peas.
Dorcas Meadowes hates second place. Almost as much as she hates pumpkins. Merlin, this school is revolting — pumpkin juice, pumpkin cake, pumpkin pasties — pumpkins everywhere . One more year and she’s free, she reminds herself. Free to leave, free to be herself, free from this hellhole.
Slytherin doesn’t even have the most first years this year — they lose by one to Gryffindor — and it’s almost her final straw. Almost. It’s not like she wants the common room overcrowded anyway. And this year’s batch? Scrawny and weird-looking. Slytherin still gets the best of the lot. First years are no use to her, though —they can’t play Quidditch, and they lose more House points than they earn. Not as much as second years, though. Second years are the worst. Cocky, arrogant, disgusting.
Dorcas scrunches her nose in disgust, glaring at a cluster of second-year boys who are tossing peas at each other during the feast. Dumbledore’s speaking, and they’ve got the audacity to play games. She stares them down. They stop immediately. Good.
“Hogwarts is your home — though it may not last forever,” Dumbledore drones on, eyes twinkling, probably about to say something bizarre. “Alas, most things do not.” He rambles on, hinting at the rising tension outside, the war creeping closer, and — yes — somehow segues into ear wax. The man’s mad. It’s frankly embarrassing that he still runs this place. But even Dorcas has to admit, he’s powerful. And terrifying.
“Pssst. Psssssst.” Another maddening occupant of Hogwarts whispers. “Dorcas, psssst, pssssst!”
She blinks slowly, taking two deep breaths to calm herself enough for the interaction that was about to ensue. The boy beside her was really the most insufferable creature alive. And he throws a pea at her. A pea , for Salazar’s sake.
When she gets her hands on him—
“What do you want, Rosier?” she hisses, whipping her head toward the smirking blonde next to her.
“I thought we stopped using last names in third year, D ,” he pouts dramatically, clutching his heart like some tragic romance lead.
She squints at him. Unimpressed.
“Alright, alright — maybe fifth year,” he admits with a shrug. “Anyway. We’re placing bets. House Cup. Quidditch Cup. You in?”
Is she in?
Is she in?
Fuck no , she’s not in.
“Maybe, Evan,” Dorcas snaps, barely holding it together, “you boys shouldn’t be betting, and maybe—just maybe —you should try earning points instead of losing them for randomly cursing some Muggle-born for Merlin’s sake!”
She’s seconds away from combusting. Last year, Barty Crouch Jr. thought it was hilarious to brutally jinx a loud, annoying Muggle-born girl from Gryffindor. He lost one hundred and fifty House points in one go. Dorcas is usually immune to the idiocy that spills from her year group, but that? That was something even Regulus Black wouldn’t touch, and he’s the biggest wannabe Death Eater she’s ever met.
She and Evan mostly keep to themselves. Dorcas holds Slytherin House in high regard, but their year is a lost cause. She’s got one friend who wears green beside her, and honestly, that’s more than enough. Being Quidditch Captain gives her the power to move through the castle unbothered. Well, almost unbothered.
Across the hall, she locks eyes with Marlene McKinnon.
Marlene beams and gives her a lazy wave, twirling her fork like she hasn’t a care in the world. Stupid blonde, with her stupid friends, in her stupid clothes, always chewing on some stupid Muggle sweet. Dorcas cannot wait for their first match of the season just so she can finally knock her down about five thousand pegs. Gryffindors and their massive egos. She rolls her eyes and tunes back into whatever nonsense Evan is spewing.
“So what if we go together to that winter ball during the break?” he says, dramatically folding his hands. “Please, please , please go with me—otherwise, my mother’s going to force me to take Alecto Carrow.”
He glances toward Alecto, who’s currently seated beside her twin, Amycus. They’re probably conspiring new ways to curse everyone who doesn’t bleed pure. Nasty pieces of work, those two—barely passing their OWLs and still hexing people left and right. They never get caught, of course. Their daddy works at the Ministry.
“I thought we were going to fake dragon pox,” Dorcas mutters, still glaring daggers at the Carrow twins, who are now throwing food at the first years, joined by Crouch and his collection of inbred miscreants.
