Sarah's Fancy
Sarah huddled under her cloak and gazed up at the smoking husk that had been the fifth-year Gryffindor boys’ dormitory. The three other students staying over the holiday stood around her. The two first-years looked petrified by the turn of events, while the older Slytherin boy scowled at being made to stand around in the snow while the castle was searched. Someone had the brilliant idea that Sirius might have snuck down and rigged the Great Hall while the professors had raced towards the site of the explosion, which was why they were not bivouacked there like they had been on Halloween.
Sarah was glad it had been Professor Sprout sent to retrieve her from her dormitory. She had barely had time to hide her flying carpet before the door had flown open. Snape was too observant, and might have noticed something off. Professor Sprout was simply relieved to see her safe and sound.
The only professor not searching was Hagrid. He had been tasked with protecting the students from outside the defensive charms Professor Flitwick had erected around their group. Hagrid stomped back and forth, an immense crossbow in one hand, a pink umbrella in the other.
It didn’t take long for the professors to ascertain that Sirius had once again eluded them. Sarah gathered as much from Snape’s bitching and moaning as he stalked back towards them to dispel the enchantments. Sirius hadn’t been there at all, which Sarah got a kick out of. Like her, Sirius had been left to rot in a hellhole for years. Spending a night running around the castle in a panic was the least these people deserved.
Sarah did feel a bit silly for not anticipating the professors’ reaction to an explosion. To be fair, she hadn’t expected such a massive explosion, and could only conclude something left in the dormitory had reacted poorly with the fireworks she had tossed in. Once the fire died down—it was a gorgeous shade of purple that let off gold sparks and seemed impervious to any attempt to put it out—the dormitory could be restored, none the wiser.
If Sarah was really lucky, the professors might conclude it wasn’t Sirius at all, but a surprise left by the Weasley twins. It was the sort of thing they would do, though perhaps with less destructive results.
She chewed on her lip. If they did think it was the Weasley twins, the two might get expelled. But there were explosions in Potions all the time, and Charms, and Transfiguration, and Defense, and Herbology, and…all of her classes. Perhaps not an explosion that took out part of a tower and spewed a massive fireball that immolated a path several hundred feet into the Forbidden Forest, but accidents were part and parcel of a Hogwarts education.
By the time the castle was declared safe, and Sarah had trudged back to the castle with the other students, she decided the only thing she felt bad about was not getting the Marauder’s Map. It was Sirius’ best plan, and Sarah didn’t care for the new idea she’d just had.
It was already bad that the Weasleys had gone home for the Christmas holiday, presumably taking the rat with them. If the rat was Peter Pettigrew, and he managed to run away before Sirius got to their home, they might never find him again.
Sarah had very rarely been relieved to see someone, but she couldn’t help relaxing when she spotted a cluster of red-haired people climbing out of the carriages the evening before the start of term. Hidden under her invisibility cloak, Sarah watched the youngest boy trail behind his older brothers. Ron Weasley, the boy with the rat.
The boy had a hand protectively over his chest. It looked like he was cupping something. Sarah narrowed her eyes. Hedwig had flown off on Boxing Day with a basket of food, and had yet to return. Sarah hadn’t heard from Sirius, who had a long overland journey. Sarah had advised he hop on a train or the back of a lorry to speed things up. There was no chance anyone would recognize him, and most people would avoid a stray dog.
Only three people in the world knew Sirius was a dog animagus. Remus Lupin, a werewolf; Peter Pettigrew, a Death Eater, a rat, and possibly dead; and Sarah, who only spoke if her life depended on it. Sirius would be fine.
Sarah watched the boy walk into the castle, grim resolution settling coldly in her chest. She would get that bloody rat, by any means necessary.
It was a common misconception that Hogwarts was the safest place in the world. Hagrid had loudly reminded Sarah that he was among the many who held this opinion in a misguided attempt to comfort her.
If Peter Pettigrew was alive, and if he hadn’t run off as soon as he learned Sirius had broken out of Azkaban, he was also an idiot.
There was some sense in hiding with a magical family, and at Hogwarts which not only had one of the most powerful and influential wizards as its headmaster, but a cohort of skilled witches and wizards, a lake and a forest brimming with dangerous creatures, a hundred dementors ringing the grounds, and hundreds more students to put between him and Sirius.
