Envy (Sequel to Deceit)

Stop Analysing Me

The remainder of the journey passed quickly, as did the welcoming feast. That evening I dismissed the ramblings of the new professor, a stuck up ministry teacher, only to be greeted with a similar rant the next day in our double lesson. It was in that very lesson that I learnt how much I disliked the woman, her pitchy voice grated on my nerves and her tendency to wear more pink than should be legal damaged my eyes. Her face was squashed and was slightly reminiscent of that of a toad; it was evident immediately that we would learn nothing from her.

Still, she squeaked on, shrilly quoting the textbook of useless rubbish that she had provided for our lesson.

"Turn to page one hundred and fifty four," the toad woman trilled, her voice determined to ruin our hearing, "there will be no practical spells in this classroom, put away your wands" she instructed, tapping hers on the giant chalkboard. Right. Last year we had a complete nutter, this year our professor was someone who completely missed the main principle of the class. It was a practical class; especially at N.E.W.T level.

I sighed, holding my head in my hands in exasperation. Alice, who sat beside me, smiled.

"Looks like Transfiguration all over again," she mouthed, pulling a face at me.

I rolled my eyes, surely the woman wasn't serious. We had to do spells. We had to.

"Excuse me professor," a boy from the far side of the classroom interjected, his voice held an air of aloofness that could have almost placed him in Slytherin but no, strangely the speaker was a Gryffindor; Dan or something.

The boy who might have been called Dan continued as the eyes of every student fell upon him, "isn't it more important that we learn to defend ourselves now, now that You Know Who is back, I mean?" He breezed.

I nearly choked myself with laughter. The idiot! Umbridge was a ministry representative so completely against the idea of the Dark Lord's return, she was hardly likely to even consider his argument.

"My dear boy, you have been sadly deceived. He Who Must Not Be Named is dead," she paused to look pityingly around the room at the students who sat there. Her look of pity was however tinted with the aura of her usual patronising stare. She effortlessly spun them her tale, like flies to a bright light they were ensnared and who were we to stop them, to tell them that the bright light would burn? Alice, Khaeos and I were the only ones that were not drawn in; we sat there silent in the knowledge that we knew far more than any of these deluded people. I liked to know things but sometimes, just sometimes, I wished I didn't. The fly that is killed by the pretty light will die happy, unaware of the danger until those final seconds.

It occurred to me that I was being cynical, so I tried not to think on it at all, a task that turned out far easier than I had predicted. As the days went on I believed I was coming down with a fever, I would go through hot and cold spells and most of the time I found I could eat very little. Many a morning, the mere smell of food made my stomach churn and as a result I spent most mornings being sick. There was nothing in my stomach for the stupid bug to extract but still it tortured me with the cruel sickness. I refused to go see Madam Pomfrey of course, her medicines could interfere with my potion; a risk I was not willing to take. So instead I took days off, careful to only take a few per week and never consecutive ones. Khaeos at least seemed worried about me, for her part Alice didn't care until the very end of September when my illness had still not passed.

The three of us sat huddled in the dorm we shared as rough winds battered the windows. The dark blanket of night covered the starless sky, only breached here and there by angry clouds. There had been no thunder but it had been evident for the past week that we were due a storm. The days had been shrouded by dull grey clouds that forced the sun's retreat. In the distance they were darker, slowly ebbing forward like intoxicating smoke. Professor Trelawney predicted the end of the world and the death of half her class, but who would listen to the ramblings of that old bat?