“You used that last year, Meadowes,” Regulus Black cuts in from across the table. His voice is cool, detached. “I think someone might notice a pattern.”
He definitely hates both her and Evan—Dorcas is sure of it—but that never stops him from chiming in uninvited. He always does it calmly, without warning, like he’s some kind of morally ambiguous narrator.
“Besides,” says Emmeline Vance, who sits next to Regulus, voice sweet and teasing, “if you two don’t go, who are we supposed to hang out with?”
Dorcas narrows her eyes. Emmeline’s probably the only person Regulus tolerates. Maybe even likes. She’s clever, elegant, and just the right level of terrifying. And this winter will be their big debut into pure-blood society since both she and Regulus turn seventeen soon.
“We’re not hanging out with them, Emmeline,” Regulus deadpans, shooting her a cold glare. Clearly annoyed.
Dorcas smirks. For once, she agrees with him.
“Sure, whatever you say, Black,” Emmeline replies, rolling her eyes before shooting a wink at Dorcas and Evan. She and Regulus return to quietly whispering about whatever secret scheme they were discussing before he decided to insert himself into someone else’s conversation.
Evan shifts, turning to face Dorcas more directly. “So, is that a yes or a no, D?”
Dorcas exhales, casually lifting her cup and taking a slow sip of water. “Of course it’s a yes. Why would I let you show up with a Carrow ?”
Evan grins, placing a dramatic hand on his chest. “Likewise, Dorcas. Carrows make the worst dates.”
♖♖♖♖♖♖
The first-years scramble around Dorcas and Crouch—who is, unfortunately , the other seventh-year Slytherin prefect. They wait for most of the students to clear out of the Great Hall before starting the trek to the dungeons. Dorcas delivers the usual rundown with military precision: the four founders, ancient power struggles, notable alumni, and, of course, Slytherin’s reputation . She might have scared them a little when she explained, rather aggressively, the crucial importance of the House Cup. She may or may not have threatened to feed them to Salazar Slytherin’s monster if any of them cost the house even a single point.
Did Salazar actually have a monster? Merlin knows. What matters is that Dorcas will personally make sure these eleven-year-olds don’t put one toe out of line.
They walk the twisting corridors of the castle, Dorcas and Crouch pointing out classrooms and reciting bits of history with the same excitement one might reserve for reading a textbook out loud. A small blonde girl with pigtails tied up in bubblegum-pink hair ties stares up at the enchanted ceiling, her wide eyes filled with awe. Dorcas doesn’t recognise her from any of the Sacred Twenty-Eight families. She looks too stunned by everything to be a half-blood or even a pureblood from an obscure lineage. Poor thing—she’s definitely a Muggleborn. Dorcas hadn’t seen one of those in Slytherin in years.
The girl pauses at a moving tapestry, mesmerised by a battle scene of knights and horses galloping across the fabric. The rest of the group follows Crouch down the hall toward the common room, but Dorcas lingers. She crouches down beside the girl, her voice surprisingly soft.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Dorcas says.
“Amazing? It’s magical ,” the girl says, looking up at Dorcas with a curious light in her eyes. Her Irish accent is thick, and she’s missing a tooth or two.
“Everything’s magical here, just wait for your classes..”
“Everyone’s looking at me funny,” the girl pouts, twisting around to glance at the rest of the first-years, who are already a good distance down the hallway. “Why’s that?”
Dorcas feels her heart jolt—once, twice—tight and uncomfortable in her chest. “Some people think that just because their parents are magical, they’re better than everyone else.”
“Well, that’s just stupid,” the girl scoffs. “My mam says no one’s better than nobody. She’s always going on about Protestants and Catholics. Is this like that?”
Dorcas blinks. She has no idea what the girl is talking about, but she nods anyway. “Sure. Just like, erm… them.”
“What’s your name?” the girl asks, not missing a beat.
“Dorcas Meadowes, and you?”
“Aoife,” she answers brightly, then quickly adds, “It’s spelt A-o-i-f-e, by the way. In case you get confused.”
