Sway
It was concerning to say the very least.
Steph had practically vanished off the face of the earth after the Defence lesson with the Boggart, not turning up to classes for the remainder of the day. It had only been once Charms came around in the afternoon that Harry had been able to ask Flitwick if he had known anything about it - and the worried frown on the Professor's face was all he needed to know.
Flitwick didn't know, which meant that Steph was on her own.
At least until the part-Goblin Professor hastily left the classroom the moment after the bell rang, leaving Harry staring at the stack of books that the Charms Professor usually taught, and took questions after class from. If the Charms Master was visibly worried about the situation, it, at the very least, justified Harry's own thoughts on the matter.
It had been Daphne who remarked on Flitwick's reaction, softly noting that the Charms Master was indeed worried about the Raven in question, almost as if she didn't trust Harry to pick up on it on his own. Whilst he wasn't going to dissuade her from her practice, not yet at least, for she did surpass him in some of her perceptions, he did find it just a little condescending some of the time.
But that had prompted him, for whatever reason, to look back at the creature that had started the mess, in the privacy of his own mind.
The Boggart was an unpleasant creature - Harry had clocked on the moment that it brought Bellatrix Lestrange to life in all her horrific glory in the middle of the classroom. None of the other forms had been pleasant - to the point that it becoming a Banshee was the most welcome form. Tom Riddle may have been terrifying to face, but it was far less scary given that Harry knew it wasn't going to go slinging spells, and he had shut it up before it got the chance to talk.
The Dark Mark would have been the worst of it - Pansy's Boggart brought a chill down his spine that not even his own managed to create. It wasn't a physical monster, but instead an image of what the monsters who roamed freely not only stood for, but what they represented. The darkness looming high in the sky, the mark of dread.
Of death.
Remus' reaction told Harry enough. That had been the Boggart that shook him the most - Sirius hadn't been the only Wixen in Britain who had dreaded coming home to the Dark Mark floating over their home.
But sitting at the Hufflepuff table in the Great Hall, with Daphne just behind him at the Slytherin table, Harry stared at the notably vacant spot on the bench of the Ravenclaw table where Steph should have been sat. Yet the spot was empty - so empty, in fact, that those who sat on either side were giving the spot a wide berth, letting Harry look straight at Luna over Neville's shoulder, the waifish blonde staring unflinchingly back at him with those silver eyes.
It wasn't any sort of malice or hardness in those eyes, it was simply an almost contented blankness, if such was even possible.
"She's not here." Keeping his voice low as he leant back just a little, he was greeted by a soft inhale of breath from the blonde girl behind him as she did the exact same. A soft hum left Daphne, something that was followed by several seconds of silence as he could almost hear the blonde thinking. When she finally spoke, her voice carried an audible frown.
"She's in good care..." Frowning himself, Harry leant over his shoulder to look at Daphne properly, and found a gentle frown on her aristocratic features. "Professor Snape is with her - he has to be. Look at Flitwick, he's too calm after what we saw in Charms."
A glance at the high table told him that, like in most things, Daphne was right - the dour head of Slytherin was absent from his ubiquitous seat at the teacher's table. But that only asked more questions - why was Snape taking time out of his day for a student of a different house - and presumably without giving her a detention. It made no sense, at least to him.
Or at least, it would have, had he not been in possession of one more piece of information that Daphne didn't know - a welcome change, in his mind. Daphne was many things - brilliant for one - but she was decidedly not a Parselmouth, and Harry was.
And the most disturbing thing about Steph's Boggart was what it had said to her.
We are the same. Your path ends with euphoric agony and melodic death, Child of Niobe.
We are the same.
The Come and Go room was serving as her refuge from what had to doubtless be a school full of students all castigating her for the sins of her blood. Gone was the empty room where she and Luna had conducted their experiment late last year, in its place was a packed library of questionable organisation - with books stacked haphazardly around a small lounge room, a fireplace on one wall, and a sofa with red cushions facing the softly crackling hearth.