Peter Pettigrew had to know that Sirius knew all of the secret entrances to the castle, and that being an animagus meant he could get past the dementors. Or had he been a rat for so long it had messed with his head like Sirius hypothesized?
Sarah continued pondering the stupidity of Peter Pettigrew as she sat among the Hufflepuff third-years and picked at her breakfast. One deterrent to having meals in the Great Hall, among many, was that the Hufflepuff table was right next to the Gryffindor table.
The Gryffindors were loud—all of the students were, but some Gryffindors seemed to think they had to be louder than everyone else as a point of house pride—boorish—again, not unique to the Gryffindors, but at least Zacharias Smith chewed with his mouth closed—and were quidditch obsessed—you couldn’t throw a rock without hitting a quidditch fanatic.
Sarah had enough of sports after years of hearing Uncle Vernon bellowing at the telly whenever rugby was on. Rugby was a real man’s game. Clearly, Uncle Vernon was a hallucination.
The entire breakfast experience was uncomfortable. It was the first day of term, and several weeks of holiday had been enough for the other students to lose their immunity to the Girl Who Lived nonsense. In Sarah’s opinion, only a right git would abuse the sort of fame she had to get what they wanted, but she couldn’t afford a crisis of conscience. Sirius needed her. Hedwig had yet to return, and Sarah was worried sick. What if a hunter tried shooting Hedwig down? Was that even legal? What if Sirius got hit by a car?
The way people were looking at her put Sarah off her food. She hated when people watched her eat. Some of them were very obviously looking at her mouth, particularly the boys from the Gryffindor table. It made it more difficult to spy on Ron Weasley, who had taken his rat out of his robes and was trying to tempt the skinny rodent with a piece of bacon. Sarah couldn’t even tell if the rat was missing a toe or not.
That’s what Sirius was going off of, that the rat was missing a toe. Peter Pettigrew had cut off his finger, and that was all the aurors found of him when they arrived on the scene. Sarah thought there would have been rather more blood if the rest of him had got blown up.
Ron Weasley froze and began turning red. Sarah realized she had been staring at him for too long, with a very intense expression. She quickly looked down at her plate.
“Sarah?”
Sarah glanced at Hannah, who was giving her a funny look.
“What are you wearing?” asked Hannah, sounding amused.
Sarah frowned and shook her head. She was wearing her school robes like everyone else. Deciding breakfast had been a waste of time, and the Great Hall too public a venue for her spying, Sarah got up from the table and walked back to her dormitory to get her things for Defense. They were finally starting their nocturnal beasts unit, and Sarah was looking forward to what Professor Lupin had to say about werewolves.
“Alright, Sarah?” asked Hagrid gruffly, dumping a pile of wood next to her.
Sarah nodded mutely and chose a nice stick to add to the fire. For their first Care of Magical Creatures class of the term, Hagrid had produced a small herd of fire salamanders. The entire Care lesson consisted of keeping the fire going. The rest of the class was off collecting their own wood, but Sarah had been tasked with minding the fire. She knew it was because of her leg, but she didn’t have it in her to complain.
Remus Lupin had disappointed her.
It wasn’t the Defense lesson. The lesson was adequate. Great, even. They’d learned about ghouls. Ghouls were largely harmless, so most people left them to their own devices. Professor Lupin had taken them on a brief trip to one of the towers, where a ghoul was busy moaning to himself and rattling chains. The ghoul had preened under all the attention, rattling and moaning more dramatically. Professor Lupin had even got a bucket of flobberworms so they could practice placating a ghoul.
Sarah couldn’t say a ghoul eating flobberworms out of her hand was a pleasant experience, but it was good to know what to do to soothe a ghoul gone mad from being ignored for too long. No matter how much Sarah read, it didn’t always hold up under practical application.
The Defense lesson had been fine. What upset Sarah was what happened after the lesson, which was absolutely fuck all. Professor Lupin had offered to teach her the Patronus Charm. They’d had one lesson together before the holiday, and while Sarah knew being a werewolf took its toll, Professor Lupin could have at least said something about their next one.
He had been friends with her parents, right? He thought Sirius Black was trying to kill her, right? He knew she’d had her leg amputated and couldn’t bloody well outrun a dementor, right?
