Serpentarium

BABBLING, BUMBLING BAND OF BABOONS
On the morning of the first day of December, Lucy’s schedule starts as it normally does, with her roommates ignoring her existence. While she understands and doesn't blame them for their coolness, it does make her long for the days of the past when she would stay up late chattering with Angelina about quidditch games and which Weasley brother would be the least disgusting to marry. Lucy fixes her hair into a French braid, her fingers moving of their own accord as her mind wanders to thoughts of her mother. On this day of all days, she doesn’t mind not having to speak to anyone. Normally, it is a task to brush past the discomfort of being the most disliked person in the room, but Lucy treasures the solitude. She tugs at the bottom of her thick, black jumper and smooths the front of her straight, black skirt. On this day, her black attire is as much for mourning as it is for her false persona. Any other day, she would be longing for the dove gray jumper and pewter pleated skirt that stay tucked in the bottom of her trunk.

She waits until the chattering girls filter out of the room before settling back onto her bed for a few moments of meditation before breakfast. A cold, numb brokenness soothes over her normally turbulent emotional state.

Too much; simply too much.

December 1st. Katerina Luciane Shafiq’s birthday. Normally, Lucy would be giving her a hand-made muggle birthday card, just as she always had growing up --- one without magic or moving words or sounds or surprise explosions. This is Lucy’s very first December without her parents, and even with her constant pleading with time to slow, it rages on. Lucy reaches under her pillow and withdraws the paper and glitter concoction that she had made. The cardstock crunches around the edges in her grip. Hugging it to her chest, she squeezes her eyes tight enough to see spots and focuses on breathing, letting each thought greet her and pass by until she has entirely missed breakfast and now has to rush to her first class.

Even Mary’s attempts at improving her mood are pointless. The dark cloud doesn’t dissipate as she moves through Potions automatically, her mind constantly reverting to memories of her mother; of the way she loved American style pancakes or the way she would scour muggle thrift stores for clothes, of her free spirit and wide smile, of how she would revert to speaking Bulgarian when she was cross.
By the time class is over, Lucy gives Mary a quick apology and rushes out, avoiding eye contact with each person she passes. The rest of the day consists of more of the same. Mary, Jess, and Suz leave her in peace during lunch, where she picks at the food and remembers picnic lunches with her mother. She almost doesn't notice Professor McGonagall’s approach.

“Ms. Shafiq,” she calls out in her lilting Scottish accent, clearing her throat and holding up her chin. “I assume that your housemates may have not informed you, but tonight after dinner, each house will be meeting. I am aware that you are involved with Slytherins, but you are expected to be present. Attendance is nonnegotiable,” she warns with a tilt of her hat-covered head.

Feeling the dread already, Lucy answers with a simple nod that seems sufficient enough, since Professor McGonagall makes her way back through the tables of the Great Hall.

“We have a meeting with Professor Snape as well. I wonder what the fuss is all about,” Suz offers through a mouthful of chicken.

Lucy doesn’t contribute to the following discussion of possibilities, not caring in the least. The quiet, lonesome sanctuary of her bed is calling to her, urging her to change into her favorite pajamas and sink into the mattress. The thought of burrowing under blankets and turning off her always working mind is the single handedly the most appealing activity she can think of. The mirth, the noise, and the bright light of the Great Hall grates on her frayed nerves and the little bit of self-awareness that she has left is telling her she is moments away from snapping.

“Excuse me, ladies. Rupert,” she nods her goodbye after abruptly standing from the table.

She makes a bee line out of the Great Hall, passing by a carefully watching George. Although she is already out of sight, George can’t quell the concern as he leans over to speak to Fred.

“Lucy looks upset. Isn’t today her mum’s birthday?” he whispers into his twin’s ear.

“Shit. It is,” Fred answers, his easy-going expression pinching with warring emotions.

“I should go talk to her,” George insists, rising from the table, only to be stopped by Angelina’s hand on his wrist.

“I don’t think she would want to talk to you, or any of us for that matter. If she wanted to talk to someone she would talk to her new friends.”

“Come off it, Angelina. You know that she needs someone right now. It’s only been six months!”
George nearly growls, remembering how his own mother cried herself to sleep over the loss of her best friend nearly every night the past summer.

“I didn’t say that she doesn’t need someone. I’m saying she doesn’t need us. She doesn’t want us.”

