Chapter 26
“You fainted, you actually fainted,” Malfoy hissed, leaning over the Slytherin table. The other Slytherins twisted away from the sorting, all their eyes falling on Tim. Two months, it had been two months and nothing had changed. The purebloods had new robes, new shoes, new sleek haircuts but the looks of curious distain was exactly the same.
Tim kept his back straight, ignoring the tremor in his hands. He noticed how Nott face was drained of colour and the cold sweat still lingering on Parkinson’s forehead. Despite their expressions, he could see that he wasn’t the only ones effected by the dementors.
Last year he had made a grave miscalculation. Tim had tried to assimilate so completely into pureblood culture that he could be mistaken for someone raised within it. He had become a “pretender.” It shouldn’t have taken him a year to realise that a cuckoo would never truly be welcomed into the snake nest. This year, he would need a new strategy.
“Yes,” Tim said, pretending to curl into himself a little. “I have never encountered a dementor before. Are they usually sent on trains full of children?”
“It isn’t,” Parkinson’s face changed. She folded her arms and glared up at the head table. “Dumbledore should never have permitted it.”
“I heard he didn’t have much choice,” Tim pushed Parkinson to continue.
“He’s not just the headmaster,” Parkinson snapped, “he’s the Supreme Mugwump and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. Everyone knows Fudge is sending him a letter every other week.”
“I don’t see why the dementors are here at all,” Nott said, “say what you want about Skeeter, there’s some truth in her drivel.”
“You think Potter’s dead?” Parkinson turned to look at Nott.
This time, Tim didn’t have to fake his confusion. “What does he have to do with the dementors?”
“Of course you wouldn’t know,” Malfoy sneered but Parkinson cut him off, lowering her voice like she was sharing a piece of salacious gossip.
“Well, Potter’s the reason he escaped,” Parkinson whispered, “he’s going to finish the job.”
“According to some,” Zabini rolled his eyes, “if Sirius Black betrayed the Potter’s location it was because he was reckless with the information, not loyal to the dark lord. My mother knew him at school. The hat didn’t put him in Gryffindor just to piss off his parents.”
“Father has never mentioned him,” Nott said, his fingers twitching on the tablecloth. “Only his brother, Regulas.”
“Azkaban will make anyone crazy,” it was strange to hear Bulstrode speak. Her voice was deep and rough from disuse. “My dad was never the same.”
Tim listened to the Slytherins. He was clenching the bench under him hard enough to feel his own heart beat in his head, forcing himself to stay at the table. The conversation had successfully been diverted away from him but his desire to run off to the library had reached an almost painful degree. He had to speak with Harry. Tim glanced over and saw his brother sitting beside Neville, Hermione, Ginny and Ron. They were all looking at their empty plates longingly as Cleo Yates was sorted into Ravenclaw.
The table magically filled with food and conversation briefly abated as everyone filled their plates.
Tim ladled mash potatoes and sausages onto his plate. He bit into the meat and closed his eyes to savour the slightly sweet flavour. Out of everything he had missed about England, the food and drinks would be near the top of his list. Everything on his plate lacked the bitterness of Gotham food. It made him wonder what exactly was in those sausages.
Once the hunger he didn’t even he had was satiated, Tim looked up to watch the table conversation. It had shifted from Sirius Black and the dementors to the Slytherin’s summer plans. Parkinson was talking about the portkey she got for Christmas and promising to show off all the dresses she bought in Paris.
Tim took the time to observe each Slytherin. Malfoy was clearly not listening to Parkinson, a bored expression on his face as he daintily cut his pork. His hand drifted to something concealed in his inner robe pockets. Crabbe and Goyle kept stuffing their mouths with food, all pureblood etiquette forgotten, as if they had never had enough to eat. Bulstrode was quiet, Greengrass interjected Parkinson with her own stories of being forced into a hundred galleon dresses, Nott and Zabini hid their disinterest between polite smiles. These were all children that had grown up alongside each other. These was an familiar easiness in the way Zabini met Nott’s eyes, signalling for him to shift the conversation onto someone else. Nott easily slid into the end of Parkinson’s sentence with speculation about whether Lockhart might compare to Quirrell and Zabini and Malfoy leapt onto this line of questions.
It was like watching a Rube Goldberg machine in action. Where was the missing piece? With his blood status revealed he couldn’t pretend to be another domino in a row.
“You know,” Tim said carefully to Parkinson, “very few muggles have their clothes hand tailored. Almost everything is manufactured in bulk and bought unchanged.”
“Really?” Parkinson wrinkled her nose, “why would they do that? Are all muggles the same size?”
“Clothes are made in general sizes, small, medium large and you try them on in store to see if they fit you.”
“People have already worn your clothes!?” Parkinson looked appalled, “That’s disgusting.”
“Have you ever visited a muggle clothing store?” Tim already knew the answer but it was interesting to see Parkinson’s reaction. He struggled to push all other thoughts back and focus only on the pure disbelief in Parkinson’s eyes.
“Of course not.”
“But you have worn muggles clothes,” Tim poured more pumpkin juice into his goblet.
“I have not.”
“You’ve worn cropped shirts,” Tim said, “that’s a muggle fashion trend. You think Madame Malkin would design something like that?”
Parkinson spluttered.
“I could lend you some muggle fashion magazines. I think you’d like Vanity Six. Wizarding fashion can always be so…modest.” He could see the curiosity in Parkinson’s face, even as she tried to hide it.
“Or you could show me your new dresses and show me that wizarding fashion is superior?” Tim suggested, his voice filled with exaggerated disbelief.
At once, Parkinson latched onto his words. “Oh, I have to show you. You will eat your words.”
“Vincent,” Tim switched to look at Crabbe. “See any interesting creature during the summer? I’ve always wondered if the rats in Gotham are magical. I don’t think anything can kill them.”
Crabbe put down his fork, his eyes lighting up. “I got a crup for Christmas. Her name is Biscuit.”
“Do you have any pictures?” Tim leaned forward, clasping her fingers together.
By the end of the meal, Tim was exhausted. He filed away each new piece of information about his house mates until his head ached but aside from Malfoy, no one staring at him with distain.
Across the hall, his eyes met Harry’s. You ok? Harry mouthed and Tim was surprised to find that for the most part he was. His hands had stopped shaking and the chocolate cake he’d had for dessert had restored some of the colour in his cheeks. Tim smiled back. He would need to have a long conversation with Harry tomorrow but the library didn’t open until the morning.
The table cleared and Dumbledore went over his usual welcoming speech and whatever new items Filch had banned. At long last, he sat down and the new prefects directed the first year Slytherins to follow them into the dungeons.
Tim followed behind them and collapsed into his four poster bed. Everything was so familiar, the flickering green light, the smell of water, the soft mattress that he could just sink into. In the quiet, his thoughts drifted to what the Slytherins had said about Sirius Black and Harry but thinking hurt. He heard Nott and Zabini whispering in the corner and the sounds of a shower running. The noise was almost soothing. They drowned out Amelia’s choked off begs and the dementors’ rattling breaths.
He wrapped the thick, green quilt closer around him, focusing only on the coolness of the fabric.
“Goodnight Drake,” someone whispered and Tim couldn’t help the warmth that rose in his chest as a response.
Maybe the worst had passed. Maybe things would be alright.
Tim would just have to find out when he woke.