Chapter 3: Subterfuge

-o-o-o-0-o-o-o-

Chapter 3: Subterfuge

"Protego!" she cried inwardly, daring not a sound as her wrist snapped the ash to attention. The curse ricocheted at an awkward angle, and Tia dove to her left behind the massive mahogany desk. In true Slytherin fashion, Serpensortia was next, the attack immediate and to her right. When'd he get so bloody sneaky? she briefly wondered. But the spell was easily countered, the Ravenclaw having expected nothing less.

Quick rise to her feet, Tia circled the desk, eyes intent on Avery and his graceless wand flicks. Though nonverbal, more than half Avery's spells were mouthed. Those not were, for lack of better descriptions, plain and predictable. Innovation was not his forte, and though she took measures to liven the tête-à-tête, Tia Jones was utterly bored with her opponent. It was nearly a relief when from the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Professor Collins leaving her stool of observation. Tia assumed she would be calling an end to the duel, but to her surprise and subsequent annoyance, Patricia Collins only went on to dictate to the class behind the one-way shielding wall all the 'proper technique' and 'exceptional reaction time' Tia was making. All fine and dandy, to be sure, as it was a class of Defence. But Hestia Jones neither appreciated the catering attention nor did she find herself all that taxed. Truly, if one is to be praised so highly, one should at least be required to put forth an effort. Aedus Avery was not requiring effort.

"Notice how easily Ms Jones deflects Mr Avery's Tarantallegra, how fluid her response is, even though she does so without speaking." Tia glared mentally. Professor Collins was babbling, and honestly Tia did not enjoy the overt praise. It was hardly a triumph, after all, to block Aedus Avery's simpleton spells and sluggish movements. Honestly; did the bloke ever bother to move out of third-year instruction?

Tia skirted the haphazard stream of a Jellylegs Jinx with a sidestep, valiantly restraining a face of bored annoyance. What she would have given to have faced Benjy Fenwick, a Slytherin of quality. Fenwick would have challenged her, forced her to improve and learn. But Fenwick had duelled Chauncey Bones at the start of class, leaving Tia paired with the least competent yet biggest braggart of that house's sixth years. Regardless her disdain for him, however, Tia was no fool; he was Slytherin, after all, and not above underhandedness, even in class. Though Collins had stated clearly all offensive spells must be non-destructive, Tia made quite sure her blocks were timed and accurate; visits to Madam Pomfrey were not on her busy Thursday schedule.

"Thirty seconds," Collins called, indicating the timed session was nearing its end.

Avery tossed several more poorly executed jinxes, each more flailing than the last. Obvious he was scrambling to get in a single good shot before time, but that was the problem with Avery: impatience led to panic, and panic fell to rushed ineptitude. A last ditch effort had him throwing jinxes wildly, but in desperation each cast flew more wildly than its predecessor. Just as Collins called, "Time!" Tia swept her wand in deflection and –

Hit the hardwood floor face first in a bone-jarring boom. Moments passed as she lay perfectly still, sure she was unable to even think, much less move about. A full seven seconds passed before lungs filled and a gasping inhalation roused her to coherency.

"Ms Jones, are you all right?" Collins was hovering nearby, most likely directly above her, but Tia could not be sure, dots dancing before her eyes.

"Er..." she managed, testing limbs to ensure each responded. "Think so." Gathering slowly to her hands and knees, Tia took stock of body and surroundings, realising as she did the snickers to her left of what must be Slytherins, intermingled with low, throaty threats of her own housemates. Glance about as her feet drew beneath her found Avery had not even hesitated to see if she were all right. Rather, he had regrouped with the class, accepting back pats and cheers for 'dethroning' the perfectionist prefect. Prats. A scowl marred her fair skin, the tinge of pink upon her cheeks now due more in part to building ire. As it became apparent all her physical form was still in proper form and piece, Tia's fleeting sense of embarrassment quickly altered. She'd not fallen by misstep; she'd been diddled of her victory.

Collins waffled on about homework as she dismissed the class and Tia gathered her books and odds, stuffing each item into her bag as she looked about suspiciously. Avery had – as he was partial to do – mouthed the spell he last threw, and that Confundus Charm had missed her by far. Shouldering her bag, Tia fell into queue to leave the room, mingling voices occasionally breaking free to pinpoint her, a "well done" and "sod the luck" requiring nothing more than a smile and nod from her, her eyes still searching classmates as they filed out the classroom. Someone – not her opponent – had tripped her. Magically.

