The Serpentine Chain Part 1 - Year Of The Snake

The Serpentine Chain Part One

Chapter Seven -- Consequences

Aurelius and Richard hurried to catch up with the others. Paul and Simon were busy recounting a particularly vicious Quidditch match in which the feud between Gryffindor and Slytherin had literally reached new heights, and the two French students were lapping it up. They didn't seem to be in much of a hurry to get to Professor Malfoy's lesson, and Constance's friends soon overtook them. The four Gryffindors had already disappeared down the corridor, knowing full well that the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher would not let them get away with being late.

"Hardly worth bothering with the lesson now," grumbled Richard, touching his swollen face gingerly. "Trust Potter to make us late."

Aurelius smiled, although his thoughts were with Constance. "Seraphim looked really pissed off," he said. "It's at times like this I'm glad I'm not a Malfoy."

Richard made a dismissive sound. "She'll be alright. She's blonde, she's pretty, Seraphim's got no chance. She'll get away with it. Lucky cow," he added enviously.

Aurelius was skeptical. "She'll have to do more than bat her baby blue eyes at him this time," he said. "That dunderhead who accused her of using the Cruciatus curse didn't do her any favours."

"I mock the world that saw fit to create Jacob Bernstein," Richard agreed, as the two boys rounded a corner, passing several suits of armour that clanked suggestively at them.

"Nice curse she used, though," Aurelius mused appreciatively. "Perfect for making people look stupid...Not that Coombes needs any help in that department," he added swiftly.

"I'm not dueling a girl," Richard mimicked, adopting a high pitched voice which he dropped before continuing, "I can't think of a quicker way to arouse the wrath of Constance Malfoy."

"It's the wrath of Octavius Malfoy that we need to arouse quickly," Aurelius said. They were nearly at the classroom where Constance's uncle taught Defence against the Dark Arts. "Constance won't like having to wait in Seraphim's office for longer than necessary."

Richard squinted malevolently at him through an increasingly puffy eye. "Tell him she's crying," he suggested, grinning.

"In front of Gryffindors?" Aurelius smiled cruelly. "That's below the belt even by your standards!"

Richard attempted to look innocent, something he'd never been particularly good at. "I wouldn't do something like that to Constance," he said virtuously. "Now, if it was you in her position..."

Aurelius deliberately ignored him. "All we have to do is say she's been accusing of using an Unforgivable and he'll be after Seraphim quicker than a Bludger."

"You can do the talking then," Richard murmured. The four other Slytherins had caught up with them as Aurelius opened the classroom door.

They were the last to arrive, Aurelius noted. The four Slytherins who hadn't been involved in the corridor incident were sitting at the back of the classroom -- the Lestrange twins looked downright jealous that they'd missed all the action. Teresa Symmonds stared at Richard Marlowe's bruised face and smiled at him in a weird, half-proud half-shy way. It was, as ever, impossible to tell what Tom Riddle was thinking, but with one eyebrow raised, he definitely looked intrigued.

Maria Ashington was staring resolutely at the blackboard, determinedly avoiding the smug faces of the Slytherins. Miryum Chandler shot them all baleful glances, and Andrew Potter just glared, holding a handkerchief to his lip in an attempt to staunch the blood. Stuart Coombes, white faced and queasy looking, was obviously trying to be the brave little Gryffindor as he sat rigid with straight-backed indignation.

Professor Malfoy was clearly irate, snapping at Potter for having dripped blood on the classroom floor. "You can get that cleaned up yourself," he snarled.

Miryum Chandler raised her hand. "Sir -- don't you think he should go to the hospital wing?"

Constance's uncle scowled at her, then glanced at Potter. "Is it broken?" he snapped.

Andrew Potter met his gaze defiantly. "I don't think so sir," he said, his voice full of outraged pride.

"I should've hit him harder," Richard murmured so softly only Aurelius caught it.

"Do you feel as though you require medical assistance, Potter?" Professor Malfoy asked, his drawl managing to convey a distinct lack of interest and concern for the boy's welfare.

"No sir," the dark haired Gryffindor replied, obviously unwilling to imply that Marlowe's punch had been strong enough to warrant medical attention.

Typical

, Aurelius thought, then cleared his throat.

