As far as she was concerned, there was nothing special about Cassidy Winters. She's simply a girl who drinks far too much coffee than she would like to admit and reads books to escape her life as an unwanted orphan. Then, when she appears in a world...
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Cassidy's POV:
Harry was still late to the welcome feast but at least he didn't have a broken nose this time around.
Snape and Harry had entered and I'm sure that Snape had said some things to upset Harry because he was in an even grumpier mood as he sat down in front of me and Mione.
"Where've you been, mate?" Ron had asked.
"I'll tell you later," repliedHarry curtly.
"But-"
"Not now, Hermione," Harry cut her off, in a darkly significant voice.
He reached across Ron for a couple of chicken legs and a handful of chips, but before he could take them they vanished, to be replaced with puddings.
"You missed the Sorting, anyway," added Hermione bitterly, as Ron and I dived for a slice from the large chocolate gateau.
"Hat say anything interesting?" asked Harry, ignoring her tone and taking a piece of treacle tart.
"More of the same, really... advising us all to unite in the face of enemies, you know."
"Dumbledore mentioned Voldemort at all?"
"Not yet, but he always saves his proper speech for after the feast doesn't he? It can't be long now."
"Snape said Hagrid was late for the feast-"
"You've seen Snape? How come?" said Ron.
"Bumped into him," muttered Harry dismissively.
"Hagrid was only a few minutes late," shrugged Hermione. "Look, he's waving at you, Harry."
We all looked up at the staff table and grinned at Hagrid, who was indeed waving at him. Harry had looked at the other teachers but soon his gaze landed on Draco at the Slytherin table.
My insides got tangled in knots as bitter thoughts stretched across my mind. Harry's mistrust of me leaves me in shambles and I hate the feeling.
"The very best of evenings to you!" A voice boomed across the Great Hall.
I looked up to find it belonging to Dumbledore, smiling broadly with his arms opened wide as though to embrace the whole room.
"What happened to his hand?" gasped Hermione.
She was not the only one who had noticed.
Dumbledore's right hand was as blackened and dead-looking as it had been on the night we went to go grab Harry from the Dursleys.
Whispers swept the room, Dumbledore merely smiled and shook his purple-and-gold sleeve over his injury.
