Serpentarium

DESTINED FOR DARKNESS
Seated in Potions class, Lucy tries to hold her chin high as the Slytherins around her stare, some out of curiosity, others out of spite. Their whispers slither into her ears and grate on her raw nerves, and yet Lucy merely readies her cauldron and flips her fresh braid to rest along her spine, making sure to avoid it falling into the cauldron or fire as she had seen happen to novices in the past.

“Open your books to page 134. Today we will be completing Herbicide Potion. You are 7th year students. I trust that you will not dis-ap-point me,” Snape announces as he walks in, never stopping with a greeting or smile for his students. The serpentine whispers are replaced by the sound of his aggressive footsteps and flapping cloak.

“Not all of us are 7th years, Professor,” a tall, wiry blond speaks up, causing Snape to stop his parade to the front of the class. He turns on his heel and stares down at the young man with utter indifference on his face.

“Indeed. Not that I owe any explanation to you, but this term Ms. Shafiq will be joining 7th year classes. Now, page One. Hundred. Thirty. Four.”

She half expects a glance of support from his direction, but his face remains as cool and uncaring as always. Lucy wordlessly goes about crushing the 4 lionfish spines with her mortar, not bothering to open her Potions textbook. The familiarity of the work washes over her; the twisting of her wrist and the crunching sounds of the spines breaking down acting as a balm for her anxiety. Using her hands had always been a way for her to escape the depths of her mind.

She had made this very potion several times at school in America to aid with an overgrowth of ground ivy on campus. Apparently, a student decades ago accidentally cast a multiplying curse on the plant and they had been managing it ever since. She has her ingredients mortared, mixed, and heating in the caldron before any other student, so she relaxes and flips through the potions book, despite having already memorized it. She lets her gaze occasionally flit about the room, which lands her attention on the girl sitting nearest to her. The student is frantically skimming the instructions, trying to ascertain why her potion isn’t bubbling. She catches Lucy watching her and sends a look of pleading eyes and scrunched eyebrows, even clasping her hands together as if in prayer. Snape is occupied scolding someone for bringing a cracked mortar to class, so Lucy quickly scoots her chair close and peers into her cauldron. Instead of a soft green liquid, hers resembles more of a thick, black tar.

“I don’t know what I did wrong,” she whispers hurriedly, looking over Lucy’s shoulder to make sure that Snape isn’t watching.

“Show me your wand movement, without the wand.”

She shows a quick whip of her wrist, revealing the problem.

“I think that’s your problem. Redo your ingredients and I’ll help you with your wand movement.”

Lucy takes hold of her wrist and gestures it, smiling when the Slytherin’s face lights up.

“Snape’s coming!” Lucy whispers and scoots back to her spot before Snape approaches to check the work of the students in her section.

“Ms. Baker. Is there a reason that you are grinding your ingredients again?” he asks in his customary monotone voice.

“I muddled my wrist movement, Professor. I will get it right the next time, sir,” she stammers.

“Well then, proceed. I will wait to observe your wand movement so that you do not waste more time.”

Lucy, as well as the rest of the nosy students, watch with bated breath as she swishes her wrist perfectly, her potion changing into a bubbling liquid the perfect shade of pea green. Snape peers down into her cauldron, giving a stiff nod.

“Adequate. But Ms. Shafiq, you will do well to remember that although you are advanced in your potions experience, I am the Professor in. This. Classroom. Ten points from Gryffindor for showing off. You will both stay after normal class time until Ms. Baker’s potion is tested.” With a flourish of his long, black cloak, Snape stalks around to finish checking the other students.

“Sorry for getting you in trouble. I’m Mary, by the way. Mary Baker, ” she smiles.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m Lucy.”

“You have been in America for the past few years, right? I think I remember you at your sorting ceremony. Everyone wondered if you would go to Slytherin or Gryffindor since your dad is one of us.”

“He was. He was a very proud Slytherin,” Lucy voice replies like a recording, hollow and rehearsed.

“Oh, I forgot. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. But yes, I was sorted into Gryffindor, but I wish it had been Slytherin. I feel like I belong more to Slytherin now, anyway. And most of my classes will be with the Slytherin house this term.”

