chapter five,
defence against the dark arts
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NEARLY A MONTH INTO THE TERM, and Daphne is totally fed up with the entire curriculum!
( With the obvious exception of music. She adores music. )
To put it simply: there seems to be the itching feeling of brain rot seeping into her skull the second she sits down and opens her books in just about any class. Completely zoning out at her desk has become her familiar friend, as well as ignoring all the warnings spat at her like sharp cherry pits. It's not Daphne's fault at all that the words in her nonsensical textbooks blur together into nothing before her eyes, or how impossible it can be to make any sense out of Flitwick's handwriting when it's written in smudged chalk — actually, now that she's reflecting on it, maybe she just needs glasses. But the point is: even with Lily Evans' antagonistic approach to tutoring being hammered into her skull, nothing seems to be truly connecting the stray puzzle pieces in her scatterbrain.
In her own defence, Daphne's mind has been somewhere else completely! She's drowning in a maelstrom of demerits and rumours, well aware of the whispers that surround her like a persistent storm cloud. Everyone at Hogwarts seems to enjoy gossip, leeching off the slightest fault or hiccup in Daphne's life which in turn crowns her as the pariah of her year. Besides, grief still has her asphyxiating in it's iron fist, which makes it hard to look into the mist of a crystal ball without seeing the headstone that haunts her every time she closes her eyes.
And to all that, she says: Je m'en fou!
The rain clouds outside had dissipated into a bleak angelite sky, a woodland choir rustling amongst the curling bracken. Mud from the stormy weather lingers in the very crevices of the grass to speckle her once-sparkling shoes, the weather's apparent vendetta against her as prominent as ever. Other students lounge on the grounds and turn the still air into a mixing bowl of respective boredom and laughter. There are a few ripples streaking over the surface of the murky loch before them — an indication that life swirls in it's depths. Even Romeo's out chasing a red admiral down the hill with a jingling collar, tripping over his racing paws as his trinity of tails swish in excitement at the rain's absence.
Stevie clasps her sister's hand reassuringly from where they're nestled on her discarded robes, spending the remainder of lunch skimming rocks across the Black Lake the way their late grandfather had taught them to. Her shirt sleeves are rolled up to her elbows and her shoes are speckled with dew from the grass, brown curls twisting around her face.
"I'm sure it's not that bad," she reasons, mulling over Daphne's woes in her head.
"Well, that's easy enough for you to say, ma petite monstre," Daphne huffs, plucking the petals from a daisy. "Everyone at this school acts like the sun shines out of your arse."
"That's not true!" Stevie protests.
"Puh-lease. We've not even been here for a full term and people are already falling at your feet as if you're royalty. For the love of Circe, the bloody teachers are starting to swoon over you too."
Stevie scowls. "S'il te plait, tais toi. You know that's not true."
"Alright," Daphne relents. "I believe you. But at least you don't need a tutor. I think she genuinely loathes me. When she isn't insulting me, she just patches me altogether!"
"Are you certain you're not just paranoid?" she asks gently, scratching behind Romeo's ear. Tentative; almost as if she were prodding a hibernating grizzly bear. "Maybe she's just tense about exams or something daft. Have you tried being nice to her?"
"Of course I have!" Daphne shrieks like a banshee, garnering the attention of the people nearby. "She just deflects all of my attempts and starts being a nasty cow for no apparent reason. Our exams are months away, as well, so that's hardly an excuse," she points out.
Stevie throws up her hands exasperatedly. "Well, I don't know," she says calmly. "Give it time, I suppose. She could cheer up eventually. What was that saying mum used to tell us?"
"All things pass," Daphne choruses helpfully, ignoring how her heart sinks at the mention of their mother.
"There you go!"
Fluffy clouds darken with a foreboding spell of rain on the horizon, the once clear skies heavy with precipitation. Everyone is starting to drag themselves back indoors — wary of the rain but reluctant to go to their classes, caught up in an emotional tug of war. Daphne already feels that if she gets up, she'll collapse from exhaustion, optimism wearing thin. And it's only Tuesday!
"Your advice is shite, but I won't hold it against you," she sighs, twisting to check her watch. "Eugh, I've got to run. I have a class with that new wanky Defence teacher."
Stevie wrinkles her nose teasingly. "I heard from someone that she's a vampire. Beware of biting, Daph."
"You're so annoying," she mutters.
"And very lovable."