It had been an utterly unfamiliar feeling being so focused, to have everyone in the room staring at her and nothing else. To find not a single sympathetic look, facing sharp ostracising and naked surprise from those around her. She had gone from one of the group to the target of their disgust.
It had been overwhelming. And like a coward, she had taken the only move she could, and fled the room.
Her running hadn't really had a target - she had simply fled. Fled the room, fled the hallway and fled deeper into the castle's winding maze of corridors and bridges. She had run until her breaths became more and more ragged, and her lungs ached in protest - run until she had found her breaths not bringing forth relief from the sensation.
She had half staggered in front of the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, and had practically collapsed through the doors to the Come and Go Room, stumbling into a room with a soft carpet and piles of books in various shelves, upon table tops and stacked in between furniture.
For what felt like an eternity, she had curled herself into one of the corners in the Come and Go Room, hugging her knees and simply trying to breathe, her chest tight - too tight -, her breaths coming but bringing precious little oxygen, leaving her practically gasping for breath.
Suffocating was sure to be her next Boggart - drowning perhaps. Breathing without drawing oxygen.
It had felt as if she were about to die.
With ragged breaths, she had managed to feverishly clutch at whatever meagre wisps of air she could - saving her from drawing her last in a room that would hide her body forever.
She had spent several more long, arduous minutes in that corner, hugging herself and forcing breaths through her lungs, staring at anything and everything in an attempt to simply calm herself even a fraction. It had started with the stone blocks - two hundred and eighty three made up the far wall - and had ended with her following specific colours of dust covers on books across the room, seeking to find every purple she could.
It was once she had counted all ninety three red dust covers on the other side of the room, that the heat became too much, sweat had begun to make her scalp itch and her clothes clammy. So she had ripped her robes off and flung them somewhere away from her as she had struggled for breath again - relapsing in choking panic - only for her nerves to send her racing after the hastily thrown robes, ensuring they ended up on a coat rack that seemed to form out of the wall beside the door. The breaths had come more easily after that.
The book laying in her lap was about Charms - it was far too advanced for herself, easily NEWT material, if not further, but it was simply something pointless to waste her mind on, a meniality. With her mind on it, it would hopefully stave off the choking panic that had her hands trembling like an old crones, and the pain in her chest from the wheezing desperation of earlier.
It had worked so far.
Half of the words on the page made little sense to her, but enough did for her to understand the fundamental basics of the anti-Apparition charm - even if many of the core principles were very clearly tucked away into a later years work. Right now, the phrase 'Intent based matrix' meant absolutely nothing to her.
Which makes sense, given its the third day of my third year.
Glancing up from her book drew a grimace to her face as her stomach made its complaints known as a sharp tightness that bit at her gut, aggravating the lingering throb of pain from her earlier fit. Skipping dinner probably wasn't a good idea - but in her current state, she could hardly trust herself to make it to, say, the Hospital wing, let alone the Great Hall. And given that the Hall was full of teachers and, more pressingly, students...
"Isolation does not solve problems, Scamander."
With a yelp - Steph practically jumped to her feet, only to make it about half of the way before the pain flared up in full force, leaving her half doubled over and hugging her gut, half standing against the wall. The dour Potions Master regarded her with a look that conveyed his clear disapproval, but his eyes carried in them a reluctant pity. Silently, he stared down at her, and Steph felt the humiliation creeping up into an uncomfortable warmth across her cheeks and ears as he looked down his nose at her.
Dickhead.
Almost the same moment as she thought that, Snape's lips seemed to curl just a little more, but he watched as Steph forced herself through the pain and straightened up almost completely. Only once she managed to straighten herself up did he reach into the folds of his robes, withdrawing two vials and offering them to her - one carrying the green fluid of a Wiggenweld potion, the other the almost silvery blue of a calming draught.
Barely audible, but somehow with the drawl still present in force, Snape explained. "The Wiggenweld will counter the current pain, the Calming Draught will... Temper further panic attacks."