Sarah fed another stick into the fire, staring pensively into the heart of the flames. Fire salamanders ran happily up and down the logs. The little creatures looked like they were made out of smoldering coals with big, shiny black eyes. They were adorable. Mesmerizing. Sarah wanted to pick one up, even though she knew she would get a worse burn than with the teapot.
For a moment, Sarah could feel how hot Aunt Petunia’s teapot had been, could feel the blisters rising on her palms. It was a dim memory, she had only been six or seven at the time, but she definitely remembered wondering if Aunt Petunia had made it so hot on purpose. Maybe Aunt Petunia wanted Sarah to drop the pretty porcelain teapot. Maybe Aunt Petunia wanted an excuse to beat her.
Sarah picked up another piece of wood, a small log that the fire salamanders would burn up in minutes, and laid it carefully so none of the creatures were crushed. Professor Lupin was a werewolf. He was sick. He wasn’t trying to set Sarah up to fail.
Why hadn’t he told anyone about Sirius being an animagus? About the Marauder’s Map? All the secret ways into the castle?
Why hadn’t he told Sarah he knew her parents?
“Looks like that’s keeping you warm!”
Sarah nearly jumped out of her skin. For such a large person, Hagrid could be very stealthy. She looked away from the fire and blinked up at him. Hagrid beamed at her, unbothered by the ten-foot tree trunk he carried on his shoulder. With a grunt, Hagrid heaved it into the fire, where it was immediately swarmed by the fire salamanders.
The man was simpler than she suspected. Of course a bonfire as big as a house would keep her warm. Sarah picked up another stick and tossed it in.
“Hoo! Hoo!”
Sarah ignored the laughter that followed her out of the castle and continued walking at the same pace. Some people in Slytherin—Draco Malfoy—had been mocking her since first year. It was nothing new, Dudley and his friends had been doing the same her entire life. Whether it was her body, her hair, her glasses, her clothes, her dead parents, they always found something to comment on, and seemingly never grew bored of replaying the hits. That Draco Malfoy had taken to hooting at her whenever he saw her was an obvious taunt about Hedwig being missing.
Hedwig wasn’t missing. Sarah basically knew where Hedwig was, if not the specific location. She glanced at the sky as she picked her way across the snowy grounds. Not a feather in sight. Hedwig had to be traveling back to Hogwarts with Sirius. The rat was here. Where else would they go?
The hooting wasn’t the strangest thing happening to Sarah. The other third-years were all trying to get a look at her hands. They kept asking her to hand them things, watched her write in class, whispered to each other and consulted some book called Unfogging the Future. Sarah had nicked Hannah’s copy to give it a look, and was exasperated to find a certain section heavily annotated.
They were studying palmistry in Divination.
This was why Sarah was wearing gloves, and of course Snape had taken points off for that. Zacharias Smith and Justin Finch-Fletchely had been nattering about uniform violations all week, but Susan said something to them that shut them up. It wasn’t Sarah’s fault if people kept ogling her hands. Zach was lucky she wasn’t wearing metal gauntlets. She would have flung one in his stupid smug face.
Sarah had more important things going on. She opened the door to the greenhouse, the first to arrive for Herbology. Professor Sprout was still setting up. There were empty pots, bags of soil and fertilizer, and a single wax packet of seeds.
“Oh, good,” said Professor Sprout, tucking her wand into her belt. “You’ve already got your gloves on! Get the trowels, would you, dear? I want a quick start today! You’ll be planting Gerald’s seeds.”
Sarah leaned her crutches against a table, walked to the tool rack and began taking trowels down.
Gerald was Professor Sprout’s pet fanged geranium, a rare four-color plant from a strain developed by Professor Sprout herself. The four colors represented each of the Hogwarts houses: red, blue, yellow, and green. Gerald’s fangs were prized in potion-making, and, if they were properly cared for, so too would the fangs of his offspring. It explained the large quantity of dragon dung fertilizer Sarah could smell. Without sufficiently fertile soil, the fanged geraniums would only sprout gums.
While Sarah was interested in Gerald’s progeny, and happy to be given her own plant to grow rather than tend the ones already in existence as she had under Aunt Petunia’s scrutiny, this Herbology class was ground zero. Here began her grand scheme to get the rat. She was nervous to be starting without the Marauder's Map, without Hedwig, even without Sirius, but a quiet fury had been building within her for weeks.
Peter Pettigrew had betrayed her parents. Her parents were dead because of him.
