Tracey Davis' Guide to Surviving Slytherin

Tracey Davis' Guide to Surviving Slytherin

Chapter Three: London Skies

Quinn and I are walking across the grounds towards the greenhouses. It's cold, and humid - which makes the cold feel even worse - and I am coveting Quinn's scarf. Not just because it's beautiful, new, expensive and fashionable, but because it's also extremely practical on a day like today; I curse myself for not having grabbed my own.

Surrounding us, as per usual, are our own housemates, and also the fifth year Ravenclaws who we share Herbology with

I notice, with faint interest, that Theodore is chatting amiably with a rather pretty Ravenclaw girl. He hardly ever talks to us unless he absolutely has to, so this is an unexpected surprise. I instantly recognise the girl to be Mandy Brocklehurst - Ravenclaw's biggest gossip, if there ever was one.

"How'd you find that Transfiguration essay?" he asks, holding his books close to his weedy frame.

"Oh, it was alright. I mean, I had trouble with the second half of the question - you know the part about, yeah - you do know, right? Yes, well, I had trouble with it, but Terry, you know Terry Boot, right? Yeah, well, Terry was around for once last night, so I pestered him until he gave in and told me what it all meant."

"What do you mean 'around for once'?"

I would have asked the same question. Eager to spread information, Brocklehurst might be. Articulate, she is not. How she ended up in Ravenclaw - who knows. Blaise tried debating it with Theodore once, but they got side-tracked when Pansy entered the conversation and began picking apart the poor girl's appearance, instead of her intelligence.

"When Terry's not off at Charms Club, Michael's not practicing Quidditch, and Anthony and Padma aren't busy with, well, Prefect duties and the like - Well, the four of them disappear off to somewhere. I don't know anything about it," Brocklehurst pauses for a moment. I'm amazed it took her that long to pause. "Actually, so did Cho Chang and Mariette Edgecombe. How scandalous!"

"Indeed. Say, what's happened to Edgecombe?"

Instantly, my mind dredges up a particularly unpleasant sight after I'd finished breakfast. I was leaving with Pansy, and bumped into Chang protectively sheltering her friend - when I saw it. Edgecombe's face was literally covered in spots. Each of them lined perfectly in order to spell the word 'sneak'.

"Oh," Brocklehurst sounds a little guilty; as though she's afraid she might have said too much.

"Go on. You can trust me," Theodore urges gently. "It's not like I've got anyone to tell, anyway."

Ladies and gentlemen, there is a calculated and cunning move. The sympathy-plug and false-trustworthiness hybrid. Only successfully exploited by less egotistical, yet intelligent personas.

In other words, the likes of Theodore Nott.

"Well," Brocklehurst sounds somewhat convinced. "Alright. I don't know much, but Mariette was escorted to the Ravenclaw Common Room last night by Umbridge personally. Umbridge looked livid. My theory is that she had a detention...."

Brocklehurst's theories aren't particularly interesting, as one can often deduce them for oneself, so I am not annoyed in the slightest when Quinn turns to me whispering, "Trace, have you heard about Umbridge's detentions? According to Kevin Entwhistle, they are positively barbaric!"

"Kevin Entwhistle?"

"Yeah, the Mudblood in Ravenclaw."

I wrinkle my nose. If anything, the word 'Mudblood' sounds positively barbaric.\

"Why, what did he say?"

"Oh, nothing much," Quinn offers vaguely. "He refuses to talk about what actually happened. He just said to me, a couple of months ago, to 'never get into a detention with Umbridge - they're more evil than anything Filch could ever possibly imagine. Thumbscrews included.'"

I shudder. I have detention with Filch on Friday. Cleaning the Owlery. No magic. I positively loathe owls, and they don't have a much better opinion of me either. Brilliant, isn't it?

"I didn't know you knew Kevin," I say after a moment.

"You know Kevin?" Quinn stares at me. I can see why. I hardly know anyone, I'm so shy.

"I bumped into him before breakfast," I reply carefully, not wanting to go into the details. They were embarrassing enough when they first occurred. "That doesn't mean I know him."

"Ah, Yeah, well - we're partners in Ancient Runes."

"I thought that was a theory subject."

"It is."

"What do you need a partner for, then?"

She shrugs. "Who cares? Just don't tell Blaise."

