possible to feel sympathy for someone like Draco. Poor soul, his two best friends aren’t intelligent enough to hold a conversation with his esteemed father. Must be hard.

Then she thought about Pansy and playing chess with Ron and reading with Blaise. He was only in the next carriage and she missed him already.

Eventually, the train rolled to stop at King’s Cross with a great hiss of steam. She collected her things and stepped onto Platform Nine and Three Quarters where a man was waiting by the newsstand, a black umbrella by his hip.

He had unnatural silver hair and a narrow toothbrush moustache and looked exceedingly drab. In the dwindling evening light, taking on a skull-like appearance, but the way his posture eased ever so slightly when he locked eyes on her suggested he was none other than Bartemius Crouch… Senior.

The man was frowning and kept checking his watch as she made her way over, lugging her suitcase behind, which gave her the sense that he didn’t want to be there at all.

Still, she hurried over, gave a polite “hello” and they began to walk at a brisk pace. He nodded as a greeting, then commented on her excellent grade in Charms which shooed away most of her nerves.

But then too much of the talk was about grades; Dumbledore, the madman, had respected the scores Quirrell had given his students in the end of year exam. Apparently, Professor Quirrell had been petty enough to give her a D for ‘Dreadful’ before he was incinerated by Harry, so that was her final result.

After a brief lecture, Senior steered it towards work-related things that she didn’t understand, until they went through the wall in silence, the conversation already spent, and Cass found herself losing that sliver of happiness and thought about turning back and hiding on the train until the summer was over.

“I’m in Slytherin. You know… in case you were wondering.”

“Oh… great.” It didn’t sound great.

From what she had gathered from Professor Binn’s fleeting memory, Senior had been in Slytherin just like the majority of his ancestors, something that he was rather sorrowful about, convinced that such intellect belonged in Ravenclaw. Perhaps it was his famous abhorrence for death eaters, and more specifically, his son, that had left such bad taste in his mouth.

Mrs Crouch, on the other hand, was much more of a mystery. Anyone old enough to remember her didn’t like to talk about her, not that Cass had been very invested. She was a secondary character, or maybe even tertiary and Cass didn’t know where she was, because she wasn’t on the platform.

She was going to ask him why he never sent her a birthday card. It might have seemed a silly thing to think about, but it sparked all sorts of questions. If her birthday was not in November, when did he think it was? And when was it actually?

Waiting was the best option. To see if Senior was trustworthy, or better yet, to wait for him to say something that made all of this make sense.

Until she figured out what she was doing in the world of Harry Potter, she couldn’t go telling everyone and their aunt that she had lost memories. Memories that weren’t hers in the first place, because Cassandra Crouch shouldn’t exist.

Up ahead were the Weasley family, smiles all around.

Percy was waving goodbye to Penelope Clearwater, a Ravenclaw with long curly blonde hair and a pretty blush. Molly Weasley was crushing Ron with a hug and fussing all over him. She straightened his tie, which made Ron go bright red as Harry and Hermione were watching. Ginny was begging Fred and George to share their mountain of sweets with her, and they dangled a pack of exploding bonbons just out of her reach, which got them a light telling-off from Arthur.

Cass looked down at her shoes as they passed, and a heavy weight settled over her chest.

And then there was Neville, and his gran in a massive green hat that made the muggles stare. Instead of tipping his hat with a mixture of respect and guilt, Crouch grabbed Cass’ shoulders and directed her in the opposite direction as Augusta Longbottom gave them a wicked stare, jaw set tight.

It couldn’t end like this. This couldn’t be it.

If she was well and truly stuck here, then several things would have to change. Her approach, her priorities, how scared she was. There could be no more of that.

She turned her mind to next year, a second chance, an opportunity. Luna and Ginny would join the school. Everything would get better. Everyone would forget the things she said and the things she did if she just hoped hard enough. Wanted it enough.

Go big or go home. And Cass had no home. Not really. So, she’d have to go big. She’d have to go fucking massive.

Then there was Blaise and his ethereal mother and oh no. He had seen her looking. He waved.

He waved.

It was more than she deserved, for now at least; she would make it up to him next year.

Cass waved back and everything was going to be alright.

Chapter Text

Cassandra Crouch and The Great Big Worm

Summer of 1992

The Crouch estate was situated in Runswick, a coastal village with weather unbefitting of summer. Constant rain and fog lent the area a strange hue, as if the climate had adopted Senior’s colour palette rather than the other way around. Black cliffs, brown sand, grey foamy waves.

A mossy wall encircled the manor house with its faded red roof, metal windows and stone bricks with the motto carved above the door:

Cras es noster. Tomorrow, be ours.

Senior took the platitude to heart.

He kept the place out of a sense of duty to his childhood home, but London was where his mind lived. Some nights, London was the mistress he skulked off to see. A man of the future, innovation and order; he looked not only at what could be done, but how it could be done.

Half the manor’s furniture was covered with white sheets as Mr Crouch didn’t spend enough of his time at home to really use it. Cass didn’t understand the point of being rich if you didn’t use the things you had. For instance, the ivy-damage to the north wall definitely broke several safety standards, but the man had no intention of fixing it, as if the collapse of the house was an inevitable fact rather than a problem.

Things kept going missing in the house, like jam. That he considered a problem, and Cass was blamed without proof.

She didn’t even like jam. It was Senior who liked Jam, who spread it on his toast every breakfast like clockwork, then dipped it in his milky tea.

She had to relearn what tasted good during the breakfasts, lunches and dinners at Hogwarts by trying everything once. One morning, Tracey had told her that combining jam with a whole lot of butter was the way to go, but it just felt even more off. Butter by itself, on the other hand, was heaven-sent.

And then there she was, sitting at the table — the only furniture that wasn’t covered — asking him questions, gushing excitedly about Hogwarts, because of course she would. Castles and spells and common room debates on ‘which dragon would hypothetically win in a fight’ were all things she would probably never get used to.

And she missed it already.

“Are you going to talk the entire time?” he grumbled from behind his newspaper, and Cass went quiet again.

It wasn’t all bad.

She could get away with things while he was away on Ministry business, like snooping around upstairs. The only soul who disapproved of such ventures was the house-elf she had discovered the first time she wandered into the attic – Junior’s old room, where the floorboards creaked under every light step and the lock on the outside of the door almost allowed Cass to dismiss it as a broom cupboard.

She tried not to think about why the lock was on the outside.

Needless to say, there was nothing within the room that indicated the child who had grown up there would turn out to be a war criminal. Actually, it looked normal besides the ceiling, which had the same open-sky bewitchment the Great Hall did. Cass guessed that Senior wanted to preserve the memory of the son he remembered, or a version of the son he loved.

Beside the bookshelf was a full-sized bed with perfectly fluffed pillows. Posters of ‘The Clabbert Kings’, ‘Sham 69’ and ‘Demeter's Sweaty Pits’ were plastered across the walls and slanted ceiling; she had no idea which were muggle bands and which were wizard ones as all were dressed extravagantly.

And then there was a tea-towel-wearing timid little being with brown tennis ball eyes and a squashed nose who was dusting away at the trophy shelf.

“Dobby? What are you doing here?” asked Cass.

The house-elf dropped the feather duster. “Is the young Miss not feeling well? I is Winky.”

“No matter,” she said rather hurriedly, certain she heard the front door shut downstairs, which was either caused by the wind or - more likely – Senior’s premature return. She rolled the sock off her foot. “Here! Take this.”

Winky jumped away from her. “I wouldn’t dare!”

“I’m freeing you. Take it!”

“I has been serving the noble Crouch family for years. I is loyal until the end. Winky would rather die than be without a home.”

“Clearly, you’ve been brainwashed. Pick up the damn sock!” She thought that maybe ordering it would help in case Winky thought she was telling a very cruel joke.

“No! Nooo! Maaaaster Crouchhhh!”

“Shhhh! Okay! Okay, forget it! I’m sorry.”

The house-elf ran forward and sobbed into Cass’ knee. “Is…” she sniffed, “is Winky’s quality of service not up to par these days, Miss?”

“It’s fine.”

“Is Winky to be out of house and home?”

Cass shook her head. “No, you’re fine. I’m sorry. Forget I said anything.”

She listened for any more sounds that came from downstairs, but heard nothing, so went back to looking around the room, a pair of watery eyes following her every move, as if she might break something.

She found his clothes in the wardrobe; shirts and jumpers that moths — or nargles, she thought with a wry smile — had chewed out. Beneath the bed was a latched box of records, but none of them matched the posters. Instead, they were the jazz suites of Shostakovich and the symphonies of Greig, Dvořák and Smetana.  

Preserved, yes, but in a kind of artificial way.

It should have been messy. That’s how she’d seen him anyway — not that she knew him really — intelligent and angry and messy. She expected a cluttered desk and piles of clothes on the floor. Not whatever this was.

How long had it been kept like this?

She supposed the answer to that could be measured in grief. Specifically Senior’s.

Would it have been better or worse to see the room as it had really been, when his son had slept in that bed, read from that bookshelf, studied at that desk? If she could just see him as a regular boy for a second, then maybe the way her stomach dropped every time she thought about meeting him would finally go away.

Yes, somehow this was worse.

How far apart were they in age?

She went over to his shelf of achievements to look at the dates. Arithmancy Champion 1977. Charms 1979. There was even a gold one for D.A.D.A. with a mini-figure in a duelling stance, which begged the question: what wasn’t he good at?

She didn’t have time to find out, whipping around when the floorboards creaked so loudly she knew it couldn’t be Winky, who hadn’t really moved.

“What the devil are you doing in here?” asked Crouch, before crossing the room and snatching the trophy out of her hands, putting it back in the exact same place she had taken it from. “You know very well you’re not allowed!”

“How did you get back from the Ministry so fast?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“No, really?”

He rubbed his eyes in frustration. “The way I always do, Cassandra. Floo powder!”

Shrugging off how strange it felt to be referred to by her first name, her mind returned to the real issue. Why had she heard the front door close downstairs if he had come through the fireplace? Unless there was another house-elf she hadn’t met yet, that made no sense.

“What’s wrong with you?”

She blinked. She had been having a tough time adjusting, sure, but was her behaviour that strange to him? How did he expect her to behave?

She just left the room instead of replying.

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

One of the worst things about being a Crouch was being connected to the Malfoys. They shared the ancestry of Phineas Nigellus Black, an old Headmaster of Hogwarts and, apparently, that was reason enough to invite them to an elaborate dinner on July 10^th.

Cass had hoped that her first outing to London would be exciting. Instead, it was just to join her sort-of-father at Crouch End, an empty street crowded with dimly lit houses.

Unlike the Runswick house, the interior was lavishly decorated. A blazing fireplace and a piano in the living room, velvet sofas and lounge chairs, marble staircases and chandeliers that glittered like diamonds in every room.

So, this is where Senior puts all his effort.

Even the portraits were on display, though the likes of Faunus Crouch and Charis Crouch did nothing but look cross and mutter something that Cass couldn't quite catch. She had hoped that there would be friendlier paintings from her "mother's" side, except there were none of those.

The Malfoys were a vision of bourgeois respectability, but dinner wasn’t the only thing they were ravenous for.

Narcissa Malfoy spun her ring around her finger methodically as her eyes tore apart each room they entered. Her black evening dress was high-neck and backless, the fur that was draped over her shoulders made no attempt at hiding her cascading blonde hair.

Lucius Malfoy II, with his freakishly tall stature, was striking rather than stunning, and when offered a believable smile and a gloved hand for Cass to shake, she knew he would always be a better politician than Crouch. Because he was a charmer. Because he was in another man’s home and still in charge, which was exactly what the host wanted him to think.

She accepted the handshake, partly out of politeness and partly because Senior had already threatened her. Ironically, he was the only one who looked underdressed with that stupid black suit. He had, however, undone his top button, something that seemed normal but was a monumental step-forward when it came to Senior. He lived in suits.

Tonight had to go perfectly in order for tomorrow to be theirs.

Lucius propped his serpentine cane against his chair and then both Malfoys both made a show of taking to their seats, like a pair of well-dressed wolves. Cass might have been grateful that Draco wasn’t with his parents, but it seemed like he was getting the better deal somehow.

“He’s such a hard worker, trying to make the team this year,” Narcissa explained. “I told him not to go near that tree, I told him, but children don’t really listen to their parents these days, do they?”

Senior hummed in agreement and poured her a glass of red wine.

“Draco flew right into it while practising his dives, poor thing — we’re having the thing uprooted next Tuesday — but he’s really improved his technique this Summer, especially with the coach we hired….”

Cass thought it was rather unfair that the tree was being punished. She looked at Senior who was expertly pretending to be interested and picked at her plate some more. The food somehow tasted worse now that she knew it was Winky who made each and every course.

Narcissa sipped at her wine. “Draco was so chaffed when he found out Potter would be in his year. He really wanted to be his friend, you see. I thought it was a lovely idea.”

“Charity is important,” Senior agreed.

“Mm. Pity he turned out to be a filthy blood-traitor like that renegade father of his,” commented Lucius.

Cass shot him a look. She didn’t know much about James, but she knew he was a good man and would have been an excellent father. The real pity was that James Potter wasn’t alive to defend himself. You're going to lose to lose to Harry Potter's damn sock this year, Lucius, just you wait...

“Lucius.” Narcissa warned.

“Forgive me, Barty. I know you despise blood talk, but it’s always the ones you don’t expect, isn’t it?” He looked at Cass. “You think he would have learned from his father’s mistakes.”

Narcissa smiled reassuringly. “I’m just glad Draco’s meeting the right kind of people.” It took Cass a second to realise Mrs Malfoy was talking about her. “I hear you’re also interested in Quidditch. Draco told me about your first flying lesson.”

“He told you about that?”

         Just drop it, Malfoy.

                            What a splendid idea!

“He talks about you all the time.”

Oh ho ho. Does he now?

She smiled for the first time that evening. It was like Christmas again. Clearly, Mrs Malfoy had probably misinterpreted something Draco had said, but she decided to run with it anyway. “Ah yes, Draco and I, we’re as thick as thieves.”

The ‘thieves’ part was accurate. At least to Snape.

Narcissa nodded and put a hand on Cass’ arm, giving it a light squeeze. “I’m glad he’s making lots of friends. He’s a sensitive soul.”

If by ‘sensitive’ you’re referring to the way he shouts and whines and smacks people over the head when the teacher isn’t looking, then sure.

Mrs Malfoy opened her locket to show Cass a picture of Draco at six or seven years old, dressed in a suit. His hair was in its pre-gel era — a rare sight — fluffy and parted at the side, and on his arm perched an owlet she could only assume was Eurus because of her crazy, wide yellow eyes.

“He’s adorable!” and by that she meant he hadn’t changed a bit. Same slimy, arrogant expression.

Cass multitasked between sifting through embarrassing stories about Draco with his mother and listening to whatever Mr Malfoy and Senior were discussing.

“…See that’s what I like about you, Barty, you’re like me; you stand for family values. It’s what sets us apart from Fudge.”

You could almost smell the honey dripping off his tongue. Lucius knew how to play the game, buttering Senior up with each word in the same way he was buttering the steaming potato on his plate. Each compliment transparent, laughable even. How could Senior be deemed a family man when all his family were gone? All of them, because she didn’t count herself as family.

She’d rather be violently drowned by the giant squid than call him ‘father’ or ‘dad’ or words to that effect.

Lucius cut his roast beef aggressively with his knife and fork. “People will always see you as you are — a pillar of discipline. Your policies have stood the test of time. That counts for something.”

“People,” Senior corrected, “hear my name and think of the trial. They think of the breakout. They think of my son.”

Narcissa started fiddling with her ring again.

Lucius continued, “you do yourself a disservice, my friend. They remember when you locked him away. You made no exceptions for him. It was something they could respect. Something they still do. You’re exactly what the Ministry needs and that’s why Fudge feels threatened.”

She could only sit there and pick at her food and hope, no, pray that Senior saw how slippery Lucius was.

“Fudge has every right to feel that way,” said Mr Crouch. “I want him as paranoid as possible.”

Cass had to admit, they were an unlikely pair; an ex-Death Eater… and a man, who made no effort to hide the fact that he despised Death Eaters with every bone in his body, scheming away at the dinner table.

Lucius smiled. “We’ll all sleep a little better in the end. He was foolish to demote you; so much talent is wasted to jealousy.” He sighed. “But no matter. He will apologise soon enough.”

“Any word on Junior’s whereabouts?” Narcissa chimed in. Clearly, the question had been simmering in her mind for too long to find an appropriate segue.

Senior swirled his wine around in his glass. He had a curt tone. “Left the country. Searching for his master.”

Narcissa and Lucius shared a look that Mr Crouch didn’t quite catch.

“He believes the Dark Lord survived?”

It was likely Lucius thought his wife sounded a bit too eager, so he added, “then he’s madder than I thought,” to sell himself properly.

Mr Malfoy’s glass was knocked over, but not by anything you could see. It just did it by itself. Wine was spilt all down his lap.

“Great sizzling dragon bogies— FUCK!” he yelled, practically leaping from his chair, all niceties stripped away.

“Lucius!” snapped Narcissa.

Was that… me? Was that non-verbal magic? No, no, no. Don’t look at him. Don’t look — Oh my gosh, I’m a genius! — Stop looking! You’re acting suspicious.

“Mad,” said Mr Crouch thoughtfully, then sipped from his own glass. “Yes, Azkaban has that effect on people.” Now Mr Crouch just sounded sad and Cass didn’t really understand why.

Lucius laughed darkly and straightened his collar. “Barty isn’t a person. When he banged on my door in the middle of the night with his band of raving lunatics, there wasn’t a light behind those eyes. I’m just glad Cissy gave me enough wits to turn him down. Best to freeze them out until they have nowhere to run.”

“Yes, how is Andromeda these days?” asked Mr Crouch.

Narcissa’s mouth dropped open a little and Lucius held his gaze, refused to give it up even. “Tonight has been splendid, but it’s getting late.”

“Indeed, it is.”

Damn. He’s going to blame me for how shit it’s going, isn’t he? As soon as they leave.

It was difficult to breathe again. She tried to reassure herself that people would judge Senior if he kicked her out, but then again, if one child had already disgraced him then who would stop him from disowning the other?

Apparently, there was no need to imagine life on the streets, because then Narcissa said, “If we’re here to discuss business we should do it now.”

Wait, what? Haven’t they been talking business this whole time?

The dinner had consisted of the juiciest conversation Cass had ever heard! Unfiltered scheming. Villain scheming, out in the open, completely unsuspecting of her, and all along, they hadn’t even gotten to the meat of things.

Senior’s secrets had secrets.

The adults left Cass alone at the dinner table with a slice of treacle tart that had been baked and served by Winky, but the real dessert of the evening was learning a great many things about Draco Malfoy. Things that would ensure he never breathed near her ever again.

She sat at the table for a good hour.

“D’you want a bit?” She asked Winky.

Winky shook her head.

“You’ve done a lovely job, see for yourself.” Cass held out a spare fork and the house-elf took it reluctantly.

Winky took a bite, chewed and looked a little less miserable a second later. She wished the legendary powers of sugar could cheer up all the miserable sods she knew, and there was a long list of those.

“It’s nice,” said Winky.

“Yeah,” said Cass. “It’s nice.”

Chapter Text

Second Year - Chapter One

The rest of summer passed in a blink.

They had returned to Runswick, the soggy estate where Cass made a habit of lying in bed until she was sure that Senior had finished eating. It was ironic how loudly he chewed for a man who loved the quiet. Both had long since given up in making conversation ever since their last try:

“Why did you ask for Malfoy’s support?”

It was an innocent question really.

He continued flicking through the Daily Prophet. “Why ask for anything? Because I can. BLAST— Winky! How many times do I have to tell you? Lukewarm coffee…!”

“…Isn’t coffee. Sorry, Sir.” She stood on her tiptoes to take the cup away, ears drooping.

“I think he’s using you,” said Cass bitingly.

“And who says I’m not using him?”

“Right,” she sighed. “ ‘Course you are.”

Never mind that he’s a Death Eater… was a Death Eater, she corrected, at least according to the wizarding world.

Senior lowered the newspaper. “Why the sudden interest in him?”

Could ask the same of you.

He leaned in. “Unless… is there something you know that I don’t?”

The fuck does that mean?

“…Something that’s… going to happen?”

Shit.

It was the way he looked at her, like she had finally become interesting, like he had something to do with why she was here, that made her come to a resolution. Deny, deny, deny.

“No, just curious.”

He slumped back, inattention gripping him once again. “Pity.”

Winky returned, holding the new cup of coffee with shaking hands.

 “I suppose you won’t mind going to Diagon Alley with the Malfoys then. Especially since you and Draco are such good friends.” Senior picked up a yellowish letter from the pile on the table and tossed it to Cass.

It was her (unofficial) first Hogwarts letter.

Inside was the supply list for second-years, consisting of several books written by Gilderoy Lockhart, prescribed by Gilderoy Lockhart, and, funnily enough, ‘Travels with Trolls’ perfectly summarised what shopping with Draco and his father would look like.

“Right. Well, actually I was going to meet my other friend there.”

“What friend?”

“Ah. She’s… a Hufflepuff. You probably haven’t heard of her. Muggle parents and all that.”

“You’ll have to cancel that. I already told Lucius you were going with him.”

Oh. Great.

“Can I get an owl?”

Senior raised an eyebrow.

“Draco gets an owl,” she shrugged.

“And anything else he asks for, I presume.” Well the man wasn’t wrong about that, but that didn’t justify his  snappy tone. “You can have one when you’re older.”

‘Older’ was a vague and empty promise, but one she had been expecting. One she allowed herself to hold on to.

Everything about Barty Crouch Senior was as hollowed out as a jack-o-lantern. The way he spoke. The way he looked through people. The way she had never seen him with his tie loose or, heaven forbid, a button undone. He was the perfect machine.

She chalked it up to having had a weirdo for a son, but perhaps it also had something to do with whatever happened to his ‘mysterious’ wife. She had once hoped Senior would bring it up himself so that she didn’t have to make him upset for no reason, but he avoided talk where he could.

London had actually done him some good, she decided. That city had collected what stringy pumpkin parts had remained of him in the fallout and spooned them back in.

Maybe if they just spent time together, did something fun, it would make things more bearable for the both of them.

“Do you get days off?”

“Rarely, if I want to keep my job. Why?”

“I was thinking we could go into town sometime.”

“Whatever for?”

Cass tried to muster the sweetest smile she could. Not that he was looking. “Whatever you like.”

“Whatever I like,” he repeated.

“You know, like ice cream or something?”

Now he was looking, but not because of that.

“I don’t quite think I heard you correctly. You want to go into town… to what? Slack off? Don’t you have homework to do?”

“I’ve already done it.”

“Well, there’s always something to be doing.” He was getting impatient with her now.

“Yeah, like eating ice cream,” she said bitterly.

“If I’m too busy to take you to King’s Cross, what makes you think I have time to laze around? Honestly, Cassandra, that mentality might work while you’re young, but it will get you nowhere in the real world, understand?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

Ugh. He was one of those authority freaks, wasn’t he?

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent.”

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

During the final summer days, Mr Crouch was nowhere to be found, so Cass resumed her little adventures in the art of snooping.

There was an old racing broom in the shed out back, fast enough to get some decent practice in, but likely too slow for the Slytherin Team. She wanted that spot on the team, but mostly, she wanted Draco not to have it.

Garden: check.

She had hoped to see a portrait that could tell her what was what, but alas – there was no sign of life in the house  besides  herself and Winky.

She raked each room for a family tree or anything that proved that another Cassandra Crouch existed before she had. Nothing. Nish. Diddly-squat. The idea to interrogate the portraits had occurred, but after being glared at by the London ones, there was this odd feeling that these ones they had been left covered for a reason.

Upper floors: check.

The last place to search was the pantry. She didn’t know what she expected to find really, but then a tile rocked to an excessive degree.

Maybe…? No. No, that would be waaaay too cliché.

She would find that the tile was loose, pull it up, and beneath would be someone’s spinal cord or something else that Junior had stashed away. Well, all of that proved to be true, minus the body parts. Instead, she found a bag of Gobstones made of midnight blue velvet with golden strings and the initials F.S. on them.

Undoubtedly a name.

She tried a few combinations half-heartedly, but then the guesses became nonsensical –  Filch Snape? What a plot twist that would be – so, she took it to the steamy kitchen.

There were sauces on the stove with self-stirring spoons, laundry pegs and a clothes iron that seemed to have minds of their own. All this was Winky’s design.

“Hey,” she held up the bag, “Do you know whose this is?”

The house-elf’s eyes went wider than she thought possible. “Where did the young Miss find such a treasure?”

“You know it? Who’s F.S. then?”

Winky looked at her curiously. “Why, it stands for Florence Scamander of course!”

“Right, of course.” She had no idea who that was, but she could look into it at Hogwarts. “Let’s play a round when you’re not busy.”

Playing Gobstones wasn’t as fun as she had hoped; she suspected Winky was letting her win.

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

On the last night, Cass dreamed that she had drowned in the black lake.

Something had dragged her under.

When she woke up, sweaty, heart pounding, there was something wild that had stirred in her. She eyed the chair through the darkness, beginning to see things that were not there.

Nightmare it may have been, but how strange that people were supposed to go on with their day as if nothing had happened at all – which was true, but it didn’t feel that way for a good half hour. Maybe she was just being overdramatic.

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

Diagon Alley was like that first breath of winter air.

Their suitcases rolled along the uneven, cobbled street where every square was bustling with crowds and vendors and fireworks whizzing  through the air, but none of it could be enjoyed because Lucius Malfoy was guiding them into the gloominess of Knockturn Alley.

Posh-boy Draco, who couldn’t stand not talking about himself for five whole minutes, caught her up on his eventful holiday unprompted.

New broom, new robes, new tan. Same attitude.

“Crabbe and Goyle came over,” he began, once Lucius was out of earshot. “We went around town, padlocked a couple random bikes for a laugh, then sat on the hill to watch the muggles get mad.”

The muscles in her face traitorously formed a smile. Cass hated it; she looked away so Draco wouldn’t see that she occasionally found him funny.

Lucius left them in the street while he got a few bits and pieces from Shyverwretch’s Venoms and Poisons – a horrible decision really.

But then, in the midst of his monologue, Draco said something that took her completely off guard: “I believe you by the way.”

“Believe what?”

“That you should have been a Gryffindor.”

Surely she had misheard him.

How come Snape and the rest of the faculty didn’t believe her, but a dickhead like Draco did? It was obscene.

“Really? You do?”

“Yeah! I even made a petition over the holiday.”

Ah.

“Got loads of signatures, you know, because no one likes you. I’ll take it to Dumbledore this afternoon, so hopefully you can move out immediately. Can’t lie though, don’t even think the Gryffindors will take you, but I suppose they’re brave for a reason, right?”

There was no reason for Cass to worry.

Senior respected Dumbledore, but that didn’t mean he liked the old man. Once, Cass had seen him stick his head in the living-room fire and gossip about him to some Ministry official.

It was undeniable that by being scrutinised by the Ministry every waking hour, Dumbledore had learned to forge a pristine reputation for all intents and purposes. This included a track record for not expelling his students, lest the Ministry could accuse him of failing the education system.

In other words, Cass would have to do something outrageous to get kicked out of Hogwarts… like kill Draco or something.

“That’s so funny, Draco,” she seethed. “Absolutely hilarious.”

“I’m glad you like my jokes. You’ll be hearing more of them, especially since you said we were friends. Bit desperate, but I would probably say something like that too if my only friend was a dead girl.”

“Desperate!?” Cass laughed and stepped closer. “Try anything and I will ruin you.”

“I’d like to see you try,” he challenged.

Before Cass tried to kill Draco after all, Lucius returned to them.

She quickly whispered “I mean it, Malfoy, this is your only warning” and followed his father into the shop.

Borgin and Burkes was a collage of stale air, blood samples, leather-bound books and the occasional cursed item. An old elderly lady stationed in the corner, foggy eyed with skin scrunched like the morning newspaper. She rocked back and forth on a chair of bones, muttering to herself as she knitted the longest scarf Cass had ever seen.

“Ha ha! Hey, Cass! CASS!” called Draco.

Okay, he’s doing it on purpose.

She turned to find him crouched down, gesturing towards a row of skulls. “Look! It’s your mother.”

That wasn’t Cass’ preferred way of finding out Mrs. Crouch was dead, but ah well.

Draco took a few of the skulls and started juggling them.