Sarah closed her eyes and took a breath. The other students were arriving. Sirius wanted to kill Peter Pettigrew. It would be easier than capturing him alive, but then they would have no proof that Sirius was innocent. Sarah knew the rat had left his wand behind when he blew up all those muggles, more evidence he was dead. There was a good chance he still didn’t have a wand. Sarah was already at an advantage.
Flexing her left leg a few times—the wooden joints were stiff from the cold, and Sarah had plans to consult Professor Babbling about it—Sarah walked to her usual station and waited. Herbology was the only class Hufflepuff had with Gryffindor. It was the only chance she had of interacting with Ron Weasley in a natural way. She had yet to find a means of caging Peter Pettigrew securely, or forcing him into his human form; Sirius said there was a spell for that, but claimed it was too advanced for her. Seeing the ratty lump in Ron Weasley’s robes was difficult. Lawrence the snake would have been useful for rat hunting, but he was underground in the Forbidden Forest somewhere, and Sarah hadn’t seen him all school year.
The greenhouse door swung open.
“Hi, Sarah!” piped Hannah, pulling off the mittens she wore. Susan smiled at Sarah, then held the door open for the Hufflepuff boys.
Like Sally-Anne, Megan’s parents had transferred her to another school. There were a few others who had left Hogwarts, some to be taught at home, some going abroad to study. Even if Hogwarts was the best magical school in the world—and Sarah had grave doubts about that—it wasn’t worth your life. Hogwarts was averaging two deaths per year. No school should have a mortality rate.
Sarah waited quietly as the greenhouse filled up, her anxiety growing when the Gryffindors showed up and Ron Weasley wasn’t among them. There wasn’t a chance in hell Peter Pettigrew knew Sarah had met Sirius, that she suspected a boy’s pet rat was in actuality a mass-murdering traitor who contributed to her shitty so-called life.
Professor Sprout was mid-lecture and showing off the many-ringed fangs of Gerald the geranium when Ron Weasley burst into the greenhouse.
Everyone turned to look at him, but Sarah took a moment to finish writing her notes on calculating the age of a fanged geranium using the rings on its fangs. When she finally looked up, she saw Ron was bright red and scowling. He had a dried crust going down his cheek, like he had been drooling in his sleep.
“A point from Gryffindor for being tardy,” said Professor Sprout snippily. Sarah nearly snorted. Snape would have taken thirty from her. “Find your spot, Weasley. Go on! I haven’t got all day!”
Ron had finally noticed Sarah was looking, and his blush deepened. He was frozen in place, until Professor Sprout snapped, “Weasley!” Ron jerked into motion, and dropped his rucksack next to Neville Longbottom. Neville was top in Herbology, and one of Professor Sprout’s favorites. He was the best person to be partnered with, since all the other Gryffindors were crap at it. Maybe if Hermione Granger had lived…
As the other students queued for their supplies, Sarah got to work. She already had her pot, her soil, her copious amount of dragon dung, and a seed. The tables had been filled before Ron got to class, so there was no chance of working with him that day. That was perfectly fine. This small hiccup would not interfere with perhaps the greatest challenge Sarah would ever face.
Sarah Potter was going to make friends with Ron Weasley.
Within a week, Sarah decided it was impossible. She had absolutely nothing in common with Ron Weasley.
“Phenomenal,” muttered Professor Babbling, turning Sarah’s leg about. Professor Babbling ran a finger down the calf and tiny runes lit up. “Girste Koukkujalka. Am I right?”
Sarah nodded. That was the name of the artificer who had crafted her wooden leg. Her prosthesis.
“I knew it,” said Professor Babbling with a faint smile. “She attended Durmstrang. Lucky bastard.”
Sarah pointed at the note she had written. However interested she was in Durmstrang, and why her Ancient Runes professor thought someone who went there was lucky, Sarah was more interested in why her joints were freezing up. She knew her prosthesis lacked many qualities of her other leg—muscles, bones, nerves, blood vessels, skin, and so on—but it was supposed to have the same temperature as her body. It certainly felt like it did.
“I know, I know,” said Professor Babbling, carefully bending the knee. “See here, Potter?”
Sarah stared at the knee. She saw wood, wood grains, dozens of tiny runes in a confusing array she could not begin to parse. Sarah shook her head. She didn’t see whatever it was Professor Babbling had.