A moment of pause stopped her hand a moment before it grasped both vials, freezing her in place as realisation dawned - she had broken down into a full on panic attack over the reveal of her nature. Again, as if on cue, Snape made a noise of disapproval. "Your mind is undisciplined, Scamander. Susceptible to intrusion and weakness."
It took a second, but Steph recoiled against the wall, pressing her palm against it whilst her outstretched hand quivered just a little bit, dipping slightly as it still hovered near the potions offered. A stammered statement, phrased as a question. "Y-You're.. Reading my mind...'
"Naturally. I am dealing with a Dark Witch." Snape's drawl remained almost emotionless, but the final phrase carried clear sarcasm, even if the simple idea of the Potions Master using such was almost a laughable one. The action, however, was very much appreciated - it took the worst of her nerves away. With a pointed look, Snape pushed the two vials into her hand, and with a flick of his wrist the corks flew from the tops - getting the message across clearly.
Clearly prompted, Steph took a breath and downed both potions at once, the bitter and minty flavour of the Wiggenweld mellowed by the Calming Draught, which had the texture of melted chocolate, but the flavour akin to apple juice. The combination immediately set to work, the soothing relief feeling as if it was unknitting the taunt muscles in her chest, resulting in Steph drawing the first whole breath in what felt like hours.
Snape stared down at her for a handful more seconds, before very softly exhaling through his nose. "You worry about the judgement of your peers, do you not?"
Her glance at the Professor was naked with surprise, and his lips curled further, an unimpressed drawl leaving him - chastising. "You reveal much with your emotions. Your mind lacks discipline."
"Teach me it, then." Her retort briefly seemed to catch the Potions Master by surprise, if the slight flare of his eyes was anything to go by, her tone full of determination and vigour - but his expression turned condescending quickly.
"You conduct yourself like a Gryffindor - much bravado, no effort." A moment of silence passed between them as she stared at the Potions Master firmly, defiantly. Dark orbs stared back at her, regarding her with a firm and dispassionate glare that felt like it was tugging at her very being - searching in her head for just what she was and what could be made of her.
And then the pain in her head became real for what felt like a fraction of a second - and she realised just what she had done. Gritting her teeth even as her eyes widened, Steph recoiled her head aside and shoved the pain away, back to where it had come from. What felt like a canal of pain roared to life in her head for a handful of seconds, before the Wiggenweld smothered the sensation, and she regained enough comprehension to turn her gaze on the Potions Master, who himself had grit teeth, barely visible through thin lips.
His voice was a quiet growl, the impassive drawl gone, replaced by a tone with just a hint of frustration. "I will teach you to discipline your mind, to control your emotions."
A moment of silence passed between them, before Snape's eyes flicked to the book she had been reading, and the cold indifference returned to those dark irises. "Beware - a reliance upon the mind arts is taxing to your emotional range. You will no longer feel the extremes - you deaden yourself to the world."
With a single motion, he levelled his wand at her head, and Steph took a deep breath and matched his gaze, building her emotions and willpower up as she did so - bracing herself against the inevitable. His next words were a declaration more than anything. "Prepare yourself!"
Her teeth grit.
"Legillimens!"
"Ah - Severus. How is she?"
Albus Dumbledore's voice was soft - as if he were talking to the subject of their conversation herself, as opposed to the former Death Eater come Potions Master. The man in question swept his way into the room, moving to the balcony railing and staring out into the darkness of the night, lit only by the soft lunar glow which bounced off the shimmering lake. Severus Snape was silent for several moments, schooling his tight expression in a manner that the Headmaster knew indicated that he had been doing as asked.
"She has potential. Gifted at the basics of Occlumency." With a subtle motion, the raven haired man dug into his robes and withdrew a small vial, taking only a tiny sip before recorking it. A handful of seconds passed, before Severus Snape straightened a little more and turned to face Dumbledore with his usual firm expression. "She should be able to maintain her attendance, at the very least."