Cass pointed to a shrunken head. “And that one’s just like you! Or what I’ll do to you if you don’t shut it-“

“-DRACO!”

He almost dropped the skulls in his rush to stand up straight.

Lucius glared at his son. “What did I just say?” he hissed.

Draco gave an exasperated sigh and put the skulls back. “Touch nothing”.

The thought of hiding in Sugarplum’s until the Malfoys were finished shopping was a lovely idea, but didn’t make a lick of sense; she damn well knew she needed those books too.

Cass checked the list again. She wasn’t really surprised that the Weasleys (allegedly) lived in poverty with this many things to buy.

Flourish and Blotts was over-packed.

It was hard not to notice Lockhart with all the flashing cameras mingling with the flashing of his own freshly-whitened teeth. He was young, early to mid-twenties, with wavy blond hair, and his mercurial hand gestures allowed the sleeves of his lavish robes of peacock blue, green and purple, to flap about so much that they knocked over a pot of ink. Somehow that only made his audience love him more.

She let the Malfoys shove towards the staircase.

A benefit to the signing of Gilderoy’s ‘Magical Me’ was a deserted top floor. They made quick work of hunting down their set texts – ‘The Standard Book of Spells: Grade 2’ by Miranda Goshawk, ‘Dark Matter, Dark Minds’  by Amerie Siu, and ‘A History of Magic’ by Bathilda Bagshot. Cass plonked them into her cauldrons.

Below, Lockhart shoved his own stack of books into Harry Potter’s arms. The boy swayed a little, and then, after the reporters had snapped a hundred pictures of the pair, Harry dropped them into Ginny’s cauldron, only to help her up when she toppled over from the weight of it.

From the balcony, Cass noted there was something rather Dickensian about Harry. Maybe it was the fact he was an orphan. An orphan who was secretly heir to insurmountable riches. No, it was something else. Something about him screamed “sickly Victorian boy”, as if the Dursleys hadn’t bothered to feed him over the holidays.

Oh wait. They probably hadn’t. 

As they made their way down to the landing, Cass couldn’t even imagine how devastated Lily would be if she knew how her own sister treated her son.

Her eyes moved away from him; She needed to stop thinking about Harry, which was hard considering he was the main character of the book series she was trapped in.

She only remembered who was leaning on the bannister beside her when the slimeball waltzed over to Harry.

"Bet you loved that, didn't you, Potter?" spat Draco. "Famous Harry Potter. Can't even go into a bookshop without making the front page."

Cass screamed internally. They were going to think she and Draco were proper friends. The horror.

Cass scuttled sideways like a crab, weaving through the masses so there was no chance to be seen with him.

"Leave him alone, he didn't want all that!" said Ginny.

"Potter, you've got yourself a girlfriend!" drawled Malfoy.

Ginny went as red as her hair.

Ron and Hermione fought their way over and so did Lucius and Arthur. It wasn’t long before fists started flying.

Tom Riddle’s diary sat in the cauldron that Mr. Malfoy had temporarily discarded, just watching the scene unfold, begging to be taken.

No diary: no exploited Ginny: no Basilisk. A perfectly peaceful year. One where Cass could focus on forging a decent social circle instead of  worrying whether or not she should be walking down a corridor alone. Yes, she was a pure-blood technically, but who knew if the great big worm could tell the difference? What if it ate her on the way to its next target?

What if she could make sure it never woke up at all?

The diary was practically whispering to her now. Such a tempting little thing.

Lucius was too busy getting decked in the eye by Mr. Weasley to see Cass snatch the diary and skip up the stairs to stuff it in her suitcase.

She rushed down again only when the Malfoys had forgotten all about her in the commotion and left the shop.

At the bottom of the stairs, Mrs. Weasley’s gaze passed over her in the midst of lecturing Arthur and her boys. She did a double take; Molly looked like she had seen a ghost.

“Good Lord, she’s the spitting image of him,” Molly gasped.

Cass didn’t care to find out if she was referring to Senior or his son. There were no pictures of Junior in Runswick or London, but anyone could tell she and Senior were related. The eyes. Merlin! It was the eyes.

She walked past Harry and the Weasleys without a word. Best to leave it, she thought. She had gotten what she wanted.

Chapter Text

Second Year - Chapter Two

The train thrummed to life.

Second chances exist, Cass told herself as she stepped onto the train carriage furthest from Draco. Never mind last year. I need to approach this at a different angle. You know what? I’ll be hilariously funny. I’ll make them cry with tears of laughter.

While it was true that the euphoric rush from charging through the seemingly solid wall of King's Cross (only moments prior) might have contributed to this sudden wave of positivity, Cass didn't dwell on it too much. Nobody really did when they had a groove on.

She opened the first compartment she came across. Inside was Hermione Granger, school robes already on, seats reserved for friends who would never turn up.

Cass laughed awkwardly, “Looks like neither of us have friends right now.”

In retrospect, it was a poor joke. If Hermione had only known the context – that Harry and Ron were off flying Mr Weasley’s car like the legends they were – then perhaps she wouldn’t have been so quick to get up and shove past.

The frizzy-haired girl stormed off down the corridor, even with every protesting “I’m joking! I’m joking!” from Cass.

Cass looked into the empty carriage, sighed, then slid the door closed. She wasn’t going to sit in there by herself like a lemon! No, she’d keep her chin up and find another carriage.

Marcus ran into her on the way, face so sunburnt that it had started peeling. “Hey there, Cass! Nice summer?”

“Er…yeah! Great to see you. How you been?”

“Fine, fine. You haven’t seen a lost toad, have you? This boy’s recruited half the train to find it before we arrive.”

How many times would she have to find Trevor before Neville trusted her? Ten billion?

She shook her head. “I’ll keep an eye out though,”

Before they passed each other, Marcus reminded her about the try-outs for the Quidditch team. “They’re next Monday, 6 am. Meet us on the pitch with your broom.”

Ah. A broom.

She still didn’t have one of those. She would have brought the old one from the shed, but they – meaning Draco – would have laughed her off the pitch before she had lifted off the ground. “Could I borrow one from school?”

“You don’t have your own? I mean sure, but you’ll have to get permission from Madame Hooch. They’re not the fastest brooms, but I suppose it doesn’t matter, it’s just try-outs anyway. You’ve got to show us you know the basics.”

“Which positions do you have open? Your seeker left last year, didn't he?”

“Nah, it doesn’t work like that. If I say you’re a chaser, you’re a chaser, or whatever it is I think you’ll suit, so don’t worry too much about fitting into one. It’s all about the skills you demonstrate. Alright, well, see you at the feast!”

The next carriage Cass opened contained a quartet of first-years. Two girls and two boys.

There was a girl with braided red hair, a galaxy of freckles, and gold helix piercings. Cass wanted to get those kind of piercings at some point too.

The other girl had her wand tucked between her ear and light blonde hair. On both wrists were large bracelets of every colour, jingling with every movement.

The pair were playing exploding snap, and were, unmistakably, Ginny and Luna. It was getting easier to identify characters with all the practice she had, but admittedly Cass had to squint at the boys’ luggage to make out who they were. 

The boy with the mousy brown hair who talked a mile a minute must have been Colin Creevey. He was advertising his myriad of muggle items to his company better than any salesperson could. Zacharias Smith was currently inspecting his camera, holding the massive lens to his eye and wonder

“Hello there, my name’s Cass. Are you all first-years?”

Thank goodness Ginny didn’t recognise her from the shop. She had probably been too busy cheering on her dad.

The four of them nodded enthusiastically.

 “Ooh! Exciting! Well just wanted to let you know that if you ever need any help, you can always ask me. I’m in Slytherin, hence the green.” She gestured to her robes, then tried to adopt the same tone she had heard Marcus and Percy use. “But that doesn’t mean a thing. All right? You should be helping anyone who asks.”

They all nodded.

“Also, has anyone seen a toad?”

Luna’s hand shot up.

“You’ve seen one?” Cass encouraged.

Luna tilted her head to the side. “Are you certain it was a toad and not a moon frog?” she said dreamily.

“What’s a moon frog?”

Zacharias was holding back laughter.

Luna began drawing it in her notebook. “Well they glow and they don’t like staying inside.”

She held up the drawing.

“You don’t really believe those exist do you?” Zacharias laughed.

The frog had grey skin from the pencil and huge eyes that reminded Cass of Winky’s a little.

“Sorry, no. It’s just a regular toad I think,” said Cass thoughtfully. “Although, I’m sure I saw it tap-dance once.”

“We haven’t seen it,” Ginny said, “but if we do, who should we give it to?”

“Neville Longbottom. Blond? Kind of skittish? He’s a Gryffindor like you. He’s in the year above you, but he’s nice.”

Ginny looked at Colin, sitting across from her, then back at Cass accusingly. “We haven’t been sorted yet. How do you know I’ll be in Gryffindor?”

Oh you’ve gone and done it now, Cass.

“Oh err… aren’t you a Weasley? Got the red hair and everything.”

Ginny folded her arms. “So does Susan Bones and she’s not a Weasley.”

Fair play.

“Right.” She cleared her throat. “That’s true.”

Bloody think!

Cass leaned on the door. “Well, your brother told me you’d be joining the school this year.”

“You’re friends with Ron?”

No.

“Yes.”

Ginny relaxed.

“Anyway. I’ve got to get back to my friends. Lovely meeting you all.”

Ginny and Luna waved goodbye, but the boys were now passing chocolate frog cards between them.

She slid the door closed.

Cass turned and there was Blaise, throat dry. He stared at her, like he wanted to say something very important. Like there was a toad in her hair or something. Or maybe that he forgave her.

“Can I get past?” said Blaise.

Never mind then.

“Yeah, sorry.”

And he was gone.

The next compartment had a group of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, but they were all a few years older, so she skipped passed to the next, the one the second year Slytherin girls had claimed.

Daphne was lying across the laps of Millicent and Tracey.

Cass quietly opened the door and they paid her no mind, each wrapped up in their conversation as the train chugged along.

Tracey’s brown skin was bathed in the sunlight that came from sitting closest to the window. She had gotten shoulder-length box braids sometime in the holiday, and a few of them were embellished with criss-crossing silver thread.

She played with Daphne’s strawberry blonde hair as she complained, “Ugh! I’m tempted to just boil all my cauldrons over cos that way Snape'll let me drop Potions altogether!”

“No, seriously,” said Daphne. “I can’t deal with his mood swings anymore – Milly, can I have another Fizzing Whizzbee?”

Millicent passed her the packet. “Go for it.”

“Ta.”

Pansy sat opposite the rest of them, like she was some other creature altogether. She had fluffy hair that had been cut bluntly just above her chin and her complexion was incredibly pasty, as if she too had spent the summer in a place like Runswick.

Her small upturned nose was currently skimming through her copy of  ‘Break with a Banshee’. “You know what I wish would happen?” she said. “I think they should give us taster lessons for the electives next year. That way we’re not picking blindly.”

Tracey looked positively repulsed, but that might have just been because of the five Every Flavour Beans she had swallowed simultaneously. “You’re thinking about that already?”

“You’re not?” Pansy shot back and then she stared at Cass, eyebrows raised.

Cass stared back.

“Well, don’t just stand there, come in! Shut the door.”

Cass smiled and did as she said, taking the empty space beside her.

Millicent looked unsure. Unlike Pansy, her round face was bronzer, with more freckles than usual from her days in the sun.

“Which electives are you picking for third year?” Pansy asked.

“I was thinking Care of Magical Creatures.”

“Right?! Daphne doesn’t want anything to do with magical creatures, can you believe her?”

Tracey gaped at Daphne. “You got summat against being in the fresh air or what?”

Daphne played with the strings of her lilac hoodie. “Flobberworms give me the creeps! My sister’s obsessed with them though. She’s starting at Hogwarts next year.”

Pansy clipped her fringe out of her eyes and dug out another book out of her bag.

It had a moving cover like Lockhart’s, but with the title ‘Right Place, Right Time: An Inside Look on My  Flourishing Career ’.

The woman in the centre looked up at the gold lettering with a mock-surprise. She had red talons, lime green robes and a penchant for sticking her nose in other people’s business: Rita Skeeter.  

Pansy saw where Cass’ eyes were fixed and passed the book to her proudly. “She’s brilliant isn’t she? I met her once.”

“You’re joking!? Really?” Daphne exclaimed.

Rita twirled her green quill and winked at Cass, so she flipped it over to read the blurb:

‘When Myron Wagtail, lead singer of The Weird Sisters, committed adultery, I was there. When the Bertie Botts Scandal of ’75 happened, I was there. When Barty Crouch Jr. escaped from Azkaban after its 300 year no-break-outs streak, your girl was there.’

Is it luck? Or is she just that good?

Find out for yourself.

During this journey through time I will reveal the juicy secrets that never made the front page, the toil and trouble it took to rise above those who wished to silence the truth, and what it takes to be a sensation.

You haven’t heard the half of it!’

Cass sat back.

If everyone knew Barty had escaped then why hadn’t he been caught yet?

Any word on Junior’s whereabouts?

                                   Left the country. Searching for his master.

It was a sort of relief to imagine him far away, but then again, what had Senior meant about ‘country’?

‘Country’ meant England, not Britain, so what if Barty was somewhere in Scotland where You-Know-Who had gone looking for the stone last year?

No. It was stupid to worry about all that now. He would turn up to Hogwarts as Mad-Eye one day, and Cass would have ministry officials waiting.

Just two more years to go.

At least this year would at least be normal now that she had the diary. She repeated a remix of her earlier thought-process like a mantra.

No diary: no chamber: no basilisk: no Riddle. A perfectly peaceful year.

Pansy put Lockhart’s book back into her bag, yelping when Trevor hopped out and into her lap with a croak.

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

The first thing the students saw as they entered the Great Hall for the feast was Lockhart with his bedazzled orange beret and lace-trimmed robes to match. He looked like a massive satsuma and Cass couldn’t decide if his fashion sense was a serve or not, but settled on the latter as she couldn’t look without her eyes hurting, long enough to decide.

It appeared as though a miracle had taken place over the summer. Snape’s hair was void of grease; the man had actually shampooed it. His frown and eyeliner however, were still going strong.

The sorting ceremony and feast started and ended quickly, broken up by one of Dumbledore’s meaningful speeches that actually didn’t mean anything at all.

Cass busied herself by talking to each person in her year, emphasising her use of their first names.

“Nice to see you, Vincent. How was your summer?... Tracey, could you pass the gravy please?”

The real excitement began once the feast had ended and it was an hour before curfew.

Cass wiped the crumbs off her face with a napkin and all but ran towards the girls’ bathroom on the second floor.

“Myrtle, I’m back!” her voice echoed. “Myrtle? What’s wrong?”

Her favourite ghost was sobbing into her favourite toilet.

Cass knelt down beside her. “Miss me that much?”

Myrtle wiped her nose on her sleeve, blinking rapidly behind those glasses. “No… it’s-”

“-No? Spare a girl her feelings.”

“Cass!” she hissed.

“Right. Sorry. Go ahead.”

“It’s Sir Nicholas.” The ghost explained. “He’s invited everyone to his Deathday party but me.”

Cass gasped, even though she had no clue what a Deathday party was, but it sounded important. “That… bitch! Why not?”

“I don’t know! The Bloody Baron was invited. EVEN PEEVES WAS INVITED!” she wailed.

“I’ll talk to him. I’m sure it was just a mistake!”

Cass wasn’t sure Myrtle had heard as she had already put her head back down the toilet. She wished she could pat her back or pass her a tissue. She wished Myrtle wasn’t a ghost.

It was best to give her some space.

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

It was impossible to sleep.

She blamed it on the food, the train, the squid eye that had followed her up to her new room. She blamed it on the diary that she had kept in the trunk under her bed.

There was no point in just lying there, so Cass got up, grabbed Riddle’s diary and went to find some biscuits down in the Common Room.

The Hogwarts house-elves always made sure the cabinets were stocked in case anyone needed a biscuit, or any teas and coffees.

Cass swiped a Jammie Dodger from the tin and dived onto the sofa just as Marcus came through the wall wearing his Quidditch uniform. It was entirely caked in mud.

“You’re up early,” he said, grabbing the biscuit out of her hand and shoving it in his mouth.

She narrowed her eyes. “So are you. I thought Quidditch wasn’t until Monday?”

“It is.”

“Then what were you doing?”

He shrugged. “Extra practice doesn’t hurt. I’m Captain, after all. If they don’t think I’m in peak form, then I might as well give the title to someone else.”

He came closer, sniffing the air.

“Gaw! Something reeks!”

Cass held her nose. “Yeah, mate, that’s you.”

“Well, you could have said something!” he mused. “I’m going in the shower then.”

“See you at breakfast.”

Now that she was alone, Cass picked up the diary and flicked to the first page where a very smudged ‘T. M. Riddle’ was written in ink.

She looked at the dancing blue of the blazing fireplace and contemplated tossing it in, being rid of it all together. But a horcrux could not be destroyed by fire. What she needed was the of Gryffindor, the sword that hasn’t been imbued with basilisk venom yet.

For fuck’s sake.

She knew it was time to do the sensible thing; turn it over to Dumbledore, but that just seemed so boring. Granted, he’d probably be forced to give her some house points for it, that would be fun, but this was Tom Riddle’s diary. She would be doing herself and Myrtle a disservice if she didn’t screw around with him first.

She picked up the quill that had been left on the table. It looked like Crabbe’s.

Conveniently, an ink-pot sat right next to it.

She dipped the end in and flicked open the diary to a random dusty page.

“My name is…” she began in the smallest, neatest writing she could manage, then paused.

Not because the ink came out pink, but because she thought it best to give a fake name.

After some thought, she smiled. “…Emma Watson.”

The ink disappeared and it wasn’t long before an answer came. Also in pink. Recycling her written words.

“Hello, Emma Watson. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come by my Diary?”

Had Lucius written in the diary before? He must have. Well, wouldn’t it be great if he thought his loyal servant had trashed it?

“Just found it in a gutter,” she wrote. “Are you alive, Tom?”

“Not alive, no. A memory of my 16-year-old self from back when I attended Hogwarts.”

She tried her best to sound naïve. “I go there too! I’m in Slytherin.”

“Then we are kindred spirits.”

She doubted that.

“I love the name Tom. That’s the name of my house-elf.”

He ignored that comment, so clearly she had successfully hit a nerve. “Those with ambition are placed in Slytherin house. What are your aspirations, Emma?”

She smiled.

Oh, he’s smooth. That’s it, Cass, tell me your deepest fears and ambitions. Let them bleed into me so I can do the same to you. He’s like a fucking mosquito that one. WELL NO. NOT ON MY WATCH.

“I’m going to be a world-champion juggler.”

The diary didn’t write back straight away.

“An unusual answer. Do your friends encourage you with such pursuits?”

She was getting into character now. She didn’t even notice Pansy, stood in her pyjamas, staring in bewilderment as she cackled on the sofa. “Not at all! Oh, Tom, they laugh at me! They say I’d be better as a jester than a juggler! They call me names.”

“Don’t worry,” wrote Tom. “They’re just jealous. I believe in you.”

Cass stopped laughing. Not because she thought Tom was telling the truth, but because she wished it was someone else saying it. Under different circumstances.

She wanted it to be real.

“I also had aspirations. Would you like to see?”

Cass snorted and shut the diary. “Yeah, in your dreams, snake boy,” she muttered.

Just as her stomach rumbled, the girls emerged from their dorm room, yawning after a very rowdy night of gossiping and redecorating.

Tracey had alphabetically arranged her cassettes on her desk, Daphne had switched her bedsheets to a very busy floral pattern and Pansy had somehow managed to fit a massive framed poster of Wimbourne Wasps Quidditch Team into her luggage and had hung it on her side of the wall. It was a wide-shot with players in yellow and black stripes who zoomed in and out of the stadium picture, passing the quaffle around like a hot potato. Millicient had a new fluffy bed for her cat to curl up in which she had surrounded with some of Tracey's battery-powered fairy lights with thick star shapes.

Cass had little to decorate her own room with, but honestly, she was just happy to be in the room. They had, after all, kicked her out for a few nights last year. Still, she was planning on using the quill pot on her desk as a sort of vase come spring-time. But spring was a while away, and breakfast wasn't.

The girls all went up to the Great Hall together, Pansy boisterously complaining about having lessons so soon after arriving at school and Daphne quietly agreeing with her.

Chapter Text

Second Year - Chapter Three

“YOUR FATHER’S FACING AN ENQUIRY AT WORK, IT’S ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT AND…!”

It wasn’t a 'shocking revelation' that giving teenagers unlimited access to flying megaphones would lead to their overuse.

Last year, Lacerta Marchesi had sent a Howler to her-boyfriend-at-the-time, Terence Higgs, after she’d caught him snogging a Ravenclaw in an empty classroom. It let the entire Great Hall know he regularly used an engorgio charm on his… well somewhere unsavoury.

Everyone thought Marchesi was about to land her first ever detention, but Professor McGonagall was understanding.

Howlers had even been sent to the teachers.

One had exploded on Snape’s desk in a shrill voice claiming to be his wife, but as rumour would have it, it was just Fred and George who had bought a voice changer from Gambol and Japes’ Joke Emporium. Mrs Snape lectured him on his hygiene for ten whole seconds before Snape had smothered it with his plate of bangers and mash.

By the time Ron Weasley’s rowdy letter had shred itself to pieces, the heads of house were giving out timetables.

Charms and History of Magic were the first lessons of the day. After lunch was Lockhart’s class and then the rest of the day was free until their midnight astronomy lesson.

Cass inspected the list of clubs at the bottom of the page; it was about time she got a hobby. Being upset with life didn’t count as one anymore. And besides, everyone else had their own thing.

Draco had even gone ahead and joined the Hogwarts Choir with Pansy; Millicent was really into bones (Cass hadn’t the courage to ask what that was about yet); Marcus had Quidditch, but he insisted it was a ‘way of life’ rather than an extra-curricular; and Blaise… well Blaise was always busy with something. 

Maybe she could finally learn chess like she had wanted to, or perhaps Gobstone Society could give her the assets to play against Winky without the house-elf holding back.

Some clubs sounded weird, like Lake Watch, which was essentially bird watching but with the risk of getting splashed by the selkies that inhabited the Black Lake. There was no point joining the Rat Racing club either, as Cass didn’t have or plan on getting a rat of her own, not that Senior would allow it anyway.

During breakfast, Tracey asked Cass if she wanted to try out the Art class with them. Cass was inclined to agree with anything Tracey suggested since she had gotten all best grades last year (clearly the girl knew what she was doing), but before she could reply, she spotted Nearly-Headless-Nick as he fazed through the wall and looped around the Gryffindor table merrily.

She slung her bag over her shoulders and jogged up to him. “Hello, Sir Nicholas. Could I just borrow you for a moment?”

“Of course!”

“I was just wondering – and you can be honest with me – why didn’t  Myrtle get an invite to your…” She wasn’t sure if bringing up his death would upset him. “Um… party?”

“Indeed,” Sir Nicholas sighed wistfully, as if he had been expecting that very question. “Myrtle is a sweet girl, but every year she’s been invited and every year it’s impossible to stop the water works.”

“So you don’t want her to come because she’ll kill the vibe?”

“Precisely!”

“Right, well, something tells me she’s going to flood the second floor if you don’t cheer her up.”

“It’s not my duty to control the actions of others.”

“True, but she’s thirteen and you’re the most popular ghost in the castle who didn’t invite her. What did you really expect?”

Hearing that he was popular seemed to spark something almost living in Sir Nicholas. “You are persistent, I’ll give you that.” He stared off into space for a moment. “I suppose I could be swayed if you were to bring yourself with her. I haven’t had any livings at one of my parties in centuries.”

Cass would have rather not. “Fine, fine. Just remember to send Myrtle an invite and it’s a deal.”

“Might I have the pleasure of knowing your name, young lady?”

He would have probably preferred her full name, but alas, she refused to give something that was not hers. “It’s Cass.”

“And are you a friend of Myrtle’s then, Cass?”

“Nothing wrong with that, is there?” she challenged with a half-smile.

“Not necessarily, no, but it would be my prerogative to advise a young girl such as yourself to be wary of befriending too many of us shades.”

“No need for your prerogative then, Sir. It’s just the one. I’ll see you at the party.” She took a piece of toast from the Gryffindor table and walked out of the Great Hall towards Charms.

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

In every class they shared, Neville made it a point to stand right next to her, and that was something Cass couldn’t argue with. The boy had stood up to Draco and to his friends last year. It only made sense that now the next milestone he was working towards was her. To show everyone he wasn’t afraid of little Cassandra Crouch, demon sister of a fugitive and war criminal.

He might have been disappointed to find that she’d let him away with basically anything he threw at her because she liked him. If he could feel better about his parents’ tragedy, something he had no control over, even if she was the wrong person to get revenge on, then by all means.

Neville could probably spit in her face and she’d allow it.

The Slytherins joined the Gryffindor rabble outside the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, Draco leading the way.

“Look who it is! Potty and the Weasel.” Malfoy looked at Ron. “Shame the Whomping Willow didn’t bash your head in. The Ministry might have let your father keep his job if he was bereft of a child. Then again, he does have, what, fifty more back at home?”

This time, it was Ron and Hermione who had to hold Harry back from murdering Malfoy as Lockhart came round the corner.

It was the last straw for Cass too.

As the pseudo-professor ushered them inside, she cornered Draco and, ever so quietly, showed him that she wasn’t dicking around this year.

“If I see you being a prick again, I’m telling everyone about the muggle doctor that saved your life.”

Draco went a sickly colour. “You… how…?”

Cass smiled sweetly; she was going to enjoy this a little.

This was Draco Malfoy, vulnerable, like a grape without its skin. The kind that fell on the floor of the Great Hall. The kind that got squished.

“Your mum and I,” she held up a pair of fingers and crossed them, “are like that. Maybe it was the wine, maybe something made her think I’d ever be friends with you – I don’t care. Point is, I know all about it. You were three at the time. Little accident outdoors, eh?”

Draco’s eyes desperately darted to Crabbe and Goyle, who were saving seats at the front of the classroom and hadn’t even noticed Draco had been left behind. The Slytherin boy gathered up his confidence. “You wouldn’t dare!” he jeered.

“Wouldn’t I?”

“Something the matter, you two?” asked Gilderoy. They hadn’t moved from the doorway. Everyone else had taken their seats.

“I don’t know, Draco,” she whispered. “Is something the matter?”

Draco was absolutely fuming. He silently took off towards his seat, robes swishing violently.

The only spare desk was one between Parvati Patil, the Gryffindor sporting several glittery pink butterfly clips in her hair, and Pansy Parkinson. Gilderoy raised an eyebrow at Cass from across the room, so she hurried to her seat.

Pansy leaned over to Cass, eyes narrowed. “What was that about?”

Cass shrugged. “Just asked him what time Quidditch try-outs were.”

All her energy dissipated as soon as the lie slipped out. She hated how she did it with ease. That was something she wanted to work on. Getting to a point where there was no need to lie, where she and her muscles could stop tensing like she would have to dive through the window any minute now.

It seemed that she and Pansy were the few who are not starstruck by Lockhart.

Pansy scrunched her face up in disgust when the quiz got passed around. “What’s this rubbish?” She stuck her hand in the air. “Sir!”

“Yes? Do you need to borrow a quill?” Lockhart swiped a jar of flamingo and peacock feather quills from his desk enthusiastically.

“No, sir. Just wondering what your favourite colour has to do with Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

Lockhart looked mortified. “It’s to check that you actually did the reading!” he spluttered. “I want to make sure that you pay close attention to the details, Miss…?”

“Parkinson.”

He was pacing now. “Yes, well, er… attention to detail is what saves you in a sticky situation! Take the time I wrestled a whole pack of wolves - savage beasts. If I didn’t take a moment to notice the local fauna, I would have been mincemeat.”

“Right.” Pansy didn’t sound convinced, but only started filling it out as Tracey handed hers in.

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

The nightmare seemed to be repeating itself.

Water splashes up. It gets in her eyes, her nostrils, her mouth too. Salt in the lungs. The cold is with her now. It’s with her all the time. Fingertips crawling all over her. Plugging up the inside tube of her throat.  Scratching at every slippery swallow.

Still, she manages to break the surface this time. Eyes bleary with water. Then something holds her head down again.

She pushes back and takes a second gulp of water and air, forcing her eyes open. “Neville!? Neville, I-”

He pushes her back under, where the cold was like a cable-knit, until she wakes up with sweat-soaked sheets, cool against the September chill that had found its way into the depths of the castle.

