The Art of Dancing in the Rain (r.a.black)

Chapter Six.

Apis Auris.

That is the incantation on my mind right now. I keep repeating it in my head like a silly mantra, as if I'd be daft enough to forget it.

Apis Auris.

It is the spell that fills the victims ears with stinging bees. No known counter curse.

Apis Auris.

It was once in a spell book, Grimorium Verum, but the page had since been ripped out and shoved in the restricted section of the library. A lot of planning, a lot of sneaking around, and a lot of searching led it to my grasp.

Apis Auris.

I am going to use it on Mulciber.

The thing is, when you begin to entertain the thought of seeking revenge, it seems to become the only thing your mind can focus on. And to use it on someone as conniving as Wulfric Mulciber means you have to be thorough.

People who don't quite manage to succeed in their revenge are the ghosts hovering in the hushed backdrop of the narrative, where friends and family can reap years of consequences.

The distant perimeters of stories like these are littered with the graves of cowards or presumptuous failures who came first.

They were, quite simply, not smart enough.

So I have taken my sweet time planning this. Perfecting the wand movements. Saying the incantation underneath my breath all hours of the day. Memorizing Mulciber's schedule and all deteriorations from it.

And tonight, when he does his rounds as prefect, reaching the forth floor at around 9:42 pm, and thinks I have forgotten how he beat my face in— he will meet an ugly surprise.

I believe that some of Dionysus scheming has rubbed off on me. He is always sneaking around with his friends at odd hours to get into some type of trouble. And I seem to understand why.

I am almost jumping out of my seat by potions, knee bouncing at the speed of light. I cannot stop myself from the humored thought of Mulciber's face tonight. My whole body buzzes with excitement.

Regulus Black gives his strange looks from beside me. He is already cross he has to sit next to me during potions. I can only imagine how he feels right now. The tapping of my quill might make him go insane.

But I can't muster any empathy or care. I keep replaying a scene in my head that hasn't happened yet.

Slughorn has us brewing Befuddlement Draught. The potion is already glimmering a slime green color— no thanks to me. Typically I am very fast with potions, and between the lack conversation and combined natural talent, Regulus Black and I are always the ones with the first finished cauldron.

It is better that way. We can both get back to whatever other assignments we have and don't have to awkwardly work next to each other.

But this time I gave up after adding the scurvy grass. My mind is far away and I can already picture the look on my potions partner's face if I was to mess something up.

And he doesn't say anything about my lack of help, because we never say anything to each other at all. And I mean anything. Not even a, can you pass the flobberworms? Nope. We'd both reach over the table before we'd utter a sentence to one another.