"I regret that it has come to such.." With a sigh, the elderly Headmaster rose to his feet, gliding towards one of the many side tables in the Headmaster's office, examining a trinket that he would surely have forgotten the origin of, had he not recorded it in his pensieve. Speaking of. "But she will doubtless find the skill useful in life. Severus, may I have your memory of this?"
The Phoenix upon its perch gave a soft trill, which the Potions Master echoed with a sigh, striding purposefully into the office and towards the pensieve, which glided out from the cabinet as he approached. With a single motion, the dark wand flew into his hand, and was pressed against his temple - drawing soft gasp from the man as he withdrew silvery, gossamer strands of pure memory, pulling them from his mind.
Gingerly, he tipped the wand forwards, allowing the glowing memory to spill into the pensieve, mixing with the water and swirling into a brief echo of the memory - Albus could just about make out the shape of a girl amidst the ripples.
His Potions Master made a noise, his voice strained. "She knows, Albus."
The Headmaster gave a start, a soft inhale of breath as he stared at Severus, watching as the raven haired man gave a grimace and slid his wand back into its holster. For the first time in over a decade, Severus Snape looked openly worried as he regarded Dumbledore with a look that displayed his consternation. Albus' response was simple - to the point. How much did Scamander know? "How much, Severus. What does she know?"
"Enough." His tone was firm, and carried with it audible concern. "Enough to start asking uncomfortable questions. She is apprehensive to ask about it, but she knows Freyja is lying to her. She knows the phrase 'Child of Niobe'. Albus, if she asks any of her group it will not be pretty. If Black, Augusta, or worse, Cyrus Greengrass catch wind of this, it will backfire on you badly. And that doesn't even consider someone like Lucius."
"What choice did I have, Severus?" With a sigh, the Headmaster stepped away from his most loyal ally - one who not only owed him his life, but almost everything he had. And yet Albus knew in that moment it wasn't the loyal Severus speaking - it was the one hidden beneath, the one playing both side. And he had a bloody good point. "What I did, I did without choice. In the name of peace and sanity. Of reconciliation."
His Potions Master was silent for a few seconds, before he strode purposefully to the door of the office, only to pause with his hand on the frame. Severus stayed there for a second, before softly driving home his point. "Maybe. But it would have been better if she had never lived."
The Slytherin Common Room was an intense place.
But Pansy had been practically raised for it, raised for a life of sitting pretty at home and managing the families finances whilst her husband went out and made deals and politicked. She was to spend her days hosting parties for her fellow housewives, trading secrets and rumours over tea and biscuits, and passing only what would be useful to her husband at the end of the day. She was to be as important to the marriage as her husband - his trusted and closest advisor.
This was perhaps the greatest practical test.
For the Slytherin Common Room was usually a quiet place for all its intensity, fiercely divided over class and blood lines - with strategic alliances and friendships formed. The older students would hold court, so to speak, every few days, airing grievances, striking agreements and making deals over the politics of the school - bartering for rumours, projects and even contracts for more harmful pranks, all to prepare themselves for the business world.
Even the younger students had a version of the older students court - Pansy had taken part once, and had watched with great interest as MacMillan was singled out for a particularly nasty prank by Lillith Moon, in exchange for expunging a debt owed - one that put MacMillan in the hospital wing for a week. But for the most part, the younger years traded more mundane things - mainly rumours and favours for homework that had yet to be done.
Essays for Binns were in high demand, and the Carrow twins had to have made at least a hundred Galleons off deals in '93 alone.
But today the Common Room of the house of Salazar Slytherin was embroiled in intense discussion. The night before had seen the revelation of Stephanie Scamander being a Parselmouth going around the school like Fiendfyre - some of the older students had been unable to believe it, two Parselmouths at the school at once was unheard of - let alone in the same year.
It had surprised her that there hadn't been a house meeting called last night, but as she sat in the Common Room, with the portrait of some girl wearing a Ravenclaw scarf of all things above her head, Pansy regarded the collected Slytherins with some interest. The fact it was the entire house meeting meant that the pecking order was on clear display. As a pureblood Heiress, Pansy was practically entitled to a seat, formality required it, and so she was seated on one of the ornate couches with the two Carrow twins to her left, her right elbow upon the armrest of the lounge.