And didn’t that hurt them all as much as faking it hurts Lucy. George takes a breath before sitting again, pushing away his plate and crossing his arms over his chest.

“We all know that you fancied her, George, but she isn’t the same Pocket that we used to know. She isn’t our friend anymore and even though we are all gutted about it, there is no way around it,” Lee offers, completely surrendered to the realization.

“This is rubbish,” Fred huffs, now matching George’s posture.

“Yeah,” is George’s only reply.

As much as she longs to curl up in bed, Lucy opts to hide instead, just in case someone was to come looking for her. Lucy sits in the corner of a forgotten, drafty classroom plagued by cobwebs, not caring about repercussions for skipping Apparition Lessons and Advanced Transfiguration. She had fully intended to skip the mandatory Gryffindor house meeting, but soon before it, a letter flies into the room in the form of a paper airplane, squeezing under the door before flapping wildly to reach her. She huffs as she opens the parchment and is surprised to see a note from Snape.

“I am well aware of today’s difficulty. However, your presence was still expected at your afternoon classes. You are fortunate that your professors are far more lenient than I. Still, you will attend your house meeting as it may prove crucial to your assignment. I expect to have my verbal report at the end of the week, as per usual.
-Professor Severus Snape “

Snape’s message disappears in a ball of flame before she has a chance to reread the offending words. She clenches her arms around her torso and fights off the urge to stomp to Snape’s office and crush every little glass vial, every dried bone, every sample of sludge. And yet, breathing again, Lucy forces herself up from her hiding place and beats the dust from her skirt.

She wouldn’t want me wallowing in self pity.

So even though she is furious with Snape and longing to be alone, she makes her way to Gryffindor Tower.

As she stands in the ballroom-like chamber, with instrumental music tinkling in her ears, Lucy wishes that she had ignored Snape’s veiled warning and skipped the meeting altogether.

After enduring a lengthy lecture on representing Gryffindor house on the dance floor, Lucy is ready to try her hand at Transfiguring herself into a bug. At least then she would be able to say that she didn’t technically leave the meeting.

“The house of Godric Gryffindor has commanded the respect of the wizarding world for nearly ten centuries. I will not have you, in the course of a single evening, besmirching that name by behaving like a babbling, bumbling band of baboons!” McGonagall is shooting a sharp look at the Weasley twins, who seem to be entertaining their classmates as per usual.

The news of the Yule Ball, a special school dance to be enjoyed on Christmas night in honor of the Triwizard Tournament, would have filled Lucy with excitement if it wasn't for the instant strategizing that it called for. As McGonagall stresses the importance of propriety in such a social situation, Lucy considers her options and welcomes the distraction from her mourning.

I will have to secure a date with a Slytherin. With some careful maneuvering, I could very well finally get access to their common room.
McGonagall is calling Ron to her place in the center of the circle of students. At least the quick red blush on his face coaxes a small smile from Lucy and no small amount of giggling from the other students.

“Now, select a partner and follow my lead,” McGonagall instructs, sending the room into a flurry of students quickly grabbing for their crushes or best friends.

Some are even already asking their dancing partners to be their dates to the formal. Meanwhile, Lucy tries to blend into the shadows and hopes that there will be an odd number of students. The realization that Filch is also in the room and is a viable option for a partner has Lucy changing her tune, hoping that anyone would reach out and not leave her to contend with the sour smelling caretaker. Alas, George finds her quickly, holding out his hand to her, a soft smile on his face. Lucy only stares up at him, lost for a moment in the memory of her George-centered dreams.

“Come on, Pocket,” he whispers.

His sad tone has her taking a small step forward, on instinct.

The movement is enough for George to sweep her forward, gently clasping both of his arms behind her and effectively wrapping her in a hug. Even with the safety of his strong arms around her, she wriggles slightly.

“George, this is a cuddle, not a dance position,” Lucy whispers in a panicky rush.

“Weasley, Shafiq, this is a formal, civilized dance. There are steps for a reason,” McGonagall chides, swatting George’s arm with a rolled booklet of parchment.

“My fault, Professor,” George offers a small smile, having already put a respectable distance between them.

Lucy can’t help but notice how McGonagall squints in disapproval while still holding the smallest of affectionate smirks on her face.

That damn Weasley charm.

Taking position with one hand on her waist and one clasping her hand to the side, George begins to glide them in small, slightly unsure movements. Apparently satisfied, McGonagall leaves them be, singling out another couple to scold. Lucy lets him sway her about, fighting to ignore how he smells of speculoos biscuits and black tea and how gentle his grip is.