Lucy takes notice of Mary’s surprise at hearing a Gryffindor denounce their own house, and so her plan slowly takes root.

“You should sit with me at lunch sometime, I’ll introduce you to some more Slytherins,” Mary smiles warmly and Lucy can’t help but feel a quick stab of guilt. Still alert, still working, Lucy notices that their conversation is being listened in on by two rough-looking boys, so she pushes her agenda one step further.

“That would be great. I’d really like to finish my time at Hogwarts as a Slytherin, but Dumbledore refused, the old bat,” she explains, loudly enough for the boys to hear, adding an eye roll for effect.

The pair of them chat discreetly about America, quieting only when Snape is within ear shot. As Lucy’s potion finishes brewing first out of the class, she instructs Mary to watch as she finishes it off with Horklump juice, Flubberworm mucus, and careful stirring. With a final flourish of her wand, her perfect Herbicide Potion is complete. Snape’s beady eyes peer over her shoulder as she bottles it and takes it to the table of potted plants, pouring a splash on one of them per Snape’s instruction. The class murmurs surprise when the plant instantly disintegrates, leaving behind no trace.

“Adequate, Ms. Shafiq. However, henceforth, leave the instruction to me.”

Lucy returns to her seat, Mary congratulating her sweetly with a double thumbs up and a cheery smile. An odd mix of disappointment and elation fills Lucy as she realizes...there is no way that someone so kindly-natured is a possible Death Eater. Mary’s potion is still brewing when the last of the students tests his on a potted plant. Snape scolds him on its weakness before dismissing the class and taking a seat at a dark oak desk, flourishing his cloak behind him as per usual.

By the time Mary’s potion is finished and tested, Lucy has only minutes to make it to her Divination class, which will be a combined class of 6th year Gryffindors and Slytherins, a true challenge that she has no time to prepare mentally for. Her brain is empty of everything except making it to class, a quick reprieve from the guilt and regret accompanying her thoughts of George. As she walks briskly at a near run through corridor after corridor, she checks her wristwatch and hopes that she will make it to the North Tower in time. She arrives at Professor Trelawney’s inefficient, trap door classroom entrance, scurrying in a moment before the stairs to the attic space magically fold away. The students seem to turn and look at her all at once, which is unfortunate since she is near panting and scrunching her face at the perfumed air of the room.

“Ah, Ms. Shafiq. Come, come. Sit, sit,” Trelawney orders from her small, cluttered desk at the head of the room.

Lucy’s eyes scan the room, finding two seating options out of the cluster of velvet-draped, three person tables; one is a table where Fred and George sit as Fred balances a teaspoon on the tip of his nose and the other is a table with two equally handsome boys, both Slytherin. She takes a deep, steadying breath as she approaches the Slytherins’ table. As much as she yearns to look to George and give him an apologetic smile, she resists. Instead, she settles her book on the table and gives the boys a polite nod.

“Hi, I’m Lucy,” she offers in a hushed tone as Professor Trelawney has already begun apprising the class of the ins and outs of subconscious predictions in dreams.

“Yes, we know,” the sallow, brunette boy announces impolitely, paying her presence no mind at all as his eyes are fixed on a point across the room.

“Sorry about him. That there is Rupert. People call him Necro, though. I refuse to, of course. My name’s Rob. Robert Pyre,” the much more amicable boy introduces himself, flashing a bright smile right away.

Lucy doesn't know if it is how his brown skin glows with the reflection from the fireplace or if it is how brilliantly wide his smile is, but she instantly likes him.

“Necro? That’s an odd sort of nickname.”

Rupert, which is what Lucy insists on thinking of him as, only chuffs and leans back in his chair, crossing his spaghetti arms over his chest and feigning extreme interest in the fireplace mantle.

“Well his last name is Mancer, you see. He thought it was funny back in the day. Sometimes when I’m cross, or when I’m in a particularly pleasant mood, I like to call him Gecko instead of Necro, which is always a nice addition to my day,” Robert smiles again and Lucy can’t help but lightly laugh.

“Ms. Shafiq, I hardly see why falling eternally is a topic to laugh about,” Professor Trelawney says, shoving up her spectacles, which is the most domineering act that she is capable of achieving.

