Rating:
PG-13
House:
Astronomy Tower
Ships:
Blaise Zabini/Other Canon Witch Other Canon Witch/Other Canon Wizard Draco Malfoy/Pansy Parkinson
Characters:
Other Canon Witch
Genres:
Drama Angst
Era:
The Harry Potter at Hogwarts Years
Spoilers:
Order of the Phoenix Half-Blood Prince
Stats:
Published: 12/09/2006
Updated: 02/14/2007
Words: 15,745
Chapters: 6
Hits: 2,270

Tracey Davis' Guide to Surviving Slytherin

mekelon

Story Summary:
Tracey Davis, fifth year Slytherin encompassing none of its finer attributes and all of its nonsensical ones, is the invisible damsel in distress trying to make it through just one more day of her housemates' irksome competitions. A story where Blaise steals butterbeer and more besides, Pansy's busy attempting to flirt with Draco (presently, it's quite one-sided) and everyone's in love with Daphne Greengrass. A slow but un-fluffy romance about the difficulties of being unconventional in the traditionalistic society that is the Slytherin Common Room. Just because you're a Slytherin doesn't make surviving your fellow housemates any easier.

Chapter 04 - The Butler Did It

Chapter Summary:
Tracey immerses in some detective work; Daphne does a Lily Potter and Blaise is adamant that his crime solving skills are more refined than everyone else's. It leaves you wondering... Precisely what in the name of Salazar Slytherin is going on?
Posted:
12/27/2006
Hits:
262
Author's Note:
Thanks for the reviews. The last chapter wasn't in the Chapter Owls, I know. Hopefully this one will be... Meanwhile, I had alot of fun with Blaise. Sigh. I love my minor Slytherins.


Tracey Davis' Guide to Surviving Slytherin

Chapter Four: The Butler Did It

Who knew that ignoring, and in return being ignored by, practically everyone in the vicinity was such an effective method of ensuring that one's day returned, slowly but steadily, to normality? Without further emotional hiccoughs. Well, if you did, then I certainly didn't. But then again, I'm not exactly the brightest spark in the box.

For example, in Charms today, I received back an essay, and was bordering ecstatic to discover that I had achieved an E - which I'd generally think was a great accomplishment, right? Yeah, well. That was until Pansy turned around in her seat to face me, and stated in a very Pansy-like fashion, "How did you go? Everyone else got an O." And she was right. Even Millicent Bulstrode, who almost always never gets an O. Well, everyone with the exception of Crabbe and Goyle. They're useless.

Passing through the Common Room - full of obnoxious first and second years (I'm positive that not even Draco and Blaise were as arrogant as that lot in our first year), I ruminate this circumstance and a very un-Tracey thought train pulls into the station that is my brain. I say un-Tracey, though I'm not entirely sure what Tracey thoughts are, because the thread of these thoughts is quite foreign and revolutionary to my personal sensibilities.

My brain is having a renaissance. How peculiar.

Nonetheless, my thoughts, as they gush into my head, are as follows: Now that Pansy is busy attempting to flirt with Draco (presently, it's quite one-sided) and bossing about members of that wretched Inquisitorial Squad (first meeting is tonight, I hear) - maybe it's time to find the Gryffindor in me and move on with my life. Maybe I can find it within me to apologise to Daphne and explain to her that everything is not okay - that I have a pseudo-stalker from Ravenclaw. And this person has two body guard-like friends who would probably love to do nothing more than bite my head off next time I walk past Kevin bloody Entwhistle. That I am doomed to forever be in love with the one person to whom I shall always be invisible. And that Quinn Rivers is a walking disappearing act. I haven't seen her since lunch, and we're meant to be best friends!

As I approach my dormitory, I hear a loud crash from within. Needless to say, I am startled and draw my wand. Anyone would. It's not everyday you hear something like WWIII from within your usually peaceful dorm.

"What on earth do you think you're doing, Millicent? Joining Malfoy and Parkinson in that rubbish Inquisitorial Squad! I mean, just, what are you doing?"

On second thoughts, maybe Daphne is not as understanding as she appears to be.

I cautiously enter my dormitory and deftly approach my bed, which is, thankfully, second closest to the door. A cauldron and set of scales lie on floor not far from it, a Potions books marked 'Bulstrode' half open and lying cover up, the pages woefully creased and distortedly folded beside these. It explains the loud crash.

Millicent herself is standing in the centre of the room, arms crossed and a sour expression stretched over her, otherwise, plain and ordinary yet bulky features. Daphne, on the other hand, is sitting on her bed - an accusatory look distorting her, otherwise, rather pretty face. The lesson to be learned from this? 'Be anything other than content and happy, and most likely, whatever your given facade - you will be ugly.' I read it in a Muggle magazine last year, and that quote has been haunting me since. I tend to remember the most ridiculous of things.

"What do you mean 'what are you doing', Daphne? You think I can't choose for myself? You think you need to shelter me all the time? Like I'm some big baby you get to lead around and make all my decisions for? Don't ask me what I'm doing. What are you doing?"

