June

Knock. Knock.

“Dad?” I call out into the empty potions classroom. After the feast last night, of which I barely ate, I had tried to beeline to my father but was stopped by a rather annoying ginger prefect who then ushered me to the Gryffindor dorms. The guilt of disappointing him was eating me alive. I had written a letter to my Mum late last night explaining what had happened and was anxiously awaiting her reply as well.

“Come in.” His monotone voice rang from inside. Pushing the heavy wooden door open, I see him sitting at his desk studying parchments, not bothering to even look at me. The frown on my face grows longer.

“I’m sorry” Is the first thing I can think of to say. I’ve gone over this situation a thousand times in my head already, panicking and blurting out the first thing that comes to mind – sorry – was not the outcome I wanted.

“And what is it you are apologizing for?” He inquires, finally glancing up at me for a brief moment.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get into Slytherin like you wanted. I even asked the hat to place me there but it said no.” I rush out, trying to prove to him that I did try.

“I see.” His eyes drift back down to the parchment. Was I maybe expecting an ‘It’s okay June’ or a ‘you can’t control it, June’ or even a ‘June, I don’t blame you’? Yeah. I was. But the silence seemed to drag on and on, my father clearly not having anything else to say to me.

You see, June was the nickname that my Mum and sometimes even Dad called me, derived from my middle name: Juniper. I felt more like a June than a Saoirse, but I didn’t want to have to explain it every time I introduced myself. Plus, it was a special nickname that only special people called me like Mum and Dad and Granny June before she passed away, also the woman I was partially named after.

When realizing I still haven’t left, wondering if he’ll say anything else, Dad looks up at me staring blankly as I stand a few feet from his desk. “Anything else?” Which really means ‘what are you still doing here?’

“Erm, see you later in class?” I phrase it as a question, hoping it would be an acceptable response. He waves his hand dismissively, focusing heavily on the parchment in front of him. Turning, I rush from the classroom with a last minute “Love you, bye” which I know he won’t reciprocate, but at least he knows that I do love him.

__________

The classroom was nearly silent besides the scribblings of about a dozen quills on parchment as the first year transfiguration class hurriedly copied down notes under the watchful eye of Professor McGonagall in her animagus form. A loud banging rings through the room as the door slams against the wall, Ron and Harry rushing through panting.

We all collectively stare at the disturbance, Hermione rolling her eyes and shaking her head in disappointment next to me.

“We made it,” Ron says out of breath from rushing. “Can you imagine the look on old McGonagall’s face if we were late?”

“You are late.” I whisper under my breath earning a small amused scoff from Hermione. Jumping from the desk, the grey tabby cat transforms into her usual Professor McGonagall, green robes and all.

“That was bloody brilliant!” Ron’s gapes at his now human teacher.

“Thank you for that assessment, Mr. Weasley. Perhaps it’d be better if I transfigured Mr. Potter and yourself into a pocket watch.” She sasses. “That way one of you might be on time.”

“We got lost.”

“Then perhaps a map? I trust you don’t need one to find your seats.” I strongly believe that if Professor McGonagall had been holding a microphone it would have been dropped on the floor dramatically. I fight the urge to snicker and break into applause at her absolutely owning of the two boys.

Transfiguration resumes business as usual and without any further interruption. Once our hour of class time is up, we collect our items and begin the long trek to the dungeons for none other than potions class. Anxiety bubbles in my stomach at the thought of facing my father when I was so unsure of the strain in our relationship.

However, much to my dismay and insistence of Hermione; Her, Ron, Harry and I sat in the very front row. I sat at the end next to Ron, Harry next to him and Hermione at the very end. At the sound of the slamming wooden door hitting the wall behind it and the all too familiar footsteps, I sink a little lower into my seat.

“There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class.” His long dark robes cascading behind him only adding to his intimidating presence. “As such, I don’t expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making. However, for those select few…” I can feel his eyes drift over me, knowing that I had been the test subject of many of his lesson plans. One of the ways he would allow me to spend time with him being in his home laboratory sitting silently or listening to his practice lectures. As such, I’ve soaked up much of the potions knowledge he has taught me. “...who possesses the predisposition, I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. I can tell you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper to death.”

