to be not to be~ draco malfoy ~ year two

parstletongue

I turned to see Professor McGonagall standing there, her expression unreadable but certainly tinged with a sharp curiosity. My heart sank. Oh crap. What had she heard, and what would this mean for our little investigative plan?

"Ms. Goldhorn, please accompany me to my office. We need to discuss a matter," Professor McGonagall said, her gaze briefly flickering towards Hermione. Clutching my books, I rose from my seat, my nerves fraying as I nodded to Hermione and followed the stern professor. The corridors seemed colder than usual as we made our way to McGonagall's office. Upon entering, I was met with the sight of Professor Dumbledore, who was seated beside her desk, exuding a calmness that contrasted sharply with my growing anxiety.

"Please, take a seat," Dumbledore offered, gesturing towards a plush burgundy chair opposite the desk. I complied, feeling the weight of their combined scrutiny as I settled down.

McGonagall resumed her position behind her desk, her expression serious. "Ms. Goldhorn, here at Hogwarts, we educate our students on a wide array of magical disciplines, yet we expressly forbid the practice of the Dark Arts," she began, her voice firm. I felt a chill run down my spine—she knew.

Dumbledore joined the conversation with a gentle tone that did little to ease my tension. "It was quite surprising to learn of your foray into such magic, Violet, especially given your usually exemplary conduct," he said, his blue eyes piercing. McGonagall nodded in agreement, and I found myself unable to meet their gazes, staring instead at my shoes.

"Dumbledore and I can sense when Dark Magic is performed within the school," McGonagall continued. "And your spell was distinctly powerful, marked by a unique magical signature that is unmistakably yours."

Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, his face thoughtful. "What was the nature of the spell you cast, Violet?" he inquired. I hesitated, aware that revealing the true nature of the spell could lead to immediate expulsion.

"It was a Hives spell," I lied, hoping the simplicity of my answer would deflect further inquiry. "I found it in a book in the restricted section by mistake."

"And did you have an accomplice in this?" McGonagall pressed, her gaze sharpening. I knew she was fishing for a confession about Draco, but I couldn't bring myself to drag him into this.

"No, Professor, it was just me," I responded firmly, prepared to shoulder the blame alone. The weight of their disappointment was palpable, and I braced myself for whatever punishment was to come.

"We do not plan to take severe action since it wasn't a major spell, but let this serve as a warning," McGonagall stated firmly, her eyes fixed on me. "You are strictly prohibited from engaging in any Dark Arts in the future. Is that understood?"

I nodded quickly, relieved beyond words that expulsion wasn't on the table. 

*

In the study hall, the air was thick with unspoken tension. I sat beside Abigail and Camille, stealing glances at the Golden Trio across the room. A group of students seemed to be casting furtive glances in my direction, their whispers barely concealed.

Unable to bear the uncertainty any longer, I turned to my friends. "Okay, guys, be honest with me. Do you think I'm the heir of Slytherin?" The question hung in the air, heavy with implications. Abigail and Camille exchanged thoughtful looks before responding.

"It's possible, but highly unlikely. You're not evil, Violet," Abigail reassured me, her eyes filled with genuine concern. Camille echoed her sentiments, citing the traditional traits of the heir of Slytherin.

"You're right," I acknowledged with a nod. My advocacy for Muggle rights and my belief in equality were stark contrasts to what was expected of the heir.

Just then, Harry abruptly stood up, his expression troubled. I felt a pang of concern. "Potter must know something; after all, he spoke Parseltongue too," I mused aloud, rising from my seat. Camille offered a word of caution as I hurried to catch up with Harry.

"Is something wrong?" I asked, trying to gauge his emotions. Harry's forced smile didn't fool me.

"I'm fine," he replied, but his eyes betrayed a different story.

"You're lying," I asserted, sensing that there was more to his unease. Without another word, we made our way into the hallway, leaving the study hall's oppressive atmosphere behind us.

"Blood... I smell blood..." The familiar hissing voice echoed through the corridor, causing Harry and me to freeze in our tracks. Our eyes locked in shared alarm; the eerie sound seemed to emanate from the very walls around us. With cautious steps, we edged closer to the wall, trying not to draw attention to ourselves.

"TIME TO KILL!" The chilling command rang out, sending a shiver down my spine. We quickened our pace, anticipating another petrification. Rounding a corner, the voice abruptly ceased. Hovering above us was Nearly Headless Nick, his spectral form frozen in a haunting stillness. A sense of dread settled over us as we noticed the petrified muggle lying nearby, his features locked in a silent scream.

"Who could be behind this?" I whispered, my heart racing with fear and confusion. Harry, undeterred, knelt beside the petrified figure, a move I immediately cautioned against.

"Harry, don't touch him!" I urged, aware of the potential consequences if we were caught tampering with the scene. Our fears materialized as Filch appeared behind us, his accusatory gaze sparking apprehension.

"Caught in the act," Filch accused, his voice laced with vindictive triumph. The threat in his words hung heavy in the air, and I knew we were in serious trouble.

"Wait, Mr. Filch!" I called out desperately, hoping to explain before things spiraled out of control. Meanwhile, a rustling sound caught my attention, and I turned to find Harry staring at a line of spiders scurrying away from the scene. Before I could process this new development, the arrival of McGonagall and Filch behind us signaled a grim confrontation. Our innocent inquiry had unwittingly plunged us into a web of suspicion and danger.

McGonagall hurried over to the petrified boy, her eyes scanning the scene with a mix of concern and disbelief. She then turned her gaze to us, her expression grave and unyielding.

"McGonagall, we didn't do this, I promise," Harry protested earnestly, his eyes pleading for understanding.

"This situation is beyond mere promises, Mr. Potter," McGonagall replied with a tone that brooked no argument.

-

McGonagall led Harry through the grand entrance of Dumbledore's office, a place that required special access to enter. As we stepped inside, the walls adorned with portraits of past headmasters greeted us, each one in a peaceful slumber as night approached.

The office was a spectacle of grandeur, with intricate decorations and golden sculptures adding to its allure. Yet, amidst the splendor, the bookshelves gathered dust, hinting at forgotten knowledge waiting to be rediscovered. "Professor Dumbledore?" Harry's voice echoed in the spacious room, his gaze darting around in search of the headmaster. The desk at the center stood empty, prompting Harry to approach and notice a staircase leading up to a balcony.

His attention was drawn to the corner, where the old, dusty Sorting Hat sat atop a pile of books, its fabric contorted into a face. "Got something on your mind, Potter?" The Hat's voice sounded as if whispering secrets. Harry hesitated, then leaned in, whispering his thoughts to the ancient artifact, wondering about his place in Hogwarts.

The Hat's response was measured and thoughtful. "Yes... you and Violet posed quite the challenge last year. Slytherin would have seen your ambition and resourcefulness shine." The Hat's words hung in the air, inviting Harry to reconsider his own thoughts.

"You're mistaken," Harry replied, a hint of defiance in his voice as he shook his head.