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

A part of Cass – and that was the stupid part – had hoped the choir rehearsal Draco attended meant he had forgotten all about Quidditch. In truth, he was just a well-rounded individual.

Malfoy couldn’t be more interested in Quidditch, always talking about what he would do once he made the team, which generally involved promises of sweets, butterbeer and rule changes that would never happen.

“First off, there should be three bludgers, not one.” He had declared, as if he were pitching it to the British Quidditch Committee rather than the entire Herbology class. “Way more exciting that way. You shouldn’t be on a broom if you’re afraid of a little risk – right, Longbottom? That’s also why I think wands should be allowed…”

Cass didn’t want to be in the same room as him, let alone the same team, but it was an adequate trade for flying around on a broom while the crowd called her name.   

Monday finally rolled around. Before the sun had even risen, Cass danced out of the castle decked out in her Quidditch uniform.

Breakfast wasn’t being served in the Hall, but the next best thing was a slice of the fruitcake Winky had sent. The house-elf had made one just like it on August 26^th, her new birthday she supposed, but she was just grateful she had one at all.

The Slytherin Captain was across the courtyard, taking a huge trunk out of the equipment shed.

Cass was buzzing, wondering whether she’d be a Keeper, Chaser, Beater, or Seeker, or whatever Flint decided.

She grabbed a broom from the rack in the school shed. “Hey, I’m here! When do we start?”

“Sorry. Try-outs are cancelled.” He walked off.

It felt like a quaffle had slammed into her stomach. “What?”

Cancelled.

No, he’s joking. He has to be joking.

“Why?”

The rest of the team came out of the locker room. Draco with them. Also in uniform. Chatting about their sleek new brooms with glossy handles.

Draco looked right at her. The very picture of pride.

She raced after Flint. “Marcus! Marcus! You’re seriously picking him over me?”

“It’s not my choice.”

“Well, it’s not Filch’s, is it!?”

Marcus groaned, but didn’t stop. “People love to see us lose, Cass, but I’m not going to give them the satisfaction. I have to take every opportunity there is to help the team. That’s what a good Captain does.”

“Even if that means letting that egomaniac join?”

“He has a… a ‘strong personality’, yes.”

They had caught up with the rest of the team now.

Draco leaned casually on his Nimbus Two Thousand and One, tutting at her. “Just because Flint’s your mentor, doesn’t mean he owes you a spot on the team. This doesn’t work like a dynasty.”

“OH, THAT’S RICH!” Cass went to strangle Draco, but Flint yanked her back by her hood.

“Cass, go inside.”

“No! We’re not done here! I didn’t even get a chance-”

“-Cass, don’t make me hex you. Go.” He wasn’t angry, just finite in his sad tone. There would be no reasoning with this side of Marcus Flint. No favours. “The rest of you, get to the pitch and warm up.”

Cass threw her broom on the ground and left. Not because she wanted to. Walking in the opposite direction to Draco and his smug face was the only way to hold herself back from doing something she would regret.

Everything was red hot it was almost white, scorching every inch of her from her fingertips, but mostly in her head. A searing pain. All red. Everything was bloody red.

Wait for them to call her crazy. Wait for Draco to hold it in front of her nose for the next year.

What was worse was that she had expected it. It had happened in the movie, Draco buying his way onto the team. But a part of her – the delusional part – had once again thought that she could change that through hard work.

Hard work did pay off, most of the time. She had seen it with her own eyes. The grades she earned, the efforts she was making with the girls in her class, all of it.

So, why wasn’t this?

Sometimes it felt like she only went backwards.

She couldn’t remember the journey to the library, just that she had gotten there and that it was the best place to be. It was probably a bad idea to take the diary out, but Cass picked a seat in an alcove of dense bookshelves anyway. There was only 0ne problem:

“Psst! Goyle. D’you have a spare quill?”

Oddly enough, he was sitting by himself, papers scattered, munching on the cherry cheese Danish he had smuggled in. “Aye, what’s it to ye?”

“Can I borrow it?”

“Ye know wit? How boot… noo?”

“Please?”

Goyle stopped writing. “Only if ye say meh name.”

“You still mad about that?”

“OBVIOUSLY-”

Madam Pince came out of nowhere. “Shhh!”

Goyle mouthed a ‘sorry’ and ran a hand through his curly brown hair. “Obviously I’m still mad a-boot that, ye dafty!” he hissed.

Yeah, that was valid. She couldn’t believe she had gone a whole year without learning names properly. “Gregory, I’m very sorry for all that. May I have the quill please?”

“Yooh may.” He passed it to her.

Instead of writing in the diary, instead of going back to her seat, Cass needed to say one last thing.

“I really am sorry.”

The boy gave her a small, teasing smile. “Right, well just so yeh know, noon calls me Gregory or Greg other than me granda. It’s Rory. Has been since day wan.”

“Sorry. I’ll use it from now on.”

“S’fine. It’s not like I talked to yeh much last year. Draco told me not tae.”

“He WHAT-?”

“Wheest!” he shushed. “I’m sick of that pleepin' librarian. Noo, hiv ye seen Vince?”

She was pretty sure he was talking about Crabbe.

“Vince? No. I’m sorry.”

Rory shrugged. “Ye say that a lot.”

Cass blinked.

Something old about him was stripped away. Not ‘old’ as in age-wise. More familiar, like a month-old bulletin message that was seen at first, maybe even read, but soon it is passed over with blank eyes, melting more and more into the cork.

Now, Rory was all inquisitive eyes and knowing smirk, but not an unkind one. Cass was finally paying attention.

“Yeah. I guess I feel it a lot.” She fiddled with the arm braces “Usually don’t know what else to say.”

“Well don’t fuk up and you’ll be sayin' it less.” He went back to his writing. “Or make someone else sorry for a change.”

Her mind briefly flittered to Draco and his smug face.

Cass pointed out the jam on his face and went back to her seat and set everything up.

Diary and quill, Cass and Tom.

What to write?

She sat back to think for a moment.

This time the ink was dark black.

“My name,” she began with her left hand, “is Albus Dumbledore. I suspect you are more than just a diary.”

Oh, the potential! Had this been the hobby she had been looking for all this time?

It might have been a cruel joke, but then again, Riddle was as cruel as they came. The last piece of a boy who had murdered a thirteen-year-old girl in a bathroom decades ago.

“It’s been a long time, Professor.”

“We’ve met before?” she wrote.

“You don’t remember me?”

Cass let his ink fade, his next message pathetically desperate.

“I’m your favourite student, or I might have been once.”

“That can’t be right. My favourite student is Emma Watson and that wasn’t her name on the front. Which house were you in?”

The diary went quiet for a moment.

Cass continued, “When did you go to school here? Perhaps you just need to jog my memory.”

“I started in 1938. You honestly don’t remember me?”

Ah. So he was just as eager to please as she was.

“Oh, so much has changed since, Tim.”

A wry smile appeared when a string of ink scribbled out 'Tim' furiously and wrote “Tom” beside it.

“Apologies, Tom.”

“Enlighten me, professor. What changed?”

Cass paused to think about what would piss him off the most.

“Well, for one, I had a crack at being headmaster, but last year, I resigned my position to a Mr. Julian Tailor, Hogwarts’s first ever muggle headmaster! He’s doing an exceptional job.”

“You must be joking, sir.”

“No, no, Tim. I assure you, he’s been background checked by the Ministry of Magic and is well-qualified for the role. Now, what else…”

Cass deliberately trailed off, teasing Riddle in the same way an anglerfish lures a shrimp into murkier waters.

“There’s more?”

If she didn’t know better, she would have suggested a twinge of panic in his tone and the brevity of his replies.

“Ah yes, the house names have changed. It’s Badgerfluff and Eaglequill now. And what of noble Slytherin, I hear you ask?”

He had not.

“Well, you will be pleased to know I thought it unwise to change Slytherin’s name. Salazaar was such a traditionalist, it would have brought bad luck. Alas! Gryffindor got scrapped altogether. Admittedly, it was my favourite, but Severus informed me that lions aren’t native to the UK. Didn’t go with the theme, so we changed it to Foxshite.”

When the messages stopped it was obvious that she had gone too far, too soon; it wasn’t exactly like Tom had gone off for a walk.

But then, Cass almost threw the diary when it glowed and three jet black words faded into view.

Then the ink beaded. Little dots of jet black, until it poured down the page and down her hands and onto her desk.

“I see you.”

She slammed the diary shut, found a bit of string on her desk and tied the thing together so it wouldn’t open again.

That’s it. That was the cue. How did she ever think messing with a horcrux was a good idea? This was out of her hands.

Out the door she went, barrelling past the new wave of students doing last-minute homework, pounding across the stone corridors, up the steps, down the corridor, then up the stupid moving staircases to the headmaster’s tower.

There was no time to wait for a teacher.

What's the password again? Ugh! Why does there have to be passwords to everything?

“Sherbet lemon,” Cass said.

She didn’t care about the lecture she’d get for swaggering right into his office when she wasn’t supposed to know how. Not one bit.

The gargoyle hopped aside and the wall disappeared to reveal another moving staircase. Unlike the rest, this one endlessly spiralled upwards with all the slyness of the world snake from mythology.

Cass stepped on without hesitation, riding it up all the way to the large oak doors with a heavy brass knock in the shape of … a griffin. Merlin! How utterly surprising. How completely unpredictable that was. A bloody griffin! A griffin-door.

Very subtle.

She didn’t knock, just shoved the doors so harshly that they swung all the way out.

Besides the various shiny silver instruments scattered about the room was a manky old hat, several shrieking portraits and a phoenix looking ready to peck her eyes out.

No Dumbledore.

She grabbed the hat off the shelf and gave it a shake when it didn't immediately start screaming too.  “Where is he?”

The phoenix squawked at her, but compared with Eurus and her crazy eyes, there was no reason to be intimidated.

The hat didn’t open its mouth, looking rather normal to the untrained eye, but Cass knew it was the same one that had ruined everything on the day of the sorting.

“Once again, I need help, and ONCE AGAIN, THAT FUCKER ISN’T HERE!”

The bird’s squawks crescendo-ed until it was unbearable. She wanted to rip the hat to pieces. Unpick every panel.

Cass glimpsed her reflection in one of Dumbledore’s silver telescopes.

Hair messy. Eyes wide with dark circles. A complete raving loony.

She gently set the hat back on its shelf. This couldn’t be about the ‘Draco-thing’ anymore. This anger. Was this about Senior?

No.

There were other elements at play.

Something in her bones told her this was some of the diary - some of Riddle - pouring back into her. 

Cass breathed in… and out again just as a mouth finally twisted into the hat. “Albus Dumbledore is not here,” it said.

“Wow. Really? Well, when’s he coming back?”

“How would I know? That’s not my job. He comes and goes as he pleases, always busy, busy, busy.”

Cass sighed. The next best person was Professor McGonagall. She was the better person actually. The diary was safe in her hands. Giving it to her was the sensible thing to do. This had to end.

Chapter Text

Second Year - Chapter Four

Pansy’s interrogation took the entire class by storm during the trudge towards the dungeons.

“Alright, who took it?”

Daphne looked confused. “Took what?”

Millicent was struggling to keep Inkus, her massive fluffy cat, in her arms and away from Theo’s quivering rodent with the white pelt and red eyes. The mouse was named 'Alasdair' after the Keeper of the Montrose Magpies, but it reminded Cass more of Daphne than any Quidditch player. Inkus was staring over Millicent's shoulder intently, dreaming of swallowing the mouse whole. Thankfully, the Potions classrooms were close to the common room.

“Cass lost her diary.” explained Millicent. “She left it alone for five minutes and it’s gone. Draco, you look guilty. Care to admit your crimes?”

“Piss off! It wasn’t me.”

“Well, who was it then?” Cass glared at him.

Draco shrugged. “Ask Theo. He nicks things all the time!”

Theodore was miles behind them, so it was down to Blaise to defend his honour. “You leave him out of this. What would he want with a stupid diary?”

“I don’t know,” said Pansy. “But whoever took it is despicable! No wonder Cass doesn’t trust us.”

“Now hang on,” she began. “I wouldn’t say-”

“-Absolutely diabolical! If no one’s gonna ‘fess up, then I’ll get Marchesi to search you all!”

Cass was ready to throw in the towel.

In fact, she felt like one of those soggy old towels left out on the washing line to dry, especially after this morning’s events.

After barging into Dumbledore’s office a good hour or two ago, a Ravenclaw prefect had caught her outside. He threatened to deduct points. (“Get a wiggle on, Crouch. Class starts in two minutes!”)

Even this random Ravenclaw knew who she was. Defined by men, Cass was bitterly aware of the varying degrees of amnesty given to her. Her father: some political hero, her brother: a member of the unspeakable.

Without arguing, she had slipped the diary in her bag and walked off. Transfiguration, at least, was the first lesson of the day, meaning she could get rid of the horcrux immediately.

But, if that had been true, she wouldn’t be having this conversation with the Slytherins now.

Crabbe shot Pansy a look. “Why’re you acting like our mum or somefing?”

“Clearly, you all need to be parented, because stealing and threatening, and the time Flitwick got set on fire, and charming the doors to hit people and…” she listed their crimes for the rest of the walk. “…well, it’s not normal, is it?”

Draco looked rather proud of the list. It probably conjured some nice memories for him. “S’all a bit of fun though. Merlin knows this place can get dull.”

Tracey shook her head incredulously. “It’s never boring here.”

“Yeah? And who'd you think makes sure of that? You’re welcome.” Draco retorted and shoved passed.

The group split, some going to put their familiars in their room, and others, like Cass, stood outside the Potion’s classroom, waiting until Snape let them in.

She was beyond annoyed that she didn’t have a cat like Inkus, or an owl like Eurus… actually no, that would be terrifying. But even Tracey’s muggle parents had let her have one. Apparently, she had been enamoured by Sesame Street when she was little, always watched it on Channel 4. As a result, she picked a little frog and named it Kermit.

Cass didn’t know what Muppets were, but they sounded terrifying. Tracey had gushed about the trailer she had seen for a Christmas movie. Everyone in the cast was a Muppet, all but one human actor.

That pretty much summarised how she felt at Hogwarts, almost perfectly. Cassandra Crouch: like a man among Muppets.

Parkinson leaned against the wall. “When did you last see it?”

“I put it in my bag just before Transfiguration.”

Pansy thought for a moment. “Bet it was Padma. She probably thought it was mine.”

“Padma? You mean the Ravenclaw girl we sit three rows behind?”

“Yes, but she has it in for me. Some sort of twin pact.”

Cass sighed. “Does she now?”

“It’s written all over her face!” Pansy insisted.

“Yeah, well. I think you’re seeing things.”

Professor Snape threw open the door and looked them up and down. “Gryffindors… late as usual,” he grumbled.

They walked into the classroom. There was no need to get out their cauldrons as today was purely theory. This term, Cass was at a middle desk shared with Theo, and Pansy sat down with Goyle.

“Trust me.” There was an unwavering conviction in Pansy’s eyes as she got out her textbook. “Watch Parvati when she gets here. She hates me.”

All this sounded closer to a petty, mutual dislike than actual loathing, but Cass nodded to her anyway and sat on the edge of her stool.

Finally, the Gryffindors filed in.

“Sorry, Professor,” said Seamus. “Charms overran.”

Snape narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t realise you were incapable of listening for the bell, Mr Finnegan. Perhaps we should stop the clocks just for you.”

“Please, Sir. We were learning the immobulus charm.” Dean smiled sheepishly. “And I sneezed and, um, accidentally hit Professor Flitwick. We had to get him back to normal.”

“Hermione was brilliant. She figured it out,” Ron added.

Snape scowled and slammed the door behind them with a wave of his wand. “I didn’t ask for your life stories, A brief explanation will suffice. Sit down.”

Cass completely forgot to look at Parvati – not that she really believed what Pansy had said. In fairness, Cass wasn’t really paying attention to anything.

Snape scribbled away at the board, but she he just sat there, nibbling the end of her quill instead of taking notes, playing back the last hour in her head.

Where had the diary gone? Maybe she had actually just dropped it? If that was the case then McGonagall might have it after all.

But what if it had been taken? She could hear Senior’s voice right then, scolding her. If you let anyone steal something from you, then you didn’t deserve to have it in the first place. At least, that’s what he had to say regarding the incident of Neville’s Remembrall last year.

Still, this time it definitely wasn’t her fault, she reasoned. By taking the diary she had done the school, nay, the whole wizarding world a favour, and they had no idea what a hero she was. And yet, whoever had swiped it – right before she had the chance to deliver it into respected hands to be destroyed – had destroyed the peace instead.

How long until a giant snake slithered out of the pipes. Months? Weeks?

The quill burst in her mouth.

She dry heaved, causing salty ink to rain down all over her blank sheet of parchment, where it stained in wide splodges. Some of it dripped down her chin too.

Everyone turned in their seats to look at her. She continued to cough.

Snape stopped talking mid-sentence and spun away from the blackboard. “Really?” he said coldly.

He had no sympathy for the girl bent over her desk, hacking up ink. He did, however, throw his stick of chalk at Theo, who had dozed off the minute Snape began the lecture on the properties of dragonfly thoraxes.

Theo jolted, grabbing the desk to steady himself and accidentally slid his hand through the ink. Nott had no idea who to stare at – Snape and his furious glare, or Cass and the mess all over her mouth.

Gryffindors and Slytherins alike were enjoying the spectacle. Crabbe and Draco snickered from their desk near the front.

“Congratulations,” said Snape. “You two have just earned yourselves a detention each.”

“What?” Cass wiped her mouth on the sleeves of her robe. “But I didn’t do it on purpose!”

“If you continue to disrupt my lesson, I will send you to the headmaster’s office.”

Cass folded her arms. It wasn’t as if Dumbledore was actually there. “Can I go to the bathroom?” Rinsing her mouth was her number one priority.

Snape frowned. “Absolutely not. There’s a sink next door. You have two minutes.”

Cass got up and glanced over to Theo’s tawny page of parchment. It seemed as though she would have to borrow someone else's notes for catch-up, she thought glumly, for his was completely blank.

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

The weeks flew by and everyone got back into the comfortable Hogwarts rhythm, memorising timetables, getting used to homework again and keeping up with changes to the common room passwords. Everyone except for Cass, of course; she was far from comfortable.

While she and Theo helped Filch clean the castle floors as part of their detention, she couldn’t shake the feeling she was being watched.  

It was lunchtime, The usual natter of students didn’t read this part of the castle. Cass squinted at the empty corridor she had been assigned to, checking a new corner with every sweep of her broom. She thought about how, surely, all of this bad luck couldn’t be just a coincidence; she hadn’t had any rest since Year One.

A chill ran through her. She was in a book, wasn’t she? What if she was re-writing the series with each decision she made?

Cass brandished her broom like a sword and backed into a wall.

Merlin! What if there was someone reading this right now? Laughing at her? Relishing in her misfortune?

J.K. Rowling…you utter cunt… If I get my hands on you…

Nothing. Not a single mouse scurried by and Cass knew she couldn’t blame these things on an author or some divine being, but instead, maybe Senior was right after all. The diary had been her responsibility. She should have turned it in the second she got the chance.

Cass sank down to the floor.

She was being stupid. There was no one watching her. And even if this universe was really based on a book, it was called ‘Harry Potter’ for a reason. If anyone was being watched right now, or had a fight to pick with the author, it was him-

“NNNNAHHHH!” Peeves poked his head out of the wall and Cass could have sworn her heart stopped.

“Peeves, you bastard! Fuck off!”

He pulled the rest of himself out of the wall, shaking off his shoes with the little bells on the end. “Aw. No fun. Got any idea where his cleanship went?”

She clutched her heart, swallowing large gulps of air. “Down the hall, down the hall,” she wheezed.

“Right. Fanks.” He grabbed her bucket of water and disappeared. Five seconds later, Filch yelled a string of profanities from across the way and, from the pounding footsteps, was likely in pursuit.

Since the caretaker was no longer doing his job, it was time for dinner. Apparently, the same idea had crossed Theo’s mind, because he emerged from a doorway, hands in his pockets.

“Alright?” she asked as they walked.

“Aye.” He said cheerily.

Here goes nothing.

“Haven’t seen a small black book, have you? Has T.M. Riddle on the cover?”

“Ah dinnae ken.”

She was pretty certain that meant he wasn’t sure.

“Right, right.” There was a pause. She cleared her throat. “So, um, you don’t suppose Draco might know something?”

He shrugged. “Ah dinnae pay attention tae that pure warmer.”

Did that mean no? Cass was a bit lost, but she had the spirit. “And what about Rory?” It didn’t feel right to accuse him, but perhaps he saw her in the library, either reading the diary or when she turned flighty..

Theo scoffed. “Noo, whit wid he waant wi' a book? He cannae read.”

“He can’t read?”

“Aye. That's whit ah juist said.”

Right. Goyle had mentioned he was dyslexic at some point last year. But that didn’t mean he didn’t take it, that he wouldn’t try to read it and eventually get somewhere.

They reached the Great Hall and sat down at their table.

Cass took a triangular sandwich from the stray and poured herself some squash, trying desperately to come up with a game plan.

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

“Oi oi,” greeted Crabbe.

“Vince, could you pass me that pot, my hands are full?” said Pansy. She had been making banners all afternoon.

Crabbe got his wand out and flew the pot of green paint over to her gently.

“Thanks.”

Her art supplies took up most of the library desk. The only reason they were sharing was because they had been assigned a long essay on the significance of naming children after stars, and many hands make light work.

“Pansy, I thought we were meeting here to do work?” laughed Tracey. She was the only one with her book out, but she held a paintbrush in her hand rather than the quill and was working on the massive snake tongue Daphne had sketched.

“Not everyone’s an eager beaver like you are, Trace, take pity on us common folk. And anyway, I’ve already done two feet and five inches.” Pansy sighed, “And I’ll be damned if I let some stars tell me what to have for tea or which colour to wear to an interview.”

Pansy was almost as crazy about Quidditch as Marcus. It was her fear of heights and physical activity that prevented her from going professional, or at least, that what she had insisted.

Cass watched Pansy tuck a short strand of hair behind her ear as she concentrated. She was really scary, but not even those steel grey eyes could ruin how pretty she was. Her face was all harsh features, but in the library lighting it was vignetted by a softness, the kind you got when you squinted at the glowing moon.

“Oi! Gryffindicks! GET LOST!” Pansy held up a middle finger to a band of fourth years who had mocked her work as they passed.

Had she always been this vivid? Or had Cass just not been paying attention. Regardless, Pansy was loud. The squeaking of Madam Pince’s shoes was never far away.

The Slytherin versus Gryffindor match wasn’t for another two months. The very idea of shivering in the freezing Quidditch stand instead of playing for the team was ludicrous.

As Daphne and Tracey’s conversation drifted from “are you sure it’s talking about stars and not constellations in this paragraph” to “Justin’s well fit, isn’t he?”, Cass looked out of the window, trying to make out the green blobs walking away from the distant pitch. She convinced herself one blob was Draco.

Look at him jumping around like a twat while I’m miserable. What’s he got to be happy about? Daddy’s little freeloader.

The librarian went ballistic after Pansy accidentally got a tiny (probably non-existent) dot of paint on the carpet, but there was some consolation in retreating to the Common Room.

When they returned, Marcus was screaming his head off. The target of such fury: Draco-bloody-Malfoy. They should have brought popcorn.  

From what she could piece together, she was at the bit where Draco called Hermione a mudblood, and, although the girl had no clue what it meant, Marcus had to stop Fred and George from absolutely beating the shit out of his seeker.

Marcus had a real go at him. Cass lounged on the sofa, smiling at Draco while he fought for his life. The slimeball got quieter as it went on. When the older boy was finally done, Draco stood there for a while, staring at the wall.

Cass peered at him over the fortress built from Lockhart’s books.

Draco suddenly glared at her. “Oh, Shove off!”

“I didn’t say anything!” she smirked, turning a page with a lick and a flick.

“Just… shove off!” But it was Draco who fled to the showers.

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

In summary, they started learning about how Merlin turned into a rain cloud in History of Magic and, after the Cornish Pixies incident, Defence Against the Dark Arts had just become Lockhart’s personal Radio Show. His excuse for performing endless soliloquies of his greatest battles was that the class needed to recover, completely disregarding the fact that he had hidden in his office to escape the havoc.

The hours spent in the summer reading and rereading the textbooks – because there was nothing else to do – had definitely paid off. Professor McGonagall noticed it too, which earned Cass nods of approval and the chance to smile at her in the corridors and get one in return. Cass wouldn’t be surprised if she got a little wave by December.

She had just asked the librarian to send for her if a strange black book turned up when she bumped into Luna, who needed help finding her classroom for Ancient Runes Club.

“Um, well first of all…” Cass flipped the map of the castle the Ravenclaw had been issued the right way up.

“Well I suppose that makes more sense, now that you mention it.” Luna smiled.

They walked across the moonlit courtyard, and as they did, Cass gave her tips on which Portraits you could quiz for essays and how to trasverse the castle faster with the few secret passages she had found. Luna lapped up every bit of information.

“So,” said Cass. “Luna’s a pretty name. Is it after a relative, or did your parents pick it, or…”

Luna answered in her dreamy voice. “No, I picked it.”

“Oh. Well it’s really pretty. Ah. Here’s the room!”

Ginny was lined up outside with the other first-years. Both were thanking Cass profusely when Pansy shouted down the hall.

“There you are! Come on, we’re going to be late.”

She turned to Luna and Ginny and jokingly rolled her eyes. “I’ll see you around.”

Cass spun on her heel, shoes echoing on stone, when a friendly face with large spectacles emerged from the bathroom.

“Psst! Cass.” Myrtle beckoned her over. “I can’t believe it. Sir Nicholas made a mistake, I’ve been invited. And look! There’s one for you too. Peeves put them here a few minutes ago.”

“That’s great!” she said hurriedly. “I’ve got History of Magic now, but I’ll see you later.”

Myrtle glanced over her shoulder. “What are you doing with Pansy? I thought we didn’t like her.”

“Oh, she’s not that bad.”

Myrtle didn’t look convinced.

Astronomy was exhausting, intellectually and in terms of morale  as Sinistra collected the essays, reading each line with an expression of panic. Apparently the class had done so badly that she felt the need to go over theory again. She used Draco’s as a “perfect example of what not to do” which, ordinarily, Cass would have found funny, but was just depressing.

On the bright side, Crabbe was suddenly overflowing with energy; Vince was the one you went to when Draco needed cheering up.

While Sinistra was lecturing them, nose in textbook, Crabbe used his wand to draw a caricature of her on the board behind her back. Draco laughed so hard he fell off his chair.

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

Halloween was too quiet for her liking, snake-wise.

It started off with McGonagall giving her a judgemental glance down the corridor. Just when she had believed they were passed all that.

Cass looked at her novelty cardigan self-consciously. It was the one good thing she had taken from Runswick, and specifically for this festive day too. She had found it under her bed beside the box of spare bed sheets.

The knit was chunky, with pumpkins, red maple leaves, silver stars, half-moons, and frogs on it. There was silver tassel along the sleeves that made her feel like a really cool cowgirl. Absolutely hideous, yes, but hers.

Or was it?

She sighed and checked the label.

It was juniors.

“OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE!” She yelled.

Professor McGonagall did a one-eighty, but Cass was already darting down the corridor in search of a bin.

Next thing she knew, Marcus was buzzing around her. She’d take the Cornish pixies any day.

“Want any tea, Cass?”

“No.”

Marcus waved a plate of biscuits under her nose. “Want one?”

She shook her head.

“Suit yourself.” He slumped into the chair next to her, but it wasn’t even five minutes before he leaned over. “Whatcha  doing?”

Cass swatted away the crumbs he had scattered over the pages.  “Well, I was trying to do my homework, but I can’t read and listen.”

“What subject?”

“Astronomy.”

“Yikes,” he said. “I don’t regret dropping that subject. Need any help?”

“No.”

“Ugh. You’re being so annoying. What am I supposed to do? I’m on my knees here. Speak to me! I can be useful!”

“You can, can you? Go on. Move then. You’re blocking the clock. Oh, would you look at that! Time to bloody leave.” Cass closed her book and jumped up, rushing out through the wall.

“I’ll see you at the feast?” Marcus called hopefully.

“Nope!” She called back as she passed Draco and his intervention. They had been sat in a circle for the past hour, each taking turns to explain to him why he couldn’t go around calling people mudbloods, but to no avail. The boy just looked confused… and then panicked when she approached.

