The boy hopped down from his broom and ran his fingers through his hair, a proud smirk taking its place on his lips. He leaned the handle of his broom against his shoulder as a redheaded girl made her way towards him. Sansa, a girl who was smarter and ore capable than she initially might seem… “SHE BETTER BE. Those Hufflepuffs don’t know what’ll hit ‘em.”
“How’d you like the game?”
“You might make a bit more sport out of it next time,” she flattered, fingers combing through wind-strewn tangles in loose auburn. Only in recent weeks had Sansa begun creeping out of a self-imposed shell, reaching out to find housemates like her — clever, ambitious, without falling into that unfortunate stigma of ages past. Yet there remained students like Draco of incomparable wealth and arrogance alike, whose good favor she recognized as necessary, if not wholly cherished.
“But I don’t know how you can stand waiting for the next one. I could have sat there all day watching you fly!”
❛
—- all right, all right, merlin’s beard.
LOOK, i’m putting on a shirt now– see ? i don’t know what you’re
so antsy about, since i’m fairly sure you don’t give a rat’s ass about
my ‘best interests’, but NICE TRY, stark. you sure you’re not just
embarrassed at my being undressed ? i don’t blame you, if i’m
being completely honest. i reckon i’ve got a great physique.
❜
( at least… for how very SKINNY he was )
“I would have you know that I single-handedly earned twenty points for Slytherin just before the Christmas holiday; doubtless if our founders had no desire for boys and girls to fraternize in one another’s dormitories, they certainly would have established rules against wandering about the common room shirtless.
—— You needn’t flatter yourself, Draco. After growing up with three brothers, a bare chest hardly shocks me. It’s a matter of points, nothing more.” Faint blush, alongside a swift duck of her chin, however, seemed not at all as nonchalant as Sansa might have hoped.
❛ well, it makes me uncomfortable. and itchy.
it’s a TERRIBLE shirt, i’m not going to wear it a second longer than i have to—-
besides, it’s not like i’m PARADING myself around, is it?
it’s not even ‘public’,you’re the ONLY one here, are you not ?❜
“A Cushioning Charmmight help, if you feel inclined to spare your poor mother’s feelings this holiday. Besides, I’ve only got your best interests in mind — what if, say, Professor Snape were to walk in right now? Not the sort of Christmas cheer you want to spread I’d wager.”
❛
—–
honestly. ONE of these holidays,
mother MIGHT get me a shirt that actually fits.
or one should hope so. ❜
“ —— H-however small you might find it, one cannot help but wonder if such sartorial adventures remain better suited to the privacy of your dormitory. Surely Pansy wouldn’t appreciate you putting on such a public show?”
“Brilliant flying, Draco!” Hufflepuff hardly stood a chance, that morning’s revelry an almost disappointingly short quarter-hour before an emerald-swathed seeker ended the match. Though she attended more from duty than genuine investment in the sport, her elder brother’s childhood enthusiasm guaranteed knowledge incongruent with an otherwise girlish demeanor. Sansa spoke to Slytherin’s newest hero in similar spirit, smile creasing both cheeks with flattering dimples, all too aware of what power he — and his family — wielded.
“Chang must be absolutely quaking in her robes by now.”
stark, a name to tell other wizards about the importance this family held in the wizarding world. narcissa was certain her husband to have interacted with this family before and she herself had known them too. only a fool would miss such a chance, knowing such contacts were highly valuable, especially under strong families, such whose blood was pure and knew to keep traditions up. allowing her eyes to wander over the young stark, her auburn hair was more to remind narcissa of her mother. one she had known during her time at hogwarts and kept in touch through the passing decades. it was never wrong to know such ALLIES on her side. catelyn, in the difference to the former black, had been lucky to have more than one child. those times where the press was to hunt former deatheaters; narcissa had held onto her only son, but the thought of more children had been unimaginable.
a simple gesture towards catelyn’s child and extending her own decorated hand to the girl, her lips tugged to a smile. the girl was in draco’s age, perhaps even in the same house as narcissa sometimes she heard about a certain stark in his letters and was glad to know him having such contacts.
‘ you must be sansa, right? ‘
Father called families like the Malfoys a necessary evil, their wealth and influence at times quite beneficial, at others merely self-entitled clans who gave no thought as to the betterment of the whole. She could only wonder at his quiet disdain, instead transfixed by towering mansions bedecked in Gothic spendor, gowns of fine velvet and silk, silver-handled wands made all the more elegant by whose hands wielded them. Though her own family stood well beyond the poor house — already three siblings comfortably ensconced at Hogwarts, with another two yet to come — Sansa but rarely experienced the level of extravagance one might expect from so wealthy a brood. Responsibility, both parents taught, earning one’s keep as well as being given it by happy circumstance. Their eldest daughter looked on Draco with envy, as any child would, sugared over with gestures of friendship and admiration, in hopes of perhaps securing the secret to his ease of living.
