Oh wow, she's a Slytherin.
Upon her arrival to Grimmauld Place, Estella marched through the halls, passing Order members, few she recognized and fewer that said hello to her. None lingered to ask her questions, or to engage in more than a quick greeting and brief smile. She walked towards the War Room, right past the Order Member on guard - Dean something, she thought. He called out to her, telling her it was a private meeting - emphasis on private- which she blatantly ignored and walked through the doors to the room. She walked right in, interrupting a fight between Moody, and The Golden Trio - Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, and Hermione. Harry was standing, pacing, hands in the air. Ron was sitting, gripping the table, ears red with emotion, and Hermione was sitting, pinching the bridge of her nose in exasperation.
“… we can’t give up our morality, Moody!” Harry was saying.
Everyone paused upon her entry. Wordlessly, she sauntered up to the table, pulled the parchment Malfoy had given her out of her pocket, and flung it onto the table. She eyed the Gryffindors, two of whom were looking at her with suspicion. Hermione gave her a curious glance, looking slightly worried. Estella focused on the two boys, giving them a small smile.
“Harry. Ron. Hello, Hermione.” She leaned against the table. “Did I interrupt?”
“I thought I told Dean to stand guard.” Ron muttered.
“Well clearly, he didn’t do a good job.” Estella retorted. “Besides-“ she started, turning to Moody, “You’ll want this.”
Ron snatched it off the table, and Estella moved to stop him, ready to hex him if need be, but Harry pulled wand and pointed it at her.
“What’s so important on the paper, Coleman?”
Estella gritted her teeth, clenching her fists, trying to breathe. “New intel,” She snapped. “Now hand it over, Weasley.”
Ron ignored her and tore open the parchment, scanning it quickly. Harry was behind him, reading over his shoulder. As the two read, their eyes grew wider in shock. Harry even gasped. Obviously, they’d gotten to the part about the attack on Thurlestone.
Ron tossed the paper to Hermione and pulled his own wand on Estella, face red with anger and eyes burning with suspicion.
“Where did you get this, Snake?” Ron hisses. “Are you a spy for them?”
Rage shoots through Estella at Ron’s accusation, and she draws her own wand.
“Are you fucking kidding me, Weasley? Just because I’m a Slytherin doesn’t mean I’m a Death Eater!” Estella snarled at the redhead. Fucking asshole . She normally reserved hatred for people who truly deserved it, but in this moment, Estella hated Ronald Weasley.
“Then how did you get information?” Harry adds, his own wand pointed at Estella. Add Harry Potter to that hate list.
Two to one. It was hardly fair, and while Estella was far from a good duelist, she had her own tricks. She’d survived this long, after all. Being a Healer didn’t mean she was weak. She could take them. That little voice in her head, the pragmatic one, reminded her that she probably couldn’t take them in a wizard’s duel. She squashed that voice, focusing instead on Ron’s raging red face and Harry’s suspicious green eyes.
“If you remember, I’m muggleborn,” Estella said calmly, not dropping her guard, “Not to mention also American. Why the fuck would I support the Dark Lord? There’s nothing to gain since I’d be killed or tortured or imprisoned anyways.”
“Where. And how. Did you get it?” Ron yells, sparks popping off the tip of his wand.
Hermione had just finished the paper and stood hesitantly. “Estella…” she said quietly.
Estella felt a small pang. Hermione had become some resemblance of a friend the last few years, the two teaming up on healing. Hermione was smart and had been quicker than most to look past Estella’s Slytherin-ness, both traits Estella appreciated. But now, the bushy-haired Grifindoor was looking at her with a sort of sad suspicion that made her feel like she was backed against a wall. Once again, everyone is against the Slytherin. And they wonder why so many joined the Death Eaters, she thought to herself, mind moving fast to scrambled together a plan. She didn’t want to reveal her role as Phoenix; she’d been instructed to keep it a secret from everyone but Moody, Snape, and Shacklebolt; but she didn’t know what to do. Raising her wand, she let a silent charms form on the end, one that would knock out, do minimal harm.
“ENOUGH.” Moody’s voice boomed. Her wand flew out of her hand from a silent Expeliamis, and landed in Moody’s hand with Harry and Ron’s.
“Potter, Weasley, sit down. Coleman, you too.”
“The information Coleman had brought us is part of a mission we have assigned her.” Moody starts before Ron blurts out,
“But she’s a-“ Moody sliced him with a sharp look.
“Yes, yes, she’s a bloody Slytherin. Boo fucking who, Weasley. You’re a Pureblooded wizard, so your logic fails. Now are you going to interrupt or let me explain?” Moody says sharply. Ron had the decency to look abash and sit down with minimal huff.
“You all know that three years ago, a Death Eater stepped forward as a spy for the Order, and we selected a courier. That courier is Coleman.”
Outraged cries came from the three before Moody banged his fist on the table, silencing them.
