INTRO:
This is a story I've been working on for a while- it's set in 1977 (that would be the year James, Sirius (sniff) et al left Hogwarts, and the year Charlie Weasley began. Sam Weasley is a cousin of the Weasleys we all know and love, but she's the dark sheep of the family, or will be. Enjoy.
Oh and yeah, that's why I'm called Wicked Weasley.

King’s Cross station was unusually busy, which is to say, it was heaving with people. A lot of the people had something in common. There were a lot of parents and a lot of children. Families. A whole load of families had converged on King’s Cross station on this particular day, September 1st 1977. A lot of the families were flamboyantly or, at least, eccentrically dressed. Other people, regulars of the commuter run into London, gave them odd looks and muttered things like ‘weirdoes’ under their coffee-bitter breaths.
Into all this came another family. They, unlike most of their fellows, were dressed quite normally. They drew little attention to themselves. The father was pushing a trolley with well-packed luggage balanced on it. He had a sweep of rich, red hair across his head, still naturally thick and was tall, muscular in a modest way, with the look of a man who had travelled very far and come home to the most familiar and strangest of them all. He wore a smart suit, of which only the slightly faded colours suggested that it was old. It was the only suit he owned.
The mother’s hair was turning prematurely grey, and little lines of stress outlined her darting, steely grey eyes. Shorter and slighter than her husband, she was still the more intimidating of the two. One hand clutched the shoulder of her little girl, both pushing her ahead of them and keeping her from straying. There was no other hand. Her other arm ended a little above the elbow. Several people stared, but to a lose limb was hardly odd. Unusual. Particularly in a young woman. But not odd. Passers-by continued to pass by.
The girl that was being marched ahead of her parents wore an unnatural, expressionless face. Her eyes, large and brown like her father’s, were glued ahead to the barrier between platforms nine and ten. Her bottom lip was attempting to pout, but thus far her will had over-ruled it. Her skin was so pale, like her mother’s. Was she going to faint? Some strangers’ gazes lingered on her- surely she was ill? But no. The girl was scared, but not ill.
They approached the barrier. Another family cut ahead of them without apology. They probably didn’t even realise. When the three of them wanted to appear Muggle-like, they could do it better than most wizards and witches. They took no offence when magical families passed them by. Better that than to draw unwanted attentions. As one, they hesitated. Another mum and her son rushed through the barrier. There was still ten minutes before the train left.
“Better?” the mother asked. The girl swallowed.
“No,” she breathed in reply.
“You’ll be fine,” her father said, jovial though quiet. He hugged the girl. The girl hugged her mother. Pale, oddly dry hands gripped the bar of the luggage trolley and struggled to steer it towards the barrier. She didn’t look back. She never, ever let people see her cry. Madame had told her never to show weakness. That wasn’t their way. She didn’t expect her parents to understand- she loved them, and they loved her. That was all that was needed. It was because she loved them so much that she ran through the barrier and threw her cases on to the train. It was because she loved them so much that she wept bitterly all the time while doing it.
She tucked herself away in the corner of a compartment by the window, knees drawn up to the side and face fixed unseeing at the window. Her parents would have gone. The platform itself was full of parents waving away their beloved offspring. No one was waving for her. Presently, someone tapped on the glass in the door of her compartment. She sniffed and turned to glare at whoever it was. Immediately, the boy seemed to reconsider and move to leave, but he must have faced much more hostile reactions down the train because he slid open the door anyway, dragging his trunk behind him.
“Nowhere else to sit,” he mumbled, sitting as far away from her as possible. He looked at her as though she was a wild creature, and he had just climbed into its cage. His hair was long and tied behind his head. A wizard, raised by old-fashioned wizards, she concluded.
They sat in silence for a bit. The door was still open.
The train’s whistle blew. There was a bit of a commotion going on at the other end of the carriage- sounded like a family had arrived a little late and were still trying to get on board. The train gave a lurch. Well, she could hope for their sake’s they made it. She felt a slight warmth of recognition. A smile crept across her lips.
