𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓡𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓟𝓸𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓼: ǟ ʀɛǟʟɨȶʏ ֆɦɨʄȶɨռɢ ȶǟʟɛ ✤ ֆɛʋɛʀʊʂ ҳ օƈ

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑅𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝐴𝑝𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛

"Congratulations, students! Your exam is in three weeks. Before we wrap up the last few classes, I must cover the legal, health, and safety terms."

About a third of the Slytherins abruptly dropped to the floor. Other houses shot disapproving gazes as the rest of Slytherin house exchanged looks, then followed suit.

Niamh's legs ached from standing during the apparition lesson, when they haven't even resumed the actual practice yet. She dropped to the floor, smoothing out her robes. Slytherin didn't have a bad idea.

Eventually, those closest to her slowly settled, along with the whole sixth year.

The instructor seemed oblivious, anyways. "I'll begin," he said in his quiet, tiresome voice. "Though legal, the ministry encourages pregnant witches to avoid apparition." He paused a moment, since nobody acknowledged or reacted. "Next, we have the issue of influence. Can somebody---yes, Miss Granger?"

"It is illegal to apparate or ride a broom under the influence of illegal or sedative potions, unless prescribed by a Potions Master or licensed healer. People must have a BPC, or Blood Potion Concentration of no more than 0.23% when they apparate or fly," Hermione paused, breathing. She stood amongst the rest of the sitting student body, shortening the entire fifteen-minute discussion into one minute.

For once, Niamh appreciated her interference.

"This law is enforced to prevent splinching, apparating to physically crash into somebody, or apparating in public Muggle areas. A fine of 100 galleons and/or suspension will be placed on your apparition license if committed."

The old instructor pulled down his tiny glasses. Across the hall, he squinted at the lesson paper in his hands. "Essentially! My, my, we are ready to resume apparition practice! 20 points to Ravenclaw!"

Hermione opened her mouth. "Actually, I'm in Gryf . . ." she eyed Niamh. She closed her mouth.

Thanks, Niamh mouthed. Severus had been particularly cruel in his point deductions this year, enough that even Gryffindor wasn't last.

Ravenclaw was.

Soon they had found themselves in the chaos of practice. Think. She merely progressed five meters within her destination. She fixed the stained glass window as her focal point.

Crack.

Again, she landed before the staff table. She needed to land behind it. In the real world, an inaccuracy of five meters might be five kilometers.

Niamh reimagined the stained-glass window, and how her feet should land squarely beside it. She backed all thoughts away, convincing herself there is no other destination.

Niamh tried various techniques, to little progression. The license exam lurked soon, and if she failed, she would not endure months of limited transportation.

It's simply that, her mind refused to be silenced. Held on to a certain image.

She closed her eyes, trying the same method to easily conjure her Patronus. A method not so different than reality shifting.

Crack.

A tangle of robes blinded her as she weaved out. A hand wrenched her shoulder. "Sorry Nevil---"

But her eyes met cold, dark ones.

Niamh's arms were wrapped around Severus's frock-coat of a waist, buried beneath his robe.

She retreated back.

Severus stumbled, as her foot had pinned his cloak. He wrapped his robes protectively around himself, leering down at her.