Conniving bastard.

"Sorry 'bout that last," Neve McMillan offered once they'd cleared into the corridor. Sixth-year Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors waited patiently to the side, their session of Defence immediately following her own. "Hope that doesn't leave a mark," she continued quickly, then sped up into the flow of foot traffic. Bewildered, Tia stood still, cocking her head as her eyes followed Neve. Just as she was about to call after the girl, a welcome voice broke her thoughts, a friendly hand grabbed her shoulder.

"Gods, Tia, what in Merlin's smalls happened to you?" Tia turned at the incredulous voice, giving Rouan Kendal – sixth-year Gryffindor and Tia's best mate – a wry smile.

"Had a bit of a meet-up with the floor, I'm sorry to say," she quipped tightly. "But I think I had a bit of help, truth be told."

"Well, I hope you gave as well as you got," Rouan commented, looking pointedly at Tia's brow. When the latter cocked an eyebrow in question, the Gryffindor clarified. "You've a nasty cut there," indicating Tia's forehead with a nod. "Might want to have Pomfrey give it a look, mind."

Fingers dashed to the hairline, and drew back sticky with blood. "Oh, Sweet Fanny Adams," she hissed, teeth gritting. "Someone's arse is about to be beaten, once I know who." Enlightenment to Rouan would have to wait, they both knew, as her queue was moving, the last of Tia's class having cleared the door.

"See you at dinner, yeah?" Rouan asked, herself caught up in the bustle.

"Yeah; I'll explain –"

"Need a few grace lessons, do we?" The words from her left were soft and velvety, cultured. And though coolly polite, were warm and heavy with disdainful humour. Startled, Tia jumped as she turned. Far too close was she to Regulus to yet gather her bearings, and she could do little more than gape dumbly at him. He, however, had no such qualms, and seemed to not notice her state of ruffle.

Sly smile of questionable intent brought life to his blue eyes, drawing focus from the aristocratic hardness of his facial expression. Tia watched transfixed as his smile grew in tantalisingly slow measures, his gaze boring into her.

"Mind yourself, Jones; there are dances to accept, and there are those to sit out. Best to choose your partners wisely." Then he turned, and in two long strides he was swallowed into the river of robes. Try as she might, Tia's short frame left her blind to his course, and she was left with heat of self-consciousness and numb awkwardness of speech.

"Cor, Tia," she chastised herself under her breath. "Can you look more an imbecile next time?" Shaking her head incredulously, she fell in step down the corridor, her afternoon now free for studies. But gone were her musings of foul play, ideas for her Transfiguration essay, or intentions for the next Hogsmeade trip. Sadly, as the ever-unflappable Hestia Jones made her way to the Ravenclaw common room, the corners of her mouth tugged into that half, whimsical smile. Her sole subject of thought: Regulus spoke to me...

-o-

He'd not meant to speak to her. Honestly, his intent had been to observe, to celebrate victory primary and keep his cleverness to himself. Casting that wandless, nonverbal Tripping Jinx was brilliant, if he thought so himself. No one the wiser, he'd made her look the fool she was. Anyone joining the likes of his brother and that ragtag clique of his was a fool, and Regulus believed in jesters looking their part. But he'd wanted no attention upon himself, a puppeteer pulling her strings to enact the play he was now writing her. A play that would level the lopsided scoreboard that was him versus the disowned sibling.

So as Avery had botched his last offensive as was known he would, Regulus had covertly ensured Jones' ultimate demise. This act was performed so well as to cast the blame upon her should Avery's miss be overt. He'd not even joined in with the Slytherins, guffawing the Ravenclaw's failure. But once out the door, he'd seen her chatting with that Gryffindor Kendal, and an unknown force turned his feet to drive home her defeat. Satisfaction had smirked his lips, and he'd made no attempt at hiding his amusement. Surprise, however, had come in the form of Jones' reaction. No angry retort, no rush of excuses, not even the grace to be embarrassed. Rather, the chit had looked... stunned.

That had confused him – still did – and Regulus disliked surprises in battle. Yet even more disconcerting, dare he admit if even only to himself, was his own reaction to seeing her up close. Yes, he'd seen her fall clearly, had even heard the breath knocked from her lungs, and had counted a full eight seconds before she had even twitched. But it was not until he'd run her upon in the corridor he'd noticed the laceration drawn in her hairline, the heavy trickle of bright crimson flowing down her forehead, changing course just before mounding her eyebrow. It shouldn't have bothered him, but it did. Just for a moment, anyway.