Professor Babbling nodded to herself, then launched into a long, rambling dialogue on the nature of humanity. Sarah listened long enough to glean the runic sequence read mennesc ġecynd rather than mennesc ġecynde, then her thoughts returned to the anomaly that was Ron Weasley.
Ron Weasley was virtually indistinguishable from any other third-year boy. Sarah had overheard him talking about quidditch, had watched him trade Chocolate Frog cards, saw the unholy amount of food he consumed at every meal. His robes were a mess, he didn’t know how to tie his own shoes, he was late to his classes and forgot to do his homework. Sarah had never seen him step foot inside the library, though she knew for a fact Snape had assigned an essay on undetectable poisons that week and one of the requirements was citing at least three sources. Ron liked challenging people to wizard’s chess. He seemed to be very good at the game.
Sarah hated chess.
This information had come at the great cost of following Ron around. The Head Boy, Ron’s older brother, was still following her around, as were her professors, and there were always people watching her. Sarah had her invisibility cloak, but during the school day it was troublesome to use it. If she walked around a corner and vanished, chaos would ensue.
Sarah knew other things about Ron Weasley, things less easily observed. She knew Ron had made fun of Hermione Granger, and that Hermione had been crying in the girls’ toilets when she was killed by a troll. Sarah knew Ron’s little sister had been possessed by a diary, by Tom Riddle’s diary. She knew Ginny Weasley had tried to talk to someone about it. She knew Ginny Weasley was dead.
Sometimes when Ron was laughing he would abruptly stop. Sometimes he looked completely lost. He was louder, more wild, more prone to talking back to teachers and hexing people in the corridors, mostly Slytherins. Ron was regularly in detention, scouring cauldrons, shining trophies, writing lines. None of it seemed to touch him at all. As someone who also didn’t care about schoolwork or consequences, Sarah understood.
Professor Babbling finally stopped talking and returned Sarah’s leg. Sarah made no move to put it back on. She needed to clean it first.
“You’ve got to use it more, Potter,” she said, patting the leg fondly. “It’s part of you. Don’t neglect it.”
Sarah grimaced, then nodded. With Hedwig gone, she spent far less time walking the grounds. She had avoided it completely that weekend, as there had been a quidditch match. Slytherin and Ravenclaw. The Gryffindor quidditch team was training five nights a week. Sarah had seen them in their red quidditch robes. Ron often joined them, though he wasn’t on the team. It sounded boring as hell, but maybe Ron would bring his rat with him.
Nodding her thanks to Professor Babbling, Sarah tucked her leg under her arm and began crutching to Hufflepuff Basement. Lunch was almost over, and while she was slightly annoyed at having spent it confirming something she already suspected, Sarah was glad there wasn’t anything fundamentally wrong with her leg. She was tempted to ask Professor Babbling about different ways she could empower it. Kicking through walls, superspeed, that sort of thing. Sarah was, however, not at all interested in sharing what she wanted to do to her prosthetic long term. There was no point in a secret weapon if it wasn’t secret.
When Sarah finally reached her dormitory, shutting the door in the Head Girl’s face—she wasn’t even a Hufflepuff, it was ridiculous—Sarah dropped her crutches at the sight that greeted her. The window was open, and snow was getting in, but she didn’t care.
Hedwig had returned.
“Potter,” drawled Snape. “Take that ridiculous thing off.”
Sarah happily ignored him. Hedwig was back, and she couldn’t give a toss about Snape if she tried. She instead focused on brewing her doxycide. It was a very common household potion. Snape had them brew those once or twice a month, claiming it was a basic skill every witch and wizard should have, laughably simple, that they were dunderheads, and so on. Sarah was of the opinion the tight git didn’t want to spend any money on the canned stuff.
A hand fell on Sarah’s head, and suddenly the snowy owl mantle she had got for Christmas, which she had been wearing every single day since she had got it, was torn away.
Sarah was momentarily stunned, as if she had taken a faceful of doxycide.
Snape had touched her.
Snape had touched her.
Snape had touched her.
Sarah opened her mouth and screamed bloody murder.
The cauldron in front of her exploded.
Snape reeled back, the feathered cowl still clutched in his hand. Sarah closed her eyes and kept screaming. Glass jars were shattering, their arcane and grisly contents splattering onto the floor. Another cauldron exploded. People were shouting, crying out in confusion, fear, pain.