“What’s so funny?” the boy whispered. The girl looked at him as though she had completely forgotten he was there.
“Nothing.” This, apparently, was the wrong answer to give.
“It’s my hair, isn’t it?!” he said loudly. “Or my clothes!” In all honesty, she had paid no attention to his garb, but now he mentioned it… Knee high boots, black trousers made of some soft suede or velvet, and a dark green felt jerkin. Quite handsome… had he been playing Robin Hood in a school play. She didn’t laugh, though.
“I think someone I know is on the train,” she replied truthfully. Let him figure it out. The boy frowned.
“How’d you-” He stopped, head snapping round to stare at the open door. A squat girl, obviously not a first year, marched up to the door, sneering nastily. Her mouth was wide and frog-like, and her spherical head was crowned hideously in tight, dark brown curls and a pink Alice band.
“What’s the matter, Farts?” she shrieked girlishly.
BANG.
Though loud, there was a cold, detached definiteness to the sound of the spell hitting the door. It promptly slid shut and no amount of the frog-girl’s wrenching at the handle would open it. She pulled out her wand and started firing noisy and uncontrolled hexes at the door. It shook, squirmed, but still wouldn’t open. The noise was enough, however, to alert other students to the fact that something had happened.
The blond boy, however, looked at his rescuer fearfully. She calmly slid the wand out of sight in arms and continued to gaze out at the window.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said cautiously. No response. “She’s a fourth year. Her best friend’s a prefect in fifth year. She’ll get you.” A prefect, though not the one the frog-girl appeared to be friends with, had arrived outside the compartment. The girl looked around in vague interest. She waved. Behind the prefect were two boys, one, a first year like herself, the other a fourth year. Like her, they had red hair. The prefect was arguing with the girl. She kept screaming her answers and gesturing wildly at the two occupants of the compartment. Finally, she let out a shriek of rage as the prefect handed her a detention slip and she stormed off. The prefect knocked on the window.
The reverse hex made several popping sounds and the door slid open again. The prefect stepped into the compartment.
“What house are you in?” he asked them both.
“I haven’t been Sorted yet,” the boy replied nervously. The prefect looked awkward.
“First years, huh? Both of you? What are your names, then?” The boy shuffled his feet.
“Ph… Phelps, Artisan Phelps,” he replied. “I said it wrong when that… that other girl asked me. I said-”
“I can guess,” the prefect said stonily. “And you?” The girl wondered what would happen if she didn’t answer. Unfortunately, her fourth year cousin answered instead.
“Her name’s Sam Weasley,” he said.
“Thanks, Bill,” the prefect replied. “Right, Sam, Artisan, I can’t take points off your houses for obvious reasons, but I’m going to have to tell the trolley witch not to let you buy anything from her, all right? You’re not allowed to use magic on the train. It’s not on, do you hear me?” Sam and Artisan mumbled their ‘yes’s.
The crowd of people dispersed. Sam and Artisan sat in silence for a few moments.
“Thanks,” Artisan said eventually. “For closing the door, I mean.”
“’S okay,” Sam replied. “I didn’t like her. Who is she, anyway?”
“Dolores Umbridge,” Artisan moaned. “She lives on my street back home. She’s been picking on me ever since I was six. I kept telling my mum, but whenever she asks Dolly what she’s been up to, she puts on this ‘sweet/innocent’ act. Fools my mum every time. She made me sit with her. Who were the boys?”
“Bill ratted me out,” Sam replied, with no trace of bitterness. “He wants to be a prefect really bad. Fair play to him. The other redhead was Charlie, our year. They’re my cousins.”
“Oh.” Artisan frowned. “Not very nice of him to rat you out.” Sam shrugged.
“If I hadn’t answered, maybe I would have been expelled or something. He’s looking out for me… in an odd way, I suppose.” Sam sighed. “I won’t sit with them, though. Bill’s worried I’ll do something weird and it’ll look bad on him. I think he’s in it for the girls, personally.” Artisan looked at Sam in surprise, and then caught the glint of laughter in her eyes.