“You’re stiff. Relax,” George leans down to whisper in her ear, brushing his lips gently on the curve of it.

Relax she does not. If anything, she stiffens even more, fighting the urge to melt into his arms and let him traipse her about the floor. A flurry of laughter followed by a stern lecture draws their attention for a fleeting moment. When Lucy meets his eyes again, she nearly trips over her feet.

George is staring at her face with a look that screams one word...care. Not the pity filled looks like Mary, Jess, and Suz had offered, but a look filled with understanding, with empathy. His look satisfies her desire from earlier in the day; his eyes are like curling up in bed and feeling completely safe. Despite knowing that it is a bad idea, despite acknowledging that she needs to put physical distance between them in order to keep a clear head, she releases the tension one area at a time, starting at her neck and going all the way down to her toes.

“Just dance with me, Pocket. Forget about today for a bit,” he whispers again, close enough for his breath to swirl the soft hairs that had escaped from her braid.

And after that, there is no more fight in her.

Lucy lets him lead them in a slow, lazy dance, giving in to the smooth music and forgetting the other students in the room. They both disregard the designated steps altogether, instead letting the music decide their pace and footwork. For two teenagers, they display a great amount of ease. Ease that comes from knowing your dance partner so well. Ease that grew from years of growing up together.

His grip is loose in her hand, but the arm at her waist pulls her in snuggly. She sighs in mock annoyance but smiles as he playfully turns her only to pull her in tight again. Overcome by the obvious rightness of the moment, she fails to notice the many pairs of eyes that are latched onto them. What she does notice is how she can feel the warmth radiating off of him, how easy it would be to bury her face in the crook of his neck, and how he is grinning fully at her, the freckles that she adores crinkling around his chestnut brown eyes. His hand flexes or caresses up and down her waist from time to time, reminding her that it is there. Her own hand on his shoulder squeezes lightly in response, rewarded by his warm smile. The music swells and George dips her low without warning, for which she lets loose a barking giggle that has him chuckling.

She forgets everything; the loss of her mother, the weight of her stress, and the yearning for simplicity all fizzle and fade away. There is only Pocket and George; only two bodies moving together, stepping and swaying, swishing across the floor. That is, until Hermoine Granger’s voice cuts through her peaceful state with a clearing of her throat and a shrill comment.

“I hardly see how that sort of dancing is conducive to the purpose of this lesson.”

“Indeed. Weasely, Shafiq, you are excused. Your dancing skills are sufficient. Likewise…” McGonagall calls off a few names of other Gryffindors who don’t need more practice, but Lucy doesn’t hear, doesn’t listen, to those names.

She is too busy meeting George’s satisfied smile. Her own smile fades quickly as she pushes away from him, nearly stumbling.

What have I done?

His smile fades as well.

“I...I have to go,” she stammers, scurrying towards the exit.

George’s grip on her wrist stops her short. It's gentle, but firm enough to stop her from easily slipping free. Her face turns pleading, wishing she could communicate to him why she needs him to let her go.

“Pocket, I, I’m,” he stammers, the same panic on his face as is on hers, though for what reason, she does not know.

“Let her go, George. There’s no point,” Fred’s soft voice breaches the stare down happening between Lucy and George.

The fact that it is Fred that speaks only makes the pain that much worse for her.

George slowly releases his grip on her wrist, curling away one finger at a time until she is free. She grabs her satchel on the way out, shouldering her way past Harry and Ron, the latter of which chuffs in disapproval. She avoids the gaze of every person in the room and releases a shaky breath only after the room is far in the distance.

Needing somewhere to hide, to be away from prying eyes, to cling to that little bit of peace she had felt in George’s arms, she rushes to the secret tunnel entrance that would take her through the castle unseen and out into the night. Drawing her wand, she readies herself to disappear behind a tapestry when her path is crossed by Durmstrang Headmaster, Igor Karkaroff. She quickly shoves it into her pocket once more as Karkaroff’s steps slow to a stop.

“Dragana. Katerina’s daughter,” he muses aloud, a cloudy, dazed look in his eyes.

“Yes. I...go by Lucy, though. Lucy Shafiq,” she answers, uneasiness creeping over her at the sight of his half-seeing gaze and of how one hand is white-knuckle latching on his alternate forearm.