Daphne gapes at her friend. I don't think she's ever been spoken to like that. Not even by Pansy. Though, to be honest, Pansy doesn't have enough of a spine. I don't either, but that doesn't mean I should refrain from giving an objective and honest comment regarding everyone else's bravery, does it? Alright, yes it does. Gods, Conscience, leave me alone.

Suddenly, there is a fiery glaze over Daphne's eyes and, "I'm trying to make you see that Parkinson is a manipulative little cow and that this is her attempt at taking you away from me!"

"Pansy Parkinson hates my guts!" Millicent explodes. Her face has turned red in rage. "She doesn't want me for a friend!"

"Yes, she does. Because if she has you simpering after her, it makes her feel superior."

"Shut up, Daphne. Just shut up." Millicent's voice is low, and even though I am a completely innocent bystander, her tone makes me feel nervous. I grip onto my wand a little harder, readying myself for any possible magical conflict. I'm not amazing at my spell work, but I can muster a few simple spells thoroughly enough. Leg locks, body binding, disarming. That sort of thing. "If I do any 'simpering'," she continues, "it's after you. If anyone feels superior because of my presence, it's you. If we're meant to be best friends, then why don't you support me in this? The Inquisitorial Squad is an excellent opportunity for me and-"

"But we are best friends!" Daphne cries, interrupting Millicent's speech. I feel an emotional hiccough coming on from her end.

Millicent stares coldly, and then laughs without humour. "Not anymore." At that, she stomps out of the room.

After a long pause in which I shift about uncomfortably, wondering what I should say, if anything at all; in which Daphne sniffles, crying as silently as she can manage (she's clearly had less practice at it as I have. I can see her shoulders heaving, and hear her short, raspy breath - two obvious signs of serious emotional hiccoughs), she turns her tear stained face towards me without a trace of shame or embarrassment regarding her appearance, and speaks my name.

Unable to meet her eye, I say nothing, just shift uncomfortably again.

"You were right," she whispers despondently. "I ignore everyone but myself and act superior towards you, when you don't even deserve it. I'm no better than Pansy Princess Parkinson." She sniffs. "Oh, Merlin. It cost me my best friend, too."

I don't know what to say to this, but am saved the trouble when the girl herself shrugs, stands up and wipes away the tears from her face, smiling weakly and saying, "Well, I could change. I could start by not ignoring you anymore..."

I realise, suddenly, that this her peculiar way of apologising to me. I haven't been apologised to by anyone. Well, save Kevin Entwhistle. But that was a different circumstance. "Well," I start awkwardly, determined to take whatever apology she was offering. It could be my only chance, and I agree with Dad when he says to 'never waste an opportunity'. "I guess, um, if it helps, you know, we could go down to the Common Room. Maybe one of your friends might be there." I mean, of course, someone like Terence Higgs (someone who openly admits his hatred of Draco Malfoy, declaring that 'if the little twerp weren't so filthy rich, maybe Slytherin might win the Quidditch Cup once in a while'. It's an unofficially known fact that Draco bought his way onto the Slytherin team. Though, he has shaped up quite a bit over time - and he's still an excellent flier).

Daphne shakes her pretty head. "I heard that Blaise and Theodore raided the Kitchens for butterbeer. Let's go see if they'll share."

"I'd rather Firewhiskey, after today," I mutter dryly.

She giggles. "Yes, I quite agree."

And such is how I have come to entering the green and silver Slytherin Common Room, Daphne Greengrass pulling on my hand, and generally feeling like some kind of mannequin.

"Blaise," she drawls expertly, flashing a friendly smirk in his direction. "Heard you stole butterbeer."

He blushes under her flirtatious gaze. Theodore looks amused, and seemingly already knowing the outcome of this endeavour, hands me a bottle of butterbeer, and gestures for me to take the armchair beside him.

"I stole nothing." Blaise clears his throat.

"Oh, yes. Because that is so how McGonagall is going to see it when she discovers that her precious stock of elf-made wine has dwindled alarmingly."

"How did you find out?" he hisses, eyes widening.

"I have my ways."

"What ways?"

"If I told you, there wouldn't be much point of having them, would there?" Daphne replies crossly. For a moment, I fear that either she or Blaise has become incredibly ticked off, and I'd be witness to, what must be now, World War Four. Trust Daphne to be the instigator of such wars. I shall always remain a Swiss, if you were wondering. But then, she turns her face towards me and winks. Relieved, I hear her voice slip into self-assuredness. "Just give me a bottle, Zabini. I've got more on you than you'll ever find on me. Mostly because I'm not such a prat as to leave obvious trails like you do."

At that moment, Theodore bursts into laughter beside me, and I find suddenly that I can't contain my amusement either.

"Manipulate your superiors and befriend your inferiors, Blaise. It's the only way to live." Daphne smirks and summons a bottle of butterbeer for herself. He is able to do nothing more than scowl, and begrudgingly scoot to the left so that she can have some room to sit down on the sofa.

When Theodore and my laughter subsides, conversation lapses into general Inquisitorial Squad bashing. Not particularly interested in this topic, nor having to talk and think about Umbridge more than should ever be necessary, I begin to recount to myself all the things I said to Kevin in Herbology, trying to work out why he could have possibly thought I was being sarcastic.

