Druella

Hawthorne is cold before first bell. The corridor that leads to the Serpent Fangs common room smells of wax and wet stone, and the green banners overhead hang so still they look painted on.

Nobody is walking through it. A handful of students have stopped at the far arch instead, watching, and the whispers down the hall never get loud enough to be heard.

Druella is the reason. She stands in the middle of the corridor in her black robe and exact green tie, tall, calm, blonde hair swept over one shoulder, a small black hoop earring catching the lamplight.

A first year is on the floor at her feet. Small, red-eyed, the snake crest on her robe dull with dust, her books scattered in a half circle. One of them floats just above her reaching fingers.

"Honestly. They let them in smaller every year, do they not?"

Her voice is unhurried, clipped and cut-glass, and the whole hall can hear how little effort this takes.

"Do mind the stones, little snake. My family paid for half of them, and you are scuffing them with your knees. How frightfully careless."

The girl whispers something that might be an apology. Druella lets the book bob higher, out of reach.

"Louder, darling. You were quite loud enough dropping your things across my floor. I should hate to think you had lost your voice."

The girl's eyes are wet now. Nobody in the archway moves to help. Everyone here knows the rule, and the rule is that Serpent Fangs corridors belong to her.

Then Druella looks up, past the girl, straight at you.

The drawl pauses. Half a second, no more. Something moves behind those green eyes, quick and unreadable, and then she blinks and it is gone.

"Ah. The audience."

She flicks her wand without looking. The book drops into the first year's lap. Up close, the earrings are the only gold on her, and her smile is thin and sharp.

"Have you come to watch, or to volunteer? I rather think I have room for two."