“Mrs. Malfoy,” she greeted, hand extended to shake that of mother’s old friend; had mother spoken of her? Once, twice, rarely without doubt, tales of what came before the War rarely shared with curious offspring. “A true pleasure to meet you at last. Draco speaks so fondly of you, as does my mother. I know she must regret not being here today, alas she suffers the misfortune of several rambunctious children in her home. I shudder to think at what havoc they might wreak in a place so lovely as this.”
the tips of his fingers falter, inching away from the rejoining of the book’s covers. he thinks, for a moment, that she’s going to leave despite his offer of a listening ear and a brief respite within the now-emptied classroom. ( he does have another class, and he takes his gaze away from her to search the open thresholds for lingering students. he knows very well that if they see him speaking with someone, they will not disturb.
and he supposes that he is grateful for that, even if it does not come from a place of RESPECT for the newly-appointed professor. )
❝ You needn’t concern yourself with that, madam. I’m certain my next group of pupils will be quite GRATEFUL to you for shortening their lesson.
❞
he’d never give voice to it, but he feels a small bit of kinship towards the snake house. ( he remembers well being a boy of eleven, sitting straight-backed ‘pon the stool and looking up at the wide brim of the sorting hat ‘pon his head.
you could be great, you know. and SLYTHERIN will help you on the way to greatness !!
that’s all he’s ever wanted, then and even now. but perhaps he thought too much about parchment and quills and stories, of having his ‘ greatness ‘ immortalized in the written word.
the hat called out RAVENCLAW, and he has never pretended not to be relieved. )
as such, he feels a bit of kinship for the only snake in a family of LIONS, easy prey even with fangs and venom. the sorting hat is never wrong, but he pities the girl for having to discover its reasons on her own, and he pities what she will have to ENDURE in so doing.
he’s only just parted his lips, tongue poised ‘gainst the roof of his mouth to speak when he is silenced by her question.
how proud he was to walk these halls, even though he was not so SPECIAL here as he was at home. how proud he was, even as the other students sniffed and jeered, even as they p a r t e d before him as though he were a MESSIAH and they were subjects paving the way ( as though he were a contagion and they could not stand the sight of him ).
he thinks of eight hundred valentines, his name dug into the dirt of the quidditch pitch, his countenance illuminating the sky in the very way that he had dreamed of all his life. he thinks of detentions with an ugly quill between his fingers, perfecting the curls of his cursive for future autographs that he might give.
he thinks that he doesn’t have an answer for her, because he never did get used to it and he did not want to come back.
he says something else, instead.
❝ I was nearly a Slytherin, you know – oh, yes. Would I be correct in assuming that the Sorting Hat told you that you could be great ??I was told the very same thing. The Sorting Hat is never wrong. You can be great, my darling girl, and you will be.
Keep this very close to your heart, Sansa – we all make our own greatness, and it hardly matters what colors we wear in the doing.
❞
Not any ofthe girls. In a mere handful of weeks Lockhart united a quartet of houses as no other force likely had before; though they did not don one another’s colors, nor cheer for their opponents zipping about the Quidditch pitch, every single female student residing in Hogwarts’ ancient halls agreed: their Defense instructor was divine. Sansa counted herself amongst their number, of course, and under any other circumstances would have looked upon a few private words with the professor as worthy of boasting; that he noticed her for melancholy, the sad estrangement from her peers at least partly self-enforced, humiliated Sansa. Lockhart spoke with his student not out of interest or respect, only that worst sort of pity — the pity of one who believes it might help.
She couldn’t resent him though, not with robes even more ornate than Dumbledore’s, a warmth of character difficult to come by in rooms sequestered beneath the lake, and a smile so sincere it made her cheeks hurt to see it. As with so many other children accustomed to perfection and its expectation, Sansa merely resented herself. The Sorting Hat saw nothing of greatness in the flame-haired girl huddled ‘neath its brim; instead a rasping little voice had noticed how she wished to prove herself, how she yearned to leave a mark, the ambition so strong it left a taste like copper, like blood in her mouth. Sansa wanted and wanted, a consuming greed to set herself above those at her side, to shine.
How terrible, how selfish she was! Little wonder struggle marked those first weeks at Hogwarts; certainly no one as discerning as Professor Lockhart would dare befriend such a fraud. Though he meant it to comfort her, Sansa felt herself wither inside to hear that the Hat’s whispering had not been some cruel joke, an initiation of sorts, but instead enduring truth. She could not allow him to see her disappointment, how now the few short months until Christmas holidays might as well have stretched out as long as the remaining six years. Perhaps Mother would allow her to attend Beauxbatons, those girls bothered with none of this Sorting nonsense…
“You are too kind to think so, Professor.” Smile stretched tight across her lips, forced, as was the faint light birthed in azurine eyes. “But everyone knows Ravenclaw hosts the cleverest of students; ‘twould be a folly of the hat to place you anywhere else.” Banshees and vampires, ghouls and werewolves — how Sansa envied him as well! Not in dangers faced, for ever would she prefer to remain well out of harm’s way, but in how within a few short years it felt as though Lockhart had lived dozens of lives, whilst she remained trapped in a single, undesirable one.