She went through the Common Room wall and into the freezing depths of the castle.

Cass hadn’t been prepared to do all this book stuff. Had there been a ghost ball in the movies? She wondered if she would continue to remember the vague outline the movies gave her less and less as time passed. The details would disappear like the diary had, until she was left with nothing but something shaky, something unsustainable.

There were a hundred floating blue candles and pearly-white ghosts partnered in a fairy tale waltz. Hypnotic and flighty. A zoetrope of pretty dead things.

It smelled terrible, and it was freezing, but Cass didn’t mind. It was only a little worse than the dungeons.

“Don’t eat the food, you’ll get sick,” warned Myrtle.

She wasn’t really planning to when looking at the choice of maggoty quiches, fungal peanuts, and red lentil soup with a watery green film over the top.

“If you get hungry, you can go to the Halloween feast. I won’t mind,” she reassured.

“It’s fine, I saved a sandwich from lunch and had it on the way.”

“Ugh!” groaned Myrtle. “Don’t look now.”

While the orchestra switched to a faster piece, some dancers left the floor. Across the way was Harry, Ron, Hermione having a tense conversation with a certain Poltergeist.

 “OI! MYRTLE!”

Peeves beckoned them over.

Myrtle shot Cass a sarcastic grimace as they waded through the ghosts – Myrtle quite literally, Cass dodging their freezing forms altogether.

What had happened to staying away from the Gryffindors? She considered coming up with an excuse like ‘Oh, I’ll go get us some drinks’, but that didn’t really apply to the social situation.

“What?” asked Myrtle.

Hermione was the first to pipe up. “How are you, Myrtle? And… sorry, what’s your name again?”

NO! Hermione, you’re breaking my heart!

Cass re-introduced herself even though she was certain Hermione did remember and was just being a bitch about it. Which she’d allow. She might have even laughed if she were anyone else.

“Riiiight. Cass. I remember now.” She turned back to the ghost and was much more sincere when she said, “Well, it’s nice to see you out of the toilet, Myrtle”

Peeves rolled around in the air until he was upside-down. “Miss Granger here was just talking about you.”

“You’re making fun of me.” Myrtle wasn’t really asking. She didn’t have to; Hermione fiddled with her robes guiltily. It was obvious that Peeves had overheard something they hadn’t. The poltergeist was a sarcastic twit, but he wasn’t a liar.

“No honestly, didn’t I just say how nice Myrtle looks?” Hermione elbowed her friends.

“Oh yeah…” said Harry, with little-to-no effort.

“She did… ” Ron said, even less convincingly.

Okay, so this is going well.

Cass had never witnessed such terrible improvisation before. It was worse than her own.

She shot what she hoped was a ‘you’ve got to be joking’ expression. The kind she got from Snape whenever she asked a question in class.

“Um,” said Cass. It was probably worth changing the subject, especially when Myrtle’s eyes went glossy. “Want to dance, Myrtle?”

The ghost was a little startled by the suggestion, but then she laughed. “Alright.”

They abandoned the group and sauntered into the middle of the room together.

“I only know jive. I’m guessing you don’t.”

Cass shook her head. “What if we just copy the others?”

Two of the clarinettists waged war over the melody.

The other ghosts had begun a less austere dance, one that involved twirling and bridges and switching partners and clapping.

Cass ignored the chill that ran through her every time she placed her palm over Myrtle’s during the spins. The ghost in question perked right up, the two of them bursting out laughing when Lord Drabden kept stepping on Iris Pius’ shoes, or when the Grey Lady splashed whatever beverage they were serving at the Bloody Baron.

Ron slipped in the puddle after the random arrival of the Headless Hunt, dragging the whole table cloth down with him.

He's fineeee, she thought, but Harry sent her a glare for finding it amusing.

Nearly-Headless-Nick attempted to give a speech, but Cass was so exhausted that she left with Myrtle.

It was all such fun that Cass had almost forgotten all about the Diary. Oh yeah. The diary. Shit.

Ah well. One peaceful night couldn't hurt.

Chapter Text

Second Year - Chapter Five

The nightmares hadn’t returned since the diary was stolen, so it could be safely assumed they were Tom Riddle’s doing. But as tempting as it was to forget that a fragment of Voldemort was on the loose, all Cass could do was wring her hands, waiting for someone to get petrified, and thinking of who the hell could have taken it.

She aggressively buttered her toast, watching Malfoy from the corner of her eye as he unboxed his regular parcel of sweets. He distributed Sugar Quills and Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum to the three people he liked, plus Flint, as some sort of apology, (she was surprised he knew what those were).

As it turned out, Draco was a fabulous multitasker too; he sat there, slandering Potter’s name between mouthfuls of poached egg while he fed Eurus a few owl treats with his other hand, and suddenly, it was easy to go back to the idea that Riddle’s diary had simply fallen out of her bag.

Draco was no evil mastermind. There were no victims. No writing on the wall. What if Riddle hadn’t even found anyone else to latch onto yet? What if he was sitting in some rubbish bin just like Junior’s Halloween cardigan?

As they got up from the breakfast table, Pansy — saint that she was — begged Draco to stop talking about the Boy-Who-Lived. Even Crabbe had to agree it was a little embarrassing. Especially since they had Potions with the Gryffindor’s next.

She pulled herself into the classroom with the expected ‘I don’t want to be here, but I also don’t want to spend another detention with Filch’ mentality. The desks had been rearranged into proper tables, which could mean only one thing…

Snape stood at the front of the class. “To the idiots among you who think Potions is nothing more than a fun little cooking class, listen closely.” It seemed he was still mad at Draco’s snide remark from a few days ago. He continued, “in the professional world, you will have to work with people you don’t know, or don’t like. Henceforth, I’ll be sorting you into groups.”

The class groaned collectively.

“Silence!” he shouted, then procured a list from the inside of his robes. “Longbottom, Malfoy and Nott will form the first group.”

“Yikes,” muttered Daphne. “He’s going to regret that when someone starts crying.”

“Bet you ten sickles it’s Longbottom.” Pansy whispered smugly, but her smile vanished when Snape put her in a group with Ron Weasley and Parvati Patil.

“Sit down quickly, Mr Finnegan, we don’t have all day!” The Professor hissed, revealing a row of yellow teeth. “Group Five is in luck. You get the celebrity. Yes, that’s right, Potter; you won’t be able to leech off of Miss Granger’s efforts this time. Get moving! Right. Potter will be working with, let’s see, Mr Zabini and…” Snape almost laughed, “and Miss Crouch. Mm. Yes, good luck with that.”

Cass slumped over her desk in despair, resting her head against the cool wood. Why was it that now she had decided she didn’t need the Gryffindors, they wouldn’t leave her alone? First at Sir Nicholas’ party. Now here! If this had just happened in First Year they’d have been friends instead of… she didn’t know what they thought of her, to be fair. Maybe they didn’t even think of her at all.

She shuffled over to their table and chose the least grimy stool she could find. Harry, who was the last to get up, sat on the corner furthest from her and Blaise. Whether it was subconscious or not, she thought it was bloody rude.

Snape passed a recipe sheet to each table. “As you all keep whinging about not doing enough practicals, today each group will attempt to brew a Girding Potion that gives the consumer increased endurance.”

“But Sir!” blurted Hermione. Her hand was raised, but she hadn’t bothered to wait for him to give her the go-ahead. “We’ve only learned about doxy eggs and dragonfly thoraxes. You didn’t assign us reading for the rest of the ingredients, did you? Obviously, I read ahead-”

Harry and most of the class glared at her.

“-But not everyone had the time to,” she quickly added.

“Yeah,” agreed Ron from the other side of the room. “And how are we supposed to brew it? These instructions are missing parts!”

Snape sneered. “Then, maybe you will finally learn to appreciate the value of my theory classes.”

Cass faced the back, so she was one of the first to watch a man wavy blond locks and silver robes poke his head through the door.

“Not disturbing anything, am I?” he winked.

“Ah yes, and I forgot to mention… Professor Lockhart has volunteered to judge whatever you come up with.”

“I have?” His confusion soon turned into a prideful hand combing through his hair. “I have!”

Some took out their cauldrons and collected ingredients, while others gathered wood for the fires and read out instructions.

“Tut tut, Miss Greengrass,” grumbled Snape. “I’ve seen First Years use a pestle and mortar better than you — THOMAS, ROLL UP YOUR SLEEVES OR THEY’LL CATCH ALIGHT — Right. Circular movements, not back and forth. Yes, that’s it! — CONGRATULATIONS, MR THOMAS, YOU’VE DISCOVERED FIRE! — No, you don’t stab with it; there’s nothing to crush. Honestly! Have you forgotten everything I taught you? — Can someone PLEASE throw water on him?! — Excellent technique, Nott! Perhaps you could teach Longbottom a thing or two instead of showing off.”

Theodore Nott was a funny one. The kind who got an earful for rolling up to class thirty minutes late with his sleeves rolled up and shirt untucked. The kind who nicked back Fred and George Weasley’s contraband from Filch’s office in exchange for a half-finished bottle of firewhisky and a packet of cigarettes that the Weasley’s, in turn, had bartered from someone in Marcus’ year. The kind who was failing half his classes with such confidence that it almost seemed right.

In Charms for instance, Flitwick was becoming increasingly impatient with Theo, as the young Slytherin insisted that it wasn’t that he couldn’t perform the spells, just that he didn’t feel like it. While Cass preferred the classes that involved spell work, Theo thrived in the more hands-on subjects, the ones without “foolish wand-waving”, as Snape called it. He was, however, a child prodigy when it came to the banishing and summoning charms, so much so that no one heard his incantations.

Lockhart had the audacity to contribute to the lesson.

He peered over Tracey’s shoulder to sniff at the mossy sludge in the cauldron. He took out his handkerchief and held it to his mouth and nose. “Excuse me, darling,” he started, but it was muffled by the fabric, “I once won an award for brewing a Girding Potion for the Swedish Minister of Magic three years back and I can tell you, it wasn’t that colour. That’s ghastly!”

Tracey scratched her head and took the instructions from Lavender Brown. “Thought it was supposed to be that colour,” she muttered to herself.

He hovered around Harry for most of the hour giving him unsolicited advice about being famous and knocking over key ingredients. Eventually he got bored when Harry stopped answering him, so off he went to annoy Snape, who was busy prohibiting Dean Thomas from going to the hospital wing until after his group had redone their project.

Cass stirred the cauldron. Her group was still waiting on the four dragon thoraxes Blaise had put in one of the small black ovens. The burning logs heated the room by a few degrees. It was barely noticeable, but they were still grateful.

“How do you know when it’s done roasting?” Blaise asked.

“When most of the oil is gone” replied Harry as he scored the fairy wings into long strips rather clumsily. He pushed his glasses back up his nose for the fiftieth time.

There was a loud shriek.

Everyone whipped their heads to the front of the class.

There stood a girl covered in a purple ash. Daphne’s eyes were wide and her hair stuck up in all directions. Beside her was Seamus Finnegan. Evidently, he had managed to cover his face with the sleeve of his robe in time.

“What happened!?” barked Snape.

They each looked at Millicent briefly, but no one snitched, which convinced Cass that ‘Nature was healing’.

Watching what you were brewing was a vital aspect of potion-making, because cauldrons were vain things. If one got whiff that you weren’t paying enough attention to it, it would boil over just to spite you, which is what almost happened while everyone was distracted by the explosion, but Cass separated the coals in the fire just as bubbles the size of eyeballs began erupting.

“We’ve got a problem.” Harry cringed and pointed to a line on the page. “It doesn’t tell us how much to add.”

“Let’s see.” Cass let him stir so she could have a read. “I think it’s until it turns orange, but I’m not sure if I’m remembering that right.”

“You did,” said Blaise, and it was best to trust him. After all, Morgan Eziamaka Zabini — recently widowed yet again just last week —  was the mistress of ingredients as well as half the wealthy bachelors in Oxfordshire.

Blaise took out the tray of thoraxes and cautiously added them into the cauldron. The substance within was orange, the bubbles swelling like pus and bursting violently.

Cass held out the tin of Doxy eggs for Harry, but he didn’t react at all. She narrowed her eyes at him and shook the tin a little. “Potter!”

He finally turned his head.

And oh! She hadn’t been close enough to him to notice it before. The left eye, the one his scar went through, was a paler, foggier shade of green. It reminded her of the lake view from the common room window, those rare times in summer when the light cut into the water.

He snatched the tin from her hands and poured some eggs onto the golden scale.

“So,” Cass cleared her throat. “Heard any voices in the walls recently?” She regretted the words as soon as they tumbled out of her mouth.

Harry’s eyebrows shot up but he continued to smoothly stir the simmering cauldron. “Now, can’t say I have, but I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

Hm. No snake then. Great!

For the first time in weeks, Cass felt quiet, at ease, like the feeling you got when dark clouds gathered overhead, and you knew it was going to rain, but that was perfectly fine because you’d much rather stay inside all day anyway.

Yes, she thought, someone probably just picked up the manky old diary and put it in the bin. End of. Either that or Peeves buried it.

Making time capsules was the poltergeist’s second favourite hobby (the first involved throwing water balloons at “ickle First-Years”). Just last Thursday, he had buried Marchesi’s head girl badge along with some smaller portraits that had been unfortunate enough to make eye-contact with him. He had tried to bury Filch once, but sadly, McGonagall had caught him.

Cass didn’t ask any follow-up questions, so Harry sighed very loudly. “Why?” he asked. “Have you heard anything?”

She blinked. “Nah, just the regular. Mrs Norris. Ghosts in the pipes. Stuff like that.”

“…Okay…?” Harry sent his friends a plea for help from across the room, but Hermione was too busy reading the fragmented instructions with a deep crease in her forehead, and Ron was equally stressed out because Pansy was screaming “No! Stop! They’re supposed to be shredded not grated, you buffoon!” at him.

Finally, when the tasting started, Snape didn’t stop Lockhart from sampling the amalgamations that looked deceptively appealing.

Ten points were awarded to Theo and Hermione’s respective groups. Cass and Blaise beamed when Snape found nothing to criticise about their potion, even calling it “decent”. Then, when Gilderoy Lockhart sampled the do-over potion Daphne, Seamus and Millicent had put their sweat and tears into… literally… the stench sucker-punched him. Snape left him twitching on the ground, gliding over to inspect their cauldron.

Everyone held their breath.

After a considerable amount of teeth-grinding, Snape confirmed it was the best Girding potion that had been produced, and all Hermione could do was stare open-mouthed with the rest of the class.

On the way out, the Slytherins (Cass included) cheered Millicent and Daphne. Draco told every unsuspecting student in the corridor to “Make way! Hogwarts’ best and brightest coming through!” and Pansy clapped them on the back and interrogated them as if she was a reporter for the Daily Prophet. How had they hidden their talents for Potions for so long and what they were going to do with it? The girls flushed a bright pink.

The caretaker was summoned to wheel Lockhart to the hospital wing. He trundled along behind them for a while, lies whooshing from his mouth like a swarm of gnats. People throughout the corridors stopped and stared, but he kept insisting to his admirers that everything was fine and that the smell that had knocked him for a perfectly sombre reason.

The very stench had reminded him of the band of week-old zombies he had taken down single-handedly last year after one of his allies had betrayed him and the other had been eaten. A Hufflepuff girl started sobbing at the tragic tale, so he patted her hand and pretended to cough.

“What a pretentious git,” Cass muttered.

Pansy hummed in agreement. “I thought Snape was bad, but he’s as dodgy as they come.”

Lockhart let out another coughing fit.

“Be quiet! He could hear you,” warned Tracey.

Pansy held her head high. “Let him.”

By the time they reached History of Magic, Lockhart’s name was steeped in such praise that it might as well have been written in gold, and by the afternoon, the doorway to the hospital wing was surrounded by lavish bouquets of yarrow, apple blossom and lady’s slipper.

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

The Black Lake was a polished mirror of deep November.

All eyes were on a small blonde girl as she skipped over to the Slytherin table: Luna Lovegood. She told Cass and the other snakes all about the triple axels old Dumbledore had landed that morning. Draco dropped his spoon and hot chocolate almost came out of Millicent’s nose.

Luna had watched the headmaster glide across the frozen waste from her window along with many other curious souls of Ravenclaw Tower. After a thorough test, Dumbledore had given a thumbs up to Professor McGonagall, who was bundled up in her coat and the Ravenclaw scarf she didn’t feel guilty for wearing because Poppy Pomfrey had given it to her some time ago and certainly did not plan on asking for it back any time soon.

The skating season sent the school abuzz, but Cass wasn’t fond of the lake, as much as she wanted to be the type of girl who embraced nature like Luna did. Luna probably would have tried to befriend the Whomping Willow if the annual list of all the things that could kill you at Hogwarts hadn’t been read out by Dumbledore. She could have sworn the list was longer than it was last year.

At the weekend, Cass sat in the common room with Blaise, the closest thing they’d get to being friendly again, she supposed. She took it as a good sign that he hadn’t hexed her when she got comfy beside him and unrolled a massive star chart. She tried not to think about that.

At least, everything was quiet until Draco and the girls clumped through the passage in the wall (the password for this month was ‘Basilisk’, a rather distasteful choice, but only in her opinion.)

Malfoy wanted to borrow Tracey’s frog Kermit for ‘Frog Choir’, the more exclusive ensemble led by Flitwick that he just had to be in. His request was denied however, because he insisted on a costume for the little green fellow which included a bow-tie, but all Cass could think was: Oh to be a little frog where you get to hold a big key (which is actually a tiny key and you’re just small), and you unlock the music box and dance with the ballerina who lives there!

She was only pulled from her daydream when Pansy instigated the Quidditch talk as she laced up her boots by the common room hearth.

“I’m telling you, those Hufflepuffs don’t stand a chance.”

Daphne tutted as she pulled on a pair of pink mittens. “I have to disagree with you on that one. That Diggory guy looks like he knows what he’s doing.”

Pansy grinned. “You know, it’s okay if you disagree with me. I can’t force you to be right.”

Daphne smiled back, and it was infinitely sweet in a playfully venomous kind of way. “I’m just saying that there won’t be a rogue Bludger this time.”

“Is Potter still in the hospital wing then?” asked Millicent.

Daphne nodded.

“I’m not going to say ‘poor him’, because I’m still glad we won, but also poor him. Saw his bones sticking out and everything,” said Pansy.

Cass had been in the stands when Dobby's Bludger battered Harry in the air, but she never got to see it because Pansy had accidently smacked Vince in the nose when Slytherin got the upper hand. Instead, Cass bent down in the rain, fishing a packet of tissues from her bag so that the boy wouldn't ruin the banners with his bloody nose, but mostly because it was the nice thing to do. Pansy, on the other hand, had apologised briefly and immediately turned back to the game and whatever Lee Jordan was yelling about.

“Hey, Crouch! Fancy coming for a skate? Or are you as boring as that great big lump?” Pansy gestured towards Blaise, who was reading a book, yet again, but he didn’t even scowl at her, which just annoyed Parkinson even more.

“S’not his fault he was born a Capricorn,” chimed Milly, obviously baiting him; Blaise was fascinated with charting constellations in Astronomy, but not when it came to reading their meanings, especially horoscopes.

Blaise lowered his book. It was about the snake charmers who had broken the International Statute of Secrecy with their enchanted pungi in the nineteen seventies, a topic the Fourth Years had only begun learning. He huffed theatrically. “Must you always attack me with words?”

“Would you prefer it if I jinxed you instead?” said Pansy with a glint in her eyes. She raised her wand teasingly.

He sat up. “Actually, I would. Got a few counter attacks I want to try.”

She stuck her tongue out at him.

Tracey groaned. “See? This is what that stupid duelling club does to boys. They get all violent.”

Pansy rolled her sleeve up and dug her wand from her pocket. “And who says I haven’t? Come at me Zabini.”

He stuck his nose back in the book, licking his finger and flicking to the next page. “Mm. Some other times perhaps. I’m not in the mood.”

Her eyebrows furrowed. “Not in the mood?” she repeated. “Ugh! Fine. I’ll just burn the library down one day. You’d have to fight me without  holding back then.”

“Crouch!” Tracey called. “Are ye laikin’ or what?”

Cass sat up. “Wait, you weren’t kidding?”

She couldn’t remember if she had ever skated before. All she knew was that a pit formed in her stomach at the very thought of the giant squid lurking beneath the ice, like some sort of ghostly pirate ship.

“Yeah, we’ve been talking and we’re all really sorry about what happened with us last year. None of us can even remember who started it, so let’s just forget about it, yeah?”

Cass smiled. “I’m sorry too. I guess I was just really on edge.”

“How come?”

“Well... I wasn’t expecting everyone to remember my brother, but it wasn’t cool for me to take it out on you all.”

“Aww. Don’t worry about it, ye daft ‘apeth,” said Tracey. “I’m sorry when we told everyone ye were obsessed with the Gryffindors.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it.”

“Or when I used your toothbrush,” blurted Daphne. “It was mistake, I swear it!”

Cass’ eyes went wide. “Um-”

“-And when I spread that rumour that you wanted to kill the Boy-Who-Lived,” Pansy added helpfully. “Ha ha. Good times...”

“I actually didn’t know about those last two.”

Daphne cringed, waving her hand dismissively. “Well, no matter, that’s all behind us. Right, Mills?”

“Abso-bloody-lutely!”

Tracey tugged on her chullo and coat. “Not to sound mardy, but can we please leave before the sun goes down?”

“I don’t have any skates.”

“No worries,” said Daphne. “My aunt, the one who lives in Greece, she visited us last summer and taught me the spell.”

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

They walked through the large double doors of the castle and down to the frost-glazed lake. There were several students already skating across it. Cass thought she spotted a girl with red hair on the other side, but she was too far to tell if it was Ginny.

Pansy had on a pair of fluffy earmuffs and her dark hair was tied into a small ponytail. She poked a small patch of the ice with her shoe. It seemed solid. She turned to them with a stern face unbefitting of a twelve-year-old. “Under no circumstances is anyone to become Amy March today, alright?”

Tracey laughed, Millicent looked confused, but Daphne just shrugged.

“Always fancied myself a bit more of a Beth myself,” she said, “but whatever you say.” Daphne pointed her wand at the heel of her shoes and a pair of metal slicers lifted her up slightly as they appeared. She inspected them proudly and her friends all gawked at such a graceful display of advanced magic.

Tracey was just pleased that they had read ‘Little Women’. “Don’t get me wrong, our textbooks are fascinatin’ and all that, but stories. Ah! Stories! You much of a reader?”

Cass smiled to herself. “Didn’t use to be.”

Pansy locked eyes with her. “I get you. Never read muggle books until my mum recommended me some. I’m not trying to sound condescending or anything, but you’ve got to give them credit, those muggles. Haven’t seen a lick of magic and somehow their stories are still so entertaining.”

Daphne charmed Tracey’s boots next.

“Ta,” she said, and stepped onto the ice.

It was easy to lose yourself on the ice. Cass drank in the cold air like it was life itself. Like there wasn’t a purer thing. To feel it on her cheeks, to fall, several times, to clasp hands with Millicent, who led her around the lake like she was a lamb learning to walk for the first time, to laugh at how red Daphne’s nose got.

The clouds of breath slowed before her as she watched Pansy dance around the ice with ease. But it was impossible to be jealous, because the way she skated… it was so clearly and selflessly intended for an audience. A shared experience.

Cass had half the mind to ask Pansy to hold her hands instead, and spin her around the ice, as fast as she wanted, even if it made her dizzy, Cass didn’t care; this was Pansy’s domain and Pansy could do as she pleased.

But Pansy skated away and Cass was only just getting the hang of standing by herself.

The Weasley twins were up to their usual mischief, strapping homemade whizzers to their skates and racing Lee Jordan around the lake. And for a while she just stood there on the ice and watched, feeling awfully lonely all of a sudden, as Millicent went off to talk to Susan Bones.

She looked down and pictured Senior beneath the ice, freezing down there with the giant squid. How he’d react if he saw her having fun above him. And he wouldn’t be able to scream. Just watch as she was doing now. Would he be happy for her in that cold? Is there any comfort to it? Or would he look at her with those same dead eyes he had at the breakfast table in Runswick?

She wobbled slightly, head snapping back to Pansy.

As much as Cass would’ve liked to have stayed exactly where she was, without moving a muscle, until the stars came out at least, she knew she couldn’t simply sit there licking her wounds forever.

She slid a skate in front of her and slowly pushed herself forward, towards Tracey and a little further than her was Daphne and-

There came a stomach-dropping crack from below.

Chapter Text

Second Year - Chapter Six

Cass looked down. There it was. Exactly what she had dreaded; a spider web weaving between the lake.

The ice was going to split.

Slowly lifting her feet might have been safer than boldly trying to skate away, but her knees were shaking slightly. Cass desperately tried to remember if she even knew how to swim, or if she would be able to when the woolly jumper and coat she had on were soaked through and clung to her like a second skin.

“Tracey!” she called.

The girl up ahead slowed down, a look of confusion on her face.

“Yeah?” she called back, but then her eyes widened. Her throat gave a dry laugh. “Guess now’d be a good time to tell yeh not to move?”

Yes, of course she wouldn’t budge.

The crack beneath her feet grew wider, slicing out in every direction as if it were alive, ripping through the ice with a low, echoing howl, like a wild dog ravaging meat off the bone.   

No no no nononononono. This cannot be happening. This is NOT happening.

Her hands rummaged through her jacket without any idea which spell to fire off first. They didn’t learn freezing spells until next year. Her mind flicked through a catalogue of useless spells like Lumos and Spongify before she got to Carpe Retractum, the spell that could yank her away, only there was nothing – no tree or lamppost - close enough to the lake for it to latch onto.

Her pockets were empty — she decided if the lake didn’t kill her then at least she was sure to die of embarrassment.

This is what she got for scoffing at the students who took their wands everywhere as if they had co-dependency issues with a piece of wood. And yes, she also got the thrill that ran up her arm whenever she used magic, almost like it was calling for her to do it again, but taking your wand everywhere seemed absurd, unless you were Draco Malfoy, who was always prepared for a fight (which he himself probably started).

Her wand, the very thing she had once called plain, was getting its revenge on her now. She could picture it lying on the table beside her half-finished star chart, and besides that, a steaming cup of tea (which was probably cold by now because Blaise always forgot about the cups of tea he made).

“Oh galloping gorgons!” gasped Pansy, who had elegantly glided towards Tracey. “What did I say, Crouch? What did I say?”

Cass glared at her and huffed. Now was hardly the time. “No Amy incidents,” she droned.

“And did you listen? NO!”

“Well, it’s hardly her fault is it?” said Tracey, the panic had seeped into her voice this time. “I thought Dumbledore tested the ice this morning?”

“He’s utterly useless,” Pansy shrieked, but then she muttered something to Tracey before turning back. “We’re going to get a branch for you to grab!”

The girls shot off, and before they were halfway to the lake’s edge, the ice hitched, a small section crushing in on itself. “WAIT COME BACK H-”

The frosted ice gave way and her left leg plunged into the bitter cold of the lake. As she fell, she glimpsed a flash of a boy wearing a red and gold, and all she could think was that better not be Potter.

It might have been a stupid thing to think, especially considering it was the weekend, so it could have just been any student who wore the Gryffindor colours, intentionally or not. And yet, she still dreaded the idea that it was Potter. Not because she loathed him or anything, but because if she was the reason Potter and thirty other students could suddenly start seeing Thestrals, then somehow, someway, Dumbledore would use it as an excuse to take points from Slytherin, and Marcus would spit on her grave when he did.

Once, Dumbledore had once taken points off Marchesi for ‘not smiling enough’, and while no one from Cass’ house was entirely sure why he hated Slytherins, it was generally agreed that he was genuinely bonkers and that the reason didn’t matter anymore.

Her side hit the ice and her leg was fully submerged in the water.

That better not be Potter, she thought again, as she gripped a frozen slab in the futile attempt to restore balance.

Unbeknownst to Potter, she had scored him a sweet year by snatching the diary from Ginny’s cauldron. One glorious three hundred and sixty-five day break from all Voldemort-related antics.

Now, Cass definitely hadn’t won this break so Potter would put up with her antics instead, that was for sure, but she wasn’t even given a chance to tell him to piss off, because when she looked up again-

“Flipendo!”

Her eyes squeezed shut. The blinding blue light rocketed towards her, and then a mammoth force slammed into her body, knocking her seven metres back. The air was snatched from her lungs as she hit hard, solid ice and skidded across it until her head slammed into something, no, someone — one of the Weasley twins toppled over her.