Recovery was quick; she'd not even noticed his hesitation. Then previous success was allowed to tamper with control, freeing his smile of arrogant satisfaction. Her biting response to his obvious slander did not come, however, disappointing the eager challenger within him. The same challenger clawing to erupt, to defend his right to be called Black, to be named Heir. To be classified worthy the respect he claimed.

Instead she'd stared at him, jaw slack in an odd astonishment, blood marring the creases her raised brow formed. Briefly an image conjured of an innocent lamb, spooked by his approach but ever hopeful its meaning was one of kindness and care.

Hah. He didn't do kindness. He did, however, do strategy, and it wouldn't do for him to be obvious about it all. At least, not yet. He had much more work to accomplish before laying bare to her his knowledge of her treachery.

That she might not know her actions were of such blatant error did not occur to him even once. Hestia Jones was aiding James Potter in distancing Sirius even further from Regulus, their imbecile, childish taunts blasting away at the canyon walls of their rift. Each insult further distanced the brothers, and Regulus loathed any and all accomplices to that threat against familial sanctity.

And that was all the encouragement he needed. Nothing mattered more than family. That Hestia Jones had fallen as the example, the sacrificial lamb, made little bother to Regulus. Certainly not the last, but she would be the first in his rebuttal. Their relationship would never again be the same; Sirius' rash choices the initial crack, James Potter the augmenting wedge. But time had come for Regulus to ensure no others found themselves interfering in family affaires.

Regulus made his way in swift strides toward the dungeon, intent upon the privacy of his room. Time was needed to think, to plan. A lie down would be good, too, as he had other matters to consider. Mother would be expecting a reply soon, and still one had not presented itself. That was a delicate missive to write, indeed. Frustration was mounting; he had but one outlet, and one victim upon which to dispense it.

Heat two would begin in the morning. He intended to win that one, as well.

-o-0-o-

A quarter after Potions began, Tia Jones was characteristically engrossed in her work, her mind solely upon the Blood-Replenishing Potion before her. N.E.W.T. levels were a grand challenge for her, and she thoroughly enjoyed learning all she could in her 'other' favourite class. Having grown up with a father such as Ezra Jones, Tia had been immersed in apothecary as a way of life from the moment she could hold a silver gathering spoon. It still amazed her the power in fauna and other raw ingredients. As perfect example, the brew before her could save lives – something accomplished after the battle, away from the origin of the injury. So many ailments it could stave off; so many individuals it could sustain, regardless of class or birth. Regardless Magical or Muggle.

Healing potions were of particular interest to Tia, and more than once she had weighed options of a career in the healing fields. After all, honourable and prestigious, a Healing Specialist was quite the coveted post amongst the masses these days. But Tia's heart lay in another direction. Healing was special, but all the tinctures and poultices in the world could not prevent devastation wrought against the innocent. Her mother's death had proven that.

Thoughts of battle-injury recalled Tia to the head wound she had sported yesterday and her fingers subconsciously soothed the inch-long cut. Now healed, remnants still hung of tenderness due to its sensitive location. Madam Pomfrey had tsked and fussed, mumbling on about the dangers of allowing sixth years to duel without proper restraint. Obviously she found Professor Collins lacking in that respect.

"By now your colour should be bright orange," Professor Slughorn interrupted, ambling slowly about the room from table to table. "Unless you forgot to add in the liquorice root in five-second intervals. Then it will appear a more beige shade. The potion will still work, but will require more of it to perform its duty."

Tia's eyes darted quickly back to her cauldron, pleased to see the simmering concoction a healthy tangerine. Returning to her text, she methodically categorised what each ingredient contributed in ways of its properties to the medicinal brew. She had just slipped in the feverfew, stirred fully twice anti-clockwise and lowered the fire beneath it when the heavy dungeon door opened with a protesting creak. Looking up, Tia watched with some agitation as Sirius Black swaggered into the room, a roll of parchment held loosely in one hand.

Casting a quick look across the room to the opposite table, Tia searched for any indication of Regulus' reaction. The younger Black, however, appeared to be intent upon his work, head down and fingers busy chopping the feverfew into precise lengths. He'd not even been aware of his brother's appearance. Or had he?