“I’m Artie,” he said, chuckling. “I owe you one.”
“Sam,” she replied. She tried not to stare too hard at the boy. When he had first entered the compartment, she had been aware of his wariness, the undertones of pureblood snobbery, even a somewhat superior attitude towards girls. Now she could see past the shell he had raised out of defence. Beneath it was a boy who wanted to be liked, who wanted to be talented and popular, who wanted to be powerful but was all too aware of his own limitations. A great wizard he would never be, but he had potential to be a great leader. Very few people were aware of such things, including the people who did them. Sam, however, was a very gifted girl.
She always hoped no one would ever have to find out how gifted.

The journey to Hogwarts might have been long, awkward and hungry, had it not been for the reappearance of Bill and Charlie Weasley. Bill’s hair was long enough to hinder him, but not yet long enough to tie back in any sensible way. He’d glanced enviously at Artie’s ‘tail, and had laughingly talked about his mum, Sam’s aunt, scolding him for not letting her cut his hair. Artie had sighed and stared at Charlie. Charlie was still very much under the tyranny of Molly Weasley and his hair was cropped short.
Bill had taken it upon himself to ensure that Charlie and Sam a) did well at Hogwarts and B) not do anything to embarrass him. As such, he spent quite a bit of the journey lecturing the three first years on Hogwarts. He told them about the Sorting Hat, gave them his own biased view of the houses (of course, you’ll want to be a Gryffindor…), the teachers, the prefects and the rules.
As it was then, Professor Dumbledore was headmaster, and Professor Mantacori was deputy. Unfortunately, Professor Mantacori was also the head of Slytherin house and taught defence against the Dark Arts. He had a small group of select students he favoured- they were allowed to do pretty much as they wished. The rest of the teachers were fairly unbiased, and Bill was quite wistful in describing the potions mistress, Doctor Edie Sumner.
Night began to creep after the train and soon overtook it, enveloping its passengers in a velvet wrap of darkness. The lights of Hogwarts were visible ahead, and even from this distance, they took Sam’s breath away. Hogwarts was huge. She had stayed at the chateau with Madame many a time, and thought that big, but the forbidding spikes of the spires, the cold lake to welcome loose-footed students and the dark shadows which might have mountains or unlit wings of the school all added to the overwhelmingly intimidating view.
Sam sank into her seat nervously.
“You all right?” Bill asked through a mouthful of chocolate biscuit. Charlie left his seat and peered out of the window.
“Oh, wow!” he exclaimed. “Hogwarts! Looks-”
“Horrible,” Sam muttered. “Horrible, and dark. I bet there’s loads of nasty things hiding in there.” Bill put his hand on Sam’s shoulder comfortingly.
“I’ve already been there three years, Sam, and I’ve never known anything really bad to happen. I mean, sure there’s often people in the infirmary for one reason or another- exploding potions, a runaway beast in the Care of Magical Creatures classes, but there’s nothing which is out to get you.” There were times when Sam wished she could tone down her abilities, but now she felt the opposite. She longed to be able to touch the aura of this place, discover the innermost… well, not exactly feelings, and therein was another problem. There weren’t enough words to describe what she could sense.
It meant that a lot of her kind spent their lives aloof and alone. Madame had done everything she could to avoid that, surrounded herself with people and was considered a socialite in the most flattering sense- her grand dances were the talk of France, and yet she was still alone.
And Hogwarts looked as though it was designed for the purpose of separating her from the cheerful students she was surrounded with.

The train drew to a halt and there was the usual hustle and bustle of everyone trying to get all their luggage off the train. Bill left them to join his fourth year friends and walked away from the station. A huge voice was booming ‘FIRS’ YEARS!! FIRS’ YEARS OVER ‘ERE!’. That seemed to be a pretty definite direction, and so Charlie, Artisan and Sam followed the other first year students, a mixed bunch of the excited and terrified (many were both), to where a giant of a man was awaiting them with an equally proportioned lamp.