“She was chosen because she has a minimal role, and because she is discreet in both the wizarding world, and the muggle world.” That was true. Estella had long learned to carry herself with the confidence of belonging, even if the truth was far from that. She’d walked through hoards of Death Eater-adjacents in Diagon Alley to pick up supplies for Healing, not one suspecting she might be an Order member.
“Why was I not informed of this decision?” Harry demanded. How stuck-up of him, Estella thought, to think he needs to know everything.
“Because, Harry, her identity was to remain secret. The only Order members who know are me, Severus, and Knightly.” Moody explained.
Ron looked only slightly less outraged, and Harry’s forehead was pinched. “I don’t like this. How do we know if this Death Eater informant is good?”
Estella snorted. “God, didn’t you hear him? Open your ears, Potter; we’ve had this informant for 3 years.”
Harry’s ears redden. “We don’t need it.” he spits out, arms crossed.
Estella laughs. She didn’t mean to, really, but it’s hilarious how utterly stupid The Boy Who Lived could be. “We don’t need it? Harry, we’re effectively a resistance operation akin to the French or Polish Resistance against the Nazis during World War 2. We’re underground, named as terrorist, and losing. Don’t start, Ron.”
Ron had opened his mouth to protest, but shut it when she called him out.
“We need this information he’s been giving us. We need any information we can get our hands on. Our hospitals are overrun. Our casualties numbers are too high for too few successes. At this point, it is a war of attrition. The Dark Lord’s Army is simply wearing us into submission. Dragon is our only big assist in the Dark Lord’s army, and the only reason we are not a hole in the ground. Dragon is the only reason that your bodies aren’t strung up rotting from Hogwarts towers, or in front of the Ministry, or any other place.” All three of them flinched, but Estella didn’t have it in her to care about being blunt.
Ron doesn’t look too convinced, but Harry slumps in his seat, numb. Hermione is looking down, but Estella can tell that she at least agrees with her.
“Estella… you understand why we’re hesitant to-”
“Trust me?” Estella cut her off. “No. I don’t.”
Ron scoffs. “Why should we? You said it yourself, you’re a Slytherin. How do we know you aren't double crossing us?”
Estella waits for her rage to flare, but it just turns cold. “Oh yes. As we all know, I'm a fucking Slytherin. I don’t know, Ronald. Maybe review your priorities and remember that I heal you. That I work my ass off to fight this war, that I have hell of a lot to lose. That I’m not even from this fucking country. Remember that the next time you focus on what school house a mangy old hat put me in. Or think that because I’m not all about dying honorably or fighting clean.” She stands, pushing back her chair, and plants her hands on the table, staring down Ron. “I don’t give a flying fuck if you trust me or like me or anything. Don’t trust me cause I’m a Slytherin? Fine, fuck you. I don’t care anymore.”
Estella spins, and walks out, pushing through the doors. Dean Thomas - that’s his name - steps in front of her.
“Look, Slytherin, that was a private meeting. You’re lucky I didn’t pull wand on you for entering without-”
He’s cut off by Estella’s fist connecting with his nose, cracking it at the bridge.Dean clutched his nose, howling in pain as blood leaked from his fingers. Estella glared at him, backing him against the wall.
“If someone else says another thing about my house, I will break a lot more than your fucking nose. Now move your hands.”
Dean, whimpering a bit now despite being almost a foot taller than her, moved his hands, bloody streaks down his face, fingers stained rusty red. Cupping her hands around his nose in a brace, she jerked it the other way, Dean’s choked-out scream drowned out the crack of cartilage re-breaking.
“There. Go get ice from the kitchen.”
Dean ran off without another word and Estella wiped her hands on her jeans, not caring about the blood. Every pair of jeans she’d worn had seen far worse than some nose blood. Once Dean was gone, she walked down the hall, noticing a painting of a dark-haired boy watching her.
“What are you looking at?” She muttered.
She flipped the painting off and stalked away, winding through the halls until she reached the room she shared with the other North American students. She washed her hands off in the bathroom, changed her jeans, and flopped into her window seat, her safe place, kicking off her boots before wrapping a blanket around herself.
Estella was tired of being mistrusted. Yes, she was a Slytherin. Yes, she was cunning and ambitious and at times manipulative. But those weren’t inherently bad traits. Those traits did not make a wizard or witch Dark. It was what they chose to do, their actions, that made them Dark. Those wizards or witches were Death Eaters, ones who chose to look into the Darkness and use it in magic to do bad things. Estella might have been no saint, but she wasn’t anywhere near Voldemort’s level. She was Muggleborn. She was American. There were other things that arguably canceled out any potential involvement with Death Eaters that she might have, solely based on Slytherin loyalty. Estella couldn’t understand how so few people recognized that, understood that. She felt like a voice of reason surrounded by morons, screaming her truth into a void, alone in a room of people hating her for something a hat said a decade ago.
There was an undying rage inside her, a fire that burned day and night, roaring and eating every ounce of will she had left.
Estella was tired. The fire was burning her out, killing her slowly. She was so very tired, so much so that she couldn’t even consider the side effects as she fell asleep.