“Right then, Aoife,” Dorcas says with the smallest smile, “Let’s go see your home for the next seven years.”
The two of them head down the corridor together, Aoife chatting nonstop about Ireland, her life, her questions tumbling out one after the other. Dorcas listens, answers what she can, and promises her that Hogwarts will be fun. That it’ll be exciting.
She only hopes it’ll be safe—for a little Muggle-born girl in a house full of snakes, with prejudices heavier than boulders and sharper than knives.
♖♖♖♖♖♖
Dorcas smiles as she steps into the Slytherin common room, the familiar warmth washing over her. The fire crackling in the hearth still smells the same, rich and comforting. She remembers the first time she walked through those grand doors, the way the flames danced and the heavy, almost suffocating, air of power that filled the room. It had been exhilarating, stepping into the heart of it all, where legacy and bloodlines ruled every conversation. And, of course, the Giant Squid’s huge eyes—ever watchful—scanning the room with the same awe it offered to every first-year, greeting them with a silent acknowledgment of their place in this ever-twisting world.
Crouch, as usual, is standing in the corner, assumingly having already herded the new first-years off to bed, likely already mentally tallying the names of those he’ll be keeping an eye on. His attention, as expected, would not be a good thing for any first years it attracts. Dorcas watches him with an indifferent glance before turning her attention to the group he’s conversing with. Mucilber and Avery stand in a corner, deep in a conversation with Crouch that looks entirely too serious for the beginning of the school year. The Carrow twins are near Regulus, caught in a painfully polite discussion that seems to make everyone in the room uncomfortable, Emmeline included. She sits next to them, but her attention is elsewhere—her nose buried in an Ancient Runes book, her disinterest palpable.
A few fifth- and fourth-years sit scattered across the room, exchanging their summer stories. Dorcas moves to the far side of the room, towards the quiet sanctuary behind the bookshelf. This is her place, her escape. The silence here is her refuge, a rare corner of Hogwarts that offers peace. She settles into the armchair, the weight of the past year lingering, but she doesn’t have to think about that now. Not here.
And of course, just as she’s about to lose herself in the pages of A Guide to Troll Hunts and Dangerous Beasts: 3rd Edition (an oddly compelling read), she hears it.
“There you are, D.”
Evan Rosier. He slinks into the armchair across from her like he owns the place. “I thought you’d gone to bed already or something.”
Without looking up, Dorcas reaches for her book, determined to ignore Evan for the next hour or so. But Evan has other plans. Before she even has a chance to open the book, he snatches it from her hands, flips it upside down, and starts reading it with exaggerated interest.
“Dorcas, you know I adore you,” he says, his voice dripping with mock sympathy, “but reading this on the first night back, in your final year at the most prestigious magic school in Ireland—” He pauses, glancing up at her with faux pity, “—is frankly just sad.”
Dorcas finally looks up at him, but only long enough to realize he’s not in his school uniform. Instead, he’s wearing a sharp white button-up shirt, black slacks, and a dress cloak that screams ‘I’m about to attend some ridiculous event’. Oh, great. A welcome-back party. How delightfully irresponsible.
Her eyes roll before she can stop herself. She already knows where this is headed. The moment he clears his throat, she’s bracing herself.
“Dorcas Elizabeth Meadowes,” Evan says, adopting a mock-serious tone, “It is our last first day back, and you will come to this party tonight.”
“No,” she answers quickly, the word falling from her lips like a final decree. She can’t imagine anything worse than spending her night at a stupid party when she could be alone, reading, or doing literally anything else.
Evan’s face scrunches in exaggerated frustration. Then, with a wicked gleam in his eyes, he delivers his final blow.
“The entire Quidditch team is going, and so is Gryffindor’s.” He pauses for effect. “How do you think it will look if our captain is the only one who doesn’t show up?”
She freezes for a moment, the smallest flicker of annoyance flashing across her face. “I don’t know, how will it look, Rosier?” She grits her teeth, trying to suppress the undeniable urge to snap at him.
“It will look like they’re winning.” He finishes, a sly grin spreading across his face as he raises his eyebrows at her.
And just like that, Dorcas Meadowes says yes.