Chapter 158 - Christmas Party
However!
However!
WHO THE HELL CARES!
Half-blood, pure-blood, whatever, they'd already embraced each other's hearts, hadn't they?!
Even if she had truly deceived him, so what?
He liked her, loved her, would forgive her regardless, and besides, she'd never deceived him at all!
Hadn't Praeris been candid enough?
She wouldn't even let him keep deluding himself. She'd reminded him of the truth.
Draco still couldn't shake the blood-status prejudice his family had drilled into him, but his line in the sand had begun shifting, quietly and without fanfare.
If it was Praeris, though...
Ridiculous. How could anyone else compare to Praeris?
Snow had settled over the lawns outside Hogwarts in a thick, soft blanket. Christmas drew near without a sound, stepping lightly across the plush white ground.
Praeris feared the cold as much as she ever had. It was an old affliction she'd picked up during her years at the convent.
Chilblains could technically be cured, but the recurrence risk for severe cases was extremely high. Even magical remedies couldn't prevent it entirely.
Magic wasn't permitted in the corridors, but Praeris had to carve out time every single day to get to a classroom and run her experiments. She had no choice but to bundle herself into a ball and trudge along, mentally adding "develop a permanent chilblain cure" to her ever-growing list of projects.
Though, honestly, a potion like that would have almost no commercial value. It would barely be useful to anyone but herself.
What wizard who could simply warm themselves with magic would ever even get chilblains?
It was just that Draco knew far too little about Muggles. Otherwise, he'd have recognized from the marks on Praeris's hands long ago that she'd once lived in the Muggle world.
"Prince! Could I have a moment of your time?"
In the corridor, a boy with dark hair and dark skin stood beneath a sprig of mistletoe, smiling with impeccable politeness.
Praeris glanced at the mistletoe above his head, then shifted her gaze to his face. "Mr. Harper... is there something you need from me?"
Her feet didn't move an inch as she spoke. She had no intention of stepping any closer to him.
Harper had no choice but to walk out from under the mistletoe himself. "I hear Professor Slughorn sent you an invitation to the Christmas party?"
Not sent. Delivered in person.
At the last gathering, Slughorn had invited Gwenog Jones. Gwenog had spent the entire evening boasting and self-promoting, and had nearly bored Praeris to sleep.
Judge the matter, not the person.
Praeris had once bickered with Zabini over that all-female Quidditch team, but that didn't mean she supported Gwenog Jones.
By the same token, the Stewart Principle, as she'd come to call it, finding someone irritating didn't mean giving them the cold shoulder.
She simply gazed at Gwenog with bright, attentive eyes, mentally replaying her experimental procedures and notes on a loop, clapping along at appropriate intervals with absolutely zero sincerity.
Perhaps the illusion was simply too convincing, because Gwenog took quite a liking to this younger Slytherin and even chatted with her about Marcus's recent match record.
Marcus had considerable advantages in size and stamina. He was like a tireless brute-force machine, built for an overpowering style of play, capable of grinding through long matches without slowing down.
As long as the Beaters coordinated well, constantly harassing the opposing Seeker and disrupting every attempt to catch the Golden Snitch, Marcus could keep pouring on pressure with his seemingly inexhaustible strength until the score gap grew so wide that catching the Snitch wouldn't even be enough to win.
The current Jamaican national team had built itself around exactly that: a dual-core offensive system anchored by the Beaters and Seeker working in concert. It made them fiercely competitive.
"Most teams think —" Gwenog let out a scoff, "that Flint's style is too brutish. Too lacking in finesse."
She rolled her eyes with a laugh. "But so what? Jamaica won, didn't they?"
Marcus had even earned a nickname out of it: "Troll Flint."
The sports tabloids had already started running stories speculating that Marcus might actually have troll blood.
Toward the end of the dinner party, Slughorn pressed the invitation to the Christmas party into her hands with a beaming smile, saying he looked forward to seeing her there.
"That's right," Praeris said.
Her gaze drifted toward the dungeons. She was practically willing Harper to finish talking so she could get back to her experiments.