Peering over, I can see Harry scribbling down word for word that is coming from my father’s mouth onto parchment. I shake my head knowing that not only would he hate it, but also that isn’t effective note taking, silly Harry.

“Then again, maybe some of you have come to Hogwarts with abilities so formidable that you feel confident enough to. Not. Pay. Attention.” Hermione is kind enough to nudge the oblivious Harry who’s head finally looks up from his poor excuse of notes. “Mr. Potter. Our new celebrity.” Ron looks close to soiling his pants, the fear in his eyes unmatched as he watches the trainwreck that is my father sinking his claws into an unprepared Harry Potter. “Tell me, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Hermione’s hand shoots up so quickly I’m surprised her elbow hadn’t snapped in half. Harry shakes his head, not knowing the answer.

“You don’t know? Let’s try again. Where would you look if I asked you to find a bezoar?” Hermione's hand is in the air again. Clearly these questions are targeting. You don’t go into a level one potions class already knowing this knowledge, it’s supposed to be taught. I lower my eyes in humiliation at my father’s blatant bullying.

“I don’t know, sir.”

“And what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?” Hermione looks as if she’s going to just about climb onto the desk just to raise her hand even higher.

“I don’t know, sir.” Says a clearly defeated Harry.

“Pity.” My head shoots up from its lowered position, straightening my back as I feel myself growing angrier.

“With all due respect sir, Harry’s only found out he’s a wizard a few days ago, that’s not fair.” I speak out of turn, knowing that now it’s my turn to take the brunt of his wrath.

“Then perhaps you can answer for Mr. Potter if they’re so unfair.” Like a sleeper agent who had been activated, I list off the answers like a second nature.

“Asphodel and wormwood create a sleeping potion. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat, and monkshood and wolfsbane are the same thing, sir.” My father’s eyebrow raises and I sit up even straighter than before. I can see Ron’s proud smirk next to me as he gives me a small thumbs up under the table. I can feel my cheeks and the tips of my ears heating up, ducking my head back down.

“Do not speak out of turn again, Miss Snape. And clearly, Mr. Potter, fame isn’t everything.” He finishes his dramatic monologue and I want to wipe the smug look off of Malfoy’s face from across the room. Surely Hermione would have a charm to help with that.

__________

“Eye of rabbit, harp string hum. Turn this water into rum.” Seamus repeats over and over waving his wand over a goblet of water sitting on a few stacked books. It had been our free period in the great hall, many of the first year Gryffindor’s huddled at the same table collectively trying to complete some of their homework.

I, for one, was actually doing my work unlike Seamus and Harry, who had been preoccupied looking at Seamus.

“What’s Seamus trying to do to that glass of water?” Harry asks Ron, deciding to loop him into his sphere of procrastination after I had just finished helping him with a charms question.

“Turn it to rum. Actually managed a weak tea yesterday, before-” I jump back at the loud explosion, looking over to find poor Seamus’s face covered in soot and the tips of his hair singed.

The screeching of owls disrupts the laughter directed at Seamus, notifying the students that the mail’s here. An array of owls of all shapes and sizes carrying various packages and envelopes swoop into the great hall, soaring above the student’s heads. One by one, packages and letters get dropped in front of students, in their hands, and for some of the unlucky ones, on their heads. The arms of dozens of children reach towards the ceiling in hopes of catching their mail before it lands in a glass of water, or gets damaged from hitting the floor too hard.

As I watch the room get filled with the flapping of wings, an off-white envelope graciously floats down and lands on my open textbook, my mother’s swirly handwriting across the back. My heart sinks. Inside this envelope is her reaction to me letting her down and not getting into Slytherin and living up to my legacy like we had dreamed of so many times before.

Ron, sitting across me, catches two newspapers, handing one to Harry. I stare at my envelope, debating whether or not to open it and seal my fate as the named Sayre-Snape disappointment.

“Aren’t you going to open your letter?” Ron inquires, untying the twine from his Daily Prophet, of which my mother’s name is written in the margins somewhere.

“Not sure.” My mouth twists nervously as I stare at the folded piece of paper inside it’s paper cocoon. “It’s from my Mum. Probably telling me to never come home ‘cause I didn’t make it into Slytherin.”