“Follow me!” the giant told them happily, and he began to lead them away from where the rest of the students were going.
“Um…” Sam commented, but Charlie squeezed her arm.
“That must be Hagrid,” he said. “He’s going to take us across the lake. Bill reckons he had too much engorging potion as a kid.”
“I see what they mean,” Sam replied, trying to grin. “What does he teach?”
“He doesn’t. He’s the groundskeeper.” Hagrid led them down to the edge of the lake, to where dozens of little boats were waiting for them. Sam stopped dead in her tracks.
“There’s something in the water!” she exclaimed, and then immediately bit her lip. She’d said it loud enough for everyone to hear, and now all the students were staring from her to Hagrid in horror. Hagrid, however, looked unperturbed.
“That’ll be the squid. Don’ yeh go worryin’ about ‘im. He’ll leave yeh alone. Four to a boat, then!” The students began splitting up into groups. Sam went to follow Charlie and Artisan but a huge, painfully heavy hand grabbed her shoulder and pinned her to the spot.
“How’d yeh know?” Hagrid growled softly.
“I… I saw something move,” Sam replied. She was quaking with fear.
“No yeh didn’t.” He turned her around to face him, and got down on one knee so that he was almost level with her. “Yeh’d better be more careful ‘bout who yeh tell yeh secrets to. There’s folk here-” he glanced round nervously “-who’d use information like that, use it to hurt yeh. What’s yeh name?”
“S… Sam Weasley.”
“A Weasley, eh? Shoulda known, what with the hair an’ all. Well, Sam, yeh’d best be keepin’ quiet about the things you ‘see’. Now, go on.” He gave her what he must of thought was a gentle push towards the boats, but the result of it was that she stumbled and tripped into a boat, making it rock violently. A girl, who had joined Artie and Charlie to make up the numbers, shrieked.
“You idiot! You could have capsized us!” she declared dramatically. Sam wondered if she was now going to put the back of her hand to her forehead and faint, but she didn’t. The girl was surrounded in an over-the-top shell of snobbery and dramatics which obscured whatever else the girl had to detect, yet there was a feeling she was hiding something and- “Stop staring at me!” she huffed, before turning her eyes on to Artie. Ugh. She fancied him.
Their boat began to glide across the lake with the others, and Hagrid, in his own boat, was leading them towards the lights of Hogwarts. The girl, who introduced herself as Karissa Verling, began talking in a non-stop stream of shrill arrogance.
“There was no possible way I wasn’t going to be welcomed into Hogwarts with open arms, but I do think these boats are a little primitive, don’t you? They could have at least padded the seats, these quite uncomfortable, and I have a very sensitive body, you know. I have to be treated gently-” Another fluttering of eyelashes at Artie. “I am a gentle lady, not some rough, country bumpkin.” Those last words were directed at Sam, who narrowed her eyes. She didn’t reach for her wand- she really didn’t want to capsize the boat, but all the same, she felt this girl could use a good curse or two. However, Artie stunned her and Karissa by suddenly and loudly interrupting her:
“Actually, that ‘country bumpkin’ you’re referring to is my friend and she could probably hex that superior smirk right off your face with barely a thought, and why she hasn’t already, I don’t know because I for one would like a little peace!” Karissa promptly shut her mouth. The moment Artie had resumed watching the waters ahead of them, she turned and gave Sam the most terrible look of pure hatred that it felt to Sam as though someone had just thrown a bucket of boiling water over her.
Sam had never been particularly verbal, so she stuck her tongue out at Karissa.

The boats beached themselves at the base of Hogwarts castle and Hagrid led them up through the winding staircases and passages of the school, pointing out things of interest to the students as they went:
“Slytherin house is down that corridor, and that portrait there, that’s of Professor Erika Lidstone, the first female head of Slytherin. Nasty woman, she was. Put a couple of students in detention that were never seen again. Thankfully, Mantacori’s quite a bit nicer ‘n her.”