Closer attention gave Tia pause. Regulus was indeed wielding the silver knife blade with precision, but it was only after momentary study did she realise he was doing so too carefully, each slice ending in a pronounced, sharp thunk upon the cutting board. His head had not moved, but barely she could make out the sudden tension in his jaw, the unnatural stillness of his body.

When Sirius passed her table, she forced herself to return to her potion, her ears unabashedly catching the low talk of the Gryffindor with Professor Slughorn. He was delivering a message from Headmaster Dumbledore. Slughorn made a curious sound as he read the missive then made his way to his heavy, scarred desk on which he scratched a response. Instructing Black to return the message, he went about searching cupboards as Sirius turned to leave. Before passing, Sirius caught Tia's curious stare and gave her a suggestive wink. Blushing, she looked back down at her cauldron in embarrassment, waiting for his departure.

"Given up the tosser as a loss, yet, have we?"

Tia's head shot up abruptly at the amused whisper, coming nearly nose to nose with Sirius. He'd taken advantage of Hodge's absence today, the chair across from her empty, and leaned clear across the table, his voice so low only Tia could make out the words. Admittedly, Sirius was quite fit, his strong, chiselled face enough to turn any girl's head. Sultry voice and charismatic ways encouraged that feeling, defeating most attempts at immunity to him. He was arrogant, he was conceited, but in all fairness Tia admitted he had earned the attentions bestowed him. Talented, intelligent, compassionate at times. But he was a mean git, too. At least, to his brother. And for Tia, that was all that mattered, regardless if family history forged that hostility.

He chanced a glance behind him, and Tia could only make out Regulus' forehead over Sirius' broad shoulder. He was looking back at Sirius, then.

Turning back to her, Sirius' smile turned knowing. "When you've put paid to your unwelcome and unappreciated protectiveness of my little brother, let me know; I'll introduce you to some real talent. Pretty bird like you should have her loyalties earned." With that, he winked again and strode out of the classroom silently, Tia's eyes following in disbelief.

She blinked. He was mad. Surely. And having her on, he was. She wasn't sure which upset her more: Sirius' implications that Regulus did not warrant her considerations, or that she was pretty. Never once before had he given her a second glance.

Returning to her work just as Slughorn reappeared from his stores, Tia caught a peripheral glimpse of something, and she looked back up, her hands pausing over the powdered moonstone. Regulus was staring at her, his face hard but otherwise indecipherable. Feelings of dread – was that guilt mixed in? – and embarrassment sluiced down her body, suddenly chilling. It was not curiosity or confusion in his measure of her, but an expression of highest disdain. Had he heard Sirius? Had he made out his brother's comment about Tia's affections, and took offence just as Sirius had warned he would? Oh, gods, she was simply mortified at the thought. Now he would hate her because he knew she fancied him. Because she wasn't Cecilia Braden or some other beauty.

Shite, shite, shite.

Ducking her head abruptly to task, Tia tried valiantly to focus, to put out of her mind the catastrophe that must have just occurred. She wanted to slide beneath the table, truth be told, disappear with the heat rising in her fair cheeks. Sadly, that wasn't an option at this point. Her Potions' marks had to take precedence over her ruined love life. Well, the possible future of that slightly credible mirage of a love life.

Concentrating on instructions, Tia dared not validate the feeling she had of still being watched. She could feel Regulus' brood upon her, never mind seeing it. Over and over her mind replayed the brief interlude Sirius had created, and with each repeated line in her mind, Tia cringed that much harder at what Regulus' initial reaction to the words had been. Had he been sickened at the thought, blanching at the news of her interest as though she were Lucretia 'the Bull' Bulstrode, seventh year Slytherin. Angry, dominating and unfeminine seventh year, Tia mentally clarified. Tia herself was not quite a lady in action or dress, but one knew she was a girl, after all. Her heavy chest and rounded hips noted so, even if often enough her long black hair was trussed up in a plait and her summers found her knee-deep in river mud wearing cuffed dungarees and a man's plaid button-down.

Sizzling before her drew Tia back to work. Adding a drop of amber, she slowly increased the flame, her mind retracing steps of moments prior. As steam rose, Tia leaned back and inadvertently straightened, only to see Regulus look up at the same time. His face contorted as their eyes met, and had gone from concentrative creases to downright revulsion. Suddenly Tia's self-condemnation flipped, and a certain self-preservation and indignation reigned. She might not be McKinnon or Shacklebolt or Braden, but she damn well wasn't the Bull or some horrific mountain troll! She'd not apologise her affections, by Merlin!

