Chapter 115 - The Slytherin Choir

Draco was really good at whistling.

He could even whistle entire tunes.

Right now he was whistling a jaunty little melody, striding toward Praeris with big steps, looking exactly like a teenage delinquent from around Tulip Street.

"What's that music?"

Praeris tilted her head up from her chair.

Draco grinned. "I'll show you a magic trick."

"If I recall correctly, aren't we wizards?" Praeris said, exasperated. "Fine, fine. Go ahead."

Draco held out his left hand. "See? Nothing there."

"Mm-hmm."

Draco held out his right hand. "See? Nothing there either."

"That's right."

Draco clapped his hands. With a pop, a crown-shaped silver badge appeared, engraved with the words: "Weasley Is Our King."

Praeris smiled in spite of herself, not bothering to expose the clumsy "magic trick" for what it was.

She took the badge. "Do I have to wear it too?"

"My creations always come with a copy for you, don't they?" Draco's eyes went wide. "Are you withdrawing your support?"

"I support you, I support you, I support you!" Praeris hurriedly pinned the badge to her chest. "New tactic?"

"Psychological warfare!" Draco slid smoothly onto the armrest of her sofa. "Listen. The tune I composed,"

He whistled the cheerful little melody again, start to finish.

Then he grinned. "Miss Prince, please show your support for Mr. Malfoy's new composition, 'Weasley Is Our King.'"

Praeris genuinely laughed at him.

This guy, when making things for Alchemy class, his absolute favorite project was glowing mockery badges, and he'd made three different versions. This guy could play the violin, could compose music, and what he ultimately produced was "Weasley Is Our King."

You never do anything serious, do you!

"You, oh you." Praeris shook her head.

She poked him on the forehead. Draco immediately clutched his head and wailed, "I'm injured! Pansy Parkinson, look, she's abusing me!"

"Oh dear, how can an outsider possibly meddle in domestic matters!" Pansy Parkinson giggled. "Stop fussing. I'm busy supporting our big star's songwriting career here!"

Praeris stared. "You've started memorizing the lyrics?"

Girl, how are you out-hustling me like this!

"Look at Pansy Parkinson, then look at you!" Draco seized the moment.

Praeris raised both hands. "Please. I have a photographic memory. Why would I need to memorize anything?"

Pansy Parkinson shot Draco a glare. "Hey. You got a death wish? Who exactly are you comparing to who?"

Now it was Draco's turn to surrender. "My fault. All my fault. You'll come watch the match, right?"

Praeris smiled. "Of course."

The moment Draco left, Pansy Parkinson said disdainfully, "Childish."

"Never acts his age." Praeris agreed.

Then they both burst out laughing.

The last Quidditch World Cup had been two years ago, and the next was still a long way off. Every student's eyes were locked on this match.

Even though Slytherin was confident of victory, they held nothing back on off-field tactics.

Captain Draco had declared: "I believe, once the match is over, people only remember who won. Not how they won."

The minor emotional entanglement between him and Miles was long past. Draco had unilaterally cast himself as the victor and magnanimously forgiven Miles the loser. Captain Malfoy had even praised Keeper Miles for successfully ambushing Gryffindor's Alicia Spinnet.

That kind of praise probably only existed in Slytherin.

One could only wonder how Miles felt about receiving it.

As for Slytherin's general conduct, everyone a soldier, brimming with fighting spirit, underhanded beyond all measure, Praeris had no particular opinion. Slytherin wasn't the one losing, after all.

She was currently on her way to Professor Snape's office.

A younger Slytherin had found her to pass along the message: the Head of House needed to see Prefect Prince.

"Enter." Snape's low voice came from behind the door.

Praeris crossed the office and found her usual stool across from the professor's desk, signaling with a glance.

"Sit, Miss." Snape said.

Praeris came straight to the point. "Professor. What do you need me to do?"

Between her and Professor Snape, there was no such thing as a casual conversation, mainly because Professor Snape's to-do list didn't allow for it.

Snape raised his wand and cast several anti-eavesdropping spells around the room.