On her right, seated on another lounge, was Draco, who was resting his head on his left fist, propped up much the same as her right arm, against the armrest. Draco was the other kind of student entitled to a seat - an heir of the Sacred 28. But neither she nor Draco held the sort of sway that a select few did.
Adrian Pucey was sat in one of the three arm chairs, with Cassius Warrington and Marcus Flint standing over each of his shoulders, probably thinking that his aloof and disinterested expression made him look like less of an asshole - which it really wasn't. From one of the lesser Pureblood families - not in the Sacred 28, that is - the Pucey's had managed to thus slip under the radar of the Ministry for the most part, serving as perhaps the greatest source of illegal items flowing into the country, and had been for the past eighty years - through Grindelwald's war and the Wizarding War.
Whilst Lucius Malfoy was the more public face of the operation - taking the flak off those who didn't hold such sway with the Minister - Edmund Pucey was the fixer of the operation, and it showed.
One of last years graduates had managed to get an unregistered portkey from his son, Adrien, and had fled from her arranged marriage with his help. Normally, Pansy would have lambasted her for abandoning her duties, but given that she was supposed to marry Amycus Carrow, she would give the girl a pass.
Seriously - she was just six years older than the twins she would have been step-mother to.
Then there was the litany of cursed and otherwise Dark artefacts that were holdovers from the days when such was acceptable, and even encouraged, and from the Wizarding War. Most families would have been forced to hide them, or even turn them in to the Ministry and risk being fined by some righteous crusader - but the Pucey family had struck up a mighty black market empire in the 80's, mainly selling problematic objects to European and Russian buyers.
Pansy had even seen one of her father's old cursed cabinets in the Russian Minister's home when Fudge's visit there had been photographed by the Prophet.
Sat in the chair at the head of the room, for there was little better way to describe it, was an older girl that even Pansy would admit was dangerously beautiful - pale and unblemished skin, accompanied by aristocratic cheekbones and pitch black hair, sporting curves in all the right places. Vinda Rosier II was wearing dark lipstick, and had seemingly gone through her daily grooming ritual - for Pansy refused to believe the girl was that good looking when she woke up.
Rosier was an interesting case - her first cousin once removed had been Evan Rosier, who had fought and died in the service of the Dark Lord, but her branch of the family was not aligned with the Dark Lord - or at the very least, not the same one Pansy considered to bear the moniker.
Such was evident when Pansy looked at the girl, whose tie pin bore not the Serpent of Slytherin, but instead the mark that had spread fear across Europe nearly fifty years prior - a triangle, with a circle and a line within, the mark of the Deathly Hallows.
The Mark of Grindelwald.
Her grandmother had been the original Vinda Rosier - the sister of Evan Rosier's father, but also the right hand woman of the Dark Wizard who was locked away in Nurmengard, the fortress Grindelwald had built with her help. Vinda herself had fled the war after her masters defeat, and her daughter had appeared some twenty years later, declaring her mother had passed, and reclaiming the wealth and prestige of being the offspring of the woman who had escaped the ICW and Albus Dumbledore.
Of course, the woman had come to light in Britain, where the ICW's reach was not nearly as great, nor was the government willing to arrest her for her name, like in France. Not that she would have been popular over there, given that she ascribed fully to the ideology of Grindelwald.
And now her own daughter was at Hogwarts, bearing the name of her infamous grandmother, and wearing the mark of the ideology her family believed in. How Dumbledore must have loathed making her Head Girl.
Stood over Rosier's left shoulder, yet in an unmistakably subservient position despite the potential implications, stood Louise Maxx, the on-and-off lover of Vinda Rosier, something that the so-called "Queen" of Slytherin had made public knowledge. It was a shame, really, that the Maxx family had fallen so far since their days as being considered pure enough to marry into the House of Black.