“My apologies, Professor,” Lucy voices sickly sweet, earning a half smile from Rupert.

“My dear, I taught you in 3rd year Divination, did I not?” She asks, her thin face taking on a far off look.

“Yes,” she answers, not liking the professor’s turn of posture one bit.

Without warning, Professor Trelawney takes hold of her hand and yanks it to her face so quickly that Lucy has to stand to avoid getting her arm dislocated. Trelawney bobs her head around like a curious bumblebee, her bug-like eyes cataloging the lines of Lucy’s palm.

“Yes, yes, I do remember this palm. Still the same, but, oh dear,” she dribbles on before hastily dropping Lucy’s hand and stumbling backwards.

Even though Lucy is relieved to have some measure of distance from her cloying perfume, she is not happy for the attention that is singularly focusing on her.

“Oh...oh, my. I see a changed future. So much darkness surrounds you. So much potential for...DEATH,” she practically shrieks while the rest of the class either snicker or roll their eyes.

Lucy, however, can’t help but feel a heavy weight settle in her chest. On instinct, she glances over to George’s table and finds him staring directly at her, no smile or teasing evident on his face. His jaw is clenched, in direct opposition to his twin’s playful ghoul noises and wagging fingers.

“I’m afraid, my dear, that you are marked. You are destined for darkness, child!” she exclaims, a swooning back of hand on her forehead, though it is difficult to discern if it is due to excitement or horror.

A part of Lucy wants to beg her for more information. Another part wants to chuckle at the mere absurdity that is Professor Trelawney. Questions she is desperate to ask the professor flit through her head, but she doesn’t ask any of them. Instead, Lucy considers how a would-be Death Eater would react to such an ominous prediction.

“Very well, then. I quite like the dark,” she performs the response carefully, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms over her chest. She throws in a mock-spooking tone and a patronizing wink for good measure.

The majority of the class laughs quietly, even surly Rupert, but Professor Trelawney is clearly not amused as she turns on her heel and marches back to her desk. When the bell sounds announcing time for lunch, Lucy uses the noisy chatter to disguise the deep breath in and out that she takes. That heavy weight in her chest still hasn’t dissipated. She avoids eye contact with everyone while scurrying out, only to freeze and paste on a smile as Robert calls out for her attention.

“Oi! Lucy! Gecko wants to know if you’d like tuh have lunch with us,” he offers, his megawatt smile still infectious despite her anxious mood.

“Sure. You know Mary Baker? She’s a 7th year,” Lucy asks.

Robert’s eyes seem to drift to dream world as Rupert smirks.

“Yeah, I know Mary. Rob really knows Mary,” Rupert laughs full out now as Robert gives him a shoulder shove.

“Well, I met her earlier in Potions. She asked me to sit at lunch with her sometime.”

“I know that I only met you, but I am begging you. Please, please, introduce me to her. Please, be the savior I’ve been waiting for,” Robert pleads, his hands clasped in front of him as her dramatically drops to one knee.

“You’re a 6th year and you’ve never spoken?” she asks, trying not to outwardly laugh at his puppy dog eyes.

“This bucket-a-mush’s been in love with her since year one. Every time she gets close, he scurries away like a little field mouse,” Rupert laughs, demonstrating a field mouse running with his pale, willowy fingers.

“She’s the best Slytherin Keeper there ever was. Best there will ever be, I reckon. We’re all gutted, of course, that we won’t be able to see her play for the last time this year,” Robert muses and Lucy can’t help but picture little pink hearts forming a halo above his
head.

“Very well, then,” she tells the pair, fighting back laughter as Robert pumps his fist into the air.

In the Great Hall, Lucy follows behind Robert and Rupert, the romantic and the cynic, the broomstick and the bludger. Her eyes appraise the tables. Although sitting with one’s own house’s table is not enforced at mealtimes, the majority of the students abide by the idea of separation; just as they do in most other aspects of school life. The only students that typically stray from the unspoken norm are the rare inter-house couples that usually take turns alternating between house tables. Lucy realizes that sitting at the Slytherin table on her first official day back will turn heads, but it is a weight of attention that she is willing to bear. As she approaches the table, Rupert continues on as Robert slyly falls behind, his audible gulp reaching Lucy’s ever-attentive ears. Mary catches a glimpse of her and waves frantically from her spot at the table. Lucy waves back just as she feels a quick tug on the back of your robes.