“Get down!”
“Sarah! Calm down!”
“What’s happening?”
“Snape did something to her!”
“Silence!” bellowed Snape.
Sarah’s screaming abruptly cut off. Her eyes flew open as she choked, and she gripped her throat. Snape had his wand pointed at her. His eyes were wild, and he was breathing heavily.
Snape had silenced her.
Sarah didn’t think. She couldn’t think. She grabbed her wand.
“Expelliarmus!”
She held onto her wand. She would rather lose her entire arm before someone took her wand again.
Sarah jumped off of her stool, wobbled slightly, then slashed her wand at Snape.
Viscera strangula, she thought viciously, and a caustic, dark red spell shot towards Snape, crackling through the air.
Snape’s eyes widened. He looked so surprised that he barely got his wand up in time to block. Sarah’s spell spluttered ineffectually against whatever Snape had done. She was barely aware of her classmates fleeing the room and shouting for help.
“You could get expelled for that, Potter,” said Snape, his expression and voice returning to the same loathing she was used to.
Sarah narrowed her eyes. Snape was still holding her snowy owl mantle. She loved that stupid thing. The air was filled with partially brewed doxycide. Maybe…
“Or do you think your fame will insulate you from consequences?” asked Snape, his voice deathly quiet. “Attacking your professor? Tut… tut… tut.”
Sarah flicked her wand. Only a total prat would actually say tut.
Incendi—
Snape muttered something, and a powerful gust of wind blasted Sarah. She gripped her wand with both hands. Protego!
Something touched her leg. Sarah nearly screamed again. She jumped back and saw a rope of stone rising from the floor like some horrible worm. It waved around, clearly seeking her out. She snapped her wand at it. Reducto!
Sarah dove behind a tipped over table, her heart racing. Snape was a professor. He was more than twice her age. He knew loads more magic than her. She would have to surprise him—
“What is the meaning of this?” someone shouted.
Sarah’s head swung towards the door. Of all people, Madam Pomfrey stood in the doorway. She must have been the first adult her classmates had found.
The wind died down, and an uneasy silence settled over the potions lab. Sarah looked around, amazed at the destruction that had been wrought. It had only been a matter of minutes.
“Severus, what in the world are you doing?” demanded Madam Pomfrey, storming into the room. She had her wand out, and Sarah had never seen the woman so furious before. “Students are telling me you grabbed Miss Potter? What’s that you’re holding? Is that not Miss Potter’s?”
“Students are not permitted to wear head coverings in the classroom,” argued Snape, his voice eerily calm. “I have told that foolish girl every day for the past week—”
“Where is she?” asked Madam Pomfrey heatedly. “Do you have any idea what that girl—”
Sarah poked her head up, startling a shriek from Madam Pomfrey. Ignoring that, Sarah pointed her wand at Snape again.
“This insolent girl attacked me!” roared Snape, his anger reignited upon seeing that Sarah was alive and unharmed.
Accio! Sarah thought fiercely, smiling when her owl cowl was yanked out of Snape’s gross hand and flew back to her. She would have to bleach it for several eternities, but it was safe.
Snape was still yelling at her when Professors Sprout, McGonagall, and Dumbledore showed up. Sarah didn’t care. Hedwig was back.
They finally did it. They finally found an effective punishment.
Sarah was banned from the library.
Sarah was banned from the kitchens.
Sarah was banned from the grounds, barring Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures.
Sarah was banned from doing anything remotely interesting ever again for her entire life.
To say the headmaster was disappointed was an understatement. Professor Sprout and McGonagall both made impassioned arguments about Sarah being traumatized. Her parents being murdered, Voldemort trying to kill her, the Dursleys, Quirrell kidnapping her from her bed, Ripper, Sirius Black.
Touching Sarah was, in general, a Very Bad Idea. Snape had done it anyway. He didn’t care. She’d been wearing her owl cowl in class, therefore he had the right to take it.
Sarah gave a rock a desultory kick. She had summoned it through a window just to have something to kick. Peeves was beside himself, loudly recanting the epic duel between Sarah Potter and Severus Snape. A few exploded cauldrons of half-brewed doxycide, a few broken jars, a blocked curse, and some wind. Not much of a duel, but everyone was talking about it. Gryffindors kept loudly singing her praises in the corridors.
