𝐵𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓉 | 𝒟.𝑀.

4 | ﴾ You Win ﴿

"You requested to speak to me, sir?" I knocked on the black wooden door to Snape's classroom feeling apprehensive and nervous. Perhaps I was failing potions. Perhaps I had done something inappropriate (again) without realizing that there was some unmentioned, different British rule at Hogwarts. I winced at the idea of Snape being upset over misplaced laundry or a word choice that was entirely provocative by accident.

"Yes, close the door... come over here," he demanded in a bored tone. He hadn't even looked up from his notes to verify my identity. I supposed that my accent was sufficient enough clarification.

I stared for a moment before forcing myself to shut the bulky door, the echo of the unavoidable slam ringing around the room. Glass jars filled with questionable floating substances shook around the room from the impact. Snape dramatically rolled his eyes as a I approached.

"Dumbledore has been busy making some...new rules this year," his tone was clipped, as he stared down at me like a statue, arms behind his back. The only movement was his lips. You would think he was a frozen dementor, dripping in all black robes which dragged loosely behind his back. His eyes were hooded and cold, ruthless. His very essence was similar to the soul-sucking terror that the dementors imbued.

I held my breath. Rules. I'd broken another one surely. This couldn't be good. Maybe I was being punished unfairly for the ink accident. I could picture Malfoy running confidently to Snape, needing revenge, finding solace in his favorite teacher and the head of Slytherin. The head of my house as well, leaving me at the mercy of Snape's wrath. My father would not defend my school drama, he would only punish me when I was home at Christmas.

"The ink was an accident, not my fault-" I started blurting out but Snape snapped his finger loudly in the air to silence me. I winced from the bizarre gesture.

"I don't know about any...ink...incident," He narrowed his eyes briefly, "Although I will have to, make some inquiries... No, this pertains to Quidditch. It has, to my discomfort, been made clear to me that you, had expressed interest in joining the team and were blatantly rejected. Is that correct?" His expression was bland, but I sensed he was filled with curiosity and mockery.

I swallowed loudly and looked away, "Yes, sir. In France I was quite a, uh, er, competitive flyer. I have played many position.. positions." The pluralization of English was an unfortunate work in progress for me, and I despised the way it made me stutter.

"Hmm, is that so? I have been asked to remind Mr. Malfoy that, despite his personal values, there is now a strict rule that at least one female must play. Since you are the only one who, tried out, I would say it's a landslide win." He raised his eye brows, "Do not disappoint the house of Slytherin, Ms. Desrosiers. You are dismissed."

I fought to contain my smile until my back was turned and I was halfway across the room. Even though I wasn't sure what the position was, I could hardly wait to begin practicing in a weeks time. I would utterly crush it.

"Oh, and one more thing..." Snape's voice echoed around the room deeply, "Clean up that English. It won't due to have miscommunication in the game."

I nodded and headed to the great hall for dinner.

                                                                                ۞۞۞۞۞

Dinner arrived and I had brought my English translation textbook to the previous class, so I sat silently, some distance from the other eighth years and read while scooping haphazardly at Shepard's pie.

I was mouthing words carefully, trying hard not say anything embarrassing out loud and work up the kids around me. Slytherin's weren't exactly known for their kindness. Opportunities to strike were always taken up on, even by myself who was certainly no angel. And my French had become a big, red, throbbing bullseye in my house. It was why I tried to avoid speaking too often. This of course contrarily only delayed my English development further.