Professor Malfoy swung round to face the six Slytherins, who'd sidled up to him. "Well?" he demanded, his tone notably less harsh.

"Sorry we're late sir," Aurelius said smoothly. "We were unavoidably detained by Professor Seraphim."

Octavius Malfoy wore his customary bored expression, but his eyes narrowed at the mention of the head of Gryffindor. He glanced quickly at the group who'd just arrived, taking in the absence of his niece, and --

"Where is Miss Malfoy?" he asked softly, staring at the suddenly uncomfortable Gryffindors.

Aurelius glanced deliberately at Jacob Bernstein. "I thought one of the others would have told you, sir," he said silkily. "Professor Seraphim seems to think that she put the Cruciatus Curse on Stuart Coombes, sir."

Professor Malfoy's nostrils flared as he rounded upon the Gryffindor. "And is this true, Coombes?"

Stuart Coombes looked slightly abashed. "Not quite, sir."

"Then perhaps someone would be kind enough to enlighten me as to why Professor Seraphim is under this delusion?" Malfoy said coldly.

Aurelius' voice oozed pure malice. "Jacob Bernstein told him, sir," he said, in the slippery tones that really got under Gryffindor skin.

"She attacked him, sir --" Andrew Potter began indignantly, and was instantly cut off.

Octavius Malfoy's stare could've frozen the fiery flames of hell at that moment. "You accused Miss Malfoy of this, Berstein?"

The plump Muggle-born student was visibly trembling. So much for Gryffindor bravery, Aurelius thought, amused.

"Well...I...er...she did put a curse on him, sir."

Malfoy gave the student an incredibly vicious glare. Aurelius, who had quite a wide selection of filthy looks, was impressed.

"She used the Tremens hex, sir," Richard broke in. "She took it off straightaway, though."

"Class dismissed," snapped Constance's uncle. "I want two scrolls on the correct ways to identify and disable a Bulgarian vampire by next week, that's Bulgarian not Hungarian, Coombes, try and get it right for once, and no, Miss Chandler, whatever it is, I do not want to hear it!" he hissed at the girl who'd been foolish enough to raise her hand.

He swept out of the classroom. There was a brief silence, than a loud babble of noise as the furious Gryffindor students left. Snatches of their conversation were clearly audible -- can't believe their nerve -- hope the snobby cow gets what's coming -- is your nose all right --

"I believe our work is done," Aurelius said smugly, as the Slytherins slowly made their way to their common room.

"What happened?" asked Teresa eagerly. There was a hungry look in her eyes as she took in Richard Marlowe's slightly disheveled appearance. "Are you all right?"

Looks like someone's found himself an admirer

, Aurelius noted as Teresa started to fuss over Richard.

"We're alright," said Simon Harper, grinning. "Constance was brilliant."

"Did she use the Cruciatus Curse?" Teresa gasped.

"Of course not," Richard said, smirking callously at the memory of Stuart shuddering on the floor. "Almost as good though."

The Lestrange twins were practically green with envy.

"All this fun --"

"And we were stuck in here --"

"Learning about sodding vampires?!"

"Just goes to show --"

"Life is pain," Arya Lestrange ended, resignedly.

"That's very profound," Paul Tudor said, grinning. "Been talking to Dumbledore recently, have we?"

Both twins shot him a look, and he subsided.

Aurelius suddenly noticed that Tom Riddle was looking at him shrewdly. Riddle nodded and smiled as he met his gaze, as though bestowing a benediction. Aurelius, flustered for once in his life, looked away.

*

As it happened, Constance Malfoy had never used the Cruciatus curse.

But she was seriously considering it.

For starters, Professor Matthew Seraphim's legs were longer than hers, and she'd had to break into a half run to keep up with him -- something that decidedly did little to endear him to her. When they'd reached their destination, she'd been pleasantly surprised to see Professor Cale, drinking a cup of tea and admiring the Quidditch posters that adorned the Flight instructor's office. The Chudley Cannons featured predominantly, all players waving energetically at Professor Cale.

"You took your time -- oh, hello Constance," he'd said amiably.

