So, picture this: I just dragged myself out of the Room of Requirement after a training session that beat me down harder than a troll stomping a first-year's sandcastle. Every muscle in my body's screaming like it's auditioning for the Hogwarts choir, and I'm soooooo wiped that it feels like exhaustion's taken up permanent residence in my bones. Lifting my head? Ha! Gravity's decided it's got a personal beef with me... and it's winning.
That's why we're smart enough—or maybe just lazy enough—to ditch training for the time being and set up a library meet at 6:00 PM instead. Ninety minutes of rest? Sure, if you call lying on bed like a dead flobberworm "rest." My arms and legs are about as useful as a niffler on a leash, and my magic? Picture a well that's basically a puddle with delusions of grandeur. Dried up, done, finito.
Frustrating as hell? You bet your firebolt it is. But—here's the kicker—it's also proof I'm not totally useless. By the end of the week, I might actually pull off some slick Transfiguration-in-combat moves—assuming I don't collapse into a heap of sweaty robes first. Progress, baby! Slow, painful, kick-you-in-the-teeth progress.
Now, let's talk about the real gut-punch: my magical reserves. They're pathetic, okay? I'm talking "I'm out of chakra faster than Kakashi after Sharingan!" levels of pathetic. They drain so quick I'm left huffing fumes while everyone else is still tossing spells like it's no big deal. And the worst part? There's no cheat code, no quick fix, no shady ritual to juice me up—well, there are, but I'm too young to mess with that dark mojo.
Plus, if old Albus-Many-Names-Dumbledore—with his crooked nose, blue peepers, and paranoia longer than his beard—caught wind of it, he'd squint at me like I'm the next Tom Riddle reborn. "Oh, look, another death-dodger in the making!" Nope, not dealing with that mess. So, it's just me, time, and a whole lotta grit, slogging through practice while magic flips me the bird and says, "Take your time, loser."
Stumbling back to the dorm was a freaking odyssey. I barely scraped myself together for a bath—scalding hot, because if I'm gonna suffer, I might as well melt the pain away. The water hit my rock-hard muscles like a charm, turning me from a statue back into something vaguely human. Then, the second my head hit the pillow—bam! Sleep tackled me like a tidal wave, dragging me down to Morpheus's VIP list. After that soul-crushing training, dreamless rest wasn't just a mercy—it was a bloody miracle.
5:50 PM – Gryffindor Dormitory
So, I peeled my eyes open, groggy as hell, my brain still tripping over the leftovers of sleep like a drunk stumbling through Knockturn Alley. Good news? My body didn't feel like a herd of pissed-off hippogriffs had tap-danced on it anymore. My magical reserves? Fully topped up—like I'd finally refilled the tank after running on empty. That bone-deep "I'm gonna die" fatigue? Gone, baby, swapped out for a razor-sharp clarity that almost made me feel like a functional human being.
Almost functional.
I staggered through the common room, dodging clumps of students who were already nesting for the night like a bunch of gossiping owls.
Then—bam!—a voice sliced through the chatter like a hex, stopping me dead.
"Ashborn!"
I froze mid-step, turning to see—of all the clowns in this circus—Kenneth Towler posted up with the Weasley twins, Spinnet, Johnson, and Jordan. Arms crossed, eyes drilling into me like I'd just broken his favorite broomstick, he looked ready to drop some dramatic courtroom accusation.
His tone? Not friendly. Not even "eh, whatever." It was that special flavor of "I am gonna kick your arse" that people whip out when they think they've cornered a rat.
"You were doing Potions with that snake today, right?"
The venom dripping off his words was so over-the-top, it was almost impressive—like I'd been caught selling Dumbledore's secrets to Voldemort instead of just stirring a cauldron with some Slytherin gal. I mean, props for the commitment to absurdity, dude.
I arched an eyebrow, half-shocked he'd picked this hill to die on. But if he wanted to play interrogator, fine—I'd toss him a bone.
"Yes," I said, keeping it short and sweet, 'cause why waste breath on this nonsense?
Lee Jordan jumped in with a scoff, strutting up like he was the backup dancer in Kenneth's grand inquisition. "You were pretty chummy with her, mate. We want to know why."
I blinked, then let out a sharp huff through my nose—like a dragon too bored to breathe fire. Oh, fantastic. This crap again.
"She was my Potions partner," I said, voice smooth as silk, cool as a winter breeze over the Black Lake. I sounded like I was explaining Quidditch rules to a particularly dim first-year—calm, precise, and just a touch too over it to care.
Jordan's face scrunched up like he'd bitten into a sour candy gone wrong. "But she's a snake—a Slytherin!" he spat, hurling the word like it was the ultimate mic drop.
I fixed him with a stare—long, slow, and deliberate—letting the sheer idiocy of that line flop around in the silence like a fish out of water.
Then, with all the effort of flicking dust off my robes, I drawled, "And?"