Most of what Hagrid said flowed over the top of Sam’s head like a warm breeze while she concentrated on finding landmarks in case she ever needed to find her way back out of the school unaided. Something slumbered here… something huge and ancient. She wisely didn’t say anything here, not in the gloom of the Hogwarts dungeons, but that slumbering giant pressed against all her other senses, muffling everything else.
Finally, they emerged into the school proper and were bathed in the golden light of a hundred blazing torches. Hagrid left them there to be greeted by a much shorter wizard. His bald, dark-skinned head was left bare save for two wisps of grey hair tucked behind either ear, a bushy sausage of a moustache, also grey, and a pair of dignified specs. He was dressed in dark green and carried a long scroll in his arms. He smiled at the students warmly.
“In a few moments, we will pass through these doors for the Sorting ceremony and your official welcome to Hogwarts, but let me be the first to greet you, and wish you the very best of times here. My name is Professor Mantacori- I’m sure I shall get to know all of you in time. Now then, if you’d like to follow me.” He turned and waved his wand at the large, closed doors behind them. They opened with a creaking of old wood and a rush of hot air, very similar to what you feel when you open an oven and you’re stood in the wrong place.
A thousand candles burned over the heads of the students as they sat at their four house tables. Images of snakes, lions, eagles and badgers were emblazoned on torch brackets, flags, banners even on the badges the students wore. The staff were seated at the far end of the hall at a grand table. Seated in a central throne was a man dressed in purple, richly embroidered robes with long, flowing white hair from his beard and head. He seemed delighted to see the new students.
“Dumbledore,” Charlie whispered. Sam nodded gratefully.
In front of the table was a battered, three-legged stool with an ever more battered, patched old rag of a hat. The first years lined up in front of it and waited expectantly. Then, without much ceremony, the hat opened up and sang:

“The looks upon your faces,
are confused, yes I can see.
You wonder what I’m capable of,
And how I came to be.
A thousand years or more now,
I sat upon the head,
Of one of Hogwarts’ founders,
A fellow dressed in red.
He, with three companions,
Decided this school should be
A place where wizards and witches,
Should learn skills in sorcery.
Gryffindor, my owner,
Sought to teach some bravery,
While Hufflepuff, the kindly,
Valued friendship and loyalty.
Slytherin, how mighty,
Wanted students who were smart,
And Ravenclaw the wisest,
Wanted the best in their chosen art.
So students of all categories,
Have been chosen for this place.
You each have particular talents,
Hidden beneath your face.
Plant me firmly on your head,
And me see your frailty.
I’ll put you in a house that fits,
The sort of person you will be.

The school applauded and the hat took a bow to each of the four tables in front of it. Then Mantacori stood next to the hat and began reading names alphabetically off of the list. One by one, students went up and the hat declared loudly which house he had decided they should be put in. Glancing around, Sam spotted a dark-skinned boy who looked younger than the rest of the students. His large, brown eyes were fixed upon a notebook in one his hand, and his other hand held an entirely non-magical biro. Every time the hat shouted something, he would make a little mark on the page.
“What are you doing?” Sam asked him. The boy’s eyes never left the page.
“Working on a theory. Reckon all our houses are decided before we get here, because there must be an equal number of students in each house. So far, Ravenclaw have had the most students.”
“Okay, but why are you doing that?” The boy now looked at her with such tragic eyes that Sam almost felt like bursting into tears.
“My name’s Ben Zarraga,” he said softly. “I’m the last on the list, I reckon. I want to be a Ravenclaw, but the way things are going, I have been chosen for another house, I think. What’s your name?”
“Sam Weasley,” she replied. “Uh, good luck with your statistics.”
Artie was the first out of the four in the boat to step up.
“Phelps, Artisan!” Mantacori called. Artie looked anxiously at Sam and Charlie before stepping up to the stool, sitting down in as dignified a way as he could, and waiting for the hat to be placed over his head. Sam held her breath, though she already had a good idea.