“I can’t! Not today,” Robert whispers hurriedly before scurrying back to the entrance, remarkably similar to a field mouse, after all.

As Lucy approaches, the pretty blonde scoots over, beckoning her to sit. Curious faces wait for some explanation of her presence, some friendly, some malicious. To her surprise, Rupert sits next to her.

“This is Lucy,” he introduces in his never-could-I-possibly-care tone.

“Did you make it to your second class on time? Thank you so much for helping me. I don’t even know why I am in that bloody class. I’ve always been rubbish at Potions. I plan on becoming a historian, after all.”

Mary jabbers on and Lucy pictures her after graduation, pouring over ancient runes in some dusty, forgotten room at the Ministry of Magic. For some reason, the thought of the athletically lithe, tanned girl sitting behind a desk is wholly ridiculous to her.

“I made it, and don’t worry about it. And if you ever need help after class, I can always meet you somewhere,” Lucy offers.

She fights the urge to cross her fingers under the table, hoping against hope that Mary will offer up her common room.

“That would be brilliant!” she exclaims, beaming and completely unaware of Lucy’s ulterior motives.

Lucy waits a couple of beats for her to offer up the Slytherin common room, but she doesn’t. She only takes another bite of her sandwich and looks over Lucy’s shoulder at Rupert. Lucy watches as Mary leans forward slightly, seemingly to peer behind Rupert before she rights herself and smiles again.

“These are my girls, Jess and Suz,” Mary announces as Lucy processes her disappointment over the lack of invitation.

The girls offer a genuinely friendly, albeit simultaneous, greeting that reminds her of how sometimes Fred and George speak at the same time. Before she can stop herself, Lucy is glancing past the Beauxbatons table and searching the Gryffindor table for George’s face. She quickly averts her eyes, though, as a platinum blond boy approaches.

“Baker, is this Gryffindor bothering you?” Draco Malfoy sneers, his hands leaning next to Mary’s plate on the table.

The tips of Lucy’s ears warm at his haughty expression, at the way he is eating up Mary’s personal space. She doesn't much care for how Mary shrinks away from his presence or how Jess and Suz are clenching their hands and staring him down.

“Oh, piss off, Malfoy,” Suz interjects.

Lucy looks to Mary with an expression of support, but Mary’s face is pink as she tucks her hair behind her ears.

“Draco, this is Lucy. Now...be nice,” she insists weakly.

“Oh, I know who she is. I know all about her. Daughter of the best Slytherin seeker that ever lived, after me, of course. Shame he had to go and marry that Gryffindor blood traitor,” he spits, a poisonous viper, and Lucy reacts just as she had practiced.

She shoots up from her seat, fists clenched. She is scowling as she points her wand directly between his eyes, holding her chin high.

“My father was a Slytherin through and through. He and my mother always saw our pure blood line as exactly what it is. Superior,” she states with a menacing calmness, all the while touching the tip of her wand to the now sweating spot between his eyebrows.

Quiet gasps of shock reverberate across the table, just as she knew they would. Her heart pounds in her chest for what feels like the millionth time since Lucy returned to Hogwarts. Still, her hand remains steady as Snape stalks over.

“Ms. Shafiq. Lower. Your. Wand,” he states with a voice dripping with malcontent.

She does as instructed, tucking her wand back into her robe pocket but not looking away from Draco, who had turned white as a sheet.

“Ten points from Gryffindor. And detention. Dungeons after your last class,” he barks before stomping away.

“My father will be hearing about this,” Draco exclaims, the color seeming to rise back into his face.

“For your sake, I certainly hope that he doesn’t,” she answers, leaning forward in a mock whisper that allows the other students to hear.

When she sits back down, Mary is gazing at Lucy as if she had just won the Quidditch World Cup and was waving it about in her face.

“I can’t believe you just did that. Do you know who his father is?” she whispers, pushing her plate away.

“I know. Lucius Malfoy does not scare me,” she replies.

In truth, the man definitely strikes fear in Lucy, just as any blindly cruel, narrow minded man with unlimited resources would.

