Dirty Mouth, Dirty Blood [h.g]

nine

9

Then:

Carina watched the exchange between the Slytherins and the Gryffindors from afar. It was not her fight, it was her brother's, and she did take a certain pleasure in watching him get his ass kicked.

Carina laughed out loud when Hermione's fist collided with Draco's nose, enjoying the look of surprise on his face, though she started forward immediately.

The feeling of foreboding deep in her gut only grew when Hermione made the mistake of not retreating, choosing to glare at Crabbe and Goyle instead.

Goyle was tending to Draco, but Crabbe growled, starting towards the brunette.

Carina's eyes narrowed, and her lips parted just slightly, effectively silencing her breathing. She stalked towards Crabbe like a predator, waiting to see what he would do next.

As soon as his hand had risen, poised to slap the Gryffindor girl, Carina struck.

She grabbed Crabbe's wrist, pulling it so it touched the small of his back, and jabbed her wand into the back of his neck.

When she spoke, she barely recognized her own voice, words coming out in a gravelly hiss. "You do not touch Hermione Granger; do I make myself clear?"

Crabbe nodded shortly, and Carina whisked herself away—it was almost as if she had never been there at all.

Now:

Carina was taught from a young age to tread lightly, that the fewer people you alerted to your presence the better. And by treading so lightly, Carina held herself with an air of dignity and grace unsurpassed by anyone else in the house. So when she spoke in her calm but commanding voice, the rest of Grimmauld Place was forced to listen.

Carina didn't lose her temper, either. Sometimes she would momentarily relinquish control to her anger, yes, but her voice would never rise. The less phased you are by peoples' attempts to make you mad, the scarier you become, and the more control you get over the situation, as your head stays level.

And Carina loved control.

Ever since she was able to talk, Carina picked the games she and Draco played, she picked the stories they were read at night, and Carina believed that she could use any problem to her advantage.

So being in Grimmauld Place was frustrating for Carina. She had to sit cooped up in the same house, the same yard, for days upon days, doing the same dreary things until it all started to blur.

Needless to say, when Dumbledore returned saying he had a mission for Harry and Carina, she accepted before even hearing the terms.

The trio landed with a crack in front of Horace Slughorn's house. Harry looked shocked; the house was ransacked.

Carina, however, was suspicious. There was no dark mark to be seen, and the house seemed randomly destroyed. Death Eaters were much too meticulous for that level of carelessness.

Dumbledore, too, seemed to find something off about the situation, and he and Harry entered. Carina, however, stayed outside for a moment. She was almost certain that the attack was merely a façade, but she wanted to be sure. And if Death Eaters were actually present, she would be the most equipped to handle them.

Dumbledore was more powerful than she, yes, and Carina still contained the trace, but Carina knew all their techniques, and if need be, she could tell them she had been kidnapped from the Manor and had traced them back to here.

Finding no other life, Carina finally entered the ruined house.

She saw a small mirror in the entry hall. It was cracked, but it would serve her purpose. With a grimace, Carina wiped off her red lipstick, replacing it with a light pink she kept on her, and used her fingers to smudge the rest of her makeup slightly. Slytherins were all about appearances, and Carina now looked like she had been staring down at a cauldron all morning.

Putting on a slightly frazzled expression, Carina entered the room. Harry looked at her with surprise; he wasn't used to seeing her less than perfect.

"Professor Slughorn, what a pleasure to finally meet you!"

Harry's eyes widened even more at her exclamation— the usual coldness and distaste expressed in her tone was replaced by a cheery and bubbly voice. Carina felt slightly unclean when doing so, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

The man looked up at her with an expression of confusion. "Are you Carina Malfoy?"

"Yes, I am. When Dumbledore told me that I was going to be meeting the Professor Slughorn, I was so excited! You have to teach Potions next year, I need a teacher who can keep up with my skill and help me advance!" The words of praise left a sour taste in Carina's mouth, but she kept the fake smile plastered on her face.

Professor Slughorn gave a tight-lipped smile, and Carina let her eyes roam his face, checking for ticks. When Professor Dumbledore walked back into the room, Carina knew. She and Harry had successfully roped in a Potions Professor.

The trio, with newly added knitting patterns, walked out of the house in a comfortable silence, which Carina was the first to break. "Aren't you going to thank us, Professor?"

Harry nudged her, trying to get her to shut up, but Carina ignored him.

Dumbledore merely smiled at her warmly; she was the one student who had never been afraid of what he could do, and she was sure he respected her for that.

If Carina were a sensible person, she would have feared Dumbledore. But Carina never liked fear, never liked the way it twisted your mind. She loved using others' fears, but never her own. She had been ashamed to admit that her Boggart had been the same as Harry's—a Dementor.

When Carina was scared—really, truly, scared—she performed magic she didn't think possible. But it was uncontrollable, and Carina was all about control.

So Carina wasn't afraid to address Dumbledore in such an accusatory manner, and Carina was not afraid to address Voldemort as such. She was not going to let a mere name render her speechless.

So when Dumbledore responded with a 'thank you', Carina simply nodded as if nothing had happened.

And nothing had happened, not really. Not for her.

But Dumbledore was starting to see what an asset Carina truly was.

Dumbledore was going to rope her into a year on the run; she just didn't know it yet.