“I knew your mother. She was...she was Слънчице,” he muses in his thick Bulgarian accent.

“She was,” is all Lucy can muster up to say, recognizing the Bulgrain word for sunshine.

“I saw smile in Great Hall. Thought I was looking at my Katerina.”

“She went by Kate, actually. Kate Shafiq,” Lucy is losing patience with this man. Not only is he speaking of her mother when she wants to forget, but his tone is thick with possessiveness.

“She always Katerina Vulchanova to me,” he near-growls in an accent even thicker than before, making Lucy rear back in defense.

“I am done with this conversation, sir,” she nearly spits the last word. “Today of all days, I have no interest in talking to you about her.”

“Full of spite, just like your fath…” he begins to bellow, a few drops of spittle shooting from his rotten-tooth-filled mouth.

He crowds his towering frame into her personal space, but is promptly interrupted by a fast approaching Snape.

“Igor! That is enough,” Snape snaps out the words, his hand clapping onto Karkaroff’s shoulder in a gesture that is anything but friendly.

Karkaroff sends him a glare before stomping away, only after roughly shoving off Snape’s grip. Lucy seethes, hands clenching and unclenching at her sides as she glares up at Snape.

“He was in love with Mum, wasn’t he? While she was already married to Dad?” She demands an answer with her tone, but she already knows the answer.

“You needn’t concern yourself with the likes of Igor Karkaroff,” Snape sneers after glancing around the corridor with watchful eyes.

“I can’t do this today. I want to be alone,” she replies with a shaky voice.

The flash of sympathy in his eyes is quick, but there still, even for just a moment.

“I assume that you have a plan for securing a Slytherin date for the Yule Ball?” Snape asks, his voice low and flat.

“Yes. I have a plan. Now, I am going to my room. I am going to curl up in a ball and pretend that I have not pushed away everyone that I love. I am going to pretend that some strange man was not in love with my mother. I am going to pretend that I have the
freedom to mourn my mother on her birthday, in peace. Good. Night. Snape.”

She doesn’t listen to his angry, hushed retort as she walks around him and curves into a hallway. She hides in the shadows there until she hears his clopping, angry steps retreating past the entrance to the tunnel. She waits a few more beats before rushing over to the tapestry and pulling it back, withdrawing her wand and casting “Lumos!” before descending into the tunnel.

Lucy walks with earnest, hating the bitter cold and darkness of the tunnel. She doesn’t shriek as rats scurry past, or when cobwebs cling to her braid and to her robes. She can’t help but brush her shoulders on the damp, stone walls of the narrow space. Her blood is boiling with anger and frustration, drowning out the cool numbness that she had used to cope earlier in the day. Finally, the tunnel ends at a large, broken gap of stone wall, covered by a jagged boulder.
“Wingardium Leviosa!” she casts, her voice echoing off the stone surrounding her.

The boulder gives way, lifting and moving aside silently with the direction of her wand. Before stepping out into the snow, she charms everything on her from head to toe to repel the precipitation.

She blinks in the darkness of night, her eyes adjusting with the help of the bright moon glancing off the snow. She doesn’t light her wand, though, hoping to avoid being spotted altogether. Crunching along in the packed snow, she rolls her shoulders and stretches out her hunched position. She wastes no time, heading straight for the greenhouses as she brushes off the lingering cobwebs from her clothing and hair. She creeps more carefully when arriving at the greenhouses, peering in to make sure that no one is lingering. Satisfied that no one is about, she uses Alohomora to unlock the entrance and closes the door carefully behind her. She audibly sighs at the warmth of the room. Shirking off her robes, she makes her way over to the corner next to the Venomous Tentacula plants and deposits herself on the ground, using her folded robes as a cushion.

For a long while, she simply stares forward and relives old conversations with her mother. Lucy’s perfect memory recall is a great asset at times, but at others, she easily gets lost in the replays of conversations. This isn’t the first time since her parents’ passing that she has clung to those memories and even pretended that they were happening in real time. She is so engrossed in the memory of her mother’s last birthday that she doesn’t notice the person entering the greenhouse.

“Just what are you doing in here?” a very ornery looking Professor Moody is storming over to her hiding spot, his metal appendage near dragging through the dirt floor.

Lucy shoots up from her seat, mouth gaping open and closed as she tries to think of a valid excuse.