The rest of the day passes with students giving her quick glances before darting their eyes away. It is a miracle that she manages to keep her spine straight and chin held high despite the ever-present glances and murmurs. The words that she had spoken in front of them all, that her pure blood line is superior, make her feel like the worst kind of despicable. The outright lie about her parents’ beliefs haunts her and she finds herself hoping against hope that they are not watching, hearts broken over her straying from their teachings of equality and compassion. Apparently, the entirety of the Great Hall had heard about her outburst either directly or second hand. By the time she walks into Apparition Lessons with her fellow 6th year Gryffindor students, not even one speaks to her, no one offering even a fraction of the warm welcome from the night before. Not even Fred or George offer a greeting. She stands at the edge of the circle of clustered students and clutches tightly to the strap of her bag, pushing her anxious energy into the hand that grips the leather strap. Lucy silently assures herself that everything will be okay again and again, as she had been doing since she dipped her first toe into darkness with the simple word “superior.”

Madame Hooch calls for the attention of the class, explaining how while this special elective class will teach Apparition, protective wards will prevent any of them from apparating outside of the classroom walls. While she stresses the importance of safety and careful attention, most of the students are too excited to take note. Lucy doesn’t listen carefully due to the fact that she had already mastered Apparition at Ilvermorny. This advantage is clear as she doesn’t struggle with the process like her housemates seem to. This further seems to heighten their whispers of dissent.

“Oi, Shafiq! What’re you playing at? Why are you even in this class?” Dougal McTavish postures up to her after failing his fifth attempt at apparating, an attempt which had him sprawled onto the classroom floor as if he had been trying for a handstand that ended in a painful fish-like flop.

He is coated in a thin layer of sweat, made all the more noticeable by his ruddy face. He stalks up to Lucy, clenching his fists, but she doesn’t fold under his gaze. Instead, she simply crosses her arms and leans against the wall.

“It isn’t my fault that they teach Apparition at a younger age in America,” she states plainly in as bored of a tone as she can muster.

He doesn’t seem to see through her small lie. Ilvermony doesn’t teach the subject until 7th year. However, her father had taught her during his free time on school grounds, which allowed her to work around the underage magic rule in America.

“Well, my mistake then, Your Highness! Forgive me for not knowing about your superior education,” Dougal spits angrily, his face blooming redder and redder.

The stored memories her mind flash forward as she squares her shoulders in feigned confidence. She first met Dougal at the sorting ceremony and had three shared years in Gryffindor alongside him. A muggleborn, he would always regale the Gryffindor common room with stories about his muggle life. Her brain sifts through his stories as he stands before her, still posturing and puffed.

Both of his parents were originally from Scotland but moved to London before he was born. His father works at King’s Cross Station in London and his mother owns and works in a bakery near the station. His mother sends boxes of pastries and sweets for Dougal to share with his housemates every year without fail.

She strategizes a response, remembering his every weakness, strength, and insecurity. Lucy pushes away the sick feeling in her stomach as she coldly calculates, just as she must for every person she encounters. As she processes, only a blink passes, and although she knows of the exact words to say that will solidify the image she is trying to portray, she says nothing.
Lucy isn’t ready to, isn’t strong enough, to say a harsh word about the sweet-natured woman that she can remember chatting with her mother at Platform 9 ¾; the woman softly blowing her nose into a pink lace handkerchief and accepting a consoling hug from Kate Shafiq. Lucy can’t bring herself to say a single thing about the woman that carries the moon in Dougal’s eyes.

“Why don’t you ease up, Dougal?” a voice from across the room calls out and she recognizes immediately that it belongs to George.

“You can’t be serious,” Dougal whips around towards George, his mouth agape.

“That is quite enough. All this distress is hindering the learning process. Ms. Shafiq, you are excused from the rest of today’s class,” Madam Hooch announces, cutting her sharp, hawk-like eyes in Lucy’s direction.

It seems that maybe even she had heard about what Lucy said at lunch.

