CHAPTER 19

Putting on my finest mask of elven superiority, I straightened up, clasped my hands behind my back, and strode toward the squabbling group a few meters away. Suddenly, Zacharias's hand landed on my shoulder.

"You want to get mixed up in this?"

"Should I ignore an attack on my sister?"

It seemed he'd forgotten Hermione was my sister, but he quickly caught on and dropped his hand. Meanwhile, from known facts, an understanding of sentient beings' clichéd thinking, and other tidbits, a thread of dialogue—and its potential branches—began forming in my mind. At this rate, the part of the elf adept at navigating council decisions and high-society maneuvering in cutthroat settings might fully emerge.

"I'm quite surprised," I said in the cold, faintly majestic tone the Elders used to chide a brash, three-hundred-year-old upstart like me.

My entrance instantly drew eyes. Clearly, they weren't used to an outsider crashing their house spats.

"Even, to some extent, dismayed. The heir and sole son of the Malfoy family seeks a half-blood and a Muggle-born from another house with such earnest diligence," I said, adding a near-imperceptible shake of my head in disapproval.

The gesture was subtle—barely visible—but registered subconsciously.

"What?" The blond stared at me, baffled.

"Hector!" Hermione, of course, recognized me, though she gaped with equal confusion.

"Ah-ah-ah," Malfoy said with mock realization, shaking his head. "A Mudblood's brother—makes sense."

I nearly laughed, watching him glance at his cronies for backup. Two hulks guffawed sycophantically, while the other Slytherins chimed in with light chuckles, observing keenly. The most vocal supporter was a girl with a near-black bob—the first one I'd pegged.

"I heard from my father," Malfoy turned his sarcasm on me, "that you were a vegetable from birth—only started talking a couple months ago. No wonder you landed in the House of Dimwits. Shouldn't you scurry back to your filthy pigsty?"

To my surprise, my typically non-confrontational housemates moved to step forward and retort, but I halted them with a single raised hand—oddly, it worked.

"I was indeed ill, but look at yourself, heir," I said, closing the distance, gazing at Malfoy with haughty pity and universal disappointment. "Here I stand—healthy, sane, neat, polite—and you? What's this dockworker's jargon? That carelessly thrown-on robe, loose tie, wrinkled shirt with an unbuttoned collar?"

"My robe's worth more than everything you own," Malfoy snapped, flushing red.

Catching myself enjoying this as much as he relished goading Gryffindors, I pressed on: "Indeed. I've heard the heir of Malfoy is the unofficial leader of great Salazar Slytherin's house, where the nation's elite study—the best of the best."

The shift threw him off, but my words landed on the fertile soil of his baseless pride, nearly making him puff up his chest.

"Yet if the house's face is a foul-mouthed, ill-mannered slob, what does that say about the rest? Are pure-bloods truly so grand in principle?"

His mood flipped again, and I seized the pause.

"You can gift-wrap dragon dung, but it won't change what's inside, Heir Malfoy."

"You…" The blond yanked out his wand and aimed it at me.

I didn't flinch—not an eyelid twitched. A protective barrier construct was ready in my mind, just in case. Another reason for my calm was the professor I'd glimpsed at the feast creeping up like a silent shadow—all in black, robe billowing, greasy dark hair clearly treated with something. He loomed over Malfoy like a hawk.

"What's going on here?" he asked in a quiet, oily voice, prompting Malfoy to hastily stow his wand.

"Nothing, Professor," I said with a tight smile. "Just chatting."

The professor fixed me with a piercing stare from his dark eyes.

"Mr. Granger—no sooner enrolled than already stirring trouble."

He spun sharply, his robe flaring, and with a flick of his hand, the heavy wooden classroom door swung open.

"Come in," he said dryly, standing at the entrance, glowering at each student as they filed past.

Once inside, Justin gave me a light poke in the side.

"Well, you sure did it."

"It'll happen on its own," I shrugged, scanning for a seat.

The classroom was dark and chilly. Charts of ingredient compatibilities and similar materials lined the walls. Along them stood cabinets filled with unsettling glass jars—various animal parts floating in what was likely a magical formalin analogue.

With keen eyesight and sharp memory, I spotted my cauldron on one of the student tables. Yes, they all looked alike, but I'd memorized every chip and polish line on mine—mass-produced yet hand-finished, as I'd noted. Without hesitation, I claimed that table and began unpacking my Potions supplies from my backpack.

"Hector," Hermione said, swiftly sitting beside me and locking eyes. "Do you know who I am?"

"That's the grandest question a brother could ask his sister. Of course I do—and I even remember, though not everything."

She flushed but rallied quickly, seizing the moment as others settled in.

"I'd like to—"

"Miss Granger," the professor's voice cut in from beside us. "Who gave you permission to switch seats in my class? Take your place."

Hermione bristled but evidently knew better than to argue with this professor. She trudged off dejectedly. I turned to him, catching sight of a brunette in Slytherin robes beside him, staring from my now-vacant spot to him in confusion.

"Do you require a special invitation, Miss Greengrass?" the professor asked.

"But—"

"Didn't you claim, just last year, that with a Potions partner, you'd never score below 'Outstanding'?"

"I—"

"Then don't waste my time—take your seat beside your long-awaited partner for the next three years."