The dim yellow lamplight couldn't reach every corner. Half of Professor Snape's face was swallowed by shadow.

"Let's talk, Miss." Snape said. "Your thoughts. On the Dark Lord."

"You said — this is a matter for adults." Praeris said softly.

"Miss." Snape's voice was even. "You know perfectly well what I mean."

"Yes, sir." Praeris said. "I know all too well."

"Then you should know,"

"Fine, sir. Let's get down to business." Praeris said.

She already knew she could never change the professor's thinking on this.

Professor Snape always thought this way. But in truth, it wasn't only children who shouldn't have to fight this war. No one should. No one, and that included Professor Snape himself.

Praeris blinked. "I'm not sure how much you already know. The Dark Lord grew up in the Muggle world. He rejected his original name and uses a title to refer to himself. That speaks to his loathing for his past, his past, including his name."

"But his first Horcrux was a Muggle diary." Her fingers tapped lightly against her knee. "He could easily have chosen some other meaningless object. It would have been harder to discover. But he didn't. He used a diary that represented his own past."

"On one hand, the younger him may not have had many other options." Praeris said. "On the other hand, perhaps he has a strong sense of ritual. The object had to be connected to him. It had to represent him. Not just some arbitrary thing."

He loathed his past, yet still chose the diary. Perhaps it was a choice made when no real choice existed.

"But he didn't always have no choice, did he?" Praeris said. "I heard Potter pulled out the Sword of Gryffindor, and from that we know each founder had an object that represented them. What about Slytherin? He is the Heir of Slytherin. The Knights of Walpurgis — the precursor to the Death Eaters — were all extreme blood purists."

Praeris drew a slow breath. "So he values his bloodline greatly, doesn't he? He takes pride in being a descendant of Slytherin. If he would choose something representative as a Horcrux, it would certainly include an object tied to Slytherin."

"And from there," Praeris continued, "one can also wonder about the other founders' objects. The Sword of Gryffindor can only be drawn by a true Gryffindor. But Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw — do their objects carry the same restriction? If they don't —"

"These are all conjectures." Snape said, his voice cool. "There is no concrete evidence."

"But they are reasonable conjectures, built on the information we actually have." Praeris said. "Sir, bold in hypothesis. Careful in verification."

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Applause drifted out from the storage room. "Excellent!"

Praeris shrugged. "You finally decided to come out? I thought you might want to mediate some family issues first."

Dumbledore stepped out smiling. "Praeris, the most destructive problem in any relationship is communication. And aren't the two of you communicating right now?"

Praeris looked at him for a long moment. The smile faded from her face. "Let's change to a more pleasant topic, Headmaster Dumbledore. For example, Winnie."

"For love, nothing is impossible," Dumbledore said. "We cannot stop Winnie from going to her friend's side. But we all hope they can return alive."

"I hope for that too." Praeris said.

She took her leave of Professor Snape and Headmaster Dumbledore, her heart leaden.

Dumbledore was right. No matter how much anyone tried to stop her, Winnie would risk her life to save Ms. Pulley.

If Winnie's departure hadn't been part of Dumbledore's plan, she would likely face distrust from both sides at once, and certain death. Better, then, to make this carry more value.

And there was the other thing. Praeris sighed. Dumbledore had been warning her.

It was obvious, wasn't it? Clever people always enjoyed turning conversation into riddle, even when there wasn't a fool in the room.

Dumbledore knew her origins like the back of his hand. And she had never tried to hide her feelings for Draco.

Dumbledore didn't want her to repeat Sylvia's tragedy. But communication, she was the one who had talked of love that burned brief and bright. She was the one who had said that leaving would be no great pity. And yet, right now, the one hesitating was still her.

She had thought she didn't like Draco all that much. But the moment she imagined a possible parting, her heart went sour and tight, like the unripe strawberries at St. Mary's Orphanage.

She was the worst kind of villain here. She had deceived even the most insufferable boy at Hogwarts, tricked him into offering one of the few genuine feelings he had, and then wouldn't take responsibility for any of it.