“What do you reckon?” Charlie whispered.
“Slytherin,” she whispered back. Sure enough, a moment later, the hat bellowed the house name across the hall and the Slytherins erupted in cheers for their newest member. Artie looked highly pleased at the hat’s decision. He waved cheerfully at Sam and Charlie before hurrying down to join his new house.
Karissa was the next out of the four, and she seated herself upon the stool as though it was a throne, hands in her lap like a queen. When Mantacori lowered the hat on to her head, Sam was struck by the resemblance to a coronation. The hat seemed a little indecisive about her, but after a few moments, it decided on “GRYFFINDOR!”.
“Oh great,” Charlie said sarcastically. “I had my heart set on Gryffindor, too. Why’d she go and ruin it?”
“There’s still room in Gryffindor for boys,” Ben commented. A vague smile crossed his lips. “And Ravenclaw,” he added wistfully.
“Weasley, Charles!” Charlie cringed as his full name was read out, and he tripped as he went to put the hat on. A few sniggers raced around the hall, but at a look from Mantacori, they quickly fell silent. The potions master helped Charlie to his feet, dusted off his robe and then sat him down on the stool. There was barely a second in the hat’s decision:
“GRYFFINDOR!”
That was it, then, and it was Sam’s turn to step up to the stool. Her legs felt like lead. She was utterly torn between houses- Gryffindor to be with Bill and Charlie? Ah, but was she really like them? Was she a Gryffindor at heart? Her head told her no, her head told her she was a Slytherin and, to be honest, she wanted to go there. They would accept her.
“Weasley, Samantha Joan,” Mantacori called. Ugh, only her grandparents ever got away with calling her Samantha, and her parents only used it when they were angry with her. She stepped up to the stool, met Ben’s eyes as he watched her, pen poised. Her eyes asked the question, his shrug was the answer. She felt a sudden weight on her head and gasped with shock- she could hear the Sorting Hat speaking to her!
“Mmmm… we haven’t had one of your kind here for many a year. All the previous ones went to Slytherin…”
Yes! Put me in Slytherin!
“I don’t think so. Normally, I do allow the students to choose-” so much for Ben’s theory. “But you’re in a unique position. You walk between houses. One would welcome you, but ultimately destroy you. The other will try to destroy and ultimately aid you. For your own sake, I’m putting you in GRYFFINDOR!” The Gryffindor table burst into cheers as a rather dazed Sam made her way down to join Charlie and Bill. Gryffindor? Why on earth was she in Gryffindor?
She looked at her cousins; they looked so pleased, like she’d just won some great prize. She glanced over her shoulder as she sat down. Artie was watching her. Artie was a Slytherin.
Sam was so stunned it took her a few moments to start cheering for Ben, who had got his wish granted- he had been put in Ravenclaw. She spent most of the meal in silence after that.
The prefects led them to Gryffindor tower, past the countless wonders of the school: portraits which remembered more than just images of their subjects; suits of armour which would spring to guard the school, regardless of occupant; winding passages which seemed to have vanished the next time you glanced at them.
Karissa was talking and laughing loudly with the other three Gryffindor first year girls, Sherie Hopkins, Nadia Jindal and Mina Fawcett. Occasionally, Karissa would nod at Sam and say something, and then her fan club would giggle maliciously, making insincere comments like- “Oh Karrie, you’re terrible!”
“Ooh Karrie, kiss my bottom,” Sam mimicked nastily. Something sniggered in her ear. Sam resisted the temptation to turn around blindly. Out of the corner of her eye, she could just about make out a flickering shadow of something- a poltergeist. So, he found that funny, did he? “I’d make her do it too, but I bet her lips are all slimy in mummy’s lipstick,” Sam continued. “She’s such a fake.”
“Bitter little girlie! Why don’t you follow Peeves into the dungeons? There are far more interesting people down there than fake Kar-” He did not finish that sentence. Sam’s wand was out and, with a sudden shout which made several Gryffindors jump, she illuminated the mischievous spirit and trapped him in an aura of light.