"Professor Cale," she replied, smiling warmly at him. He was a nice, easy to handle teacher, she'd found. It was amazing how far a smile and a not entirely feigned interest in 13^th century Gregorian chants could take you. Then again, not that amazing. He was a Ravenclaw, after all. If he was going to be here, perhaps he'd have a calming influence on Seraphim.

No such luck.

"Christopher," Seraphim said tightly. "I'm afraid we'll have to carry on our discussion later -- I need to have a little chat with Miss Malfoy."

From behind the head of Gryffindor's back, Constance smiled ruefully at Professor Cale. She was sure she saw a quickly concealed flash of sympathy in his brown eyes.

"Certainly, Matthew," Christopher Cale said politely, putting down his empty teacup. "I'll come back at a more convenient time -- thank you for the tea, by the way."

"Any time," Seraphim replied, holding the door open as the Chantwork teacher passed through. "I'll get back to you as soon as I've dealt with Miss Malfoy." He said her name grimly, not bothering to disguise the loathing in his voice.

Professor Cale shot her a brief smile. "Good day Constance," he said. "I'll see you this afternoon, no doubt."

"Goodbye Professor," she said sweetly, ignoring the scowl on Seraphim's face.

When the door shut behind the ex-Ravenclaw, the brown haired Flight teacher turned abruptly to Constance.

"Sit," he said abruptly, jerking his head in the direction of a dark mahogany hard-backed chair. She crossed the room and sank down obediently, clasping her hands tightly in her lap. Then she waited, looking up at him innocently.

Matthew Seraphim's pale blue eyes glinted with anger. His voice was frigid with dislike as he spoke. "You might be under the impression that school rules are beneath the likes of you, Miss Malfoy," he said, "but happily I am here to disabuse you of this notion."

Constance didn't answer, sensing that he was trying to provoke her. He looked barely able to keep his temper in check. Frowning almost imperceptibly, she decided upon a slight change of tactics. She adopted a penitent expression, biting her lip slightly, and looking down at her clasped hands.

Seraphim's voice trembled with suppressed rage. "You seem to be labouring under the delusion that you're something special in the Hogwarts community," he said, somewhat bitterly. "No doubt you believe you're the queen of Slytherin, but to me, Miss Malfoy," he said, articulating her name very clearly, "to me you are simply a spoiled little brat with a distinct lack of respect for anyone other than yourself."

Constance was aware her hands were shaking slightly, and she squeezed her fingers together, hard. She met the head of Gryffindor's gaze squarely. Queen of Slytherin indeed, she thought. That's Harper's job.

"I didn't use the Cruciatus curse, sir" she said, allowing her voice to quaver slightly. "If you plan to accuse me, I'd like to have my Head of House present."

Seraphim snorted disdainfully at the mention of Nadine de la Tour. "What did you do to Coombes that led Mr. Bernstein to believe you were using an Unforgivable curse?" he asked angrily.

Constance Malfoy felt her stomach churn uncomfortably as she murmured, "The Tremens hex, sir." She injected a note of anxiety into her voice as she added, "It doesn't do any damage, sir, I took it off straightaway --"

Professor Seraphim's eyes bored into her furiously. "Do you think your status will protect you from everything, Malfoy?" he spat viciously. "One day you'll go too far -- then even your precious purity of blood won't help you out."

She said nothing, slightly startled at the bitterness in his voice, until she remembered that Seraphim was Muggle-born. Probably had an axe to grind. Probably jealous of the privileges her wealth and family had brought her. A social conscience, how tedious.

"Be warned now, Malfoy," said the head of Gryffindor softly. "And maybe you'll break the -- bad habits -- that seem to be inherent in your family."

She stared at him, shocked. Had he completely lost his senses? Insulting a member of the Malfoy family was never a wise move, but implying that the Malfoys had bad blood, when there was a member of that family on staff was practically suicidal. Hopefully that member of staff will hurry the hell up and get here, she thought, inwardly fuming.

It was time to put her plan into action. She lowered her head, and bit into the soft flesh of her cheeks until tears sprang into her eyes. She took a quick, shuddering breath, and looked directly at Professor Seraphim, allowing a few tears to spill down her cheeks. She was instantly gratified by the look of complete surprise on his face. Dealing with weeping Malfoys obviously wasn't something your average head of Gryffindor had ever had to face before.