The advanced curriculum wasn't difficult for her, but keeping pace with Harry in Potions still took time. Add in the mountain of homework from upper-year courses, and, did anyone have any idea how hard she worked to scrape together those precious minutes tormenting Horned Toads every day?
Harper lifted his chin, his tone carrying that particular brand of arrogance. "I take it you haven't accepted anyone else's invitation yet?"
"No. Is there anything else?" Praeris said, impatient. "I'm in a hurry."
"Consider me, then — what do you say?" Harper drawled. "Going to a party without a date... wouldn't that be embarrassing?"
"Sir." Praeris gave him an odd look, her voice perfectly even. "I wasn't invited to the Christmas party because I have a dance partner. What I mean is — I won't be embarrassed. Anything else?"
Harper's face went crimson, his expression twisting. "Fine, keep playing hard to get!" he snapped. "We'll see who else would ever invite a witch like you!"
'A witch like me? What kind of witch am I, and since when is that yours to decide?'
Praeris found the whole thing baffling. She genuinely could not figure out what Harper had taken.
He was the Slytherin Seeker filling in for Draco this year.
This same boy had asked her, years ago, whether she could brew Amortentia. Later, he'd gossiped about her at the dining table: "Does anyone actually dare date her?"
And now here he was, standing in front of her, asking to go to the Christmas party together.
Did he really think her memory was that short? That she'd already forgotten every word he'd said?
Compared to accepting an invitation from someone like that, going without a date was no hardship at all.
Praeris shook her head. Harper must have been bashed in the head by a troll.
She put the whole thing out of her mind and headed for the dungeons.
Perhaps out of leniency toward a student, Dumbledore had approved her plan.
When he agreed to it, Praeris hadn't seen a trace of any desire to live in his eyes.
Before truly facing death, a person has often already killed themselves off countless times inside. What finally walks toward the end is usually nothing more than an empty shell.
Praeris couldn't be certain her plan to keep Dumbledore alive was the right thing to do.
What if Dumbledore simply had no intention of living? What if her intervention was only prolonging his suffering, a kind of false mercy dressed up as kindness?
Against Voldemort, a physically healthy Dumbledore was necessary. That much was undeniable. Fewer people would die.
But what about Dumbledore's own soul?
If she had never proposed the possibility of him surviving, would he have simply slipped away in silence, never letting anyone see how weary he was of this world?
Praeris could barely contain her curiosity about Dumbledore's past. She wanted to understand why he had no attachment left to anything in it.
But she also felt the resistance coming off him. Whatever it was, it was buried deep. Everyone had been shut out.
After Dumbledore agreed to the regeneration plan, the work between Praeris and Professor Snape kicked into a higher gear.
Professor Snape was busier than ever. He had Voldemort to manage, classes to teach, the endless administrative headaches of being Head of House, and the curse's spread to keep in check.
Slughorn's arrival had helped on at least one front, taking over a good portion of the Potions professor's additional duties, including supplying the Hospital Wing.
From her first experiment to now, Praeris had put 9 Horned Toads through the process.
The Horned Toads had died terribly. But they had given more than their value as ordinary potion ingredients.
That was all thanks to a small change the ninth one had produced.
It drank the potion and didn't die.
Whether that counted as progress was up for debate.
If this kept up, she'd have to go back to Slughorn and ask for more Horned Toads.
Speaking of which, since this one hadn't died...
A wicked idea struck her. Praeris narrowed her eyes at the surviving, lame-legged Horned Toad, her gaze predatory.
It was still alive. And it still had more than one leg.
Couldn't that mean it was reusable?
Praeris was beginning to understand Dumbledore a little.
Just look. Being alive wasn't necessarily better than being dead.
If this Horned Toad had just kicked the bucket as cleanly as its 8 predecessors, it wouldn't have to go through all this.
She adjusted the formula according to plan, brewed a fresh batch of potion, and brought the blade down on the Horned Toad with one clean stroke.
The tenacious creature survived approximately 2 hours longer than its originally projected time of death.
After it had lost every last one of its legs, Praeris put it out of its misery.