A staggering two hundred points had been taken from Hufflepuff, and the people she lived with were not happy with her. A few tried to weakly argue in her defense, but it was generally agreed by those who had been in the class, Ravenclaws included, that Sarah had overreacted.
Sarah scoffed and threw herself at a window seat. With the kitchens closed to her, it would be hard to send food to Sirius. Hedwig had already taken a note to him explaining her diminished circumstances. Sarah pulled her knees up, hugging her legs to her chest. Someone had snitched about her skiving off History of Magic for nearly three years. Probably Zacharias Smith, the tosser. She was in trouble for that, too.
Maybe they could forget about Peter Pettigrew. She could get on her flying carpet and fly right over the fucking dementors. Sirius could come too. Preferably as a dog.
“Psst! Potter!”
Sarah started and almost fell out of her seat. She looked around, and saw two boys watching her from a doorway. It was the twins, Fred and George Weasley. How had they got there without her noticing?
“Come here,” one of them whispered urgently, flapping his hand at her.
Sarah shook her head, and went back to staring out of the window despondently.
“We know you’ve been following Ron around,” one of them said teasingly.
Sarah jerked her head back. The twins grinned at her.
“Do you fancy him?” one asked.
Sarah’s mouth fell open, and she scrambled for her wand. She was going to curse the ginger out of their hair for that. She looked up and down the corridor, but it was thankfully empty. There wasn’t anything interesting on the sixth-floor, except a boys’ toilet no one ever used.
“Listen to what we’ve got to say,” one twin said, his smile growing, “or the entire castle will know by lunchtime.”
Sarah’s eye twitched, but she climbed down from the window seat and cautiously approached them. The door opened wider, and the older boys backed away. Sarah was wary of being alone in a room with them, but neither had their wand out, and it was now the general consensus that if she was crazy enough to duel Snape, she was crazy enough to do anything.
The door silently shut. Sarah put her back to it and held her wand up.
“I’m Fred,” one of the twins said.
“George,” said the other.
Sarah normally would not have bothered remembering this, but these boys were related to Ron, and she needed Ron to get to the rat. She gritted her teeth and nodded.
“So,” said Fred with a smile. “Ronnie, eh?”
“Ah, young love,” said George, putting a hand to his forehead and swooning.
Sarah was revolted by the idea, but forced herself to think about it rationally. Letting people come to their own conclusions had served her well. They thought she was a dragon slayer, a dark witch, a mute, a freak, a victim. If these two idiots thinking she fancied their grotty little brother would get her closer to capturing or killing Peter Pettigrew, that was fine.
She looked down, because she had no idea how to act.
The twins chuckled.
“It’s alright,” one said. “We won’t tell him.”
“Ron’s thicker than Hagrid’s treacle toffee,” the other said. Sarah looked up again and frowned. Unless they changed places, that was George speaking. Fred. George. Fred and George. What a nightmare.
“He hasn’t noticed,” said Fred. “But we have.”
Sarah was done. She raised her wand and traced words into the air. What do you want?
Both Fred and George leaned away from the burning letters with matching expressions of shock.
“I heard you could do something like that,” said Fred.
“Never seen it before,” said George, examining the letters. “Cool!”
Sarah underlined the words, several times.
“Right,” said Fred, shaking his head. “We heard about you being banned from…everything.”
“Everyone’s heard,” said George. “What were you thinking, going up against Snape?”
“Really know the way to a man’s heart,” said Fred, nodding to himself. “Ron’s been talking about it nonstop.”
Sarah pointed her wand at them, her words still burning in the air.
“And you’re banned from Hogsmeade,” added Fred hastily. “So we’ve decided to, ah, pass the torch to you, as it were.”
Sarah had no idea what the fuck he was talking about.
“What Fred means is,” said George, giving his brother a nervous look, “that we know ways in and out of the castle. Secret ways, past the dementors. And if we’ve noticed you following Ron around, others might have.”
Sarah nodded sharply. She just wanted them to get on with it.
Fred and George exchanged another look.
“You also killed the bastard who killed our sister,” said George quietly. “We owe you for that.”
Fred reached into his robes and whipped out an aged piece of parchment.
Sarah blinked a few times. She knew what that parchment was. She couldn’t believe it. She thought Filch had destroyed it yonks ago.
The idiots had the Marauder’s Map.