Her receding figure makes a crude hand gesture as laughter chases her all the way up into the castle, ringing in her ears and drowning her sorrows until the bell plagues her with it's cry.
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PROFESSOR ACHERON IS AN interesting character, to say the least.
Her classroom is swathed in moth eaten curtains, black candles and skeletal sculptures, the air thick with an overpoweringly ominous energy. A cobweb is being threaded together on the ceiling as if it were fine embroidery, and there are various trinkets that appear to be from Acheron's ventures around the world strewn amongst the scattered documents on her desk. There's a bookshelf tall enough to skim the ceiling towering high above everything else, an abundance of texts collecting dust on it's broad shelves. Her decor mirrors her dark hair and pitch black eyes, the blood red lipstick curving over her lips standing out against the tenebrous room. Daphne isn't one to lean into gossip, but she has to agree that Professor Acheron does have a suspiciously pointed pair of canines.
She stands in silence at the front of the classroom, red talons tapping against the mahogany of her desk. Daphne sinks into her chair a little, withering under the steely glare that sweeps the room.
"Good afternoon, Sixth Year," she drawls jadedly, her Greek accent thick. "I'm Professor Acheron and I'll be your teacher for this term. Does anyone have anything to say, or shall we go ahead and begin the lesson?"
"Miss, is it true that you're a vampire?" one of the Ravenclaws at the back of the class shouts out disruptively.
Her expression twitches in agitation, what little patience she had snapping in two. "Perhaps you should concern yourself with an after school detention rather than rumours you've heard through the grapevine," she threatens. "Or are you able to put your head down and get some work done?"
"Yes, Professor," he mutters.
"That didn't sound like an apology."
He blanches. "Sorry," he says slightly louder.
Acheron regards the rest of the classroom with a glint in her eye. "Well? Does anyone else have something to add?"
The silence is deafening.
Daphne has to admit that Professor Acheron's approach to teaching is more enrapturing than others when you brush past how utterly terrifying she is. The topics that teachers would usually try to dance around are unable to evade her lessons: the odd mention of black magic or even the controversial whispers of war up for discussion. Despite all the debates being thrown around freely in the four walls of her classroom, she left no room for disrespect and always seemed to have a way to shut down any conflict that's beginning brew. Apart from the killer smoky eye she could do, there isn't anything about Acheron that truly stuck out as... well, killer.
Although she's ( shockingly ) enjoying Acheron's lesson, the bell ringing is sweet music to Daphne's ears, but as she packs her things away she can feel the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. She peers up from the depths of her bag meekly and meets the Tartarean irises she had been avoiding all period.
"May I have a word, Miss Charpentier?" Professor Acheron prompts, her tone flat.
Daphne's mouth gapes like a goldfish's but she manages to dip her head into a nod.
Acheron leans on the chair parallel to her own with that same void expression playing on her face. "I've been told that you've been having... difficulties in your classes."
Her pen taps against the table's surface, an ink stain blooming navy on her finger. "Yeah, I get a bit distracted," Daphne admits begrudgingly. "I'm trying to make it better."
"Is that right?" she murmurs. Acheron leans forward slightly. "Charpentier, I don't believe in bad students — only poor teaching. And I don't like to doubt my skills as a teacher, so I suppose what I'm saying is: if you need to go over anything, I'll be in my office. Don't be a stranger."
Daphne can't find the words, so she just nods awkwardly again and says a simple thank you. She takes that as her cue to get out as quickly as possible, rushing to meet Cian where he had been waiting on her at the door. He doesn't bother being nosy, which is something she's eternally grateful for.
Whilst Cian's busy making a joke about the copy of Carmilla he spotted on Acheron's desk, Daphne can't stop herself from trying to pick away at the trust that's inevitably building with her Defence teacher: to pinpoint every flaw so that she didn't fall into the bear trap of faith, resigning herself to shadowy mistrust. She curses herself for relying on a stranger that she'd only been taught by for fifty minutes. Accepting the sanctuary extended to her by someone who isn't remotely familiar to her. Daphne looks for goodness in people against her own will, straining against Acheron's extended kindness in the hopes that it could shield her from being wounded.
She doesn't want to be hurt again.
authors note!
writing dialogue is the bane of my existence
this is soo rushed and makes no sense and i feel like every chapter is starting to be just another filler chapter but maybe i'm overthinking it lol xozoxoxox
tysm for reading 🫶🫶