Three or four years later, traveling with the others to the distant East, Praeris would learn that those who met a death resembling this had a name for it: "human swine."
"You have the makings of a Dark witch."
When Praeris submitted her experiment report, Professor Snape looked at her with an expression of genuine reassessment.
Praeris registered his surprise. She didn't quite understand it.
She spread her hands, resigned and matter-of-fact. "Sir, isn't this just being economical? People who've grown up poor all do things this way."
It seemed what was more terrifying than a banshee was a pauper.
Lockhart really ought to write a book called Travels with Paupers. Now that would take real skill.
On the other side of things, Hermione was talking to Harry through gritted teeth.
Harry, not Ron.
"You'd best drop that idea right now!" Hermione said scathingly. "I have told you — there is no way Malfoy could sneak a Dark artifact into something without it being detected!"
"Fine!" Harry said quickly. "Say that's true! But why can't we at least try asking her to help..."
"No, no, no!" Hermione glared at him. "I am not making that request of her. Not happening."
Harry pulled his neck in slightly. "But it's for the safety of more people, isn't it? She's said herself how important student safety is."
"Yes!" Hermione let out a sigh. "You're right about that. But feelings are a different matter. You understand what they are to each other, don't you?"
"I know you're worried about Malfoy scheming something. But how can we ask someone who loves him to betray him?"
She fixed Harry with a direct look. "Suppose you loved a girl, and that girl went and told your secrets to other people. Could you live with that?"
Harry sat with that feeling for a moment, imagining that the one who had informed on him in the headmaster's office hadn't been Marietta, but someone else entirely, and his face turned an immediate, spectacular shade of green.
He racked his brains for a long stretch before finally saying, "But if Malfoy really is up to something, wouldn't doing this stop him from actually... you know. Going through with it?"
If Malfoy had truly become a Death Eater and was planning to kill for Voldemort, then stopping him would be saving a wayward youth. Sure, Malfoy was already an ex, but Praeris might even thank them for it.
Harry thought this with no small amount of optimism.
But his plan was doomed to go nowhere. Hermione started rebutting him again, this time extolling Praeris's judgment.
Hermione was convinced: if Harry's suspicions were correct, how could Praeris — who had been by Malfoy's side this entire time, be completely in the dark? And if Praeris knew and hadn't told Snape or Dumbledore, then she must have her own plan.
A little past 8 that evening, Praeris appeared in the entrance hall in a black velvet suit. Women's cut, naturally.
She had no male companion, so there was no reason to wear a formal gown. A women's suit was comfortable, etiquette-appropriate, and warm all at once.
By Hogwarts standards, the choice was wildly ahead of its time. The girls drifting through the entrance hall whispered to each other about her outfit. Praeris didn't spare it a second thought.
Slughorn had charmed his office so it appeared larger than it was.
The ceiling and walls were draped with green, deep crimson, and gold hangings. Honestly, was no one going to say anything on Ravenclaw's behalf?
Praeris told herself they were probably just Christmas colors.
She said hello to Slughorn, found a polite excuse to slip away from him, and made her way along the edge of the room in search of a quieter corner.
Her bad luck: Blaise Zabini was already there, also hiding from the crowd.
The two of them ended up against the wall with their wine glasses, staring at each other.
"No male companion?" Zabini frowned.
"No female companion?" Praeris raised an eyebrow.
Zabini sneered. "My standards are rather high."
Praeris scoffed. "I'm not just anyone, either."
They looked at each other. Both snorted. Both felt the absence of their mutual friend Pansy sharply.
"Why didn't you invite Pansy?" Praeris asked.
Zabini's tone curdled into something deeply sarcastic. "Why would I? So I could listen to her strategize about how to smooth things over between you and Draco? Or hear about all the adorable moments with her boyfriend?"
Zabini's mother was beautiful enough to have set his standards for a partner impossibly high. He didn't wade into love lightly.
But even so, Pansy still sought him out regularly to have him analyze what boys were thinking. Damn it all, how was he supposed to know what kind of garbage was rattling around inside Draco's head, or the German's?
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