Is That Your Final Answer?

The following morning, Oleandra got up early to avoid having to speak to Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode, with whom she shared her dormitory room. Millicent had gained even more weight over the summer, which had aggravated her snoring problem— in turn keeping Oleandra from getting much sleep.

And so, half an hour later, Tracey and Daphne came up the stairs from their own room to find Oleandra busy scribbling a runic inscription into her winter earmuffs.

"Is Draco around?" Tracey asked, swivelling her head as she searched for the blonde boy.

"Something you need to tell him?" asked Oleandra, looking up from her handiwork.

Tracey shook her head.

"More of the opposite, really," she said anxiously. "I just remembered this morning that Harry wanted me to pass on a message— with everything that happened last night, it had completely slipped my mind."

"They're both overreacting," said Daphne lazily. "It's nothing to worry about."

Oleandra carefully studied the two girls' faces— Daphne appeared as unconcerned as Tracey looked worried.

"Well, it's about Draco— Harry reckons he became a Death Eater," said Tracey, lowering her voice into a whisper. "Harry eavesdropped on Draco on the train, and he overheard him mentioning that You-Know-Who had ordered him to beat Daphne."

"Really," said Oleandra, unconvinced. "Voldemort asked him to do that?"

Oleandra was all but certain that Daphne's body housed a fragment of Voldemort's soul. Her sister had been turned into a Horcrux, an artefact anchoring Voldemort to this plane of existence— so why in the world would he want her killed?

"I don't know," said Tracey helplessly. "I'm just telling you what Harry told me."

"So, Voldemort's grand plan this year," said Oleandra sceptically, "is to have Malfoy thrash Daphne with a Beater's bat, or something? I don't buy it."

It was like a game of Chinese whispers— Draco had probably said something more-or-less meaningful back on the train, but the message had become distorted after passing through two messengers.

"I told you there was nothing worth worrying about," said Daphne.

"Malfoy's about as threatening as a Flobberworm," said Oleandra loudly, having just caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye. "Or a Puffskein, at the very worst."

Oleandra grinned at Malfoy in a manner she meant to be taunting.

A flash of anger crossed Draco's face, but instead of drawing his wand or retaliating with his usual sharp tongue, he simply stalked out of the common room, flanked by his cronies Crabbe and Goyle.

"Well," said Oleandra, turning back to her companions. "That's no fun."

"Very mature," Daphne commented drily.

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After a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon and toast, the girls lined up with the other sixth-year Slytherins in front of the staff table, waiting for Professor Snape to finalise their timetables. The man would usually not bother handing them in person and instead have Slytherin's prefects take care of it for him— but this time, he could not escape his teacherly duties.

"Chip off the old block, aren't you, Mr Goyle?" said Professor Snape scathingly. "And no," he added, watching Gregory Goyle's expression gradually brighten up, "that was not a compliment."

"Er…" said Goyle dumbly. "Okay…?"

Professor Snape sighed. Despite being decidedly brighter than his best friend Crabbe, Goyle still hadn't mastered the concept of sarcasm.

"I daresay it's a miracle the man can even manage talking and remaining upright at the same time," Daphne commented. "I don't think I've ever heard him string more than three words in one go."

Oleandra looked at her sister in surprise— talking out of turn in front of Snape was a surefire way to get detention. And speaking of which, poor Tracey had earned herself an entire month's worth of Friday afternoons in detention, thanks to her stunt with her flying car…

"I'm afraid you'll have to repeat your fifth year, just like your father before you," said Professor Snape drily, surprisingly choosing to ignore Daphne's comment. "If you work at it hard enough this time around, perhaps you might even achieve enough O.W.L.s to count on one hand."

Professor Snape handed Goyle his timetable and shooed him away.

Unsure of where to go, a confused-looking Goyle slowly gravitated towards Malfoy, who was standing a bit farther behind in line.

"Next," said Professor Snape, eyeing the bored-looking Daphne standing in front of Oleandra.

Since Oleandra and Daphne shared their surname, Daphne would always go first when it came to being called by alphabetical order, because of their given names. Names had power— and Daphne always got to go first…

"Nine Outstandings, and a single Exceeds Expectations in Arithmancy," said Professor Snape emotionlessly, cross-checking the courses Daphne had applied for with her O.W.L. results. "You are cleared to proceed with your choices. Next."

Daphne left without saying a single word, and Professor Snape's gaze landed on Oleandra, his lip curling downwards in distaste.

"Miss Greengrass, the Ministry's darling poster child…" he said softly, his voice dripping with contempt. "I must confess, I am surprised to see you here—given your lofty accomplishments, I would have thought school to be far beneath your notice."

"I'm here, aren't I?" Oleandra replied coolly, meeting his gaze head-on.

The two of them glared at each other, until at last, Professor Snape was forced to break eye contact to bring up Oleandra's papers.

"Let's see… apart from a fail grade in History of Magic," said Professor Snape, an ugly smile forming on his lips as he read about Oleandra's failure, "you may pursue all of the classes you've applied for, namely… Potions, Transfiguration, Herbology, Charms, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Care of Magical Creatures, Study of Ancient Runes and Alchemy."

Professor Snape briefly consulted the year's class schedules.

"Quite the busy timetable," he commented, "but unfortunately, it would appear that a scheduling conflict has arisen— Defence Against the Dark Arts or Care of Magical Creatures— you must choose one or the other."

"Care of Magical Creatures," said Oleandra, her gaze unwavering.

Professor Snape looked at her strangely.

"Miss Greengrass," he began, "while I would not usually care to offer advice—"

"If Voldemort's the best the Dark side's got," interjected Oleandra, snatching her timetable out of Professor Snape's hands, "then I think I've got things handled. Good day, Professor."

And with that, Oleandra turned on her heel and walked away.