Cass lay there for a split second, looking at the grey sky until a searing pain tore through her leg and she sat up, shoving the boy’s leg off her chest.

“Blimey, Fred. Are you alright?”

Fred stared up at him, wincing. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

After a quick flex to make sure her hands still worked after Weaslebee here had squashed them, she rolled up the soaking wet leg of her jeans. A reddish-purple bruise was already blooming on her skin, but at least she wasn’t bleeding.

An older girl (Cass was pretty sure this was the Angelina Johnson Marcus kept going on about) bounded over to them. “Are you okay?” she pressed, crouching down.

The Weasley on the ground winked at the Gryffindor chaser. “Give me a kiss and I’ll feel fantastic!”

“Oh. It’s just you, Fred.” She smirked and folded her arm. “I thought George was the one on the floor. Wouldn’t have rushed if I’d known.”

Fred gasped in mock-offence, clutching his chest and falling back down onto the ice as if his heart had shattered into a million pieces. “OW!” he then groaned, which annoyed Cass a great deal. Had he been ripped out of  the ice just seconds ago? No. So what did he have to complain about? Absolutely nothing.

“Nice one, Neville!” said the twin who hadn’t flattened her.

She didn’t believe it. Her head snapped up.

Neville stood across the ice, wand still raised. His blond hair was covered by a bobble hat and a thick gold and red scarf was loosely wrapped about his neck.

Don’t come over, don’t come over.

Neville pushed himself around the thin ice, skating over to the four of them.

Ugh!

Someone finally acknowledged her existence.

“Are you okay?” asked Angelina, offering her hand, and yes, Fred had every reason to be grinning at her like that; other being one hell of a Quidditch player, she was incredibly charming —  wonky nose and all.

Cass smiled a little when she took her hand. “I’ll survive, thanks.” But then she stood on her left leg and it screamed at her to stop. Neville was much closer now. She stumbled a little, but George Weasley steadied her.

“Hurt yourself, have you?” he said kindly.

“Seems like it,” said Cass, and if it had been anyone other than Neville she might have yelled at them for shooting a random spell at her without thinking. But it was Neville. And she wasn’t in the mood for fighting like Draco always was.

So he just looked at her cautiously with those big brown eyes.

“Neville,” she said — if he wasn’t going to speak first, it would have to be her — “Thank you. I really mean it, thank you.”

He nodded shyly and just kept saying “of course” as if he was convincing himself that saving her life had been the right thing to do.

Pansy and Tracey had scrounged up a long stick out of the snow, but it immediately fell to the ground when they saw her. Tracey sighed in relief, but Pansy’s jaw was clenched. They both skated over.

“How in Salazaar’s name did you get out of the hole?” Pansy demanded and dusted the frost from Cass’ coat. “Do you need to go to the hospital wing?”

That was the last place she wanted to be. If she went to Madame Pomfrey, there would be no one to put Draco in his place. It would be havoc, and honestly, she just wanted to go to bed.

“C’mon, let’s get you out of here,” said Tracey.

Cass smiled appreciatively at Neville again. “See you in class,” she said, but when her friends led her away towards the castle, gossip followed them.

“Who was that, George?”

“Flint’s underling, I think.”

The Slytherins were the only house tactful enough to implement a buddy system. Naturally, all anyone else saw was a chain of command.

Clearly, Fred assumed they were too far away to hear him —  (indeed they were not). “Wait, is that Crouch’s kid? The one mum got all flighty about?”

“The very same.”

“Well, she seems alright.”

“Nah, Fred. That’s how they get you.”

Cass put her arms around both girls’ shoulders, but it was a bit awkward, because Tracey was considerably taller than the two of them.

Millicent and Daphne came over to see what had happened, but Cass told them her leg was just a bit sore, and to go have fun.

She limped back, then glared at the boy who leapt from the snowy bushes screaming. Crabbe had the largest snowball they had ever seen. His arm wound back like a catapult.

“Na, get away, yeh tosser,” snapped Tracey. “Me jeans are bloody soakin’!”

Crabbe lowered the snowball, a little disappointed. “Pissed yourself, did you?”

“Yeh utter melon, what’d yeh think happens when snow melts? Come on, Vince, take a gander.”

Malfoy and Goyle jumped out of the bush after Crabbe and launched several snowballs at them, cackling like a pack of hyenas.

It was a siege.

Pansy grinned maliciously, forced to defend them. She got out her wand and a flurry of snow flew into Goyle’s face. With one hand, she shoved a snowball in Draco’s mouth. He spluttered on the icy ground.

It was hard not to laugh.  

A brown owl flew overhead, its wings batting against the greying sky — it was the kind of grey you squinted at, deceptively dull, but with all the power of the sun behind it.

They followed the path that looped around the castle to the front doors, complaining about the weather and thirsting for a mug of hot chocolate with a mountain of marshmallows and whipped cream on top.

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

On the way to the dungeon, they saw Dumbledore award ten points to Gryffindor just because he liked Ginny’s socks. Her mum had knitted them for her, and to be fair they were rather snazzy, but that wasn’t the point. Cass glared at him until Ginny looked her way, and she instantly switched to an encouraging grin.

When Parvati and Lavender turned a corner, Tracey had an expression that couldn’t mean anything other than ‘Great. Here we go again’. Sure enough, Pansy and Parvati attempted a stare-off until they were dragged away from each other.

On second thoughts, Cass felt like turning in the opposite direction and heading to Myrtle’s bathroom. For a chat, yes, but also to catch up on the weekly check-in of ‘seen anything strange?’ that she had missed.

“What’s yeh secret then?” Tracey asked out of nowhere.

Shit.

Cass tried not to look suspicious, which was difficult for a girl who didn’t have a single bone in her body that was naturally gifted at lying. “What do you mean?”

“You and Neville. The friendship the whole school wasn’t expecting to happen in a million years! What with ‘im being scared of everything that moves and you looking like yeh want to kick anything that moves.”

Oh. That.

“Neville? No, we’re not friends.”

“Give him a bit more credit, he just saved your life.”

“He was just doing the right thing.”

Pansy shrugged. “He didn’t have to. If I were him, I wouldn’t have.”

“Gee thanks.” Should’ve just drowned then I guess.

“No, I don’t mean it like that. Just that if your brother had helped torture my parents, I’d probably hold a grudge too. These are big steps for Longbottom. He’s finally learned some sense – that blood is important, but it’s not everything, and from what I’ve heard, Daphne’s little sister is nothing like her. Astoria’s a feral little thing. Just last week she tied herself to the roof in protest because she wants to go to Beauxbatons and not, and I quote, ‘smelly old Hogwash’.”

They all giggled.

“Well, I happen to love smelly old Hogwash,” said Cass. “Even though the headmaster’s a loony.”

“Me too!” Tracey squeezed her hand. “And don’t worry, we know yeh nothing like your brother. Otherwise we’d be dead already.”

They walked through the dungeon wall.

Marcus watched them emerge. “Sweet jallowsquabs! You’re back! Please get him to shut up, I think Blaise is about to kill him.”

Rory stood next to him, but his eyes were excitedly fixed on the scene unfolding in front of them.

Cass wandered over to Draco, who was lounging on the sofa, running his mouth, feet over Blaise’s, and Blaise, who was as tense as a spring, looked down at his quill as if he wanted to stab it through Draco’s eye. Cass smiled. “Alright there, Draco?”

“Fine,” he said hurriedly without even registering who was speaking. Draco turned back to Blaise “Anyway, so then he tells me — ‘can’t wait for the holidays to start, I’ll finally get some peace from you’ — I mean, who does he think he is!? So what if he survived You-Know-Who’s killing curse?”

Blaise swallowed, eye twitching.

“No one really knows what happened that night. For all we know, the Dark Lord fell down some stairs, hit his head and stumbled into the Potters’ fireplace. You know what? I’m going to stay over the holidays just to spite that no-good, sarcastic, irrelevant little twit.”

Blaise gave him the dirtiest side-eye, the kind he always did whenever he was judging you and your ancestors’ life decisions from the past five centuries.

“Irrelevant?” he muttered.

“Exactly! I don’t even see why he’s still famous, it happened twelve years ago. So you killed You-Know-Who. Big deal. He was a withering old man. I’d like to see how old Scarhead holds up when I face him next duelling-”

“IRRELEVANT?” shrieked Blaise. He leapt to his feet. “I’ve been trying and failing to do my work from the moment you sat down ranting about Harry Potter and you call him irrelevant!? Just marry him or something. I’m sick of you complaining.”

“Well you’re touchy! Why don’t you just go to the library then? It’s quiet there.”

“Yes, but you can’t eat in the library.”

“I don’t see you eating.”

“Not sure if you noticed, but you ate my lunch while you were ranting.” Blaise pointed to a crumby plate on the table.

“Well, if it’s any help, I did you a favour. It tasted a bit funny. Honestly! You can’t get the staff these days-”

Blaise threw a cushion at his head. “I made that sandwich, you cretin.”

Draco gasped and got to his feet. “If you’re going to speak to me like that, I have half a mind to ask for a new Herbology partner.”

“Well you have half a mind, we all agree on that.”

And there’s the Blaise everyone knows and loves, thought Cass. One snarky string bean of Slytherin prestige, in all his glory.

“I’m going,” Draco grabbed his coat off the rack and shrugged it on, heading towards the wall, “for a very long walk.”

“And don’t come back until it’s dark,” Blaise called after him, “or I swear on my mother’s name, I’m never helping you with your homework again.”

And he was gone.

Marcus looked at Cass. “Well that could have gone worse all things considered.”

Pansy was never one for lingering on awkward silences. “Anyone up for exploding snap?” she asked.

Blaise narrowed his eyes.

“Up in our room, I mean.” She amended sharply. “Away from you and all your lovely thoughts.”

They followed her up. Merlin! Her leg felt like it was on fire.

At last they flopped down on Tracey’s bed where Pansy was shuffling the cards.

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

Cass sat at her desk in her pyjamas.

Dear Father, she wrote. She stared at the letters for a while before scrunching the page up and starting again.

Father, she tried again, because the bastard didn’t deserve any ‘dear’s. I’m sure you’ve been too busy to reply to any of my owls. Am I staying at Hogwarts for the holidays like last year?

The only good thing about Runswick was Winky, but Cass doubted she’d see the house-elf much if she was running around roasting turkey and frosting yule logs.

It was simple maths really. Cass was just another place to set at the table. She hadn’t been to the Crouch estate in winter, but judging by the holes in the roof, it was going to be bitterly cold. The Slytherin dorms had underfloor heating at least. In fact, it was beginning to be her favourite place in the castle.

It’s okay if I am, my friends are staying too.

That was an utter lie for two reasons. Firstly, she wasn’t sure the girls trusted her enough to consider her a friend yet; it was early days. Secondly, none of them were staying.

Draco was spending his holiday at Hogwarts unfortunately. And where Draco was, Crabbe and Goyle weren’t far behind.

She would have added something like everything’s fine or hope you’re doing well, but she didn’t see why she should bother spraying  the diplomatic cologne of niceties over the page when she knew Senior would never meet her half way. It wasn’t her job to keep up the façade of father and daughter.

Write back quickly.

Cass signed off her name and waited for the ink to dry before folding it twice and tying it with a string. She’d visit the owlery in the morning.

“ACHOO!”

Daphne had returned from the lake with a cold, which was odd considering how out of the five of them, she had been the one looking like a balloon with her seven layers of corduroy and jersey.

Millicent sighed and passed her the tissue box. “If you’re not better by tomorrow, we’re going to Madame Pomfrey. You too, Cass.”

“What did I do?” Cass protested.

“You’re walking funny. Stop trying to be brave. Leave that to the Gryffindors, eh.” She winked at her.

Cass sighed and moved over to her bed, wondering if there were any assignments she had forgotten to do.

“Trace?” said Pansy.

“Mm?” she replied.

“Can I borrow that thing again?”

Tracey continued flicking through her magazine. “Only if you remember what it’s called.”

“That’s not fair,” cried Pansy. “The wind blower thing? The hair blower!?”

“You’re getting there.”

“Oh! The hair dryer.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal, Parkinson. Top drawer.”

As soon as Pansy helped herself, and left for the bathroom with her towel and other toiletries, Cass stopped pretending to do homework and sat up on her elbows. “Hey, what’s with Pansy and Parvati?”

Daphne blew her nose a little, but answered all the same. “Oh, it’s quite a funny story actually. The Parkinsons and the Patils are next-door neighbours.”

“Woah. Really?”

“Yeah, she was friends with both the twins, but especially with Parvati —  went to the same music school and everything.”

That made no sense. If they were friends then what was with all the avoiding and staring? “Why do they hate each other then?”

Daphne thought for a second. “Hate is a strong word. Basically, neither realised the other was a witch.”

Surely she had misheard. “What?”

“Ugh, you explain it, Mills. You know the story better than me.”

Those were the magic words Millicent had been waiting to hear. The girl stood on her bed and used the ones between hers and Cass’ as a bridge before plonking down beside her enthusiastically. “Basically, the Parkinsons are big in Britain, and the Patils are big in India, but they moved to the same neighbourhood without knowing each other, if you can believe it. So, Parvati starts being like ‘oh, sorry, we can’t really be friends anymore, I’m going to boarding school so I’ll never see you’, and then Pansy gets all upset.”

Tracey’s head poked out from over her magazine “I was there when they recognised each other on the train.” She shuddered at the memory. “Had to convince Pansy not to climb out the window.”

“They weren’t happy? But they both got the Hogwarts letter.”

Milly shook her head. “Too late. It was embarrassing.”

A group of voices passed their door in hushed tones, growing louder and louder until there was a knock. Millicent went to answer it.

Leaning in the doorway was a girl with a pixie cut of brown hair and a splash of freckles across her face; she was something Tailor, a girl from Marcus’ year who happened to be Daphne’s mentor.

“What’s going on?” asked Daphne, rising from her sickbed.

“No idea,” said Lucy. “Snape’s called a meeting downstairs.”

“A meeting?” repeated Millicent. “Since when do we have those?”

Tracey grabbed her slippers and Daphne slogged out of the room with her box of tissues. Millicent followed.

Cass was just about to ask if they should go get Pansy, but from the bannister they could see her already downstairs, absolutely miffed, which might have had something to do with the fact she was stood in her towel.

Pansy seemed to be wondering what on earth was so important that Snape had to interrupt her shower — a valid question. Perhaps, Cass thought wistfully, he’s announcing his retirement!

The Common Room was soon full of a sea of curious heads, Slytherin students of all years bustling around Snape, the shorter ones craning their necks curiously.

“I’m sure you know why I’m keeping you up,” Snape began with a heavy sigh. “My patience is wearing thin. I’m not mad, I just want to talk. Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? Which one of you snot-nosed parasites opened up the chamber of secrets?”

Some stood in their pyjamas, others stood in their bathrobe and slippers. All began whispering to each other excitedly.

“Am I supposed to know what that is?” whispered Tracey. “What’s a chamber of secrets?”

“It’s a myth,” said Pansy.

But Daphne had gone a sickly colour. “No, it isn’t!” she insisted. “It’s real!”

Pansy sighed. “It’s just one of those stories designed to scare you — bet one of the professors made it up so we wouldn’t go wandering about at night.”

Daphne shot her a look. “Why’s he talking about it then, if it isn’t real?”

Their head of house called for silence and repeated his question.

He was met with silence this time.  

“Okay, smart. You know I’d never forgive you if you did,” said Snape. “Anyone with an explanation or pertinent material regarding its miraculous re-appearance will be awarded a hundred house points, so I will temporarily cast aside our no-snitching policy. I suggest you stay especially vigilant in uncovering the truth and the complete truth. Do I make myself clear? Good. You know where to find me.”

With that he began to turn around, but someone pushed to the front of the rabble. “Hang on, Sir!”

“Make it quick, Miss Davis, I’m needed elsewhere.”

“What’s a Chamber of Secrets?”

“You’d rather not know.”

“Actually I would,” she insisted and Snape groaned, as if he hadn’t chosen to be a full-time professor at Hogwarts.

The man quickly broke it down to the fundamentals; the Chamber used to be Salazaar Slytherin’s man-cave, the monster he shared it with had also belonged to Salazaar Slytherin.

“Wicked!” gasped Tracey.

“No, it’s actually not ‘wicked’, Davis. Merlin, give me strength!” Snape seethed. “It’s very far from it! It’s an enigma. No one knows which part of the castle it’s hidden in and unless you want to die a horribly slow and painful death, you will not go looking for it!”

Cass stuck her hand in the air.

“What?” he snapped.

“If you don’t know where it is then how do you know it’s been opened?”

What had alerted them? Had the first blood message been written? Had Mrs Norris been petrified by the basilisk? A disaster rarely comes alone. The damn things overlap.

Snape didn’t say anything f0r a while. He was glancing over the heads; counting them, by the looks of it. Finally, he opened his mouth, “There are only a few rare things that can petrify another creature. Whatever is rumoured to be lurking in the chamber is immensely powerful.”

“You mean a basilisk?” said Cass.

He glared at her. “What?”

She pulled at the green and silver crest on her robes. “Well Slytherin was obviously big on snakes.”

He sighed and rubbed his temples. “Possibly,” he grumbled. “Basilisk, gorgon…I don’t care. Point is, our caretaker had the misfortune of facing such a beast.” Wait!? WHAT??? “Of course there was also the blood message,” he added as a casual afterthought and the Common Room flared up again.

Filch. Not the cat; a whole person. A whole-bloody-person.

What major cock-up have I triggered now?

Cass accidentally met eyes with Theo, who looked ready to jump out of his skin.

“Settle down, settle down!” Marchesi snapped at the younger years. “Of course, we’re all perfectly safe here, aren’t we, Professor?”

Snape rolled his eyes at her and disappeared through the wall without uttering a word.

The whispers became a louder and much more panicked ‘what the fuck is going on’ kind of noise.

And for some strange reason, Cass went to her family platitude for comfort, no, for something to use as a prayer.

Cras es noster. Tomorrow, be ours.

This basilisk was something entirely new to her, it’s first victim an adult, not a cat.

Which one of you snot-nosed parasites opened up the chamber of secrets?

Indeed. Which one?

Cass looked around at the faces lit by the blue flames of the fireplace, the ripples of the lake water making them look as sick as they likely felt.

She wasn’t sure how many of them would make it through the week.

Chapter Text

Second Year - Chapter Seven

In the corridor that should have been closed off to students, the Slytherins gawked at the blood message. Filch might have needed a stool to reach it, but with the caretaker out-of-action, it was down to Hagrid to scrub away the words with a bucket and sponge.

The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the Heir, beware.

It was these words — soapy pink and dripping down the wall — her eyes fixed on.

For the longest time, no one said anything, just stared while other students and staff shuffled on, either ignoring the message (so they wouldn’t have to think about it), or rushing past it (…also so they wouldn’t have to think about it).

But Cass was thinking about it. She was holding her breath, the sense that this was her doing washing over again and again like a tidal wave. Which, yes, it was — except it wasn’t. Because if Dumbledore could be a conniving, calculating bitch, then how much greater was Fate? Surely, if Fate was a hair comb, then Dumbledore was a mere bristle, albeit one that yanked at Cass’ hair relentlessly.

In other words, this was always set to happen. She knew that now. Her being here didn’t augment the ending in any way, only the bridge to it, and she hoped… prayed that once the narrative played out, she would just wake up in some warm bed in her own world.

But that still meant she had years to go. And as much as she wanted to kick back and lazily watch over everything from the other side of the glass, it was the chaos that stressed her — it fucking stressed her. And fine. She’d admit it; she was scared. Because who had the diary? Because why did the basilisk go after a whole man just because Ginny Weasley was out of the equation? The timing?

If she survived the year, then she’d convert, that was for sure. Convert to the role of the unproblematic spectator and comb out every knotty plotline from her hair. The perfect early retirement plan after cleaning up all this shit.

“I think- I think I’m going to be sick,” Daphne confessed. Her knuckles had gone white from gripping the strap of her school bag too hard.

“Do you want me to…?” Cass started, but Daphne had already bolted to the nearest bathroom.

Draco sighed heavily. “Can’t take much that one. Bet it’s not even real blood. Could be anything.”

Everyone glared at him.

“I’m just saying,” he squawked defensively, “it’s probably some stupid prank. Wouldn’t put it past those shameless Weasley twins…That oaf missed a spot.”

“Why don’t you clean it then?” Cass bit back.

He wrinkled his nose. “I’m too pretty for cleaning.”

The groundskeeper was currently sniffing back tears as he scrubbed, muttering something about his chickens under his breath.

Cass looked at the wall. He had missed a spot. In fact, he had been on the same small section for a while now.

“What does heir mean anyway? Heir of what?” asked Tracey.

“Got to be the heir of Slytherin,” said Pansy between chews of the bubble-gum Rory had given her, “One of his living relatives which the Ministry don’t know about. My father says the last one opened the Chamber fifty years ago.”

Tracey looked appalled. “This ‘appened before?”

Draco grinned. “Oh yeah.”

Millicent gulped, glancing from the wall to each of their faces. “So one of us then?”

Draco snorted. “More likely one of us than some shoddy Hufflepuff, eh?”

“Okay, so who?”

“Well, it’s obviously not Vince, he’s terrible with secrets, and it can’t be Rory,” Draco gestured to the wall, “the S’s are the right way round.”

Rory elbowed Draco.

“OwAH! How dare you! I could be the heir for all you know! My bloodline is pristine-”

“Not something to brag about,” reminded Cass, “having parents who are second cousins or whatever.”

Draco ignored her. “This summer I even perfected the Snake-Summoning spell!”

“Did ye, aye?” Rory’s voice was oozing with sarcasm.

Draco crossed his arms. “Well, how can you be so sure I don’t have Salazaar’s blood in me?”

Everyone laughed.

Draco went red. “Now, are we going to stand here all day, or…?”

“You’re right. Let’s go.”

Duelling club had become compulsory since the attack and rescheduled to mornings in the professors’ attempt to clamp down on curfew. Night-time wanderings were strictly prohibited — even for prefects — until Filch’s attacker had been brought to justice and peace was restored.

Cass knew there would be no resolution. Not until she did something about it.

She trailed along behind them towards the Great Hall. The dining tables had vanished and the benches pushed to each side for the spectators in raised rows.

Before they reached the door, Blaise and Theo, who were both dawdling at the back of the group with her, suddenly made a left.

“What are you doing?” she asked, but it had been pretty obvious in the way Theo’s bag clinked each time he took a step; they were skiving — probably off to drink some of the firewhiskey Theo had dispatched from Fred and George.

Blaise looked back at her in warning. “You going to snitch on us, Crouch?”

Cass shrugged. “Can’t be asked.”

“Really?”

“Really. I’ve got better things to be doing.”

That wasn’t really true. Frankly, she was inclined to go with them if it wasn’t for the gnawing feeling that she needed to keep her head down and watch what happened next before she made her next move.

Blaise walked a bit away, but then he stopped and turned around again. “If I didn’t know better,” he said, “I’d say you’ve changed.”

Cass folded her arms. “Well, you do know better.”

“No…” Blaise smiled. It was one of those rare smiles, but a little ruined by the trace of disbelief. “You’re alright, Cassandra Crouch.”

No, I’m not alright, there’s a giant snake on the loose!

She smirked, not able to help herself. “Just alright?”

“Yeah.” He laughed. “Wouldn’t go any further than that.” It was nice to see his smile widen, more genuine in this light, less of a foreboding baring of teeth. This was the Blaise she had missed. This was the Blaise that was leaving.

He waved his hand lazily in ‘goodbye’ and went to catch up with Theo, their destination a shared secret between just the two of them.

        What about you and Theo?

                                    No, I just let him follow me around.

Cass’ smile faded. She turned around and walked into the Great Hall to take her seat on the left with the others.

When it came to Hufflepuffs, Slytherins either loved or hated them. There was no in between and, in this case, Susan Bones was simply adored. In fact, she might as well have moved into the Slytherin dorms.

The Hufflepuff was blinding their morning eyes with the yellow on her robes, blathering on about the details of things, like how Filch had been polishing in the Trophy Cupboard when he had been petrified, and how McGonagall had turned into her animagus to try to coax an explanation from Mrs Norris.

“Thought we’d lost ye for a sec,” said Rory.

“Would’ve been good riddance, but hey, what do I know?” Draco rested his shoes on the back of the bench she had just sat on, the points pressing into her back.

Just before she could jinx those shoes to dance out of the room and into the Forbidden Forest, the class was called to attention. Snape arrived, followed by a particularly peppy Lockhart.

Cass was also glad to find that as the year went on, her housemates saw through Lockhart’s façade more and more. It must have been the natural Slytherin intuition.

“Now, now, there’s only so much of me to go around, so Professor Snape and I will demonstrate basic disarming and then we will pair you up. Please watch me; it’s important you pay attention to such complexities. As you will recall from chapter thirteen of 'Wanderings with Werewolves', this isn't my first mano-a-mano.”

“Ah yes," Cass muttered. "Defeated a werewolf with a hairbrush. Fascinating. I’m sure it happened exactly like that.”

Long story short, students of all houses were united in joy when Snape absolutely obliterated Lockhart for ten minutes, and Cass never thought she’d see the day where she’d be cheering for Severus Snape, but here she was — here they all were!

Finally, Lockhart wobbled to his feet and brushed himself off.

“Yes, an excellent idea to show them that, Professor Snape, but if you don’t mind my saying so it was very obvious what you were about to do…”

Lockhart invited Snape to select a student to practise what they had just learned.

“Malfoy.”

“Weasley.”

“I’m not going against him!” protested Draco. “Weasley’s wand is in shambles. So, unless you want it to end very quickly…” and by it, Draco meant Ron.

“Quite right, Mr Malfoy,” said Lockhart, but there was a spot of premature victory in his eye. “I pick Harry instead.”

Draco ran to take his place, looking at Rory with daring. Watch me wipe him across the floor, his look was saying.

“Mr Weasley will duel Mr Finnegan and Miss Granger will duel Miss Bulstrode. Everyone else, pay close attention, you’ll be up soon.” He shuffled off to answer Seamus’ question.

Tracey shook her box of Every Flavour Beans in offering, holding it under the bench so that Snape’s beady eyes wouldn’t lead to its confiscation. Cass took a few, snacking on a flecked one (which thankfully was banana and not vomit) as Harry made his way over to Draco. The two saluted.

“Where are your cronies?” said Harry.

Draco smiled. “Where are your parents?”

Damn.

“Hey, Professor,” said Harry. “Is there a spell that would make Malfoy less annoying?”

Lockhart, who clearly hadn’t heard him, called from the side lines, “Just do what I did, Harry!”

“What. Drop my wand-?”

“SERPENSORTIA!” A long black snake shot from the tip of Draco’s wand, slamming to the floor.

“That’s a chuffin’ Snake,” said Tracey, shaking her head. “Am I dreamin’? — OW!”

“Not dreaming.” Pansy affirmed.

Tracey shot her a loving glare.

The snake slithered towards Harry rapidly, but seemed to get distracted by a Hufflepuff’s look of revulsion on the way.

“Don’t move, Potter,” said Snape. “I’ll get rid of it.”

But Harry had other ideas.

“Hey, you,” he hissed, and the air had become unsettlingly electric.

Each consonant, each vibration sent a hush over the room, ears tingly attentively. Of course, all Cass and anyone else heard was a whole lot of phlegmy hissing and spitting. She leaned forward, as far as her seat would allow her to go.

“One second, my dear,” said the snake pleasantly. “I’ll get to you after I put this snob in his place.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.” said Harry.

“He’s a friend of yours?” she asked.

“Not exactly.”

The snake turned back to Justin, flashing her fangs cheekily. “Well then…You won’t mind if I take a chunk out of him.”

“No, leave him or I’ll turn you into a shoelace. Go on. Back off.”

The snake became wooden and docile, flopping to the floor like a stick of liquorice or a garden hose, and a nervous murmuring swept through the Great Hall.

“What in Merlin’s name is going on here?” exclaimed Susan. She had jumped up with several other students.

“No idea,” said Millicent. “but he’ll probably win the house cup for it. At least now we can sleep better at night.”

“What do you mean?” said Pansy.

Millicent gestured towards the snake that Lockhart was tentatively prodding with his pointy shoe. “Well, Draco clearly isn’t the heir; Scruffy Harold here just spoke Parseltongue.”

Harry’s look of relief dissolved into confusion once Justin started screaming at him, but an idea formed, which was bad news because it was Cass who had formed the idea. Cass, who always used the hand trick to tell left from right. Cass, who was probably still a few screws loose from almost drowning the other day.