Reinforced with a huff worthy the most prominent Slytherin, Tia squared her shoulders and glared in return. Regulus Black was not the only boy in the world, and she didn't need him pointing out her faults of not being McKinnon, Shacklebolt or Braden, thank you very much. She'd already had her fill this week of failure and jeers; she would not allow Black to make her feel worse of herself. Shaking inwardly, Tia continued their contact, praying he'd soon drop his gaze to the boiling cauldron before him. But Black had no concern for the assignment, his cold study unnerving her with its directness.

"Hestia! " a voice sniped in a low hiss beside her. Robyn Traverse was Ravenclaw's Quidditch captain, and no matter the quiet level, his tone held a commanding essence. Still, she did not leave her eyes' focus. "You and Black can bang each other later. Right now, get back to your work or you'll get us points off. Hear me?"

Nerves rattled now, Tia wet her lips, a dryness robbing her voice. Traverse was right; Slughorn didn't appreciate drifting off in his domain, and Slug Club or no, he'd deduct Ravenclaw points for her inattention. Debating how much longer she could hold his gaze out of self-respect, Tia caught an abrupt flinch in Regulus' face, his head quickly bowing to his work. Immediately assuming Slughorn's undesired attention, Tia mimicked his move, attempting to resume her place. Had she won, even though it was the professor's presence that had caused him to look away first? Yes, she firmly decided. It counted. She'd stood her ground longer, met his scorn and did not back down. There. She'd shown him she was no wilting wayside weed to be trampled just because she did not bloom as the lilies or the heather. She should be most proud of herself.

Why, then, did she only feel like crying?

-o-

Audaciousness bred rampantly in the lower class, Regulus decided. And on rare occasion, it stained the lineage in the upper society. Then again, he mused sourly, what other could he have expected from his elder brother? Sirius' saunter into Slughorn's classroom did not merit Regulus' attention. That was what Sirius craved – attention – and Regulus had not the stomach for it this morning. He still had yet to compose a response to Mother's letter, and he had plans to form in his new diversion of one-on-one combat.

Briefly it had crossed Regulus' mind the question of why now, why this chit, why this incident? After all, he'd borne the brunt of Sirius' outright contempt for more than a year, now, and honestly some degree of hostility had been present for quite a time before the elder's exodus from the family. But Wednesday's infantile prank had been the breaking point, the dragon's back having given way beneath that last, solitary straw of Serpent's Vine. Regulus was haggard from restraint of emotions. He'd not embarrass the family by equal reaction, no, nor by any public response. But it was well past time for him to strike back, to lay down the laws of punishment should someone outside Sirius' immediate circle decide they wished to join the parade.

Hestia Jones had earned her place of first recipient of justice.

Regulus had been contemplating his next move, mulling positives against repercussions whilst his cauldron's contents faded into a peach colour. He'd managed to spare little more than an awareness glance at Sirius' entrance, but had caught just in time his brother's departure.

Sirius had winked at Jones. Were that not enough, their intimate association was even more damning by his fleeting personal chat with her. The telling was not in the words, but in the proximity that they were more than casuals. Once Sirius had left, Regulus felt the slow burn of hatred rising, their audacity to flaunt their partnership in offending him too much to swallow on a belly full of bile. He stared at Jones, daring her to meet his gaze. And she did, at first startled, then allowing her features to drop their careful mask of polite inquisitiveness into a cheap replica of haughtiness and anger. As if she has the breeding to pull that off, he thought, eyes narrowing. He could see the unsure tinge to her eyes, their flickers nervous, wavering. That's right, Jones. Your over-analytical mind has overstepped its bounds, and you'll rue its presumption to engage war with me.

Contemplation sped through his brain as he decided what new insult to hurl at her today. First rule of waging war: know your enemy. Know their weaknesses. What greater weakness of an O-level Ravenclaw nobody than to take away their illusion of brilliance? Humiliate her by illuminating her utter lack of intelligence, proving her not the clever witch she prided herself being. What ingredient should he levitate into her cauldron whilst she read? What explosion or meltdown would render her the most of a fool? Regulus debated each option as he challenged her courage, allowing her a view of the malice she'd drawn in him. But in the midst of weighing noxious fumes against a clumsy fall into her own cauldron (and its subsequent superficial burns), he was struck abruptly and surely as though sword-tip had pierced his gut and twisted.

