Putting on my best mask of elven superiority, I drew myself up straight, clasped my hands behind my back, and strode toward the disputants, who were just a couple of meters away. Suddenly, Zacharias’s hand landed on my shoulder.

  “Do you want to get involved in this?”

  “Should I ignore an attack on my sister?”

  It seemed he’d momentarily forgotten Hermione was my sister. But he quickly realized his oversight and lifted his hand. As for me, with the facts I already knew, an understanding of stereotypical thinking across sentient beings, and other bits of information, a thread of dialogue and its possible variations began to take shape in my mind. At this rate, that part of the elf— adept at pushing decisions through councils and navigating the cutthroat social arena of “high society”—was about to surface.

  “I am quite surprised,” I said in the cold, slightly majestic tone the Elders used when shaming a brash, three-hundred-year-old upstart like me.

  My entrance immediately drew attention. Apparently, these kids weren’t used to outsiders crashing their faculty squabbles.

  “Even, to some extent, discouraged,” I continued. “The heir and only son of the Malfoy family seeks the attention of a half-blood and a Muggle-born from another House with such genuine diligence.” I gave an almost imperceptible shake of my head in disapproval.

  The gesture was subtle—barely visible—but registered subconsciously.

  “What?” The blond stared at me, baffled.

  “Hector!” Hermione, of course, recognized me, though her expression mirrored his confusion.

  “Ah-ah-ah,” Malfoy said with exaggerated understanding, shaking his head. “A Mudblood’s brother, though… It makes sense.”

  I nearly laughed as he glanced back at his crew forbackup. Two hulking guys snickered obsequiously, while the rest of the Slytherins joined in with light chuckles, watching keenly. The most vocal supporter was a girl with a bob of nearly black hair. Target one identified.

  “I heard from my father,” Malfoy turned his sarcasm on me, “that you were a vegetable from birth and only started talking a couple of months ago. No wonder you ended up in the Faculty of Dummies. Shouldn’t you crawl back to your filthy pigsty?”

  To my surprise, my typically non-confrontational Hufflepuff classmates stepped forward, ready to retort, but I raised a hand to halt them—and, oddly enough, it worked.

  “I was indeed ill,” I admitted, stepping closer and fixing Malfoy with a look of arrogant sorrow and universal disappointment. “But look at yourself, heir. Here I stand—healthy, sane, neat, and polite. And you? What’s with this longshoreman’s jargon? The carelessly thrown-on robe, the loose tie, the unbuttoned collar of a wrinkled shirt?”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “My robe’s worth more than everything you own,” Malfoy snapped, his face reddening.

  Catching myself enjoying this as much as he relished taunting Gryffindors, I pressed on.

  “Indeed,” I said. “I’ve heard the heir of Malfoy is the unofficial leader of Salazar Slytherin’s great House, where the cream of the nation studies—the best of the best, one might say.”

  The pivot threw him off, but my words landed on the fertile soil of his baseless pride, making him practically puff up his chest.

  “Yet,” I added, “if the face of the House is a foul-mouthed, ill-mannered slob, what does that say about the rest? Are pure-bloods really all that superior?”

  His mood flipped again, and I seized the pause.

  “You can gift-wrap dragon dung, Heir Malfoy, but it won’t change what’s inside.”

  “You…” Malfoy yanked out his wand and aimed it at me.

  I didn’t flinch—not even a blink. In my mind, I had a protective barrier construct ready, just in case. Another reason for my calm was the professor I’d glimpsed at the feast creeping up behind us like a silent shadow—all in black, robe included, with greasy dark hair that gleamed from some treatment. He loomed over Malfoy like a hawk.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked in a quiet, oily voice. Malfoy hurriedly stowed his wand.

  “Nothing, Professor,” I replied with a faint smile. “We’re just chatting.”

  The professor turned a piercing gaze on me, his dark eyes sharp.

  “Mr. Granger,” he said. “Barely arrived, and already stirring trouble.”

  He spun abruptly, the hem of his robe flaring, and with a flick of his hand, the large wooden classroom door swung open.

  “Come in,” he ordered dryly, standing at the entrance and glowering at everyone as they filed inside.

  Once we were in, Justin gave me a light poke in the side.

  “Well, of course you did,” he muttered.

  “It’ll happen on its own,” I shrugged, scanning for a seat.

  The classroom was dark and chilly. Charts of ingredient compatibility and similar materials lined the walls. Along them stood cabinets filled with unsettling glass flasks of varying sizes, containing animal parts floating in what was likely a magical formalin analogue.

  My sharp eyes and keen memory spotted my cauldron on one of the student tables. Sure, they all looked similar, but I’d somehow memorized every chip and polish line on mine—they were mass-produced yet bore a handmade quality. Without hesitating, I claimed that table and began unpacking my Potions supplies from my backpack.

  “Hector,” Hermione said, plopping down beside me almost instantly and locking eyes with me. “Do you know who I am?”

  “That’s the most brilliant question a brother could ask his sister,” I teased. “Of course I know. And I even remember—though not everything.”

  She flushed but quickly shifted to the offensive as the others settled in.

  “I’d like to—”

  “Miss Granger,” the professor’s voice cut in from beside us. “Who gave you permission to switch seats in my class? Take your usual place.”

  Hermione opened her mouth to protest but evidently thought better of it—her experience with this professor must’ve warned her off. She shuffled away dejectedly. I turned to the professor and couldn’t miss the brunette in Slytherin robes beside him, staring from my now-empty seat to him in confusion.

  “Do you require a special invitation, Miss Greengrass?” the professor asked.

  “But—”

  “Didn’t you claim, just last school year, that with a Potions partner, you’d never earn less than an ‘Outstanding’?”

  “I—”

  “Then don’t waste my time. Take your seat next to your long-awaited partner for the next three years.”

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