The idea was simple. Harry killed the basilisk in the movie, so she’d just have to get him to do it again… and all will be right as rain.

But how was she supposed to make up for missed context? After all, Harry knew nothing about the diary or Tom Riddle. All he had to work from, other than his own pestering curiosity, was the voice he heard in the pipes. And as much as telling him everything sounded like the easiest solution, Cass wasn’t sure he’d believe her, or at the very least, not think she had something to do with Voldemort’s sudden return, even though it was… all Harry.

Not directly, of course, but you couldn’t convince her that Dumbledore just decided, on a whim, to house the philosopher’s stone the same year Harry Potter started school. No. There was no doubt about it. He needed to throw a life-preserving bonus into the mix to draw whatever survived of Voldemort.

There was only one thing for it then: she’d have to convince  Potter to help, which wouldn’t be difficult when the petrified began to pile up.

><><><><><><><><><><>< 

These days, every corner of the castle was a centre for gossip, and despite Madam Pince’s efforts, the library was no different.

Pansy, Draco, Tracey and Cass dominated the largest table near the back. It was the perfect place to talk as it was the locus of book activity, meaning that the flapping of their pages would mask whatever words were exchanged.

Daphne had found the ambience soothing it seemed, as she had dozed off at some point and Cass let her rest on her shoulder where Greengrass’ face looked a lot less flu-y in the softness of sleep. The girl would be flustered with apology when she woke up no doubt, but for now, Cass sat as still as a gargoyle, although without all the hardness of stone, she hoped.

“Alright,” said Draco. “Theories. Let’s hear them.”

“I think it’s Potter,” said Pansy.

Tracey nodded. “Definitely Potter.”

And wouldn’t that have been so sweet if it were true? But no. Cass knew for certain Harry wasn't the heir, not the one opening up the Chamber every Friday night. That was Riddle. Call it a gut instinct or whatever. Someone else had the diary.

Millicent joined them at their table. Her brown hair had started the day in a neat ponytail, but strands had since fallen from the hold. Her shoulders hunched with exhaustion.

“Who’s it been now?” asked Pansy.

Milly sat down, taking her homework out of her bag even though none of them would actually get anything done. “A first-year. Colin Creevey.”

Tracey gasped. “The one Karybdis saved from drownin’ on the way over?”

“Yeah.”

“Wait, who’s Karybdis?” asked Cass.

“The giant squid.”

Cass almost shuddered. “That thing has a name?!”

Draco squinted at her. “Yes!? Do you live under a rock?”

Tracey put her quill down. “Aww. I liked Colin, he goes to Art Club.”

Draco snorted. “Course he does. Seems the artsy type. Potter probably got annoyed at his little fan boy behaviour. He follows him around like…” He looked down at his essay question from Professor Binns. “…well like the plague actually! Potter? Can I take your picture? Can I lick your shoes, please, Potter? Potter, spit in my mouth-!”

“-Draco.” Said Pansy, meaning ‘shut up’.

Tracey leaned back in her chair. “I don’t get it. If Potter’s really the heir, then why would he reveal himself at duellin’ club? It doesn’t make sense! Surely he’s smart enough to know that makes ‘im prime suspect.”

Everyone went quiet, eyes turning to Draco patiently, but there was no retort.

“Not going to insult his intelligence then?” prompted Cass.

Draco shrugged. He was busy drawing Harry getting attacked by the Bludger Dobby bewitched months back. “Can’t insult what he doesn’t have.”

Cass rolled her eyes. “And there it is, folks.”

“But what does he have against Filch?” Tracey continued.

Pansy smiled. “What doesn’t he have against Filch?”

“Fair point.”

“And besides, everyone knows he’s a squib, no matter how hard he tries to hide it. I mean, no sane wizard would choose to clean the castle manually.”

“He’s not bad when you get to know him,” muttered Millicent, fiddling with her hands. “He helped me get Inkus out of a tree last week, you know… before.”

Draco’s mouth pressed into a hard line. He stared at his drawing for a while before scrunching it up into a ball and tossing  over his shoulder. It hit Neville in the eye.

Cass sighed. “Can you stop terrorising Longbottom?”

“Yeah,” said Pansy. “That’s her job.”

Her eyebrows furrowed. “What? No! I’m not terrorising anyone.”

“Of course she isn’t,” said Draco. “She’s not very good at it. Not very good at much, mind you.”

Cass folded her arms. “Well I apologise for being bad at bullying someone.”

“It’s not bullying, it’s humbling.”

“If that’s the case, Malfoy, then you’re in desperate need to be bullied.”

“Come on, look. It’s easy!” He swivelled in his seat, lounging an arm on the back and yelling over at the group of Gryffindors: “Goodness, Potter! What a pathetic quill you have. Did you eat the feather?”

Harry just looked confused. “Malfoy…this is a pen.”

“I know that, I’m not an idiot.” Draco turned back to the girls. “What’s a pen?” he mouthed.

Tracey took one out of her pencil case and passed it to him. It was green with a pompom on the end. He tried not to look too fascinated.

Most of the time, Tracey used a regular quill. Probably to fit in, but also because it was a good excuse to master a different method of writing. But sometimes, Cass had seen her use glittery fountain pens, drawing flowers all over the paper inside her CDs, or at least, the ones she liked — a mixture of Cocteau Twins, Whitney and Cher.

Pansy had offered an exchange at one point; Celestina Warbeck for a fifteen minute tutorial on how to work a CD player. Pansy had had this intense concentration as she pushed a button, giggling every time it made a noise. Cass watched her now, that same look of concentration as she aimed paper aeroplanes of abandoned half-sentences at Draco’s face.

Someone beside Cass cleared their throat.

Her head snapped up.

Potter.

What was Potter doing over at their table?

He pushed his glasses up his nose. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

Cass looked behind her, then back at Harry. “Wait, me?””

“You.” He said.

“Er… sure.” She glanced at Daphne, then at Pansy, who was eyeing Harry up and down as if she was estimating his coffin measurements. Cass gently tapped Pansy.

Her eyes softened.

Daphne was gently transferred from one shoulder to another and then Cass got up to follow Harry into a quieter space, praying that this wasn’t some sort of ambush.

Harry stopped walking. “Okay-”

“-Sorry,” she interrupted. “But before you start, I just wanted to say that I’d never hurt Neville. Ever. So don’t listen to anyone who says otherwise!”

Harry leaned against a bookshelf, not looking at her. “Er. Yeah. No, that’s good. Cool. But really I just wanted to ask how you knew about the voices before.”

“Voices?” Cass considered whether or not gaslighting him was the right way to go.

“In potions you asked me if I had heard anything in the pipes.”

“Oh. Yes, I remember. Ghosts and whatnot.”

Harry finally turned his eyes on her, and Cass was almost startled by the conviction in them. “I think we both know you weren’t talking about ghosts,” he said. “First you just so happened to know about Flamel, and then you know about the voices, asking about something equally specific. Bit of a funny coincidence don’t you think?”

“Just the natural Slytherin intuition,” she said smugly. “Have you started hearing things other than ghosts then, Potter?”

“You do too, don’t you?”

Excuse me? “What?”

“I thought I was going mental, but it’s fine. There’s two of us. We can both hear the monster.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” demanded Cass.

Harry folded his arms impatiently. “Two heirs.”

“Woah woah woah,” said Cass. “I’m going to stop you right there, golden boy. I’m not hearing anything in the walls. You’re the one who hissed at a snake in front of everyone like an utter fool. I was just minding my own business-”

“-Minding your own business? Setting a monster on the loose isn’t exactly minding your own business.”

“I didn’t open the Chamber of Secrets. Can hardly keep up with homework as it is, you think I can handle extracurriculars? Ah yes... setting a giant monster on a school I happen to go to. Classic choice. Very smart.”

Harry matched her scowl with an expression icy enough to reverse global warming. “And why should I believe you?”

She tilted her chin up. “Why not?”

“Oh. Shall I take out the very long list of reasons I keep up my sleeve?”

“Yeah, take it out and shove it up your arse, there’s a good lad.” Cass walked off, smiling deliriously.

Potter finally talks to her and it’s to make heinous accusations? The bastard. She was planning on writing several strongly worded letters of complaint to McGonagall about this later.

“Fine.” He said. “If it wasn’t you, who did it then?”

Cass flipped him off without looking behind and trudged on. “No fucking clue,” she spat.

And in the few moments Cass didn’t want to rip the skin off her face, she reminded herself of all her achievements.

As she sat back down at her table, it became apparent that over the course of a year and a good chunk, she became well-versed in the ways of the Witch. In fact, she could count her achievements on both her hands.

They included riveting activities such as returning from the shadow dimension (waking up from a nap); absorbing the wisdom of a thousand ancient generations (reading a paragraph from her textbook) and sneaking past the dragon that lurks in the castle dungeons (making sure no one reminded Snape he set extra homework).

All this, she thought, and no trophies to show for it, unlike Junior and his mounted plaques back at the Crouch estate.

She sulked for the rest of the week. Even during Charms, her favourite class. Even during the Quidditch match between Hufflepuff and Slytherin, when Daphne painted her face Green. And wait. Daphne?

Cass looked around from the windy turrets of the stand, hair wiping around wildly.

Lee Jordan was already warming up the crowd. “I THINK TODAY WILL BE A CLOSE ONE,” his voice boomed across the pitch. “DIGGORY ISN’T ONE TO BACK DOWN, BUT SLYTHERIN’S NEW SEEKER IS UNFAMILIAR TERRITORY TO HIM.”

Where was Pansy, the biggest appreciator of Quidditch she knew? No one seemed to know. And Crabbe hated the sport, but even he was still there to cheer his team on.

And oh. Oh.

What in Salazaar’s name could have dragged Pansy away from this game?

Draco and Cedric zoomed across the sky, viciously hunting for the snitch with their eyes. A gold shimmer, and then both dived.

Cass felt faint. And rather than where was Pansy, the appropriate question was what was Pansy? What was she right now, as her friends sat high up, cheering and waving flags?

She was either the hunter or the hunted.

Chapter Text

Second Year - Chapter Eight

Where was she?

Had she gotten stuck in one of the dodgy toilet cubicles on the fourth floor? Had she not looked where she was going and missed a moving staircase entirely? Or was she simply dead? There was no other logical reason Pansy Parkinson would miss a game.

But no, of course not. Because things at Hogwarts were never simple, were they? 

Everyone bounded towards the dungeons, Quidditch triumph pumping through their blood. The team mantra was yelled in Latin, in fact, many things important to a Slytherin often were. Cass fondly recalled the grace period in which mentors were explicitly given permission to hang their first-years feet first from the rafters until each verse was recited perfectly. Many shoelaces were lost that day. Needless to say, it was an effective teaching method. 

And while some metrical liberties had to be taken, the translation looked a little like this:

‘Victory! We tipped the scale

You’d do well to mark our trail

We could’ve beaten those opposed

Even with our keen eyes closed!’

Bletchley and Flint lifted their prized Seeker onto their shoulders, parading him around the Common Room, and cheering until sore throats were secured for the next week. 

With one raised fist, Draco brandished the green ribbons — two of the three they needed; only Ravenclaw stood between Slytherin and the Quidditch cup now. The entire house unleashed a thunderous cheer that threatened to plague what little sleep Professor Sprout would be getting, and topple even the loftiest castle peaks. And yet. And yet .

Cass assisted Millicent in launching strings of confetti over the rabble. Most of it went in Snape’s hair, but even his sneer lacked its usual punch. There was green and silver everywhere, balloons were conjured too, and an older student distributed boxes upon boxes of Madam Puddifoot’s custom fairy cakes onto the polished tables. He had ordered them three days prior. The icing spelt out “Another Slyther-win!” in the darkest veridian. Cass imagined what would have happened to the cakes if they had lost. Smashed to smithereens mayhaps? 

And yes, she was happy, absolutely through the roof, even without a spot on the team, and basilisk be damned. 

But then Pansy fazed through the wall, joining the Slytherins who were whooping and dancing like raving bacchants, but not joining them. Instead, her bloodshot eyes picked through the room for nothing in particular, or perhaps for something to blame.  

Her features were contorted in a way that just wasn’t Pansy at all, but more of a blazing twitchiness. It was as if there was a foul smell adrift, the kind that reeked of sun-soured milk and overstayed welcomes. 

Cass thought about fighting through the festive crowd just to throw her arms around her and tell her that everything was going to be okay, or anything that would stop her from burning the way she did, as if she had been framed by the locals and tied down to her own funeral pyre like those ribs Cass had watched Winky roast on a spit one Sunday afternoon. Meat against greasy string. Bone upon flame.

The girl had caught fire.

Once Pansy had decided there was nothing worth looking at, she wordlessly shrank away and disappeared into the dorm, shutting the door behind her.

“I’ll be right back,” Cass told Millicent and the others.

Wading through the crowd was a difficulty that required an abundance of excuse me’s and balance. When Marcus gave a beaming speech thanking his team and Mr Malfoy’s support, Cass could tell the party was going to get out of hand very soon, because Adrian Pucey brought out the gramophone from his Muggle Studies class and blasted heavy rock.

The door handle was cold, but she pulled it open all the same. The cat sat on Millie’s desk, playing with the many feather quills. Pansy stooped over her perfectly made bed. She turned her bag upside-down and shook her scrolls, books and quills out

“You okay?” asked Cass, because it was the only kind thing she could think of.

“Just tired,” the girl replied. Her hands rooted around for the protective gloves she used in Potions and Herbology, just to toss them into her desk drawer. 

Cass rested on the edge of Daphne’s four-poster bed. “We won.”

“What?”

“We won. The game – Draco caught the snitch.”

Her tone bled with indifference. “Oh. Cool.” 

A silence stretched between them. Cass looked at the ceiling, at the door, the junk on Pansy’s bed and then, finally, Pansy herself. “You didn’t want to watch the game?”

“What’s it to you?” came her curt reply. “Miss me or something?” She started getting undressed.

Cass shrugged and picked at the icing under her nails just to give herself something to do. Somewhere to look, even if Pansy was looking right at her. 

It was best to play this subtle, her distaste for accusations sharper than ever after the round with Potter. “You can talk to me, you know, if you have anything on your mind

Pansy hummed, meaning ‘sure thing’, and pulled her pjs on, the satin ones with Pansy Nadja embroidered on the cuffs of the shorts.

Outside, the music crescendo-ed, shaking the dark wardrobes with every bass-boosted pound of the drums.

“Or even if you think I’ll judge you,” Cass added. Her voice was almost a whisper; if fate allowed it, she’d’ have let the music swallow every note she uttered. “Even if it’s something bad.”

Pansy expelled a couple of pillows onto her bed. “Like what?” Her voice rang high and Cass was beginning to wish she had gotten one of the other girls to talk to her instead.

“I don’t know,” said Cass.

But Pansy did know. She had known all along. “Spit it out! You clearly had something in mind.”

“I don’t know,” Cass said again, “something Chamber-related.”

Oh, she’d gone and done it now.

“Bless her! She’s deranged,” Pansy said quickly, to no one in particular. It was an obvious lie. There was no doubt about it now. Pansy fiddled with the clasps of her school bag and this time it was her turn not knowing where to look.

“So, you do know what I’m talking about. About the attacks… and the diary.”

Pansy kept quiet.

“Look, I want to help you, not get you in trouble. We can get rid of it together. We’ll got to McGonagall, or Snape or whoever-”

“-Get rid of what?” said Pansy.

Cass narrowed her eyes, face heating up. “The diary.”

“The what?” said Pansy.

“I know you have it. I can help you!”

“Mm, not trying to be funny, but when did I ask? God, it’s like you’re in love with me or something. Always whining.” 

“Believe it or not, but not everyone’s obsessed with you, Parkinson.”

Pansy froze, and for a second she looked about as livid as Eurus did on a good day, which was bloody terrifying. “Of course they are! What else would they be thinking of all day?”

“Whether or not they’re going to be the next victim, I expect.”

Pansy’s mouth pressed into a hard, thin line. She peeled back her duvet and got into bed, switching her desk light off with her wand.

Cass switched it back on.

Pansy huffed. “Get real. When the girls come back, who do you think they’re going to believe? You or me?”

And for that, Cass wanted to jump into the bed and strangle her, because she was right. Who in their right mind would believe crazy Cass over their closest friend?

“There’s a bed in St Mungo’s permanent ward that everyone’s just dying to strap you in, so I’d keep my mouth shut if I were you, unless you want the Longbottoms to be your new roommates. I hear they still twitch.”

Whether this was Pansy or Riddle, no one could have deciphered, but the next time the girl turned the lights out, Cass did nothing, just slunk away from the shadows towards the golden-walled side of the dorm and sat on her desk chair. 

She could still hear the party outside; it was impossible not to. Now that she thought about it, she fancied another cake. But she didn’t want to leave Pansy alone… didn’t want to be near her either. 

And yet, all the good humour had been completely vacuumed out of the air. 

That was the thing about Pansy. When she was happy, you were. And when she wasn’t, it was difficult to think of anything else.

Cass got up from her chair and left, slamming the door behind her.

Electric guitars absolutely shredding away, power synths, raspy vocals from the lead singer. All good things. All capable of the highest calibre of head-splitting distraction.

Chaos was one of the sovereign masters of Slytherin house. It flowed through the kids around her, an energy that fed off of each other like the great symbiotic worms with scales of ivory Luna had dazily described one morning in the courtyard. It had once been hard to find the beauty in something so ugly, but Cass understood it now. There was nothing more faithful than ugliness. She wished Pansy could be a little more ugly. A little more honest.

The pounding meant she almost forgot about the cake, but then again, Cass supposed that music loud enough to drown the ‘we’re all going to die’ ostinato whirling through her head ought to be treated as a blessing rather than a curse.

The modest afterparty had become a full on rave, colourful lights pulsing. Glow-sticks of neon pinks, blue and yellow and, best of all, no Professors in sight.

She found Daphne and Vince by the cakes, hiding from a particular band of students twice their size. The maniacs were jumping from the rhythm rather than to the rhythm, clearly set to break a few toes and spill drinks all over someone’s front without so much an afterthought. 

Cass swept up one of the cakes and took a bite. It was gloriously soft, but not ridiculously sweet. No, in her opinion, it had the perfect sponge to icing ratio. 

Marcus jogged over to refill his cup with something fizzy and neon. His neck was silver and sweaty, his black hair spiked in a fashion reminiscent of a sea urchin. 

Daphne fiddled with a cup of fizz in her hands. She leaned towards them, shouting over the music, “weren’t you just saying that no outsiders have ever seen the inside of our Common Room since its creation?”

“Yeah,” confirmed Crabbe, whose low voice effortlessly cut through. In fact, he bragged about his low voice whenever he could. His pride and joy, he called it. An edge in the puberty game. What game he was referring to was beyond Cass.

“What’d you call this then?” Daphne motioned her cup towards the table next to them. “Fred and George Weasley are standing right there!”

“WHAT?” Flint yelled over the ruckus. “Weasleys? Standing in the middle of our sacred space? Preposterous! No, no, no, my dear Daphne, that’s Gred and Forge, highly esteemed Slytherins who bear four years of this noble establishment on their backs.”

Either Flint was off his rocker, or desperately needed glasses: the so-called ‘Gred and Forge’ were suspiciously freckly and each wore pointy purple hats and comically long beards akin to Dumbledore’s own snowy white scruff.

Cass glimpsed Blaise and Theo from across the room. By the looks of it, Theo had smuggled in one of Pince’s livelier books. They were now tied to Zabini’s shoelaces and– 

Merlin’s saggy left ball sack! Cass thought with a jolt. He was prepared to surf the pages around the room.

“Those two look plastered or wot?” Crabbe snickered.

The rest of them looked over.

“What are they doing!?” shrieked Millicent.

“I don’t know, but I want a go,” said Daphne.

Marcus rushed towards the table where the Weasley twins had quite obviously set up shop. “Have you two been selling firewhiskey to Nott?!”

“Au contraire, my esteemed customer,” said Fred. “That devious rogue tried to sell it to us!” With a nimble hand, Fred snatched at something hidden up his sleeve. “And oh, er, Flint? While we have you here…Wood told us to give you this.”

Marcus took the folded piece of paper, opened it, and gaped a little. Next, he swiftly slipped the note into the pocket of his Quidditch trousers. “I’m just going to get some fresh air,” he told Cass. “Make sure no one dies. Unless it’s O’Reilly. He can die; his stupid ego almost cost us the game.” Marcus flipped off a boy with curly blond hair and rectangular glasses from across the room. 

The Chaser’s eyebrows twisted into a contemptuous ‘v’ in response. 

In one fluid motion, Flint yanked a bottle out of Theo’s hands as he passed,  “You. You give that here. Thank you very much!”

“Oi! Give it back, ye wankstain!” Theo made a snatch for it, but Marcus was too tall, even for Theo. 

“When you’re older. You’ll find the apple juice over there,” Marcus pointed vaguely towards the back of the Common Room. “Oh, and Cass?”

“Yeah?” she yelled over the music.

He put a hand on her shoulder sternly and beckoned her closer. She acquiesced, turning her head to hear better and he leaned in a little. “Make good choices,” he shouted, but when he leaned back out his face cracked into a fit of laughter at her sour look.

She snorted and shoved him a little. “Fuck off.”

Once the Keeper had gleefully disappeared into the crowd, Fred turned to his brother. “I don’t remember Wood giving us any note.”

“Funny. Perce said the same thing when I told him to pass along Flint’s note for Wood.”

Fred put his hands on his hip. “Georgie, you sneaky little thief! Here I was thinking we shared the brain cells evenly, but you’ve gone and stolen them all for yourself, haven’t you? I’ll be talking to my lawyer about this.”

“If you’re hoping for joint custody, it’s not happening.” George turned his attention back to Cass, Daphne and Millicent. “Evening, ladies,” he said, not caring that Vince was standing right there. “Care to sample our merchandise? We’ve been developing these champing cherry chews for quite some time now.”

“What does it do?” asked Daphne, sceptically. There were about a hundred rules that applied to you if you were a Slytherin, but about fifty that had been added when the twins joined the school. You never trusted a Weasley.

Fred leaned in and wiggled his eyebrows. “Why don’t you find out?”

Daphne went bright pink. “Okay,” she squeaked.

Tracey, who had appeared by her side, rolled her eyes. “Not tonight.”

“You know, she could have told us that herself if she had tried one. They make you extra loud. Perfect for a bash like this, eh?”

Tracey took Daphne’s hand and led her away. “Actually, she’s perfect the way she is.”

George shrugged. “Suit yourselves then.”

“How about you, Crouch?” asked Fred. “We also have the usual assortment of sweets, these quill that can forge your mum’s handwriting in case you need a quick sick note,  and for the low, low price of fifty Knuts, you can have a go at our Unlucky Dip!”

It was the events of the Lake, however, that had been playing on her mind. “Sounds lovely, but I was actually wondering if the two of you had any fireworks.”

“Fireworks?” George scoffed, “Do we have fireworks? Course we do. Is that even a question?”

Fred grinned, rubbing his hands together. “Right, what size?”

The other held up a hand. “Hold on a second, Fred. Is now really the time to be capitalising off of Filch’s absence?”

“Absolutely, Georgie. You heard the Profs. They’ve got it handled. Now where are those whizzers?” Fred disappeared beneath the table and reappeared with a box of red, orange and pink rockets.

George winked at Cass. “With Lockhart's sorting it, we’ll be in business for weeks.”

A cluster of orange and purple striped whizzer was pulled from the box. “These what you were looking for?” 

She inspected them, then shook her head. “Anything bigger?” 

Fred’s eyes twinkled. “I like your style.”

The next he showed her was lemon yellow and as fat as a yule log.

She smirked at just the thought of all the destruction it was capable of. “Perfect!”

George leaned an elbow on the table. “And may I ask what you plan to do with all of that spark?”

“Not sure yet, to be honest.” Bullshit. Really, she was hoping to take one of the Basilisk’s eyes out, should it come to that. If didn’t agree to help, then she’d at least have a plan B.

“How much do I owe you?”

“That makes thirteen Galleons and two sickles.”

Erm. What?

“Right…” Cass took out her purse and opened the silver clasp to find a few coins sitting at the bottom. A spider crawled out and sat on her hand. 

Well, this is embarrassing.

Senior held the view that young girls like Cass should not have pocket money. After all, he had paid for all her school supplies and Hogwarts provided three meals a day. What more could she want?

So, when her gracious offer to do chores in exchange for the tiniest bit of loose change fell through, (and offended Winky instead), her summer became a little less about ice lollies and daisy-chaining and a little more about dismantling the sofas in search of precious coins. 

Her hunt for evidence of a previous Cassandra had gained her a few sweet wrappers here and there, and the occasional coat button, but nothing substantial. Of course, the meagre sum she had managed to gather was put towards Winky’s Christmas present and the postage.

Being short of coins was the last thing the Weasleys and the rest of the room would have expected from a Crouch. She could feel Crabbe’s eyes on her.

“Of course instalments are fine too,” piped George. He offered a small, understanding smile.

“Only if it’s not a bother,” she said. “Otherwise I’ll just leave it with you and come back for it some other time.” 

Yes, as soon as this year was over, she’d get a job and earn her own keep. Maybe the café-owners and anglers of Runswick Bay were hiring.

“What’s this, Cassandra?” Draco was suddenly beside her, sneering at the lightness of her purse. “Bit short, are we? My, my. I’m embarrassed just knowing you. I’ve got money in my room. Want me to pay for it instead?”

“Over my dead body,” said Cass.

“That can be arranged – but no, really, it’s no trouble at all! Father sends me a small allowance every week, you see. Well,” Draco smirked, “I say ‘small’, but it’s probably a little over what your father earns in a month.”

Oh she hated him. She hated him, hated him, hated him.

Draco yawned and beckoned Crabbe over with a finger. “Right, well, I’m knackered.” He shouted the next part even louder, looking directly at Cass, “All that Quidditch, no doubt. It’s hard being Seeker. You lot can talk the night away down here, but try not to have too much fun without me.”

He sashayed away into the crowd.

When she had finished glaring, Cass tipped the contents of her purse onto the table. Four gold pieces and three silver ones. George made a note of it and wrote two copies of a reminder of the rest.

She took the yellow whizzer from Fred and thanked them both for doing business.

When she saw an older boy and girl making out by the lake window, Cass took it as a sign to turn in for the night too. 

She washed the glitter off her hands in the sink and shimmied between her bed sheets.

At some point in the night, Cass snored so loudly that she woke herself up. 

She sat up. 

The covers of Pansy’s bed were flat.

With a heavy sigh, she went back under the covers and closed her eyes. 

><><><><><><><><><><><

Cass looked into Tracey’s compact mirror, glad to see that her ear was back to its regular size. She clicked it shut again. “Stop stressing, he’ll forget about it in a week.”

“Yeah,” said Millicent. “When something worse happens.”

Rory had been awfully apologetic since his swelling potion had miraculously exploded all over them. Draco had suffered the bulk of it, and was still getting his nose and hands fixed by Madame Pomfrey — ( Oh, Merlin, I’m hideous! Vince, cover that mirror, or so help me, I’ll throw it out the window! Hate to break it to you, Rory, but you’ve murdered me. I’m dying. You should all just leave me here to die- WAIT! WHERE ARE YOU GOING? COME BACK HERE, YOU INFIDELES, I’M IN AGONY! ).  

“He’s bound te fail me noo,” sniffed Rory.

“I think if Snape was that horrid, he’d have failed us all by now,” assured Daphne. She offered Theo’s mouse a little bit of cheese through the bars of his carrier.

Pansy descended the stairs, wand a-glow and luggage trailing behind her. “Am I being silly or is Snape a lot crankier than usual?” 

Speak for yourself , thought Cass.

“Bastard told me te ‘breathe quieter’ the other day,” said Rory.

Millicent’s eyes widened. “And I thought Dumbledore was moody.”

Daphne, however, always had the knack for looking on the bright side. “At least we get the holiday as a break from him.”

Rory blinked back his tears and gave a humongous sniff. “Aye, thank Merlin for that!” 

Tracey’s belongings were already packed up. She sat on the edge of the sofa beside them, frowning. “Dad said if they ‘aven’t sorted this Chamber business by then, he’s enrollin’ me in St Bernard’s Secondary School this summa,” grumbled Tracey. 

“What?” cried Millicent, and Cass shared the same sentiment. She couldn’t leave now, not when the two of them had just started to warm up to each other!