“Want to try?” Sam sneered, her lip curling with fury. “Want to trick me into stepping into the lake? Really?” The poor ghost looked truly afraid.
“Oi! No magic in the corridors!” Peeves let out a huge cackle of relief as Sam lost concentration and he escaped. A strange old man as hobbling his way with astonishing speed up the stairs, pushing unlucky students out of the way. There was a wild, dangerous look to him. Maybe Sam had been lulled into a false sense of security by Peeves’ dim-wittedness, but when the old man pushed her hard up against the wall, pinned her by her shoulder and used his free hand to snatch away her wand, she was taken completely by surprise.
By this point, one of the Gryffindor prefects had noticed something was wrong and was making her way through the crowd of students towards Sam and her attacker.
“What’s going on?” the prefect demanded.
“I saw this brat casting a hex on Peeves!” the old man spat back. “You’re supposed to be enforcing the rules! Fat lot of use you are!” The prefect looked close to tears. The man’s attack had hardened something in Sam, for she had no sympathy for the girl. Instead, she began saying words. Old Words. Dead Words.
The temperature in the stairways dropped markedly. The air became thin and stale. The torches grew dim and blue and threatened to go out. The man looked around in abject terror, but his grip never left Sam’s shoulder. Ice crystals began to form on his hand. Didn’t he notice? The hand was blue. Soon, it would be brittle…
As if reading her thoughts, the man hurriedly let go of Sam, wailing and clutching at his frozen hand.
“That is ENOUGH!” The temperature rose, the torches flared and the air smelled sweetly of the feast recently eaten in the hall. Dumbledore was stood at the very rear of the crowd, accompanied by Mantacori. While the headmaster was positively livid, Mantacori looked most intrigued. “Miss Weasley! You will accompany me to my office this instant!” No one else moved. Sam stepped down the stairs with suddenly leaden limbs. She couldn’t look the old man in the eyes.
Sam remembered little of the journey to Dumbledore’s office. Had she been asked to find it again, no doubt she could have done. All things, even the stones she walked upon, remembered things, and the Madame had taught her how to read them. However, asked to describe the route, she would have faltered and failed.
Soon she found herself in Dumbledore’s office, stood before a mighty desk. Dumbledore sat himself behind it and conjured up a pile of loose leaves of parchment bound in an unremarkable red packet.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked her softly.
“No,” Sam replied.
“Madame Beauvarisse taught you better than that, surely?”
“Yes she did, sir.” She cursed herself silently. Dumbledore, at least, smiled.
“These are the various letters your parents have sent me, ever since you were six. Do you know why they start then?”
“That was the year I discovered I was a Parselmouth, sir,” Sam replied tonelessly. She felt angry at whoever designed the girls’ uniforms that he had failed to include any pockets in the skirt for her to put her hands in. She was sulking.
“Indeed. These letters tell me everything they discovered about you. You are not a normal student. You must realise this.”
“I do, sir.” Dumbledore sighed and pressed his fingertips together.
“Not yet, but you soon will. You’ve always been taught privately, haven’t you? Your parents, Madame, the various dance teachers they paid to keep you distracted from the Dark Arts, yes I know all of it. But you’ve never been among children your own age.” Sam bristled.
“I’m not a child,” she replied through gritted teeth.
“You are. You’re eleven years old. You just don’t act like a child. You act like an apprentice necromancer, which, I would assume, is precisely how Madame Beauvarisse trained you to be. However, I do not allow necromancers into my school, Miss Weasley, particularly hex-happy necromancers who would rather curse their way out of a situation than negotiate. I suggest you sort yourself out and calm down. Here, you will have to learn to live with people, not merely among them.” He stood up slowly but, unlike the old man who had attacked Sam, there was no sign of frailty in him. “Attacking members of staff is something I will not tolerate in my school. You’ll be attending detention tomorrow evening with Doctor Sumner at seven. Do not be late.”