Lucy spends the rest of her time that would have been in class in her dormitory. Sitting cross legged on the bed, hands on her knees and eyes closed, she focuses on meditating and pushes away the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Snape had begun her Occlumency training months ago, and Lucy has a strong suspicion that they will engage in a mental war during her upcoming detention. She attempts to wash her mind clean of every thought, every memory, every strategy, and every bit of information she had stored about her mission so far. But every time she almost achieves complete clarity, George’s face fills her mind and with it, everything comes rushing back. Exasperated, she falls back onto the mattress and spins her vine-wood wand between her fingers. When the tin of the school bell meets her ears, she makes her way down to the dungeons, hoping against hope that Snape will not insist on Occlumency training.
After a dragging walk through corridors and down stairs, Lucy hesitates outside of the dungeon designated as Snape’s office, dreading the lecture that she knows is impending.

“Stop dawdling. Detention awaits,” his cold voice reaches her through the ancient wood door and her face heats before she pulls it open with no small amount of difficulty.

Seated in a solitary chair, she can only wander her eyes around the dark room and fight off the shiver at the cool draft assaulting her. She wonders if he might have her endure an hour of awkward silence. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t acknowledge her presence in any sense. She can only sit and brush invisible dust from your robe.

“Report,” he finally solemnly orders, without bothering to lift his eyes from the parchment that he is studying.

He seems paler than usual, his eyes less focused. A small spark of concern for him ignites in her, despite his general lack of pleasantness.

“I have embedded myself with five different Slytherins and have managed to disparage my reputation on multiple occasions, both in the classroom setting and otherwise.”

“And yet you have made yourself an enemy of Draco Malfoy, an individual that you were instructed to grow close with, to earn trust from,” Snape explains as if she is not painfully aware of the misstep.

“I did, but I will fix it, I promise,” she rushes out, angry that this ambivalent man before her is able to draw such a sense of accountability from her.

A great space of time passes without Snape uttering another word, leaving his spy to stew over what he might say next. She shivers again in the cool dampness of the dungeon, wishing she was at least shivering with the sky above rather than half rotted, wooden beams and damp stone. The only sound is the drip drip of water somewhere nearby as a draft billows the bottom of her robe. She looks at anything other than him, squinting to read the labels of the potions behind his desk.

Varying types of fascinating but eerie ingredients pepper the shelves; jars of dry bones and tiny glass tubes of slimes in every color, things that once had faces and things that were harvested from dead creatures. Dry herbs hang on the edges of the shelves and sway slightly with the same breeze that is chilling her toes. She squirms a bit in her chair, not uncomfortable at the sight of the potion ingredients, but rather tortured by the tense quiet. Such a long amount of time passes in complete silence that she is convinced that the rest of the detention will be spent without conversation, until she feels the oppressive force of his mind against hers.

The breath she takes is sharp and sudden as she slams down the walls around her mind, fighting off sickening wrenching at her memories. She fights a whimper as a headache blooms behind her eyes, but she is too strong, too determined to allow him see what had happened with George. He continues to use Legilimency to pry for her memories, but her Occlumency is strong, strong enough to shut him out completely. It seems like a painful eternity before she feels his retreat.

“Next time, remember to allow some memories to be accessed. The most powerful Occlumency is undetected when the aggressor is given some controlled access. Keep that in mind for our next lesson and practice not wincing. You are dismissed,” he brushes off her presence with a weak gesture of his hand, still not having met her gaze once.

She squeezes her eyes against the pounding pain in her head and stays seated in the rickety chair. She takes a shaky breath, trying to gain the strength to stand. Overwhelmed with exhaustion, she slowly lifts herself, taking her time.

“Go! Now!” Snape barks, clasping a white-knuckled hand over a spot on his forearm.

The malice in his tone is enough to shock her into rushing out of the room. Lucy is well aware of Snape’s aptness for cruelty and crankiness, but that never stopped her from believing him to have a place for her in his heart. She believed in him, because her parents had loved him enough to leave her in his guardianship. She takes the long walk back to the dorm in a rush, trying to shake off the iciness of the encounter. As she walks the stairs, she can’t help but wonder, why her warm, sunshine mother would want
Snape to be guardian to anyone. Not for the first time, Lucy questions why her mother wouldn’t choose her own best friend, Molly Weasley, to look after her. Shaking off the thought, she finally makes it to her bed and collapses into it, giving in to exhaustion.