Traverse had leaned to her side, obviously scolding her, his eyes darting to Regulus. But rather than answer, her face had flushed and she'd run her tongue over her bottom lip. A nervous gesture, one of vulnerability and one that should have clamoured for his strike. But instead, he was the one who had flinched. Retreating, he'd returned to his potion, regrouping his thoughts.

By the time class dismissed, Regulus was preparing for his new plan, a bit of Avery's Canary Feather potion tucked in a vial in his robe pocket. It was childish, yes, but Regulus thought a bit more unappreciated ridicule was a lovely enough starting point, and she'd never suspect him as they crowded at the doorway, exiting against the massive queue of third years.

Their samples turned in, Regulus manoeuvred directly behind Jones, hand clasping the vial, thumb and forefinger loosening the stopper. Just a bit more and he'd manage to tip the dirty mustard-coloured concoction into her bunch, alleviating her ability to feel when it first was administered and freeing him from the scene of the crime. Just two seconds more –

"Mr Black," Slughorn called, pulling Regulus vocally back with a start. Re-sheathing the stopper, he slipped the potion in his pocket, gritting teeth at the lost opportunity.

"Yes, sir," he rote, sullen though with propriety. Reaching the lecturing stage, he stood rigid, awaiting his instructor's ill-timed message. The room was now filling with underclassmen, and Slughorn motioned Regulus closer to his desk as he moved each potion sample carefully to a rack behind the nearest cupboard.

"I'd not have said anything, it being the weekend and a match for our house tomorrow, but your sample I can see already is rather off." He spoke no louder than was necessary to be heard over the chatter of thirteen-year-olds and shuffling of books, robes and equipment. His chirpy voice ebbed with each turn to the cupboard, giving his words an oceanic wave feeling and causing Regulus' attention to wander in the gentle repetition. He knew his marks in Potions were less than Acceptable, but he had other issues to contend with. One or two directly related to this course.

His eyes flickered over the samples still yet on the desk, Slughorn speaking into the cupboard as he rearranged a particularly difficult set-up for each class' homework. Instantly a plan came and formed, and nonchalantly he slipped his wand from his inner pocket, eyes locating the sample in question.

"Your attention to detail I must say has slipped – stumbled, posterior over pectoral, if you will," the portly professor corrected, a jiggle of mirth at his own cleverness of phrase. "And I fear it will only get worse as the term goes on. You're an exceptional student, Mr Black," he amended, and Regulus knew without doubt his praise was influenced only by Regulus' family name. Regulus knew he was above average in courses that interested him, but did not deign to be fagged by any subject that did not directly affect him.

Shutting out most of Slughorn's blathering, Regulus honed in on the vial of perfectly bright orange, the grease-pencil 'Jo' cutting off in mid 'o' of the cylinder. Careful aim, concentration, slight flick of wrist...

Were Regulus any less in self-control, he'd have cheered himself his ability. Stowing his wand, he once more allowed Slughorn's words to penetrate as the professor gathered the last of the samples, the final one flaunting its unique powder blue in new individuality.

"So you understand my position, I'm sure." He straightened and faced Regulus, concluding his discussion. "I'll arrange for a tutor over the weekend, and you will commence evening lessons next Friday."

What? Regulus cried inside, his mouth dropping in shock, eyes wide. But no opportunity was there for him to regain his composure, question his ears. Slughorn was already turning Regulus about with a hand to his shoulder, chattering on as he escorted the younger Slytherin toward the door.

"Once we get everything right again, I'll be sure to owl your parents the grand progress you've made. I'm sure it won't take but a handful of sessions to get us back on track, eh?" Rhetorical, Regulus was not given a moment to respond, his words only just forming as Slughorn firmly pushed him through the doorway into the empty corridor and closed the oaken slats.

Turning back to the offending wood, "What the fu–" died on his lips as he realised the body leaning against the doorframe beside him. Hazel eyes were icy, a glower reaching him from beneath lowered lashes. How long had she been standing there? By expression, too long was the answer. Wand-work behind Slughorn's back was one thing, even in front of non-attentive, ignorant third years, but to have been caught... Her look said it all.

Hestia Jones was right pissed off. At him.

Behind movements of adjusting his book bag strap across his shoulder, he slipped his hand to his inner pocket and palmed his wand. Perhaps a Memory Charm would be necessary, after all.