Now all they had was a half-blooded dyke to carry on their legacy, and she was being used as little more than a tool for the pleasure of Rosier - when some other girl didn't catch the eye of the Head Girl - in exchange for protection from the rest of the school. The Weasley twins had once tried to hit Louise with a bowels loosening hex, and had in turn nearly been handed their bollocks - only having them saved by Professor Snape ordering Vinda to stop.
Still - according to Rosier herself, the cadet branch she belonged to ascribed a Matriarchal ideology. The mother was all that mattered, not the father.
But on Vinda Rosier's right, in the final wing chair, sat the most ridiculous individual - at least in Pansy's mind.
Sitting in the armchair, sat as if it were a throne, was the out of place form of Daphne Greengrass, sat across from Pucey, and with the half-blood Davis over her shoulder, much as Maxx stood to Rosier. Had it not been for Potter being so close to Greengrass, Pansy might have made the remark that Davis was much as Maxx was - but there was also the small fact that Greengrass had hexed the ginger idiot Weasley for implying something similar.
Displeased with Greengrass as she may have been, Pansy wasn't itching to have her head shaved or her nose broken.
The rest of Slytherin, by contrast, was crammed into the remainder of the room, with the eldest standing closest to the front, if they had not enough standing to be afforded a seat. The further back one got, the less standing they had, leaving younger half-bloods truly excluded from the meeting.
A barely perceivable glance from Rosier started the meeting - the Head Girl's eyes had stopped languidly sweeping the room and had settled on the timepiece on her wrist. Almost any other person would have missed the implication, but these were Slytherins of high repour - they were expected to understand it.
"There are fifteen minutes before breakfast." The fact was stated more as an instruction - this would be kept brief, no matter what came to pass. Rosier glanced right, to Greengrass, her voice neutral and flat. "Are you able to confirm the rumours that circulated last night, Greengrass?"
This was the real kicker - at least to those who had not been there in person. Actual, solid, confirmation of the nature of Scamander's gift, from someone who was close to the girl herself. Daphne met the gaze of Rosier with little trouble, matching her expression in kind. "I can confirm that Stephanie Scamander is a Parselmouth."
A few soft breaths, some scattered muttering from the further back rows, and those more sceptical of the claim. Pucey's lips pulled a little thinner, the boy leaning forwards and narrowing his eyes - something that Pansy noted with a frown, following his gaze to look at Greengrass with as much perception as she could muster. Evidently, Pucey had seen something, and spoke. "How long have you known?"
There - Pucey's words turned the minute twitch in Greengrass' expression into a well hidden grimace. Her tone shifted when she spoke - ever so slightly chastised. "Since last year. The day I was petrified."
"And you didn't think to tell anyone?" Pansy grimaced at Draco's remark, subtly leaning away from the boy as the eyes of practically the entire room came to bear on the blonde boy. He had just given Daphne what she needed to respond and retake her position of authority.
"Unless you had forgotten, Malfoy, I did just say I had been petrified." The petrification was an... Interesting point in Slytherin. Some viewed it as a sign that no one was safe - that the new heir of Slytherin had been callous and cared not for blood purity, others viewed it as a sign that Daphne was to be considered unworthy of being in Slytherin. But some viewed it as an honour - that she would be so worthy as to gaze upon the avatar of Salazar's will and live to tell the tale.
Much to Draco's chagrin - when Daphne had been freed from her petrification, her authority in the house had actually gone up.
"Peace, Greengrass." Rosier's voice was chiding, but cut with amusement - and the cold, yet clearly amused expression on her face told Pansy that she had found the exchange to her liking. Beside her, Draco was stewing in impotent frustration and embarrassment, and Pansy barely cared. Rosier's words were more important, held far more sway. "Still, Malfoy brings up an interesting point."
Pucey gave a soft noise of amusement - and Pansy was briefly amazed that she could even hear such a noise across the common room, a testament to how quiet it was. "Indeed.. What does Scamander represent? Potentially a successor to the Dark Lord? Her word alone could make waves in the Wizengamot's more Traditional side."