"Why?"

For this question, I receive one of her well practiced Looks.

It's unnerving.

"Speak of the devil," she simpers. I look up.

Can my life get any worse?

Quinn, who is determining the precise route our feet take, chooses to approach Blaise as we form a line outside Greenhouse One, awaiting Professor Sprout's arrival.

"Where were you at breakfast, Quinn?" he asks with his deepening voice, head tilted in mild curiosity. The god of perfection is interested in the day to day activities of my friend, and I ought to be happy for her, but I am feeling quite the contrary. Well, I bloody well wonder why!

"Oh, I ate early. I had to visit the Owlery," she replies smoothly.

"Do not mention the Owlery," I state with an edge of vehemence in my voice.

"Why?" Blaise demands, casting a critical gaze over me.

I want to tell him to mind his own business, but I make the mistake of looking up into his eyes, and my confidence retreats. Dammit.

"I... Erm. Ah..." I bite my lip. "Have detention. There." Why must I be so shy? Honestly, maybe I should be in Hufflepuff after all. Even if Ernie Macmillan annoys the pants off of me.

"Filch caught her mailing photographs to her father - and a note to say that she'd like a couple of dungbombs, please," Quinn explains on my behalf in that irritating 'leave out half the information so Tracey looks like a) a complete idiot or b) a neurotic criminal' sort of way.

"The note wasn't mine. And the photos weren't anything incriminating, anyway. It was just of me and Dad in -" It's Dad and me. It's overtly defensive. It's Blaise shrugging uncaringly. "- London," I finish despondently.

I'd gone home for Christmas, and decided to buy Dad a new camera. Not just any old camera, mind. My father is a Muggle, if you'll remember. So, a wizarding camera it was. We spent a whole day in London, taking photos of all sorts of silly things. Us, random passers-by, the sculptures at Hyde Park.

It was one of the most memorable days of my life. It was one of the happiest days of my life.

Unfortunately, it was left up to me to develop the photographs - which I couldn't do until I had a free Hogsmede weekend. And then, of course, there was my phobia of owls. But, to cut a long story short, when I finally did go up to mail my package, somehow or the other there was a note attached asking for dung bombs. I have no idea why, as my father, being a Muggle, has no idea what they are - and the handwriting was clearly not mine.

But the end product resulted in me being put on detention, and the only Slytherin to have her mail checked.

I'm not sure which part is more ridiculous.

Umbridge detests me. I loathe her just as equally, so there's no love lost there. Meanwhile, regarding other teachers, Snape dislikes me, as I've already pointed out; McGonagall doesn't seem to quite know what to do with me. Flitwick's alright. He doesn't mind anyone, really, just as long as they are making some sort of progress in class. He has his favourites, though, and I will certainly never make them. I don't like Hagrid. He's a bit of a dunce - though, I have to admit that some of his lessons are actually quite good, in retrospect. Except for our third year. That was a hopeless year. I prefer the substitute teacher over Hagrid. Keep forgetting her name Grubby-Plank, or something to that effect.

I suppose my favourite teacher is Professor Sinistra. I don't know whether she likes me or not. She sort of just treats everyone the same. No preferential treatments, no obvious disdain. There was a rumour going around once that she was dating Snape. Have no idea what she would see in him. But in her classes, I try much harder than I usually would. Maybe because, as I've mentioned before, I could see myself in the sky. Just as a moon. A boring, crater-covered moon that only ever gets light from the sun.

Oh, crap!

Someone up at the high heavens must really have it in for me!

Now that I am in the greenhouse, I've just discovered that I have been left alone. All alone. Partnerless. Here to fend for my self, with no help from any quarter. Blaise and Quinn (traitor!) have partnered up, Pansy's off with Millicent (much to Millicent's suspicious surprise), Daphne with Draco - and she doesn't look too happy about it either. Theodore seems to be working with the Ravenclaw girl he was talking to earlier, and Crabbe and Goyle are, as always, partnered together because no one in their right mind would want to work with either one of them.

"Do you have a partner then?" a voice asks from behind me. It sounds quite familiar, yet I can't place it.

"What does it look like?" I reply waspishly, turning around and facing - oh gods, can he leave me alone already? - Kevin Entwhistle.