“Why’d you want to get into Slytherin?” Hermione asks curiously. I can see Harry’s face scrunch up in disgust, obviously hearing the Slytherin stereotype. Little does he know that witches and wizards from any house have just as likely a chance of turning bad.

“My Dad was a Slytherin, Mum’s a Slytherin, her parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents and everyone going back to when Hogwarts was founded. I suppose I just don’t want to be the black sheep of the family.” I answer honestly, biting the inside of my cheek.

“Well I’m sure the sorting hat put you here for a reason, you just have to trust it knows what it’s talking about.” I know Hermione’s trying her best, but if the sorting hat truly knew what was best that it would have put me into Slytherin where it knows I belong. Sure, all my friends are in Gryffindor, but surely we would have remained friends, right?

Ripping off the bandaid, I open the letter gingerly, reading my mother’s handwriting.

Junebug,

I cannot tell you just how proud I am of you. Sure, I had wished you had been sorted into Slytherin, but I would much rather you in the house where I know you’ll thrive. So many powerful, strong, and amazing witches have been made in Gryffindor, much like Slytherin, and I’m sure we’ll see your name on that list in no time.

But enough of that. How are you? Are you settling in alright? Is your father being a grump? And I want to hear about all of your friends and every adventure you have. I’m anxiously awaiting your letter.

I love you,

Mum.

It wasn’t a long letter by any means, but it was certainly a meaningful one. I can’t help the smile that graces my face as I read through the short letter. She wasn’t mad. She still loves me.

“All is well, I presume?” Hermione muses after she sees I put down the letter. I nod happily.

“Good, I’d rather you in Gryffindor than smelly Slytherin.” Ron says, looking a bit more red than usual, adding his two cents. And so am I. I’m happy to be in Gryffindor. If Mum says it’s good for me then it must be and that is that.

“Hey look, Neville’s got a Remembrall.” Dean announces. I glance over to the clear glass orb with a gold band and a swirly design covering it in Neville’s hand.

According to Hermione, when the smoke of a Remembrall turns red, it means you've forgotten something. Amidst her magical object lecture, the smoke inside the clear orb turns red.

“The only problem is, I can’t remember what I’ve forgotten.” I snicker at Neville’s cluelessness. I take one look at him and realize it’s his robes he’s forgotten, only sporting part of his uniform. Before I had gotten the chance to tell him, Harry announces that Gringotts, the largest wizarding bank in the world, had been broken into.

“Believed to be the work of dark wizards or witches unknown, Gringotts Goblins, while acknowledging the breach, insist nothing was taken. The vault in question, number 713, had, in fact, been emptied that very same day.” Harry reads off to the table. “That’s odd. That’s the vault Hagrid and I went to.” Growing weary, the four of us exchange suspicious glances at what could possibly be happening just under our noses.

__________

Flying lessons were just shy of a complete disaster. Not only did we not actually get to step foot on a broom, but Neville managed to break his arm, Malfoy and Harry had some kind of masculinity duel that ended in Harry being named the Gryffindor seeker. Thus naming him the youngest quidditch player in a century, something that Ron has taken it upon himself to tell everyone who would listen.

Amidst Harry’s nervousness, Hermione decided to quell his anxieties by showing him what I would assume is the Hogwarts Quidditch Bookcase of Fame. Inside a glass compartment filled with medals, trophies, and plaques, the name James Potter written on a gold shield sat proudly in the forefront. Realizing quidditch was in his blood, a sense of ease overcame Harry about his new role.

“I’m telling you, it’s spooky. She knows more about you than you do.” Ron muses, the four of us climbing the staircase as many staircases above and below us swing, changing direction and paths.

“Remind me again Hermione, what’s Harry’s blood type?” I layer onto the joke, earning a playful shove from the Harry expert herself. I stumble a bit but quickly collect my bearings and laughing along with my friends.

The staircase begins to shudder, the rumbling of the sandstone knocking me forwards into Ron who had grabbed the railing for stability, grabbing my upper arm for the same reason. Once my hands are firmly planted on the railing as well, I shrug off Ron's grasp when I’m sure I won’t fall to the bottom of the seemingly endless stairwell.

“What’s happening?” Harry's voice rings out.

“The staircases change, remember?” Hermione’s know-it-all tone overlapping Harry’s confusion.