"I wasn't thinking clearly, sir," she said, voice tremulous. "He -- he just made me so angry."

She could see that he was at a loss. Visibly taken aback, he was searching for words. "Well," he said, voice considerably less harsh, "what could he possibly have said that was so terrible?"

Constance wiped away a tear that had rolled down her cheek. "It's not easy being a girl in Slytherin," she said. Her voice wasn't anywhere near the level of trembliness needed for the maximum sympathy vote, but it'd do. "You have to work so much harder to be accepted -- especially if you're from an old family -- people just see you as an ornament --"

He said nothing, but waited for her to continue. She noted that his clenched jaw had relaxed slightly, and was encouraged.

Constance went on. "He -- he said he wouldn't duel with me because I was a girl," she said softly, casting a perfectly timed glance back down to her entwined fingers. "I didn't expect a Gryffindor to be so discriminating."

That last was a blatant lie, Constance knew. Although the Gryffindors tolerated, and indeed, welcomed students that good Slytherins wouldn't touch with a barge-pole -- mudbloods for example, and that blasted half-giant who'd been expelled last year -- they were definitely not interested in equality of the sexes. It was their unspoken code of honour that was the problem. Stuart Coombes had probably been trying to be a gentleman, or some other form of antiquated nonsense. As if being male had given him an unfair advantage over her. He knows better than that now, she thought, grimly amused.

Professor Seraphim was again surprised. Obviously he'd never expected a Slytherin -- let alone a Malfoy -- to be championing equal rights, bearing in mind Salazar Slytherin's tendencies. Seraphim resorted to a tried and tested response.

"Well, whatever the reason, violence is never the answer," he said, awkwardly. "Here -- you might need this --" He waved a handkerchief vaguely in her direction.

She took it, noting with amusement the winking Golden Snitches embroidered on it, and dabbed at her eyes. Inwardly, she smiled at her success. Crying wouldn't have worked with her uncle, or Professor de la Tour. Possibly not even with the Head of Ravenclaw, Lydia Grey. They'd have seen right through her tears straightaway. A chivalrous Gryffindor, however, was duty bound to comfort her -- after all, she was a girl. Constance was all for equal rights. As long as she came out on top.

In the moment's silence that followed, there was a very determined knocking on the door. If a knock could be said to contain centuries of aristocratic breeding, intense fury and a certain sense of vengefulness, that of Octavius Malfoy upon Professor Seraphim's office door would fit the description perfectly. It would brook no opposition.

Without waiting for a response, Octavius Malfoy flung open the office door and entered. Although his face was deliberately expressionless, his features a carved mask, there was an almost imperceptible twitching in his cheek as he took in the sight before him. His niece took the opportunity to wipe her eyes with Seraphim's handkerchief again, just to make sure her uncle noticed.

Matthew Seraphim was bristling with indignation. "It's usually customary to wait until you're invited in, Octavius," he began.

Constance's uncle treated him to a very cold smile that did not reach his eyes. "I trust you have a good reason for detaining Miss Malfoy in this fashion?"

Seraphim glared venomously at the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher. "I was investigating certain allegations made against Miss Malfoy," he said grimly.

"Allegations, which, according to the other students involved, have been greatly exaggerated," interjected Constance's uncle smoothly.

Professor Seraphim was stubborn. "Miss Malfoy has admitted to hexing a fellow student --"

"A matter which should be dealt with by her Head of House, surely," Professor Malfoy responded swiftly. He'd dropped his assumed mask of civility and was staring at Matthew Seraphim with utter loathing.

There was a pause.

Matthew Seraphim tried a different approach. "I find it somewhat -- disturbing -- that Miss Malfoy should use a hex of that nature upon a fellow student," he said softly, voice laden with some meaning that Constance failed to understand.

Octavius Malfoy's eyes were like gimlets. "Your point, Seraphim?"

The Flight instructor's face was contemptuous as he continued. "Tell me, Professor," -- he emphasized her uncle's title -- "do you teach hexes like that to all your students?"

Constance's uncle sneered elegantly. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Seraphim," he said, feigning disinterest. He glanced at the bright orange Chudley Cannons posters with evident distaste.