"Are you suggesting the Dark Lord's ideology should be forgotten, Pucey?" Draco spoke again, and this time his words were more tactful and precise, garnering a few soft murmurs of approval from the gathered students. Pucey's expression pinched, and the boy straightened a little.
"Not forgotten, adapted perhaps. After all, the Dark Lord was defeated nearly a decade and a half ago - toeing the hard line won't work forever. Systems change, or they die, Malfoy. We are not our fathers." Pucey's gaze flicked to his left, sweeping across the front row of students, and once again, Pansy followed the gaze, taking in the sight of nearly silent approval at his words. That seemed to embolden the boy, who straightened up a little more, before gently easing himself back into the chair, openly relaxed at the support for his position. "A Parselmouth is the sign of not only pedigree, but power. If she can offer us a new path - perhaps even one where the Neutral faction loosely supports the Traditionalists, then that should be embraced. Curb the power of Dumbledore's ilk, temper their legislation. Control the Wizengamot."
His dark eyes flicked sharply to his right, staring across the room at Daphne. The blonde girl stared back for a handful of seconds, and a silent battle took place between the two, a silent contest to see whom had the upper hand in the situation - although Pansy felt the answer was already decided. Pucey wasn't suggesting something to Daphne, he was asking something of her, testing the viability of a thought. The potential of getting her father to agree, of getting his loose collection of non-aligned Neutrals to vote with the Traditionalists. Of getting Stephanie Scamander to agree to even a breath of this conversation.
In that capacity, it placed all the cards in Daphne's hands - but with Pucey holding the joker. He was practically forcing the blonde girl to do as he suggested by bending her over the table that was Slytherin house. To refuse would be to snub the entire house, and to destroy hers and her family's credibility.
Icy blue eyes narrowed at Pucey, and Greengrass leant back in her chair in a mirror of Pucey's post, steeping her fingers and humming softly in thought. She was making a show of it, but Pansy could tell - and hopefully everyone in the room could too - that Greengrass was picking her words carefully. When she did speak, her tone was measured. "Scamander is... Pliable, but will be unlikely to indulge in hard line ideology. The Neutrals will inevitably listen to the suggestions of my Father in exchange for favourable returns on legislation and trade."
"That would then be our collective task." Pucey's words were spoken to Daphne, but he turned his head the moment after to sweep his gaze along the crowd once again - driving the message home as much as he could. It was unnecessary, the message was very much clear to anyone with a working brain. This project was no longer a co-opted venture between the Traditionalists and the Neutrals - this was the task of Slytherin house.
"Touching." Rosier's voice was silky and smooth, drawing eyes back to her as she made another show of glancing at her timepiece, giving a soft sigh of satisfaction as she did so. With a simple motion that made the Hogwarts Uniform look entirely indecent, the girl stood and cleared her throat softly. "This is the house of cunning, but I shall say this anyway. Stephanie Scamander is instrumental to this whole venture."
A soft noise of amusement left her as she wore a smile that looked almost condescending, yet entirely predatory - as if she would like nothing more than to tear into anyone who disobeyed her. "Do not antagonise her. If possible, try be as friendly and respectful as you can be. Do not lose your temper or otherwise harass her, OR those close to her. If anyone does so, let it be known you will be held entirely responsible."
For a moment, Pansy's heart skipped a beat as Rosier's gaze swept over her as it crept to a halt - only for the realisation to hit a moment later that Vinda wasn't looking at her. She was looking to Pansy's right - and that meant that Rosier was boring holes through Draco's head with her gaze. She had a point, though. If Draco kept antagonising Potter, then this could scupper their ambitious plan very early.
But then Vinda did shift her gaze to stare directly at Pansy, and the barest hint of an eyebrow raise accompanied the gentlest movement of a head that Pansy had ever seen - but it certainly got the message across.
So.. This plan requires Draco to keep his ego in his pants. And as Draco's partner, I'm expected to keep him in line. And Rosier will hold me to that.
Pansy nearly whimpered in the silence of her mind.
I'm so fucked.