He's flanked, of sorts, by a boy and a girl that I recognise to be Stephen Cornfoot and Erica Moon - both are purebloods. The Moons, especially, are considered to be aristocratic. One of those families Draco always claims to have had over at 'the Manor' for dinner. Apparently, the blood-traitor label doesn't apply to Erica Moon, despite the fact that everyone knows her best friend is a Muggle-born (by which I mean Morag MacDougal, whom I do know, as we met on the train in our first year. Impressed, no?). Apparently, friendships in school don't count in the big bad world beyond Hogwarts, and it all depends on a person's associates after they leave school. It all sounds like a load of rubbish, doesn't it? And yet, it determines so much.

"Don't worry about her, Kev," Erica says. "We've got work to do."

"She needs a partner." Kevin turns to his friends, and with a sickening jolt, I realise that he's about to be noble. "You guys go on ahead. I'll work with Tracey."

"Excuse m-me," I stutter as I find myself under Stephen Cornfoot's condescending gaze.

"I don't think she wants to work with Muggle-borns," Stephen asserts, and makes to move away

"I am here, you know!" I cry out at last. That so did not come out as eloquently as I would have liked. "I mean to say, tha-that I have the right to choose, you know. You can't go around, well, deciding for pe-people, thank you very much." Stephen's gaze is more unnerving than anything I've seen Quinn muster. I am doubly frightened.

"Well," Kevin says with a smirk, "Do you choose to work alone?"

I do not like where this is going. "No, bu-"

"Then it's all settled," he interrupts, "You're working with me."

Erica sighs and tugs at Stephen's arm. "Come on," she hisses, "we've lost enough time already."

Bloody pushy Ravenclaws.

When the perfectly groomed, prettily shaped Erica Moon and the intimidating, Blaise Zabini-esque Stephen Cornfoot have left, Kevin turns to me with a sheepish smile settled on his face, and gestures to the plants we are to work with.

The rest of the lesson, surprisingly, is actually quite pleasant. Kevin's quite good at Herbology, and I, while I've never been brilliant, was good enough to be of help to him, as opposed to the blubbering, ignorant idiot I usually am - and when Professor Sprout inspects our work, she deems it worthy of an E.

Glowing, I turn to apologise for my prickly behaviour earlier on - only to find Kevin silently gathering his belongings with a sombre expression.

"It's not the end of the lesson, yet. Don't you know it's a double?"

He flashes me a curious look. "Yes, and now we are going into third period."

"Time must have flown by really quickly, then."

He stares at me.

"What's the matter?"

"You know, you really shouldn't be sarcastic, Tracey. It's not particularly endearing," he says at long last before suddenly getting up and walking away very quickly towards his impatiently waiting friends.

"But I wasn't being sarcastic," I whisper emotively after his retreating frame.

And right now, with my heart sinking, Blaise staring at me like I'm some kind of crazy woman who talks to herself (he's not very far off, either) - all I want to do is go back to that cloudy, cold day in London with my father's warm, gloved hand firmly holding mine. Far away from the image of Theodore staring at Blaise - trying to decipher what on earth changed to warrant me worthy of his friend's attention. Far away instead into the image of a camera strapped around Dad's neck while he smiles handsomely and happily. I'm supposed to have inherited his smile, but there's hardly any opportunity to use it.

My eyes prickle with tears. Horrified, I wipe them violently away. A soft hand reaches out to my own. "Are you okay, Tracey?" Daphne Greengrass asks, concern etched all over her face.

"Fine. Perfectly fine," I lie without much conviction.

She raises an eyebrow, obviously not convinced. It reminds me of Theodore.

"Why aren't you blathering on to Millicent, and being your superior little self, anyway? Why don't you just leave me alone and ignore me like you usually do, Daphne. It can't be too hard."

I see the shock and hurt spread openly across her face. Despite the guilt rising up within me, I push past her.

At least History of Magic will provide me with some peace. Everyone falls asleep in that class.

If only Blaise would quit looking at me like that! Surely I don't act that insane!

Idiot.

Perfectly sculptured, god-like being he might be. But an aggravating idiot nonetheless.

Of course, despite my words, am absolutely positive that if given the chance to be with the ever handsome Blaise Zabini - I could never, ever refuse.

Maybe I am the idiot here. But, at this present moment, who could blooming well be bothered?