“I’m watching over the Knotgrass plants. Headmaster Dumbledore asked me to,” she rushes out the lie, hoping that the usually perceptive professor would buy her excuse. She had heard Professor Sprout in passing say that someone had been pilfering the plants; that she suspects a student to be brewing Knotgrass Mead.

Moody’s one good eye narrows on her, while the other mechanically enchanted one whirrs around the room.

“Aye. That is what I am here for. Dumbledore said nothing about assigning a student to watch over the greenhouses,” his hand clenches around the skeleton-like head of his cane.

“Maybe I misunderstood the schedule. I’ll just be on my way, then,” she smiles fakely and gathers her robes.

As she attempts to move past him, he juts out his cane to stop her path.

“Dragana Shafiq. Katerina and Maxen’s daughter, correct?” he asks, his eye still narrowed on her.

“Yes, sir,” she answers, feigning meekness and not bothering to correct him.

His tongue briefly juts out from his mouth, springing back in a quick, serpentine movement that draws a shudder from her. It reminds her of a snake sensing prey, but she does not allow anyone to make her feel like prey. Not anymore.

“I’ll just be on my way,” she insists, dropping her meek façade.

He doesn’t move his cane away.

“I knew your father. Maxen was a man of many...interests,” Moody says, his eyebrows lifting a fraction as he speaks.

Lucy, of course, knows the reason for why he is looking at her with speculation.

By ‘interests’ he means the Dark Arts.

True enough, Maxen Alexander Shafiq was born into a pure blood line steeped with prejudice, prosperity, and power. Being part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight wizarding families, the Shafiq family had been considered dangerous Dark Arts sympathizers up until
Maxen ruined the family legacy by marrying a Blood Traitor and renouncing any and all ties to he-who-shall-not-be-named. Maxen had waited until Lucy’s 16th birthday to explain this all to her and to finally tell her why he had accepted a professorship at Ilvermorny.
FLASHBACK
“Lucy, I know this is difficult to understand. But you are 16 now and your Mum and I believe that you deserve to know this part of your family history,” he explained.

“My darling, please, give your father a moment to explain,” her mother added, having noticed how Lucy stiffened.

“My side of the family prides itself in being pure bloods. Now, you know that your Mum and I do not believe in supremacy of pure bloods, but we can’t help that we were both born into pure blood families. The Shafiqs weren’t just supremacists, but they...well,
they more than dabbled in the Dark Arts for generations.”

Maxen paused to let the information sink in, only continuing when the shock faded from Lucy’s face.

“One of my biggest regrets in life is following my family’s legacy during my childhood and my time at Hogwarts. I’m not trying to make excuses, but still, it was all that I knew. I was pure blood, my friends in Slytherin House were pure bloods, everyone that my parents ever brought closely into my life was of pure blood. I didn’t see the wrong, not until the Spring before I met your Mum.”

He paused, a tremor in his hands as he pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

“A few of my friends had cornered a first year, a Hufflepuff muggle born. They tortured the child, not with spells or charms or hexes, but with their bare hands. They called him ‘mudblood’ and didn’t care that he didn’t even understand what the word meant. The sight of it...it was terrible. I didn’t understand how they could be so cruel, so evil towards the young boy. I used Petrificus Totalus on my friends and took the boy straight to the infirmary. That was the end of me having any friends. That is, until a certain Bulgarian beauty became a part of the exchange program.”

Kate rubbed a supportive hand up and down his back from her position beside him.

“That is why your grandparents on either side aren’t in your life. My parents disowned me for running away from their ideals, which are similar to your father’s family. We wanted you to know that they aren’t in your life because of choices we made, not because
they don’t want you. We didn’t want to let their hatred touch your life, so we forbade them from knowing you,” Kate explained, her voice soft and lightly accented.

“You think he-who-shall-not-be-named is coming back, don’t you? Your families think so, too. That’s why we moved to America,” realization lit in Lucy’s mind.

“We do, and we will do anything and everything possible to protect you.”
END OF FLASHBACK
Lucy brushes past the painful memory and refocuses on the wizard still blocking her exit. Deciding to lean into her potential Death Eater persona, just to be safe, she lifts her chin and speaks haughtily.

“I share many of his interests as well. But for now, I am mostly interested in getting back to bed since I am apparently not meant to be here.”

“Perhaps sometime we will discuss these interests,” he answers, drawing his cane away, still glaring at her suspiciously.

Her only response is a nod before nearly sprinting back to the castle, not bothering with a charm to protect her from the now pelting sleet.