“And it isn’t the colors I mind…not really…” Feet shuffled beyond the door, anxious students, no doubt, and under his stare Sansa felt the pressure to simply be well, to not trouble him any longer with such petty troubles, but oh, how she wanted to tell. “It would sound rather foolish out loud, sir, you would only laugh.”
❝ Sansa, my girl, you’ve not once looked up from your copy of Year with the Yeti. Either you’re positively riveted – which I completely understand – … or there’s something quite a bit too HEAVY on your mind.
❞
class has been dismissed, and there are still the shuffling sounds of stragglers – those unfortunate souls who found no place for themselves in the stampeding hoard of children eager to leave the author’s classroom.
but gilderoy has set his fingertips ‘pon the edge of the stark girl’s desk – an unspoken request to stay behind.
❝ Carry any weight for too long, and you are liable to bow beneath it. Is there anything you wish to talk about ?? Are your fellow Slytherins not extending gracious welcomes ?? I’m perfectly willing to write a note to your next professor excusing your tardiness, should you require one.
❞
Sharing blood with one of Gryffindor’s most beloved sixth years might have posed some advantage to a younger sister just enrolled, if only a battered hat had seen fit to name her a lion as well. Instead that scrap of cloth deemed Sansa most fit for shades of emerald and grey, flattering colors on one of flaming hair to be sure, though in the weeks that followed such a choice had thrown her flailing into a whirl of doubt and aimlessness. Did the Sorting Hat think her deranged? Selfish? Evil? As much as Sansa searched, hidden behind heavy draperies of green brocade, she could find no such traits buried dormant within her. Maybe she was simply broken, a mistake, more an outsider than even Arya with her cropped hair and persistently scraped knees.
So extreme was her duress that Sansa barely noticed their celebrity instructor, much of every class spent trying to simply not stick out. Books helped, and in that she adored Lockhart’s class more than others, so much reading making it easy for her to linger as others packed up to leave, pretending a passage kept her enthralled. Yet standing so close now, hair and teeth and the embroidery of his robes all gleaming in the mid-morning light, nails impeccably rounded where hers still possessed a thin black line of dirt from yesterday’s Herbology, the famed wizard certainly caught a girlish eye.
“Oh, um— sorry, Professor. I know you must have another class.” Quickly she shut the book in question, not even marking her place, a blush creeping down from copper roots to color brow and cheeks. Had Sansa truly looked so morose? More likely Lockhart could simply sense her distress, a man as intuitive as he. For the first time in several days hope sparked between her ribs: that someone noticed, that someone cared. “My housemates are fine, just fine, Professor,” she assured him, eyes fixed on a jagged cut across the desk. “ —— Professor? How long did it take? For you to…get used to it? Being here?” Feeling stuck in someone else’s skin.
Head tilted, she watched with arms crossed, already the picture of the winner, the triumphant here. There had never been a fight, not one of the normal sort. Just the vehement beating of glass, a porcelain statue, waiting, staring, seeing how long it’d take to break, to see the first ink-spilled cracks on the surface.
❛ Nothing ?Nothing ?! ❜
It had been a whisper, now it was a storm spreading from the tip of her tongue across the room, knuckles white as fingers now curled around her wand.
❛ I can’t remember to have asked
of what
YOU think oft his. ❜
Lips were turned above her teeth, a mirthless laughter filled the space in between.
❛ Filthy THIEF.❜
Mind reeled, reaching back hours, weeks, years, groping in all its blindness for what slight had earned her such a seat. Sansa sought no trouble nor worked towards any sort of justice; one child could not stand against the inevitable tide and make it turn, by sheer force of will or innocent desire. No. All instincts to the contrary she had let herself go limp, born away on dark currents into a future in which she might, at least, survive.
Yet here they carried her. Malfoy’s home, if she recalled well. Though Sansa adored playing here as a child, ‘twas not long before fatherly objections were raised, the visits diminished, then called off altogether.
“Thief?” Voice wavered, caught between a scream and a sob, pitiful weak thing that she was. They took my wand. I let them take my wand. How ashamed her father would be. “And what did I steal?” she begged. “I’m good, I don’t do those sorts of things!”
it was something in the way the air quivered around her, as if it would want to back away from her. and the woman moved with force through the room, pushing it even further away from her until only the harsh clicking on her heels accompanied the pulsating rush up to her head, feral & wild blood whirling with what she would do. could do.
❛ you know why you are here ? ❜
here, but better off than those pulled from the gutter& from whatnot by snatchers, just as filthy as their prey, but at least fulfilling their use.
Bruises mottled herarms, remnants of the bindings which kept the girl immobile throughout her uncomfortable journey. A pointless gesture, for a wandless, slight child outnumbered by brutes knew better than to attempt flight or fight. Recognition sent an electrifying chill along her every nerve; not a witch or wizard alive would sit more comfortably, lest they too boasted the favor of so dark a lord.
“No! I— I’ve done nothing, I swear it!”
Students whispered about disappearances, those vanished with no one to see, no one to seek them, but never very loudly or for too long. Without Mother or Father or Rob… who now remained to miss her?
should an exclusive partner go inactive for 1+ month, then i will become tentatively open to interactions with duplicates. when/if they return then exclusivity may resume.