"Well, at least Quinn's not in the blasted Squad," Daphne says, and I jerk back into reality. "So, despite the girl's vices, she can't be half bad if she refused to join it. So, here's to us, non-members of the ruddy Inquisitorial Squad, sans Quinn." We clink our bottles together. I am on my second, though the others have drunk at least a bottle more than I.

"Speaking of Quinn, where the hell is she?" Blaise demands of me.

I blink. "I don't know," I reply with a shrug. "She's a walking disappearing act. I haven't seen her since lunch."

"She wasn't at dinner today?" Daphne asks, concerned.

"No," I reply, taken aback at her troubled lines.

"Tracey, is she okay? I mean, does she often skip meals?"

I can't honestly answer this question without being interrogated about my own habit of skipping meals, so I say that I don't think she often skips meals. But she does say that she eats earlier than me at breakfast, so I can't be sure.

"Has she lost weight lately?"

"I'm pretty sure she hasn't," I answer, adding a thoughtful tone to my reply, so that Daphne would back off a little.

"Oh, so it can't be that, then."

I know what she means. Eating disorders. The one advantage of being a Muggle-born, is that you actually do know what such things are. Blaise, on the other hand, looks completely nonplussed. Yet, he says nothing. It's his superiority complex in play, yet again. Scratch that. It's always in play.

In everyone else's pensive silence, I take the opportunity to reflect on my first encounter with Kevin. I can see why he might have thought I was being sarcastic. I was absolutely horrible this morning. And then, when he approached me in the greenhouse - well, it's no wonder Stephen looked as though he'd like to have squished me. I was atrociously sarcastic towards his friend. And all Kevin did was ask if I had a partner - then sacrificed the comfort of being with his own friends to work with me.

After I had been so rude towards him!

Maybe he just did it for the sake of making it up to me for tripping me over. Goodness knows I acted as though he owed me the whole world and then some after that incident. But hang on...

"He was walking up to breakfast. Not down, like he ought to have..."

"What?" I look up to see an incredulous expression plastered all over Blaise Zabini's face. Daphne stares at me in an overtly concerned way, and Theodore is sniggering to himself.

I did not just say that out loud. "Oh," I remark, blushing, "I was just thinking about this murder mystery I'm reading. One of the suspects was walking up from the basements to the breakfast room, instead of down from the bedrooms as he should have. I just thought it was weird, is all."

Blaise nods slowly, taking this in. "I'm an expert at solving mysteries." Daphne and Theodore raise an eyebrow each and roll their eyes, though they don't say anything. "With my background, anyone would agree."

"What about mine?" Theodore asks quietly. I remember him telling us, after Draco demanded who he'd seen snuff it after that thestral lesson earlier this year, that he'd seen his mother murdered when he was eight, and if we didn't piss off and let him be, he'd murder all of us. So we did.

Blaise politely ignores him, whilst Daphne and I look away uncomfortably. "Well," he continues after a satisfactory pause. "Who died?"

"The old general," I lie, confidant he wasn't about to ask me to read the book for himself. "Stabbed in the neck in the study."

"It was the butler, then. Conventional classical murder mystery, you see. The butler did it."

"But there is no butler in the story!"

Blaise ignores me.

Idiot.

Haven't I come to that conclusion once before? I still adore him, though.

So what was Kevin Entwhistle doing walking up to breakfast, and murdering hippogriffs, where the hell is Quinn Rivers?

"Is this suspect, other than suspiciously entering the breakfast room from the other end of the house, is he particularly unsavoury?" I look up, and meet Theodore's interested gaze. He has very nice brown eyes, I discover. Reserved, quiet, but nice.

"No, not at all," I reply, thinking of Kevin's penchant for nobility. "His friends, on the other hand...."

"A bit... Cautious, should I say?"

"Yes." I wonder, presently, just how much does Theodore know? He mms to himself, looking away.

"It's late," Daphne yawns.

Silence invades, but is broken occasionally by our alternate sipping of butterbeer. And then Quinn arrives, usually perfect hair undone, robes creased, and red inkstains on her cheek.

Someone asks where she has been. She replies something to the effect of 'in the library', but her book bag is half empty, and her quill has black ink, not red. Then it strikes me. Maybe those inkstains on her cheek are not inkstains after all. If so, then what are they?

I steal a glance at Theodore, and find without much surprise that he is also keenly surveying her appearance - without the sympathetic expression that Daphne wears, or the vaguely aroused smirk that Blaise fixes onto himself. "I'm going to bed," he announces quietly. "Good luck with that murder mystery, Tracey." I too remove myself from my company, and am farewelled with a chorus of 'goodnight's from the girls, as per expected. There is no such wish parted from Blaise's lips. He's, what Dad would proclaim, 'a schmuck'. I should forget him.

As I walk towards my dormitory, and push open the door, I see him in my mind. His black skin covering a beautifully chiselled face... and I know, I just know, that this is an impossible feat.


Coming Up: Tracey has her detention, and someone unexpected comes along to give her a hand. See if you can guess who!