“S’a muggle school near Sheffield. You wouldn’t’ve heard of it.”

“No!” Pansy protested. She dropped to her knees and clung to Tracey’s leg. “You can’t go there! You’d be bored out of your mind! We won’t let you go!”

“And we wouldn’t survive without you!” said Daphne, who followed suit and grabbed Tracey’s arm. “We’d die of misery.”

Tracey rolled her eyes affectionately. “Well, doesn’t mean I wouldn’t write. And besides, St Bernard’s is moch safer for someone like me.”

“That’s absolute codswallop and you know it!” Millicent reprimanded, arms folded. “You’re in your element here. You’re smarter than all of us combined.” 

“Well, smarter than some of us,” said Pansy.

“So maybe if I leave, you guys will finally pick up the pace with yer studies.”

“That’s not funny!” Daphne whined.

“I’m jokin’, I’m jokin’.” Tracey smiled at all of them. “You know I’ll never leave Hogwarts if I can help it. I’d never leave you all.”

Draco limped through the Common Room wall and slumped down on a cushy sofa, a gleeful expression on his face. “There’s been a double attack!”

Cass folded her arms. “Can you not be an arsehole for like, oh I don’t know, FIVE FUCKING SECONDS?” 

“Yeah, that’s not exactly something to celebrate,” agreed Daphne.

“It is though,” said Draco, “because Potter was found near the scene of the crime! People are finally putting two and two together. I’m telling you, once he’s expelled, I won’t stop celebrating. In fact, I’m going to order a massive cake.”

“Three tiers?” asked Rory.

Draco looked insulted. “No. Five! I’m no coward.”

“Hold your horses. We haven’t even heard the news yet,” said Millicent. 

“I just hope all these mudblood attacks mean exams get cancelled,” Draco sighed wistfully. “That would be the cherry on top.”

“Malfoy!” spat Tracey, pointing her wand at his nose. “What the bloody ‘ell did we say? Stop the nazi talk or we’re takin’ this to Professor Snape.”

His lips curled, eyes narrowing. “What’s a Nazi?”  

During the discourse, Cass slid over to Pansy. “Damn. Hope Tracey doesn’t have to leave because of the attacks,” she told her. “Be a royal shame.”

That instigated what might have seemed like a flirty little stare off between the two, but it was actually just annoyance and many ‘am I going to have to kill you one day?’s firing from their eyes like arrows. They were the same and they hated each other for it.

“Okay,” Cass put her hands up defensively. “I won’t get involved. Not like I care.” She picked up a copy of the Daily Prophet off the table “Are you done with this?” 

Pansy hesitated, likely pondering whether or not she should be a bitch for the sake of it and say ‘no’. “Go ahead,” she seethed.

YOU FOOL! thought Cass. Because her plan was already working; lure her into a false sense of security and catch her writing in the diary. From that point, she’d either finally get through to her or simply grab the diary and bolt out of the room faster than you could say ‘Tom Marvolo Riddle’!

><><><><><><><><><><><

After finishing Lockhart’s assignment on ‘The 10 Best Ways to Charm a Vampire’ with Blaise, visiting her favourite translucent friend seemed like the thing to do, especially because Myrtle had been wailing down the halls since the rumours of Sir Nicholas’ attack had spread that morning.

And when an absolutely nail-curling stench came from her bathroom, Cass knew exactly what it was. 

She ducked into a stall and did the cross-word puzzle from the paper until Hermione left. Myrtle almost exposed her at one point, because she wanted to ask Cass what song was playing on her radio. Hermione had looked at the stall funny, but that was about it.

Slowly unlocking the door, Cass stepped out and looked down at the cauldron hidden in the corner of the room. She was tempted to bottle some of the Polyjuice potion for later, but then she remembered what happened with the sleeping draught and restrained herself.

Besides, how was a Polyjuice potion supposed to help Potter fight the Basilisk? Short answer: it didn’t. Not unless he polyjuice-d himself into a second basilisk, and the potion didn’t work like that.

At least it told her that Hermione and her friends were still suspicious enough of Draco to go investigating, to clear Harry’s name. There was that at least.

><><><><><><><><><><><

Cass had watched the train leave from the wall-walk above the Great Hall, just a shrinking tuft of steam on the horizon. Afterwards, even though she wasn’t entirely sure how the house-elf would react, she went to the Owlery and sent Winky a cookbook, because out of all the chores, cooking was the one Winky especially enjoyed.

In her opinion, Senior didn’t deserve anything more than a half-arsed Christmas card.

On Christmas Day, Cass woke up in an empty dorm. Daphne had made Cass promise to write over the holiday about any attack updates, but obviously, with Pansy gone for the winter, this month was going to be a quiet one. She was half-hoping the professors would pay attention to that little detail. Maybe then they'd finally stop being so darn suspicious of her all the time.

She put on her dressing gown, wishing she were in Spain like the Bulstrodes were, or spending the holiday in Wales like Blaise and his mother. But no amount of wishing could make it so, so she went downstairs in search of heat. 

Rory and Vince were sat by the ornate tree with a thousand glittering baubles (some spiky, others round). Tongue sticking from his parted mouth, Vince shook a smaller grift from his mountain. Rory was half-asleep complaining that he wanted breakfast, but Draco ignored him, playing the jovial Christmas songs louder on brand new Common Room piano which the Parents Association had bought.

He stopped singing when he saw her. “Oh. Forgot you were here.”

She could feel his eyes on her when she checked the tree under her name. There was a small heap of cards. She picked one up and opened up the envelope. It was from Tracey, one of those professionally made ones. She was on the cover, a big smile and toad between her gloved cupped hands. Her middle-aged parents had their faces pressed close on either side of her. Their eyes looked kind.

She opened some more. There was a brief one from Blaise, but knowing him, Cass knew that this was a big gesture on his part. There was another from Marcus, one from Millie with an abundance of ‘x’s at the end, and one from Daphne attached to a tin of chocolate frogs. 

Receiving nothing from Pansy was not embarrassing at all. Admittedly, Cass had sent the girl a card, albeit one with a terrible drawing of a snake with all its victims drawn on the inside -- another throw-away attempt to probe Pansy's heart for a pulse of any kind. Had it worked? Cass supposed she would find out soon enough next term, either as the Basilisk's latest snack or student supernal.

Draco eyed her small pile. “Aw? Is that it? You can have some of mine.” 

“Fuck off, Malfoy.” She muttered, ripping into the envelope she had especially been looking forward to. She slid the paper out. It was a horrendously bad drawing done in crayons, but it was made by Winky, so suddenly it was fit for the Louvre. It featured herself, Winky and Crouch in the London house — the holiday that never happened — but it meant everything to Cass, infinitely more than the quill Senior had sent, the exact same model from the year before. Shocker.

The last card was a right crack-up. Flipping past the rude Santa joke, she spied the messy holiday wishes and, laughing a little, turned towards the boy sitting next to her. “Thanks, Rory. You didn’t have to.”

He smiled sleepily, head in his hand. “Aye, nae bother.”

She gathered up the cards carefully, already planning to store them away carefully until she could afford a scrapbook of sorts. A warm feeling spread through her body.

Vince passed Draco a parcel from some grandparent or other. Draco unwrapped it from the piano bench and lifted out a jumper of teal and brown, eyes wide with delight. He immediately took to bragging about the jumper’s luxurious material (the finest heithrun wool originating from Norwegian hinterlands) and the complexity of the spell knitted in. The illusion that the spell created encouraged the yarn to swirl and glide as if a real dragon roamed down his arm and across the front, looking for a goat or two to eat.

“It’s nice.”

Draco’s head snapped up. “What did she just say?”

Her smile faltered a little. “I said it’s nice.”

He spluttered and draped himself across the piano. “DO MY EARRRS DECIEVE ME?? AN ACTUAL COMPLIMENT FROM CASSANDRA CROUCH?”

Oh, how she regretted it now. “Yeah, don’t get used to it.”

Christmas brunch was a sight to behold. Beside the golden bowls of cranberry sauce were towers of steaming crepes and waffles, and saucers of thick, creamy hot chocolate. Next to the great silver pitchers of orange juice were mountains of toast, smoked salmon and lemony scrambled eggs. 

Rory was now wide awake. He shared a look with Vince and they both lunged for the bench, loading up their ruby red plates with bacon.

Without needing to look, Cass noted that the Gryffindor table were still being loud as fuck even though it was supposed to be the holidays and most of them had gone home.

She watched a Ravenclaw girl kindly add food onto Anthony Goldstein’s plate without being asked, and all she could think was lawdy, I need help, don’t I? Some friends to help get the story back on track. Ones she could trust with her dearest secret. That she wasn’t meant to be here.

 For some strange, unknown reason, she looked towards Draco as he daintily opened the top of his boiled egg. 

Wait, you’re not actually considering him are you? Merlin! Maybe you are crazy.

Vince shovelled fried eggs into his pie hole, golden yoke dripping down his chin. 

“Um, that’s actually foul, can you not do that near my salad?” complained Draco. 

“Why are you having a salad on Christmas?” asked Rosamond Hughes, a Slytherin prefect who was rumoured to be absolutely cracker when it came to Alchemy and the dark arts.

Draco looked at her like she had just wrinkled his robes with her judgement. “And why don’t you mind your own business?”

Despite being two years their senior, Rosamond took her plate and slithered down the table to somewhere quieter.

Okay, yes, Cass needed allies, and fast. And, well, desperate times…

“Draco,” she said, a little out-of-the-blue, but at least she was trying. “What would make you trust me?”

He turned to her, bemused. “It’d be lovely if you could bury yourself six feet under.”

“I’m being serious.”

“Oh really?” he said.

“Can you drop the sarcasm for three seconds?”

“What’s the matter?” asked Malfoy, “Was the bare tree a rude awakening for you? Realise you have no friends?”

She grit her teeth to stop herself from taking his salad and tipping it on his head. “Just want to make more.” 

“Of course. And who wouldn’t want to be friends with me? Other than Potter, but we all know that orphans are emotionally stunted, so no wonder what went wrong there.”

Crabbe laughed. Goyle smiled. Cass sulked for the rest of breakfast.

The rest of the day consisted of being chased by the ghost choir and their archaic melodies, having an argument with Pince about overdue library loans, and side-stepping the mistletoe Daphne had set up all around the castle with the rest of her nerdy Herbology friends.

Eventually, it was evening. The canopy of sky was like a sea of navy silk and a million twinkling rhinestones, but Potter and the gang were not at dinner.

At twilight, Cass sat on the cool grass overlooking the lake, completely disregarding curfew. And why shouldn’t she? Hogwarts was as safe as a pillow-clad crib tonight; Parkinson was home for the holidays.

But the lake was all-consuming in its inkiness. 

I see you. 

There was a light breeze, a hush and a nurturing stillness. A simplicity. She could barely see her hands in the grey. Blessѐd silence.

“That you, Crouch?” came a sharp voice.

Cass looked behind her. Draco. Here to ruin a nice evening, no doubt.

“It might be,” she said.

“What are you doing out here ?”

“Could ask you the same thing.”

Draco sighed, which was something she had expected. What she hadn’t expected was that he would plonk down beside her. “This is exhausting, isn’t it? I’m beginning to think you might be onto something.” After a long pause, he sighed a second time. “Alright. Tell me a secret. A good one.”

“What?” She peered at him sceptically, but couldn’t see much of him as the only light source they had was the moon. Still, it was unmistakably Draco, blond hair slicked, pointy face, holding what she guessed by the sugary smell was a box of strawberry wands.

“Something only you know. If it’s good enough, I’ll consider our alliance,” he said. “Want one?”

He tilted the box over to her. She thought for a moment. Once she had made sure the strawberry wands were indeed wands and not worms, she took one and nibbled on the end.

“Potter and his friends have made a Polyjuice potion.”

“I’m not falling for that.”

She ignored him. “They sabotaged Rory’s cauldron so that Hermione could sneak into the supply cupboard. I would have pointed it out but, as you know, my ear was swelling to the size of a beach ball at the time.”

“So that’s why it exploded? Why I missed Quidditch practice? It was all Potter’s fault?”

“Potter and Potter adjacent,” she confirmed. She never thought selling out the boy-who-lived would taste this sweet… but maybe that was just the strawberry.

“Finally, you’re speaking my language. Typical of Potter, targeting us. Why did they make a Polyjuice potion anyway? How? Oh wait, it’s Granger isn’t it? But why?”

“They’re looking for the heir of Slytherin. Potter’s trying to clear his name. Bet they’re going to infiltrate our Common Room.”

“Espionage. Of course!” said Draco, as in why didn’t I think of that? “You're probably right. They’ll try to sneak in at some point… as one of us.”

One of us.

Cass smiled briefly, but she switched to a serious tone. “Probably tonight. They left dinner early. Come on, let’s head back. Maybe we’ll catch them in the act. Where are the boys?” 

“Oh stars!” Draco swore. “I sent them to the kitchens.”

“What for?”

“Midnight feast.”

“Why weren’t you with them?” 

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.” 

She could see Draco better now. Eyebrows knitted together in concentration. “Rory wanted you at the midnight feast and… none of us hated that idea.”

Oh. Draco had specifically been looking for her.

In that moment, Cass decided the Slytherins wouldn’t get bested by Potter and Weasley if she had a say in it. “Did they take any discreet secret passages? The painting of Elizabeth Burke? Tell me they tickled the pear to get to the kitchens!?”

“What are you on about? Tickled the… what?”

She decided to play up the drama, speeding up their pace. “They’re sitting ducks!”

“What do we do then?” 

They crept through the entrance hall; just because the curfew also applied to prefects didn’t mean that teachers weren’t on patrol.

“We play it cool. They can’t know what we know.”

Draco nodded. “Right. Smart.”

Cass gasped loudly. “DO MY EARS DECEIVE—?”

He sniffed and checked behind them. “Yeah, yeah. It was a one time thing.”

“Well, hopefully, we’ll stumble across the others on the way, unless they’re already tied up in some cupboard.”

Draco clenched his fists around the wand in his jean pocket. “If they fall for whatever brainless prank those Gryffindor imps have set up, I’m going to murder them both.”

Every muscle in Draco’s body relaxed when they reached the entrance to the dungeons and saw Vince and Rory carrying a pile of cakes each. Cass knew better. They whispered to each other under their breaths until Draco cleared his throat. 

“What are you loitering out here for?” he snapped. “It’s freezing.”

“Er…” said Goyle, in a shaky accent, “Couldn’t remember our way to the common room?” 

Crabbe nodded. “S'a big castle.” Ah yes. Ron, on the other hand, had absolutely nailed the voice. 

Draco shared a look with Cass. “Indeed it is, Crabbe – what’s the new password again?”

“Um-”

“Oh yeah – pure-blood!” said Draco, and the wall opened up.

They all went through. On the other end, the hedges of wrapping paper had been cleared away and the fires lit. The giant squid’s face was pressed against the window, tentacles gripping the glass as if they were tiny figurines in a massive snow globe.

Cass eyed Charybdis warily. It was a miracle the glass held.

“Don’t you love it when she welcomes us home?” joked Draco.

“Delightful,” she said.

By the look on their faces, Ron and Harry disapproved of their cosy little common room’s decor. If they were going to stand there and judge, she thought it only fair that she be allowed to nose around their common room in exchange. Perhaps that would be a side quest for another time.

Draco didn’t sit down. “Got something funny to show you two,” he nodded towards the back, “Crouch, help me look.” 

She ignored the squid’s bulging eyes as much as possible and followed Malfoy towards the green glow of the lake window. Apparently, there was nothing to worry about. The great creature propelled itself away, shaking the walls as it did so.

Draco glanced at the boys sitting on the sofa, then back at her. “It’s not them, is it?”

“Nope.”

“Right,” he said, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. “Right. I don’t like you much…”

“Always the charmer.”

“...but I hate Potter more,” he sighed. For a while they just stood there by the glass. There was a peace to the rising bubbles, the glow of the greeny-blue. Sometimes, if you were lucky enough, the merfolk would glide past, silver tails shimmering. “So, now what?”

She pictured the idiots she had gotten rather fond of stashed behind a tapestry. And then she thought about the time (Lavender had told Tracey that) Ron said Millie was ‘ugly’. Not to her face, of course, but it had fed back to the girl anyway. “Yeah,” said Cass. “Now we fuck with them.” 

Draco matched her smile. He swept the morning newspaper off the table on the way back and tossed it to the boys.

A grinning Mr Weasley graced page 4 and, above it, the headline: ‘Owner of Flying Car Suspected to be Ministry Man!.’

“Well?” Draco said impatiently. “Don’t you think it’s ironic?”

Goyle hummed unenthusiastically, and Crabbe started to bounce his knee, as if that would stop him from looking ill. 

“Yeah, I’m surprised the Daily Prophet isn’t all over these attacks yet,” said Cass. “How much do you reckon Dumbledore’s paid them to keep their noses out of it?”

Draco pointed at her in agreement. “Sounds like a conspiracy to me.”

That had piqued Goyle ’s interest, of course. “A conspiracy?”

“Definitely. Dumbledore knows whatever flimsy piece of paper that qualifies him as headmaster is probably long expired. Remember what Tracey said about Olsten–”

“–Ofsted,” corrected Goyle in a rather insufferably Potter-esque manner.

Draco shot him a glare. “Whatever. Point is, even Muggles have it better than us. They don’t have near-death experiences during detention, do they? DO THEY? MERLIN, ARE YOU TWO ASLEEP?”

The boys muttered quick apologies, eyes wide. And Cass knew Draco at this point – making those two sweat was certainly a Christmas present in of itself. 

“You know who’s worse than Dumbledore and Arthur Weasley combined? Saint Potter," spat Draco. "Crabbe! What’s your opinion of him?” 

“Erm, not my cup of t–”

Goyle elbowed him.

“–BLOODY ‘ELL! I hate him! Absolutely despise the guy. He needs to be humbled.”

Draco beamed. “Go on…”

Crabbe hesitated, then cleared his throat. “Well, 'suppose he could… afford to comb his hair every once in a while.”

Draco leaned back on the sofa. “Ha! True. But if you're going to insult someone, do it properly. People see his hair everyday. Dig deeper than appearance, come on, we’re better than that. Cass, what’s your take?”

“You mean, other than the fact that he’s about as interesting as a block of lard and only knows one duelling spell?”

“Yes, but he’s very…” Crabbe glanced at Goyle. “He’s very good at it.” 

Cass shrugged. “Suppose he is, but it just goes to show that being the boy-who-lived doesn’t give you a personality. It does make you a terrible detective apparently. He accused me of being the heir.”

“You?”

“Me.”

“And what’d you say?”

“Nothing too scathing. I felt sorry for him really, I mean, he clearly has way too much time on his hands. Yet, the poor old Potter can’t see the obvious. He could have all the stupidly round glasses in the world and it wouldn’t make a difference. But now I’m tempted to go after the heir too, just to get him off my case.” She smiled at Goyle, “Did you get any cauldron cakes?”

He didn’t say anything. Not even a nod.

“Ugh, could you imagine being friends with someone that self-centred – no DON’T SAY ME.”

“You mean like you?” said Cass with a wry smile.

Draco shoved her lightly and laughed.

She passed him a chocolate frog. “I’m glad I’m not friends with him,” she said. “I mean, I’m fairly certain Potter has some sort of co-dependency issues with Weasley. Last year, I couldn’t even play chess with him without getting shooed away.”

“Probably stems from being an orphan.”

She shot him a warning look. “That’s very sweet of you to say.” 

“No, really, I bet he begs the Weasleys to adopt him.”

Crabbe clenched his fist. “Well at least he has friends who don't sit around saying bad things about other people all day.”

Draco shrugged bitterly. “Sometimes we stand around.”

Vince stood up. “And I think it’s better to have no parents than bad ones, don’t you?”

Draco stared at him,  Harry stared back. That scar was emerging from the edges of his chin and forehead. His left eye reverted from brown to foggy green.

“Anyway, you’re right, Goyle, you’re right, enough about him. I…” Cass suppressed a laugh. “I want to talk about your new hair dye, Crabbe. Orange suits you.”

Draco snorted. Goyle’s eyes darted towards Crabbe, who had leapt up.

They flee.

“Where are you going, brothers? Mi casa es su casa!” He turned to Cass. “Shall we teach them a lesson?”

“Oh, go on then,” she said.

He took his wand out and fired off pretty much every jinx he knew. The suites of armour along the walls sprang to life, sensing intruders. One almost beheaded Ron, but he dived behind the couch with Harry just in time.

“Knock it off!” shouted Ron. “Arrrghhh!”

Draco had launched a spell at his head.

“Bit late for that, Weaslebee . You and Potter knew the risk when you walked right into the snake’s nest.”

As Cass went to put the kettle on, armour chased Harry around the Common Room, but with all that moving around, it was difficult for any spells to actually stick to him.

 “What…have you done…with Crabbe… and Goyle!?” Draco yelled between colourful incantations. Ron got hit with the majority of them.

“THE – Ron, behind you! – THE CUPBOARD! NEAR THE FRONT DOOR!” Harry finally confessed, his hair back to the familiar mess of black and his skin richer in tone.

Cass lazily waved her wand. The wall at the end of the Common opened up. While the kettle hissed and spluttered, Ron and Harry bolted towards freedom.

“AND STAY OUT!” Draco smoothed his blond hair, then turned around and with a cheeky grin on his face. “How was that?”

“Erm,” she waved for a stool to assist her. She got some mugs out of the top cupboard, “not bad. Bit heavy on the dead parents though.”

“I thought you wanted fireworks! And when he stops bringing my parents into things I’ll do the same for him.”

Cass hummed in agreement. She filled up four mugs with boiling water. Draco picked up the two she couldn’t carry and they went up to the suits of armour to splash them. Steam rolled off the polished steel. In turn, each statue saluted, sheathed their swords and returned to their post.

“Should we go find those two idiots now?” she said. 

But when she looked at Draco, he was a bit paler than usual. “Just now…just a few seconds ago… did I just say ‘ Resilio Carmen ’?”

“What?”

“Oh, confound it all!”

“What!?” she asked again. “And what do you mean ‘confound it all ’? What are you? Sixty?”

Draco put the mugs away and after a heavy sigh, gripped the countertops with both hands.

 “I think I might have fixed Weasley’s wand,” he blurted.

She folded her arms. “Um, no you haven’t. That thing’s more spellotape than wood at this point. Could give Nearly Headless Nick a run for his money.”

“No, I know, I know that, but remember that time he had the audacity to attack me and his wand backfired and he was spewing slugs everywhere? Well, I just hit him with a backfiring jinx.”

“What for?”

“I didn’t think about it, it was just what came to mind!” 

“So you…”

“I think it cancelled them out, fixed his wand.” As the realisation sunk in, it was clear his anger was directionless; not sure whether to be mad at Ron or himself.

“Well, aren’t you… lovely.”

“I think…” he said, making his way over to an armchair, “I think I need to lie down for a minute.” 

“Yes, well, you can be lazy after we’ve found those two buffoons.”

Draco didn’t move. 

“Look, if it makes you feel better, I’m sure it wasn’t a permanent fix, otherwise McGonagall would have thought about doing that ages ago.”

“Not necessarily. I’m sure the old bat wouldn’t want to besmirch her reputation with grey magic.” He gave a wry smile. “She’s obviously one of those no-nonsense, wand up her arse types who probably considers jinxes the ‘gateway drug’ of spells just because she’s too scared to give it a go and find out she likes it. Some adults are so boring. Your father’s the same. I’ve heard his speeches. Rules, rules, rules. You’d think something as chaotic as magic ought to be explored, not spinelessly avoided.” 

He threw in a quick “no offence”, but the passion in his voice took her by surprise. 

She’d heard Senior’s speeches on the WNN – the condemnation of the dark arts, dark creatures, and any whiff of magical experimentation – but Cass had never really thought about it properly before. Restrictions were a precaution of course, but how were you supposed to stop being afraid of something if there was no chance to understand it? What if darker magic is only dark if used by the wrong people? Would she get in as much trouble for water-boarding someone with an Aguamenti charm as she would with the Cruciatus curse? Merlin, how many years until they were taught wizarding law?

She shook away the distraction. “Come on, I’m sure we have some explaining to do.”

He groaned in response. “Let’s just go to Professor Snape’s office – Potter and Weasley need to be brought to justice.”

“But they’ll get expelled!”

Draco climbed to his feet with superhuman speed and marched towards the wall. “Then we have no time to lose!”

“Ah,” said Cass, a little smugly, “but if they’re expelled, we can’t get them back.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What are you planning?”

“Not sure yet, but it’s got to be huge, something they wouldn’t dare to respond to, something that will make them think twice before messing with us again.”

Draco walked right up to her, arms folded. “Alright, Crouch,” he said, “I’m listening...”

Chapter Text

Second Year - Chapter Nine

There hadn't been a real need to leave the common room that day. The smell of mossy wood (and the trail of mud Lacerta was screaming about) indicated a heavy downpour, yet the weather had little effect on the girls, who were all buzzing to see one another. Thus, the common room became a hive once more, seething with activity since the train’s return, and diffusing into the air a sweeter essence of rejuvenation and sarcastic remarks. 

While most of the older students held themselves apart, opting for that same checked demeanour of tablesalt command and that tableside wit often expected from their thoroughbred families, Millie knocked the air out of Cass’ lungs. It was one of those tight hugs, and even though the girl’s clothes were sopping wet, Cass fought back the urge to pry her cold hands off. She liked Millicent’s happy face far too much for that. The questions Millicent fired off about her holiday thankfully made for a great distraction.

“Wasn’t too boring with the boys, was it? I loved the card by the way! Did you make it yourself? Did you get mine? Do you like my hair? Daphne did it – she’s so talented! Ooh! Where’d the piano come from?”

Draco gave a cocky smile and rapped on the instrument’s lid. “Impressive, isn’t it? It was actually my father who–”

Just before he could break out into a full-on opera regarding the rarity of this particular grand piano, Marcus and his cronies swiped him up just as a bear swipes a wriggling salmon. The great race to the Quidditch pitch had begun and Marcus was determined to beat Oliver Wood there. And so, Draco was dragged – half-confused and half-infuriated – through the wall and out into the cold.

Her eyes turned to the girl lost in an oversized hoodie. Of course, all the questions Tracey asked were anxious variations of her previous enquiries, and Cass, who was beginning to get tired of repeating herself, did so anyway:

"It was quiet … Dumbledore hasn’t mentioned any more attacks … No, he's not closing the school … I think Myrtle overheard Flitwick hinting that the Tickling Charm will come up in our end-of-year… the ghost in the girl's bathroom … no, I'm not making her up … well, yes she's 'the one that cries', but give her a break, being dead must be horrible … yes it's been decades, that's not the point...”

Even Blaise looked genuinely pleased to see her, but in his usual, cool, I-don’t-give-a-fuck way. It was lucky Malfoy and his antics had been whisked away, especially when Blaise shrugged off his jacket and let it fall to the floor in a heap before kicking off his flooded shoes – all without a certain blond vulture swooping down to fold or neatly place by the fire with a scolding “I’ll throw them in next time”! And Blaise would hum and open his book, (well, he did that anyway).

When she came in with the rain, Pansy, with black strands stuck to shiny skin, immediately went off into the dorm for an early night without greeting anyone, and Cass could barely recognise the girl she had once met in the Quidditch stands. All life had been spooned out, nibbled down to the husk like a watermelon, or like nails bitten and bleeding.

Daphne slumped over on the sofa with Tracey. "Surprised the place is still intact. Did ya keep Draco locked in a box all holiday?"

"Not exactly," she began, but then someone equally miserable caught her eye. 

The general assessment was that Theo was an arrogant, quiet loner, though it was by choice rather than Blaise’s situation. Blaise, whose accidental projections of ‘fuck off’ he put out into the universe anytime he smiled or whatever it was that Blaise thought he did, prohibited him from holding conversations with anyone who didn't know him by now. But some people just like to be left alone. Nott was one of those people. And they had all heard he was a bad case of insomnia, often the one to gallivant through the halls when the boys sent him out for whistling too loudly in the dead of night. It was easy to be resentful when your bed was right next to the opening and closing door like Crabbe's was, and Theo enjoyed pacing when his body refused to shut down.

His expression however, was haunted, and his muscles tensed with each small noise.

"Erm, what's wrong with him?" was the only thing Millie could think to say.

Blaise shrugged. "Said the horses creep him out? No idea what he's on about though."