"Where did you go?" Draco fell into step beside her, whistling, broom under one arm, the other arm slung over her shoulder. "What a pity you missed it. Weasley's face looked like a ghost that's been dead for 800 years."

Draco recounted his off-field work with obvious relish. Compared to Potter, who was long used to being mocked, Weasley was practically a lit-up weak point on the Gryffindor team.

Praeris shoved his arm off. "You reek. It's all sweat."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "That's called manliness."

"Draco, go wash off your manliness!" Praeris said, wrinkling her nose. "And instead of wasting time on off-field tactics, try practicing your Seeking. Last time, it wasn't off-field tactics that beat Gryffindor."

"I have been practicing." Draco said, completely certain of himself. "Just wait. I can win on my own."

Praeris shook her head. "You'd better."

Saturday morning, the Great Hall was loud as a crowd gathered for the Holy Infant procession, everyone talking over everyone else.

Millicent Bulstrode was the loudest. "We pulled too many off-field moves and Professor McGonagall complained. Then Madam Hooch banned me and put Lee Jordan on instead! It's completely unfair!"

"Ah," The three girls looked at each other.

Daphne said hotly, "How does that even make sense! What do the Quidditch players' antics have to do with the commentator!"

"Even though we did throw quite a few obstacles their way," Pansy Parkinson said, entirely unapologetic. "But so what! You weren't the one doing it!"

Praeris nodded. "This is completely unreasonable. Can't we protest too?"

Millicent Bulstrode pursed her lips. "I did... do a little bit, I suppose. Not much..."

Then she puffed out her chest. "But I didn't get caught!"

The four of them stared at each other.

"Brilliant, Millicent Bulstrode!" Pansy Parkinson said in a shrill voice. "If you didn't get caught, how can it count as doing something wrong!"

Praeris covered her face. "What about the next match? How many are you banned from?"

"Uh... we're rotating." Millicent Bulstrode said. "Madam Hooch said next time I'll do solo commentary, and the match after goes to Lee Jordan."

Millie, how is that a ban?

That's just rotating commentary duty.

"Despicable Gryffindor!" Pansy Parkinson slammed the table. "Making it so Millicent Bulstrode can't commentate on Slytherin's match!"

"Right, despicable Gryffindor!" Daphne echoed.

Praeris picked up where they left off, helpless against it. "Absolutely despicable, this time our Quidditch team had better beat Gryffindor to a pulp!"

"Yes! Beat Gryffindor to a pulp! Did you hear that! Draco, Crabbe, Goyle, Pucey, Bletchley..." Pansy Parkinson shouted across the hall.

The Quidditch boys shouted back.

Well, that was Slytherin for you: side with your own regardless of reason, and even when you had no reason, argue your case anyway.

The match was held at noon as usual. Today the sun had actually come out, unexpectedly, and under the bright light the silver badges on every Slytherin chest glittered.

"I can't sing," Praeris said. "Can I just not sing?"

A lie. How could she possibly not be able to sing? She was just deeply embarrassed.

Ancient choirs didn't include girls, but modern choirs had both, and there were even dedicated nun choirs. Every child at St. Mary's Orphanage could sing hymns, and sang them beautifully.

"Absolutely not!" Millicent Bulstrode said. "Everyone sings! We have to crush Gryffindor in spirit!"

Praeris couldn't argue with that. "Fine, fine. I'll sing, I'll sing."

Gryffindor hadn't even come out yet, and the Slytherins were already warming up. Some rubbed their cheeks. Some exhaled in sharp little hisses. Some ran scales going "ah-ah-oh-oh." Anyone who didn't know better would have thought a proper choir was about to take the stage.

"Gryffindor's coming out!" someone shouted.

"Weasley is our King,"

"Weasley was born in a rubbish bin,"

No conductor. No rehearsal. But the moment the Slytherins opened their mouths, they were perfectly in unison.

The singing wasn't pretty. But for a non-professional chorus, being in unison was enough, and the Slytherins had, against all expectation, pulled it off.

➤ Next: You Hide, I Hide