The posse in front of me started squirming like they'd sat on a nest of ants—irritation spiking because I wouldn't give them the freakout they were begging for. Me? I stood there, cool as ice in a heatwave, completely unfazed by their playground drama. Elegance isn't just a vibe—it's my whole damn arsenal, and I wield it like a champ.
I'd scoped the room the second I walked in, gliding behind a sofa with the finesse of a shadow on velvet. It wasn't just a shield—it was my stage, a spot to watch these clowns trip over themselves. They were all puffed up, acting like they were the big shots circling a cornered newbie, but I wasn't here to play prey. If they wanted to flex, I'd let them—right up until they figured out I'm the one running this show, calm as ever, with a smirk that says I've got juice left in the tank while they're just burning hot air.
The Weasley twins leaned in, arms crossed, eyeing me like I was some chess piece they were about to prank—sharp grins and all, like they were having way too much fun watching me dodge this mess.
Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet stood there, hands on hips, looking like they couldn't decide if I was a moron or just pissing them off for sport. Lee Jordan, though? That dude was a volcano about to blow—face going tomato-red, practically steaming from the ears.
And Kenneth Towler, the genius who kicked off this circus? Stiff as a board, fists balled up like he was one wrong word away from swinging, trembling with rage he could barely choke down.
"She's a Slytherin, Ashborn!" Jordan bellowed again, cranking the volume like decibels could turn his nonsense into gold.
I didn't even twitch. "And?" My voice slid out smooth and flat, eyes locked on him—bored, unbothered, and dripping with "try harder."
"And Slytherins are snakes—backstabbing, scheming, power-hungry jerks who'd trade their own mom for a shot at the top!" Kenneth barked, his voice so tight it sounded like he'd snap his own vocal cords. Dude was committed to this tantrum—gotta give him points for passion, if not brains.
Fred Weasley tossed in a lazy smirk, lounging like he was narrating a comedy show. "They'll hex you the second you turn around. Best case, you're just a puppet in their twisted little head games."
"Or worse," George chimed in, matching his twin's chill vibe, "you get too cozy, and next thing you know, you're nodding along to their crap."
The whole squad bobbed their heads like they'd just dropped the most bulletproof argument Hogwarts had ever seen. I mean, bless their hearts—they tried.
I let out a slow exhale, like I was mourning the last shred of brainpower in the room. Still, I kept my game tight, raising one eyebrow like a king humoring peasants. "Agreeing with what exactly?" My tone was pure velvet—calm, cutting, and so unfazed it probably made their blood boil harder. I wasn't here to dance to their tune; I was the one calling the shots, and they'd figure that out soon enough.
Angelina crossed her arms tight, like she was holding in a rant. "That blood purity garbage, for starters."
"That all us Gryffindors are just reckless dumbasses," Alicia snapped, her words sharp and short, like she'd already sentenced me.
"Or that ambition's the only thing that matters, and friendship's just a ladder to climb over," Lee Jordan sneered, his face still doing its best impression of a ripe tomato.
I let a silent sigh slip through my nose—kept it classy, though every inch of me was screaming to groan at this circus. House rivalries? Sure, I get it—team spirit and all that jazz. But this? This was next-level stupid, loyalty cosplaying as some grand moral crusade while tripping over its own feet. Idiots in lion costumes pretending they'd cracked the code to wisdom.
I leveled my gaze, voice steady as a rock, cutting through their noise like a knife through butter. "I sat next to a Slytherin for a Potions class. I teamed up with her to finish a dumb assignment—same as you paired up with whatever warm body was closest. That's it. End of story. But here you are, losing your minds like I've sworn a blood oath to the Dark Lord himself."
Boom—the "Dark Lord" line hit them like a slap. They jolted, tensed up, some even flinched like I'd flicked a spark their way. Real brave Gryffindors, huh? Shaking in their boots over a name while I stood there, cool as a breeze, watching their whole tough-guy act crumble. Pathetic.
Kenneth's scowl went full storm-cloud mode, his face darkening like he'd just bitten into a lemon laced with spite. "You don't get it, do you? That's how it starts. One little chat, then another, and boom—you're out here defending their twisted logic."
I leaned forward just a hair, peering over the sofa like a hawk sizing up a bunch of squawking pigeons. My eyes cut through them, sharp as a blade, but my voice? Pure silk, sliding out smooth and deadly. "Or maybe—just throwing this wild idea out there—not every Slytherin's a card-carrying dark wizard waiting to ruin your day. Maybe if you pulled your heads out of this adorable tradition of blind, mouth-breathing panic, you'd see they're not all plotting your downfall over tea."
Alicia let out a scoff so loud it could've woken a hibernating troll. "Oh, sure. Next, you'll say Travers and Yaxley are just misunderstood teddy bears."
I gave a short, dry chuckle—zero warmth, all edge—then tilted my head, flashing a smile so sharp and friendly it could've sliced bread. "Hardly. But if your big-brain move is writing off a whole house because of a couple of smug, no-talent losers like Travers and Yaxley, then congrats—you're putting on a masterclass in mimicking the pure-blood snobs you swear you hate."
