Magic and Mystery Coil by Allegory_for_Hatred

Dazai vs. Pansy

They found Pomfrey's petrified body the next morning.

Dazai got away with it, of course. He'd left no evidence behind—slaved over a puddle of blood for a whole hour, smelling like bleach—and had scampered out of the infirmary well before dawn. By breakfast, when her body was discovered, Dazai had carefully feigned surprise. He hadn't eaten breakfast, and had acted too sick to try. Which isn't to say that Dazai escaped suspicion. No, that ship had sailed several months ago when the Daily Prophet decided to start calling him a demon. But there was nothing specific pointing his way, in the end. Dazai smilingly avoided punishment. Which made for something of a perfect conclusion, really.

Still. It was only a matter of minutes before the remaining students of Hogwarts started sending him glances and glares. And only an hour after that, Tracey was the first of many to outright suggest she wished Dazai was dead.

Well, too bad. Dazai wanted that, too. They'd have to bring it up with Mori, and that was a losing battle if Dazai ever saw one.

Dazai thought about this, now, leaning back as far as his office chair would allow. It protested his weight with a creak. Dazai paid it no heed. He was focused only on the newspaper spread out in his hands.

THE DEMON STUDENT STRIKES AGAIN! IS DUMBLEDORE TO BLAME?

This paper had arrived via a fat and friendly brown-feathered owl just that morning. It had flown off without waiting for response shortly after Dazai cut the package from its leg. Tom's letter had arrived just in time to give Dazai something to think about: the public's reaction to the petrification of Poppy. The article had started off like all the rest. Dismissive of the truth in favor of fear-mongering. Dazai is the devil, the magical community is on the brink, blah blah blah—

The interesting part came about half-way through.

"During a press conference yesterday, the newly instated Ministry branch, the Department of Education, suggested the replacement of Albus Dumbledore as Hogwarts Headmaster," Rita Skeeter had written.

Dazai threw aside the paper with a sigh. It slid across the desk, and only nearly didn't fall by a hair, stopping right beside his World's Okayest Professor mug. It was empty now—and had been ever since bringing it to Hogwarts. But Dazai still posed it on his desk like a well-won trophy.

He held his hand up, hovering in the air over his head. The bandages around his wrist were especially thick today. And though Pomfrey wasn't dead, only petrified, Dazai felt like his hands were stained anyhow. These were the hands of a killer. The tendons pulled and snapped when he wiggled his fingers, and it felt somehow different than when he'd killed Quirrell last year. Dazai didn't know how to place the feeling, so he pushed it aside indefinitely.

There were several other interesting lines in this latest Daily Prophet article, including his and Snape's rumored kinship and a certain feral dragon. But the news about Madam Pomfrey had by and large swamped them out. That, and DOE's call-to-action: fire Albus Dumbledore.

That was fine. Dazai's hands were out of that mess.

His more pressing problem was McGonagall.

Dazai's eyes narrowed as he stared up at his hand. It blurred when he didn't blink, and a lack of depth-perception made it hard to tell where the bandages stopped and the skin began.

The day after Pomfrey was discovered, McGonagall had pulled him aside to talk. Dazai had briefly worried the idea that she knew—somehow—that he was responsible. That no amount of subterfuge or lie could hide the truth from a magical school.

But luckily, that hadn't been the case. McGonagall had instead told him that his lessons with Snape were hereby cancelled, but she would be expecting him in one week's time for private lessons of her own. She'd said all this with pressed lips and a discerning eye, and Dazai was not blind to the fact that she knew about the Port Mafia. But whatever she was thinking—was seeing in him now—McGonagall did not say. But one week until lessons meant one week of safety before McGonagall decided what to do about his being a mafioso.