“C’mon, before the staircase moves again.” I usher my three associates towards an identical wooden door to the thousands of other doors throughout the castle.

The creaking of the door only adds to the creepy ambiance of the room I’ve led us into. Cobwebs clearly being favorable over a type of throw pillow. Looming statues in place of friendly suits of armor. Clearly the decorator had misplaced a few screws when it came to this room.

“Does anybody feel like we shouldn’t be here?” Ron says what we were all thinking, walking further into the damp and dingy room, a shiver making its way up my spine as a cold draft shifts through the room.

“We’re not supposed to be here. This is the third floor. It’s forbidden.” Hermione chimes in.

“Great. Let’s leave then.” I propose wearily, already over the whole Munsters Mansion lifesize recreation. One of the torch pillars bursts into flames, making my heart nearly jump from my chest. Not wanting to die a most painfully horrid death, I swiftly spill on my heel, ready to tuck tail and run only to be met with the beady red eyes of Mrs. Norris.

“It’s Filch’s cat!”

“Run!” I suppose I can learn to love the Halloween esque atmosphere if it meant I could stay far away from Mr. Filch and his oddly spaced eyes.

As we run down the previously mentioned murder hallway, torches light up as we pass, lighting the way to our impending doom.

“Guys-” I start, feeling I need to remind them of the blatant warning of certain death given by the headmaster at the beginning of the term.

“Quick, let’s hide through that door!” Harry quickly overshadows me in his instruction.

“It’s locked!”

“That’s it we’re done for.”

“Move over!” Hermione shoves the boys out of the way. “Alohomora.” With a wave of her wand, the latch magically lifts, giving us entry to what’s behind mystery door number one.

“Alohomora?”

“Standard Book of Spells chapter seven.” Hermione and Ron bicker.

It takes a second for the dust to settle, darkness clouding our vision. Peering through the keyhole, we wait for the fading of Filch’s lamp before concluding he’d gone.

“He thinks this door is locked.” Ron states the obvious yet again.

“It was locked.” I counter, matching his tone.

“And for good reason.” Harry adds on. Ron and I move to stand next to Harry and Hermione, both looking like they’d seen a ghost. Following their line of sight, I make out a furry paw that is probably larger than my bed. And attached to that paw is an even larger dog. Or should I say dogs.

Snoozing soundly, three massive dog heads snore in tandem. The middle most head yawning widely, showing off its impressively large teeth that are no doubt moments away from ripping a few of my limbs from my body. Their eyes blink open, presenting their golden color that I would have been happy to have never seen. Now acknowledging our presence, a deep growling rumbles from the back of their throats.

In the same moment, all four of us take in a large breath of air, releasing it into a frightened scream at the now clearly pissed off beasts towering over us. Turning, we hastily sprint back out the door we came. I’d much rather paint Filch’s nails fushia pink than spend another second in there with that thing.

It takes all four of us pushing with all our might to finally get the door closed as the dog thing snaps its jaws against it, clearly thinking eleven year old gryffindors are on the menu for lunch today.

Now entering the familiar common room out of breath having run all the way back, I take a second to catch my breath.

“What do they think they’re doing, keeping a thing like that locked up in a school?” Ron protests, now just coming to the revelation I’ve had since Dumbledore mentioned it.

“You don’t use your eyes, do you? Didn’t you see what it was standing on?” Hermione refutes.

“I wasn’t looking at its feet! I was preoccupied with its heads. Or maybe you didn’t notice. There were three!” Ron continues his tirade.

“It obviously isn’t there by chance. It was standing on a trapdoor, Ronald.” I come to the defense of Hermione, also having seen what she was referring to.

“It must be guarding something.” She finishes my line of thought, throwing her hands up exasperatedly.

“Guarding something?”

“That's right. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to bed before you come up with another clever idea to get us killed. Or worse. Expelled.” My head spinning from how fast Hermione is talking.

“She needs to sort out her priorities.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I’m going to bed.” I mutter, not paying the two dimwitted boys another glance before following after Hermione to our shared dorm.

“Can you believe them? I wasn’t lookin’ at his feet” I flop down onto my bed, doing a terrible impression of Ron’s estuary accent. Hermione and I giggle to one another, discussing the nights events as we prepared for bed.

What a disaster.