My tone stayed light, almost cozy—like I was offering them a cuppa while I gutted their logic. But those words? They dropped like bricks, heavy and precise, no yelling or hexes needed. It was worse—I held up a shiny little mirror, polished to perfection, forcing them to clock their own hypocrisy in glorious detail.
And oh, they felt it. Their faces froze, stiff as statues, hands balling into fists like they wanted to swing but knew they'd already lost. Caught red-handed, and I didn't even break a sweat.
Jordan lurched forward, face screwed up tight with rage, practically spitting as he snapped, "You think you're better than us, Ashborn?"
I didn't budge. Didn't even flicker an eyelash. My voice rolled out, smooth as a fireside chat. "Yes, I do think I'm better. It's hard not to when I lean on logic instead of whatever drooling, fanboy meltdown you've all perfected."
Jordan's jaw clamped shut so fast you'd think he'd chomped his own tongue off. His face twisted—fury sparking in his eyes like a misfired hex—but nada came out. Zip. Zilch. My words didn't just brush him off; they sliced through his puffed-up ego like a hot knife through butter, leaving him stewing in his own silence. Too deep, too clean—good luck climbing out of that one, buddy.
Kenneth, though? That dude wasn't ready to tap out. He suddenly roared, voice dripping with venom, "You're a Gryffindor! That means you stand with us against them!"
I turned my gaze on him, slow and steady, like I was checking if he'd just taken a Bludger to the skull. Then, with the patience of a saint talking down a toddler, I said, "I don't remember swearing off my own brain to join whatever groupthink trainwreck this is. Did the Sorting Hat sneak that into the fine print?"
"WE ARE LIONS!" Jordan erupted, voice booming through the common room like he thought shouting could glue his dignity back together. "AND LIONS STAND TOGETHER!"
I tilted my head just so, a flicker of amusement playing on my face—like I was humoring a kid who'd just learned big words. My tone dipped low, soft, almost tender. "Lions don't waste their claws slashing at shadows because they're too dumb to pick a real fight, Jordan. They play it smart. But go on, keep roaring your heart out—it's adorable, truly motivational stuff."
The condescension in my voice hung thick, like a fog you could choke on—every word a gentle, merciless gut-punch to their self-righteous little meltdown. Jordan's fists balled up at his sides, his face flaring red, so much that it almost changed his complexion to Weasley's hair, but his mouth? Locked shut. Not a peep. I'd snuffed him out—clean, cold, and complete—like stomping out a candle that never had a chance.
Kenneth, though, was still buzzing like a hornet with a grudge. He stepped up, hissing through gritted teeth, "You just don't get it, do you? This isn't about 'logic'—it's about loyalty! You're either with us or with them!"
I let out a slow, deliberate huff through my nose, then hit him with a stare you'd give a troll who'd just tripped over its own club. "Oh, I get it, Towler. It's hilarious watching you preach this with a straight face—especially when the only real threat here is that gaping hole where your self-awareness should be."
I sighed, shaking my head like I was genuinely bummed out for him, voice oozing with fake pity. "Such a shame, really. You'll never wrap your head around it—not with that brick wall you call a brain. Asking you lot for a shred of reason is like waiting for a troll to drop a sonnet—cute to imagine, but a total waste of everyone's time."
The air in the room turned electric, tension spiking like a storm about to break.
Jordan's face twisted into a snarl, fury finally boiling over, and—before anyone could blink—he yanked out his wand, aiming it square at me.
For one glorious heartbeat—dead silence.
I didn't flinch. Didn't even twitch an eyelid. My eyes locked onto Jordan's, steady as steel, radiating "try me" vibes, while my hand slid to my wand—quiet, smooth, ready. "You don't get to call my shots," I said, voice cool as a winter night. "And you sure as hell don't get to scare me into swallowing your garbage."
"You're ditching your house," Jordan snarled, his wand grip tightening like he thought it'd make him look tough.
I huffed through my nose—short, sharp, and dripping with "you're not worth my time." "If this is your idea of Gryffindor pride, then maybe I'm not vibing with your whack take on team spirit."
I turned to bounce—done with this circus—
But then—
A yell. A blur in the corner of my eye.
My gut screamed "move!"
I ducked—fast, clean—and a spell zipped past, close enough to ruffle my robes.
I straightened up slow, every move calm and on purpose, like I had all the time in the world. My sharp blue eyes zeroed in on the genius behind it—Kenneth Towler, wand still half-up, panting like he'd just sprinted from a dragon.
For a long, thick beat, I just stared—face blank, giving him nothing. Then, slow as molasses, I smiled. Not a "hey, buddy" smile. Not even a "ha, gotcha" smirk. This was ice-cold, calculated, the kind of grin that says "you're already toast."
"Well, well," I mused, voice light like we were chatting over tea, "I thought Gryffindors were supposed to have guts. Not spineless little sneaks who chuck spells at someone's back."
Towler's grip on his wand went vise-tight, knuckles popping white, but that just made my point louder.
(A/N: Next Chapter coming in an hour. Enjoy this one. And do comment how did you like this writing style.)