And something heavy sunk in, like there was another stupid layer to all of this. A sharp sting that reminded her once again that this was real, that people here had problems. And if he could see what was pulling the carriages that meant-

"THOSE GRYFFINDORS ARE TOAST!" came a deep voice. Shoes pounded across the carpeted floor.

"How many times, Crabbe? Inside voices!" hissed a prefect.

Crabbe ignored him and made his way over.

"Alright, Vince?" Blaise asked, as a way of greeting rather than genuine concern.

"No!” the boy yelled. “They jumped us!"

"Well..." began Cass, because that wasn't technically true. Crabbe and Goyle had simply been thick enough to look at a pair of floating tea cakes and think oh yeah, amazing, nothing suspicious about that at all nom nom nom like a couple of blockheads!

A sudden craving for tea and biscuits overcame Blaise, so he got up to use the kettle. "This the Gryffindor thing I was told about? Potter and his friend Weasley I'm assuming. Always look guilty those two."

The entirety of Vince's face was glowing red. "Five of ‘em!" he lied.

Blaise furrowed his eyebrows. "I heard it was two–Nott, put it back, will you?"

Crabbe’s rant screeched to a halt, head turning this way and that in confusion, but then he turned around and nearly jumped out of his skin. "CHRIST! FuCK OFF, WILL YoU?" His voice had broken in several places. Blaise bit into his biscuit to hide a smile. 

Theo was no less than a centimetre behind Vince. He grumbled something then tossed whatever shiny piece he had stolen back to him. Crabbe struggled to catch it.

“Keep ya bloody hands to yourself, yeh!?”

Cass leaned in. Upon further inspection she could make out the shape of whatever Crabbe’s large hand was cradling; a bronze crab holding a star between its pincers. Pity it wasn’t real. That might have been fun.

"Family broach?" asked Millie.

Vince nodded. "Mum’ll kill me if I lose it."

"Bit on the nose," Cass whispered to Tracey. 

And for something who was bad at following instructions it was a wonder that Vince had such freakishly good hearing. 

"Do you have a family crest, Crouch?" He snapped back. 

Sure they had the motto, but she hadn't seen any symbols up and around either house. 

Millie snorted and with deft fingers, she picked the broach out of his hand to hold it up to the light. It sparkled. "Even if she did, it wouldn't be a person crouching down, would it?"

A flush and suddenly Vincent’s face resembled a radiant tomato. "The crab is a noble creature!"

"They're so small though."

"Stealthy!" he corrected, then snatched the heirloom back before flapping his arms around wildly. "Anyway, why are none of you focusing on the real issue here? Gryffindors! Coming into our space! They could be in the walls this very second! Think of our reputations!"

Tracey shifted on the sofa. "You poshos and your reputations. It's really not the end of the world. And hey! Draco and Cass sent ‘em packin’, right?"

"And besides,” Cass said with a wicked grin. “I'm not worried. Not one bit.”

Millie’s nostrils flared. “Why not?”

Cass saw a tree before her. One she returned to often. And the black branches of possibility continued to fan out and split a million times over, just as the lake had, until the dark tree was a part of the dark sky… or maybe the sky had always been the tree. Or maybe she was the tree. Where were her eyes anyway? On Millie? It didn’t matter. There was a branch she liked best of all. “Because I already know how we're going to return the favour." 

The girl squealed. She bundled her hair into a low ponytail and sat closer to Cass. The plan was explained away, plain and simple, yet, nestled between the cushions, Blaise stirred his spoon aggressively.

“You can’t be serious!” Vince spat. Then his eye twitched. Cass had watched the Bloody Baron’s eye do a similar thing only last Friday when Lockhart had read out several of his fresh ballads to an audience of starving students and staff for almost forty-five minutes. “You want us to be… NICE TO THEM?!”

“No, because think about it. Think about how paranoid they’ll get if we’re just super sweet to them out of nowhere! They'll constantly expect something to happen to them. It's going to drive them mad!”

Vince folded his arms. "That's a stupid plan."

" You’re a stupid plan,” Millie declared.

“That doesn’t even make any sense!”

“yOU dOn’t eVen MAke S-”

“LOOK!” Cass yelled, and their focus shifted back to her. It had been a suggestion, nothing more and certainly not something to cause a divide over. She took in a calming breath. “If you think of something better we'll do that.”

The eyes of Blaise Zabini looked her up and down in a way that pinched uncomfortably until the very moment she was released, and he closed his eyes, leaning back with a peaceful face. “Yeah,” he sighed. “S’pose it’s not a terrible idea.”

“Definitely summat I’d like teh see,” agreed Tracey.

“Have you all lost your minds?” Vince stared at them, mouth gaping like a fish. “You’re genuinely on board with her?”

“Wouldn’t hurt to try,” Blaise shrugged, busy playing with Tracey’s hoodie strings in a manner of bewilderment.

“Ugrh! Fine! I’m in…as long as Draco is.”

With Tracey’s silent encouragement Blaise pulled on the string and the light in his eyes danced. “Excellent,” he said dreamily. “Oh, and Vince?”

“What?”

And Cass would have bet her right arm that some sort of demon had possessed Zabini in that split-second, because he leaned forward, corners of his mouth all sharp. “Your accent is slipping again. Might want to fix that.”

The words transformed Crabbe into a spluttering mess, and the blush returned with a vengeance. The boy made some excuse about unpacking and fled.

The teacup had reached Blaise’s lips when he sent Cass a wink.

><><><><><><><><><><><

Her eyes perused the rows of barren tables and tense faces. Amidst the layers of garbling, some hands shakily filled their goblets with water. Cass’ hands patted her growling stomach; no food graced the tables, but still, she supposed there was always something to be thankful for. She looked to the empty Headmaster’s chair with a fondness.

Indeed, Albus Dumbledore’s absence at dinner had caused quite the ruckus. Students suspected the monster had gotten to him. Cass was inclined to believe it too – he had never missed a diner – though, with Riddle surely on the rise, there was no point celebrating with a cheeky little dance. The Headmaster really was the last buffer before all hell broke loose. Fear did funny things to a son, and that fragment of Riddle, who was no son to Dumbledore by any means, wouldn't feel like any less of one until the bearded wise-ass was gone and buried. Then it would be Riddle who danced, who stretched out the circle of his influence like a bloodhound stretches its ears before the hunt.

As it turned out, the old codger had simply fallen asleep at his office desk. So, once he was retrieved by McGonagall and the masses had been quelled, he took to the floor half-asleep to make some half-arsed speech about the impending exam season. Cass would have preferred being petrified à la basilisk herself if it meant she didn't have to sit there, bored out of her mind, starving, and forced into hearing that reminder for the fiftieth time (it wasn’t as if her professors had forgotten).

The classes of the new term were brutal. Snape had all but tripled the homework he assigned with the excuse of upcoming exams, while Lockhart insisted on having his students meditate with him. Said it was good for the skin. 

Hermione had been in hysterics, torn between following the instructions of the git wizard she so mistakenly admired and questioning the use of time. She settled for reassuring her peers that he must be teaching them how to manage stress in a healthy and compartmentalised way. 

Yet, between “hummmmmm”s, Cass would open one eye to catch Lockhart gazing at his own portrait again and again. He returned to meditation once again, and the next time she opened an eye, it was just to check if her peers were actually still there. Sure enough, some had slipped soundlessly out of the classroom. Gradually, more and more filtered out until Cass was certain Hermione and her loyal friends would be the only ones left. Harry leaned back now, eyes open and staring out of the classroom window; Ron attempted to make an origami dragon; Cass left the room with twenty minutes of the period to spare.

><><><><><><><><><><><

While it may be true that New Year's resolutions never last, Daphne was determined to try. Cass couldn’t remember how the small girl had roped them into helping, but there they were, up at the crack of dawn, leaving soft pillows and slugging down the stairs to act as moral support while Daphne attempted to finish her Herbology assignment.

When shaken gently, Pansy had thrown a lamp at Daphne to get her to back off, muttering something about beauty sleep. Tracey had been equally difficult to rouse until Millicent grabbed her arms, and Cass her legs, and they threatened to drop her on the floor. Though she wouldn’t admit it, Tracey was happy to go along with them. After all, an empty common room meant that she could play her music as loudly as she wanted without being told off by some “posho” prefect.

Thus, the study session commenced. 

Tracey’s muggle music-player played things with feeling. Nothing like the heaviness of the music from the Quidditch celebrations. Those just made her head hurt. This was different. The bass was crying. The guitars sliding through the melody as though the instrument itself had it memorised. A love letter. A eulogy. Even the rhythms were full of meaning. Cass asked what it was and Tracey passed her the cd case. The girl went on to explain that her uncle had been lucky enough to see these muggle bands The Beat, Joy Division and Tears For Fears back in the day. 

“They’re great – not that I really get a chance to hear them. That Xander Lofthouse has had it in for me ever since he became a prefect, I swear!”

“He’s a prick. At least you get to hear them while you’re home though, right?”

Tracey shook her head. “Are you kidding? If they knew I even had these… it’s a good thing I keep them under my mattress.”

“What? Why don’t they like it?”

Tracey’s dark eyebrows drew downwards. “Wish I knew. Asked for a guitar once. Got a right shouting at. Apparently rock is for delinquents and nobodies.”

“What music do they like then?”

She shrugged. “The kind the bird’s make.”

Cass huffed. “Well yours is far more interesting. Sorry, I’m talking over it.”

Tracey laughed. “Nah, you’re alright.”

Daphne had her finger tracing the same paragraph over and over again, and looking painfully between the textbook and Professor Sprout’s plant on her lap. The pressure was on. Herbology was their first subject of the day. Millicent had her own shrivelfig too, they all did. Hers had wilted after she had impatiently ripped the leaves off instead of using the proper tools to snip them away. It would have been an immediate fail if Tracey hadn’t propagated hers and given the cuttings to her friend.

But Daphne was different – so intensely stuck on getting it right and fussing all over the thing, but there was clearly something distracting her. 

Cass set her own book on Proper Wand Maintenance down. “What’s up?”

“Huh? Oh. Nothing.”

“You sure?” said Millicent, and Cass thought she was probably hoping something was wrong so they could finally have a break from their essays.

“Actually…it’s just…does Pansy seem to be acting weird to you?”

“You mean more than usual?”

“I’m being serious.”

“No, I get what you mean,” said Tracey, turning the music down. “I don't think she wanted to leave the train.”

“Maybe she just had a really good Christmas.”

“No it’s not that, it was creepy. Did you see her nails? She kept picking the skin around them and didn’t notice when they started to bleed.”

There was only one thing for it then. “Maybe we should ask her about it?”.

Millicent looked at Cass as if she had just offered to send the girl to Mars. “Ask…who? Pansy? Our Pansy? No. No! Absolutely not! It’s like pulling teeth with that one.”

“Well we can't do nothing,” said Daphne.

Tracey reinked her quill. “That's exactly what we’re going to do. She’s proud, but she’ll come to us eventually.”

There was a silence, and the girls were about to settle back down into their work when Daphne piped up.

“Maybe she got into a fight with Draco? I can ask Vince.”

Tracey cringed. “Spare us all the embarrassment, Daph.”

And then Cass’ ears pricked up. She felt like a mischievous little rat, the kind with a long snout, the kind that creeps along the skirting boards, sniffing for cheese and weaving through holes in the wall to collect all the gossip. “Wait, what’s this about Draco?”

Millie grinned. “We’re not supposed to say, but basically , they’re together now.”

Since when? How had she missed the signs? Were there signs to begin with? Those two had about as much chemistry as she did with a rotten turnip. More importantly, how did Pansy have enough spare time for all her vile hobbies? Come to think of it, dating Draco probably ranked as worse than the whole Chamber issue.

Cass forgot how to breathe for a split second, like the wires in her brain had short-circuited. “ Dating ? As in boyfriend and girlfriend? Merlin, I think I just threw up in my mouth.”

Daphne pouted a little at that. “What? I think they’re cute!”

Tracey massaged her temples. “But they’re so awkward.”

“That’s what makes it cute!” Daphne explained. “ First lovvveeee.”

“Oh yeah, and how’s it working out with you and Theo?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Mmhmm.”

Although Cass generally found the idea of dating at their age disgusting, she supposed there was a potential Romeo and Juliet quality to Daphne and Theo. Two star-crossed lovers, separated by tumultuous sleep schedules. Afterall, on weekends, it wasn’t unusual to see Theo come downstairs in his blue and white pyjamas just as Daphne went to bed. 

“Do you fancy anyone, Cass?” Daphne said quickly.

She choked on her water, coughing until her eyes were red and teary. “What? Umm…”

It’s not like she could focus on boys with Pansy leading a giant snake on a full-on school tour! She searched a mental catalogue of the boys in their class, but all she could think about was Pansy, particularly whether or not she was close to overcrowding the hospital wing yet, not silly boyfriends. 

“There’s got to be someone!” insisted Daphne, and amongst the urge to smother her with a pillow, Cass also had the sneaking suspicion that all this redirecting was a defensive move.

Still, her face was getting hotter by the second. A ticking time-bomb.  “Er…” 

Maybe if she just picked a random boy, they’d leave her alone… 

“Not like there's a great selection here,” piped up Millicent.

Sweet mercy!

“...And Susan says the Hufflepuff boys still make fart jokes. So immature!"

“Yeah,” Cass laughed nervously. “Boys are gross.”

Daphne sighed dreamily. “Except for Theo.”

Tracey scoffed. “Can you even understand anything he says?”

“Well enough. You get used to it when you talk with him as much as I do.”

“You talk to him?” 

Daphne flushed. “I do!” she insisted.

“Daph, just this morning a Ravenclaw asked you to move out of the way and you said ‘thank you’! Only he didn’t hear it because it was quieter than dragonfly wings.” 

“I was a little dizzy from getting up after sitting for so long! Ugh!” She tossed her book onto the table. “This makes no sense.”

“What is it?” said Tracey, scooting over. That was Tracey. Always the mother. Always trying to fix things.

“Herbology homework. The chapter on shrivelfigs says nothing on how to make them grow faster. They’re not fond of soil.” 

Indeed, when the class peered into their pots last lesson and found two kilos of pebbles, it had been a nasty shock. Cass had barely touched hers since they were assigned; she didn’t get plants at all, but she was pretty sure hers was dead now. Still, real magic was figuring out how Daphne could get her to grow fifteen more centimetres before the due date the next week. 

Daphne sighed and shut the book softly. “Is it the sunlight? I’m going to complain if it is. Salazar might have thought sticking us in the basement was a marvellous idea, but I certainly don’t! And I don’t have time to sit outside in the sun all day waiting for the leaves to sprout, some of us have lives and besides, I have enough freckles as it is!”

Millie’s heart had surely been stabbed. “What? You don’t like them?” 

“I don’t.”

“Well give them to me then, you ungrateful lump, I do! They’re so cute!”

Daphne smiled a little, then fished something from her robes. “Are you sure talking to it won’t help?”

“Merlin!” groaned Tracey, squinting at the list. “Not this nonsense again. I don’t get what you’re doing wrong. I did all the things you are now. But I know talking won’t do a thing!”

“He might be onto something…” Daphne sang. 

“I guarantee you he isn’t,” Tracey sang back. “Where are his sources? And anyway, Longbottom isn’t our Herbology teacher, Sprout is, and if she didn’t tell us to talk to ‘em, then it’s obviously because he made it all up and it does absolutely nish.”

“Or because he made it up and it does,” Cass inspected the list of plant parts to comment on and shrugged. “It must work; his shrivelfigs are literally taller than Theo .”

Daphne played with the buttons on her cardigan as casually as possible. “How’s his assignment coming along anyway?” 

Her eyes flickered up momentarily, before going back to Neville’s list. “Pretty sure tossed it in the bin the second we came out of the greenhouse.”

“Oh.” The girl’s face grew pink again, so it was obvious she was mentally scribbling out her question and adding the footnote Stupid! He’s obviously too cool for homework, remember? even though to Cass he just seemed a tad lazy. 

Cass cleared her throat. “Point is: Neville seems smart enough. Maybe he’s keeping his method to himself so he can make money off it later.”

“Why’d he tell her then?” asked Tracey. “ Suspicious .”

“Oh get off it. He’s hardly the saboteur of the century.”

“And if you were the saboteur of the century, you’d always look unassumin’. I’ll say it again: sus-pic-ious!”

Cass cleared her throat. “Well, if you’re not going to try it, I will.” 

A quick reach and the plant was on her lap. 

The girls leaned in to watch.

“Please grow better,” she said.

Millicent wrinkled her nose. “Is that all you’ve got? Pathetic!” She snatched the list away. After a quick skim, the plant didn’t grow, but a cheeky smile on her face definitely did. “It says you need to romance it.”

“What? No, it doesn’t. Where?”

Millie pointed. “At the bottom. Look. ‘ Flattery works a charm ’.”

“That’s just foul! It’s a plant,” huffed Tracey. “That Longbottom’s got some funny ideas (but by all means give it a go, I’m interested).”

Cass gulped. 

Romance… romance…

Finally, Cassandra Crouch opened her mouth, “ O YE DASHING FLORA–”

Millicent and Tracey roared with laughter, clinging to each other as they contorted in hysterics.

A smile tugged at the corners of Cass’ mouth but she straightened them in the attempt to remain sincere. “ Shush! – OF THE SHRIVELFIG…kind? – I mean it, shut up – MIGHT I REQUEST THE PRETTY PLANT GROWETH JUST A TAD TALLER SO THAT MY FRIEND MAY FINALLY PASS A HERBOLOGY ASSIGNMENT FOR THE FIRST TIME? ”

“ And it’s my birthday soon.”

“ AND IT’S HER BIRTHDAY SOON .”

The plant (quite rudely) did not answer.

Cass was about to bitterly give it back and in turn prove Tracey false suspicions about Neville somehow right, but then the purple-brown stem stretched. Cass almost fell off her chair. The stem grew quickly, thicker, taller and higher and higher, sprouting new branches until they spiralled on the end.

“You genius!” Daphne squealed. “You’ve done it!”

Cass grinned and looked around in wonder. The branches rapidly multiplied. Fruit miraculously appeared on each bunch.

“Woah! It likes you!” Millie laughed

There was no sign of slowing. The branches rushed up towards the Basilisk bones until it could only grow outward. Tracey frantically batted a clawing branch away from her hair. “Well, that’s enough now, get it to stop!”

A pit formed in her stomach and then her arms shook from the weight of the thing. “How?”

“What do you mean ‘how’?”

“Neville’s notes said nothing about overgrowing! Why’s it gone funny? Oh, shit!” Cass dropped the colossal plant. The ceramic pot smashed to pieces. Pebbles flew across the marble.

Tracey’s eyes went wide. “I knew it! I knew it! I said something bad was going to happen? But did you guys listen? Nooo!”

Cass searched Daphne’s paling face for an answer. “What do I do?”

“I don’t know. It’s awfully temperamental.” 

“Temp…TEMPERAMENTAL!?”

“WHAT?” 

“WHO SAYS– right, never mind. Just be mean to it!”

She was being pursued by a rogue vine, so the next reply was breathy. “What? Why me ?”

“You’re it’s mother!!”

“I’m too young to be a mother!” Daphne cried and leapt behind the tapestry. A branch clawed through it, disfiguring a rather sour-looking wizard. “NO HARD FEELINGS, MR SLYTHERIN, SIR!”

The head of a disgruntled Salazaar yelled something unintelligible back at her, but the fist he was shaking had slid with a good chunk of the tapestry over the marble floor. It rolled up, inching away up the stair like a worm.

“You just do it!” Millie yelled in an octave or two too high to be healthy. “She doesn’t have a single mean bone in her body!”

Cass came out from behind the sofa. “ENOUGH’S ENOUGH! YOU WERE BETTER UGLY AND SHRIVELLED. SO JUST– AHHHHH!”

A root coiled around her ankle and her body slammed into the floor. 

“Daphne!” Cass grabbed the sofa, but the arm slipped out of her grasp and she was dragged along the floor.

“But I can’t be mean! If anything this has just proved that plants do have feelings!”

“Daph, it’s now or never! Just tell it off!”

“DAPHNE, FOR FUCK’S SAKE! I THINK IT’S GOING TO EAT ME!”

“FIne! Fine-na!” Daphne came out of hiding and stumbled towards the thing. She took off her slipper and threw it at the plant.  “YOU STUPID LEAF! I’LL GO FIND SOME WEEDKILLER TO DOWSE YOU IN IF YOU DON’T SHRINK THIS SECOND!”

The branches slowed and discoloured. Eventually it wound up again, the root let go and the thing began shrinking in on itself. Where the stem went, they had no idea. Just that one minute it was there and the next it was back to normal, save that it had kindly kept about three inches of its gains.

“Well,” said Cass, dusting herself off. “That’s that then.”

Daphne just stared blankly at the plant on the floor. Her hair was a complete mess and Millie’s hands were dark purple from wrestling the branches. Tracey opened her mouth, but with a singular “ah!” and a finger from Daphne, Tracey closed it again.

Slowly, each made their way back to the seating.

“Got it to grow did you?” asked a nasally voice. Draco had come down stairs. Yippee . “End up trying Longbottom’s weirdo method then?”

Daphne was too traumatised to do anything but give a small nod. 

“Seems like the grub is useful for something after all.” He leaped over the back of the sofa so that he was next to Tracey. “Turn that rubbish down will you!”

Tracey turned it up. 

Marcus came through the wall. 

“What’s got you grinning like an idiot, Captain?” asked Draco.

“Oh nothing, nothing,” said Marcus, but his smile never wavered. He sank back into the sofa and pretended to read (never mind that the book was upside down).

Before Cass had the chance to ask, the bells from the clock tower shook the walls around them, which could only mean one, precious thing: breakfast!

><><><><><><><><><><><

The room was empty when Pansy woke up. 

She barely noticed. Maybe she was even a little glad. And something itching in the back of her skull told her to get up. So she did.

She silenced her alarm clock and eyed her locked desk draw. It was there, the diary. She knew it. Had returned with it the night before. Rain didn’t break it. Fire didn’t. She didn't want to touch it anymore. If she didn’t touch her, it couldn’t make her do things. She left it in there and went down for a shower.

Breakfast was fine.

     Just fine.

          She had some toast. Or she thought she did.

               She was going to have an egg too, but then she noticed the staring.

                    Like they wanted her to make her feel bad or something.

                          One of them opened their mouth.

She left the Hall and checked her timetable. Herbology first, then Charms, then Astronomy. Not that she wanted to go, but the hours ticked by well enough. Her Professor smiles at her when she holds the door open for the students to exit. She doesn’t smile back. Might get given extra work if she did. That’s what adults did. They told you what a wonderful student you were one minute, how much promise they saw in you, and the next minute they’d expected you to volunteer all your time to helping every idiot who wouldn’t grow a seedling. 

Longbottom walked in front of her and Malfoy shook the water off his raincoat on his head. She felt something for him. She wouldn't say it was sympathy but a version of it, diluted like a glass of squash no one wanted to drink. Why bother pouring it in the first place if it was to be so flavourless? 

Pansy didn’t need to lick anyone’s boot to get the best grades in her class. Not like everyone else. Except for Tracey of course, with all her studying. Was it her or was Tracey getting quieter? 

Granger was stupidly smart too. Muggle-borns clearly hadn’t been given enough credit. The girl was smart enough not to be a boot-licker, but she clearly did it anyway. Probably because she was insecure. Well, she had every right to be. They both did. Because Pansy would be something even better than the best, she would be the best and effortless at it. And they would tear their hair out, not knowing what got them.

                                                                                                                               After Astronomy, something was off.

                                                                                                             Her eyes widened because it was hideous.

                                                Poor thing. 

                                                                                        Faces, like smudged oil paints, swam around her, flitting, taunting.

                                                                       Mouths drawn like boats. Eyes sinking.

                                                  It was impossible to recognise a single one of them unless she concentrated really hard,

                                                  but by the time she could, they were gone again. 

                              The mantra begins as a whisper.

                                                                                                                                                                                  Poor thing… you 

                                                                                                                                                                                  Poor thing… you 

                                                                                                                                                                                  Poor thing… you 

All Pansy could think was: 'Make it stop. All of it. The noise. The screaming!' But it didn't.

          It was shrill. Maybe a girl’s.

                      Pansy ignored the blurry faces and paid attention to the real paintings; she was on the third floor.

                                It might have been that ghost acting up again. 

                                         No, it’s happened again.

                                                 She doesn’t want to, but she goes where the bodies cluster, standing shoulder to shoulder like a ringed wall.

                                                         She is just barely able to push through.

                                                                 A child lies on the stone floor. She can’t see her face.

                                                                       Professors guide students out of the way. Shouting something but Pansy can’t hear.

                                                                              All she hears is screaming.

                                                                                    McGonagall is there. She kneels down and gently moves the girl’s head up.

Pansy thinks she's having a heart attack. Students are shooed off in every direction, but her legs are                                                                                                                                                      stone. Nailed to the floor. But it’s Tracey who has been petrified, not her. 

Oily slime reaches out to touch her hand but she pulls it back. Just then, something wet falls                                                                                                                                                             onto her cheeks. Merlin! She’s crying. 

I know, poor thing, I feel you, I see you 

I know, poor thing, I feel you, I see you 

I know, poor thing, I feel you, I see you 

I know, poor thing, I feel you, I see you 

And when a hand grabbed her wrist, she felt the diary fall over in the bag on her back.

“Pansy!” 

She looked to her left.

Cass.

I can see you.

Her own mouth opened in a scream, but no sound came out. The noise was gone. Only whispers remained. All she could do now was stutter. 

And Cass searched her eyes in such confusion that Pansy could laugh “poor thing”, but the tears kept coming; you strip back enough layers of the soul and that's what you're left with. Fear, most potent and primal of emotions. 

It clung to her like a wetsuit, like the whispers did.

Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass Cass 

Chapter Text

Okay so I haven't updated this fic in a while and I thought I'd be real with my remaining readers.

I know I'm not a strong writer. I can admit it. Like in terms of plot I sit and stare at the wall hoping that something sparks. It's clear to me that I have left too many loose threads/plot holes in this fic, so although I was writing it for fun, it has upset a lot of users for continuity issues which is fair enough. I am not so bad at plotting however that I would stoop so low as to steal someone else's story.

You may see in recent comments that I have been accused of plagiarising a certain fic called "Blood Magic" with zingers such as "I let out a breath I didn't realise I was holding" and "Thanks for the bite, by the way. You're lucky I don't have AIDS". I had a quick skim of the first few chapters and noticed that it follows a similar premise (the pov is still Barry Crouch Senior's daughter) and of course I raised an eyebrow at her name being CASSIOPEIA who, in this other fic, is in Ravenclaw and not Slytherin. 

Regardless, other than the premise, it seems to take a different turn and this author seems to have created a unique cast of Ravenclaw characters for Cassiopeia. I just wish that if a friend of the author's had noticed my work and thought it was a rip-off, they just talked to me about it nicely first, or better yet, let me talk to the author so that we could both see what was really going on. 

Basically, I can stand here and insist that I've never even heard of this fic before being told about it, that it is a coincidence our main characters have similar names, that I had no idea that Quotev existed and that I don't even read fanfiction let alone books simply because my eyes get too tired so I prefer audio books -- I actually based my version of Harry being half blind after the fact that I am -- but the fact is, whatever I say is not going to convince people. I will just be seen as lying as the internet has no way of evidencing integrity, so for now, I will just say sorry for any hurt that I unintentionally caused as I'm sure Cassiopeia means a lot to their author. The similarities are genuinely coincidental and I hadn't even heard about this fic until I checked my emails today.

Anyway, I'm not posting this to complain that "people are mean to me", I don't want pity, I just don't have the energy to argue with people who won't even hear me out, so I might as well give them what they want and stop writing for a while.

Overall, from writing this fic, I was more interested in exploring the stories of the Slytherins you barely hear about in the original. I wanted to play with themes of what makes a villain, of entitlement, of reputation. Additionally, Cassandra waking up on the train without her memories, did actually tie into an important plot point in several other places had I the skill to write them well enough. I also picked the very on-the-nose name "Cassandra" as an allusion to the popular myth of the Greek oracle Cassandra, cursed by Apollo so that her prophecies are never taken seriously, which inevitably leads to the downfall of Troy ie in parallel, Cassandra Crouch, who knows what the future holds, is going to have a hard time in this fic, but will get there in the end.

I can't promise I will stay away from this fic forever. All these false accusations kind of make me want to write more just to spite them. But who knows? Maybe divine inspiration will hit and I'll reframe the plot so that it's cleaner!

As always, thanks for reading, I just wanted to clear up some misconceptions