"I wasn't aware that we taught the Tremens hex to pupils, Malfoy," Seraphim said, still in that soft tone. "But of course -- no doubt Miss Malfoy is a particularly apt pupil -- no doubt you've given her a little extracurricular tuition --"

As a telltale flush crept over her face, Constance was profoundly grateful that neither of the two men was looking at her. Her uncle had indeed taught her -- and her brother -- many things that would never be found on the Hogwarts curriculum. Best to be prepared, he'd told them. For everything. You can't defeat the Dark unless you know what it is, after all. Control yourself, idiot, she scolded.

"What exactly are you insinuating?" Octavius Malfoy said, his voice deadly quiet.

Professor Seraphim shrugged casually. "Nothing at all," he said, seemingly indifferent. "It just doesn't seem fair that certain pupils should get such an advantage in your subject -- but I'm sure you know exactly what you're doing -- you're very experienced, after all."

The Defence against the Dark Arts teacher's hands were clenched into tight balls by his side, and there was a very unpleasant gleam in his pale eyes. "What do you mean by that, Seraphim?" he asked, voice deceptively soft. "Have you a problem with the way I teach my subject?"

"Of course not," Seraphim replied, his eyes never leaving Malfoy's. "You're certainly the most -- qualified -- to teach students about the Dark Arts. You've certainly proved your worth in that subject over the years, haven't you?"

They seemed to have forgotten Constance's presence, and for that she was acutely relieved. The tension between the two men was an almost palpable entity. It prickled. She wasn't surprised to discover she was holding her breath.

Octavius Malfoy stepped closer to the Flight instructor, speaking so quietly that Constance could barely catch his words. "The Headmaster certainly thinks so, Seraphim. He doesn't seem to share your scruples."

"Armando Dippet's too trusting," Seraphim answered scornfully. "You might have grown better at covering the tracks of your little activities, but I know you, Malfoy."

The Defence against the Dark Arts teacher's stare could have dissected a Hippogriff. "Perhaps you should be more careful, Seraphim," he murmured. He looked the Flight instructor up and down disdainfully. "Slander can cost you -- in more ways than one."

"Is that a threat, Malfoy?" replied Seraphim, eyes blazing.

Octavius Malfoy said nothing, merely smiled.

Constance shifted uncomfortably, partly to break the overwhelming silence, and partly because a muscle in her leg had cramped. Becoming aware of her presence, the head of Gryffindor glanced at her in annoyance.

"Get out," snapped Matthew Seraphim. "Both of you."

Constance's uncle inclined his head in acknowledgement, still smiling that strange smile. Beckoning his niece, he turned on his heel and glided out of the room. They were some way down the corridor before he spoke.

"I don't want to know what you hoped to achieve with your little display today," he said, not looking at her. "But I do not expect a repeat performance. Is that clear?"

"Yes, uncle," she replied. What exactly went on in there, she wondered. The hatred between her uncle and Professor Seraphim was more than just house rivalry, she was certain of it. It ran deeper than that. What were his "little activities"? She knew her uncle had been involved in slightly disreputable enterprises before accepting the position as Defence against the Dark Arts tutor -- but she was sure that Professor Seraphim had been referring to something else. She sensed something secret, something dark. The head of Gryffindor had hinted that her uncle had had first hand involvement in the Dark Arts. Of course, he does seem to have it in for our family, she thought. Grindelwald was probably a Malfoy, according to him. But her curiosity was very definitely aroused. This wasn't something she could just ask her uncle outright, she'd have to be subtle. She didn't like secrets, unless they were hers.

As they rounded a corner, Professor Malfoy broke into her thoughts. "You can't rely on me to bail you out forever," he said abruptly. "There are people who will think the worst of you, simply for who you are. Do not give them any further reason to do so."

He didn't wait for a reply, but turned right down another corridor, leaving her alone. A portrait of a cavalier with a large ruff smiled down at her sympathetically as she gazed thoughtfully after Professor Malfoy's retreating back. Her uncle's parting words had echoed what Professor Seraphim had thrown at her earlier.

Do you think your status will protect you from everything, Malfoy?....One day you'll go too far -- then even your precious purity of blood won't help you out...

Tucking Professor Seraphim's handkerchief into the pocket of her robes, she headed for her Divination lesson, frowning.

*