House Colors

The House Colors Series

Prologue


The day of the Slytherin Inter-House Quarterly Mixer...



12:14 p.m. Hogwart’s Great Hall

Amidst the clinking of glasses and the scraping of forks and knives against plates, Draco Malfoy sat over his lunch, pushing his potatoes creating a moat out of his gravy around a brutalized lump of meatloaf. On his right, Pansy was chatting amiably with Daphne Greengrass about what atrocious accoutrements they’d planned to wear at the evening’s soirée. To his left, Greg and Vince, sitting across from each other, were slobbering around large mouthfuls of carrots and mash, occasionally grunting out the punch line to a joke and then guffawing loudly, spraying each other with bits of food.

Draco cringed. Sitting beside those two at lunch was cause enough to put him off food until dinner the next day most of the time. Every now and then he was forced to shift slightly and lean into Pansy avoiding a flying spot of gravy or bit of string bean. Presently, it was not turning out to be a very good day. Most of the seventh years had barely been focused in lessons; the note passing, whispering and giggling had become near-unbearable three quarters of the way through second-period transfiguration. It was to be expected of course, being the day of the Seventh Year Inter-House Quarterly Mixer generally caused an uproar before the party actually happened and something of a scandal afterwards. This evening would be no exception; it was Slytherin House’s turn to host and preparations had begun a week prior. Rumor had it that Millicent Bulstrode had begun brewing her illicit alcoholic creations two nights ago, Zabini had been periodically sneaking off to converse with members of the other houses and make “arrangements” as he liked to call them, and the common room had only last night been enchanted to expand and accommodate the whole of Hogwart’s graduating class and their respectable (here he sneered inwardly) guests.

Glancing up from his artistic creation for a moment, steel grey eyes narrowed, scanning the Gryffindor table for one mop of messy, tangled black hair to launch a well-placed insult that would effectively draw Draco out of his boredom. Much to his chagrin, the Weasel was rattling on around mouthfuls of food to an oblivious Granger who presently had her nose buried in a large book, while the place usually reserved for Potter was vacant. Finnigan, as per usual, was gesticulating broadly entertaining a few fifth years with his antics, while Dean Thomas looked on shooting him shy glances from time to time. From his vantage point, Draco could make out the chubby lump of Neville Longbottom hunched over his lunch while the younger Weasley girl leaned into him as she made conversation. Across from them, Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil were adding to the rumormill behind the cupped palms of their hands, whispering and giggling madly. Odd lot, Gryffindors, really, no tact and no poise, he mused - dutifully ignoring the loud guffawing and splattering bits of food to his left.

However, the absence of Potter was odd, to say the least, lly lly the Top, Bottom and Middle of the Golden Threesome couldn’t be seen without each other’s company. Brusquely returning his attention to his half eaten lunch attempting to shake off the mental image of the Three Great Gryffindorks slithering around each other wetly, Draco’s attention was diverted abruptly when a large wad of half-chewed, gravy-sodden meatloaf and potato flumped with an audible smack on one pale, aristocratically thin left cheek.

The top half of the Slytherin table fell instantly silent as Draco picked up his napkin to wipe the goop off and stared unblinkingly at the mess left on the white cloth. His angular features contorted with disgust before turning to Goyle and beginning to bellow a long string of obscenities that made McGonagall drop her fork halfway across the large room. In the scrabbling that followed as he bore down on the larger boy, face flushed and arms flailing, he failed to notice two boys passing just outside the doors of the Great Hall - one with a mop of tousled, uncontrollable black hair, the other a prim and poised member of his own house, their heads together muttering conspiratorially.




1:42 p.m. History of Magic Classroom

Ron was doodling on the corner of his parchment, what had started off as a caricature of Malfoy licking Snape’s dragon-hide boots has evolved into some elaborate swirlings, curlicues and hearts dancing around the beginnings of what spelled out “H-E-R-M-I” before the object of his affections glanced over, scowling at his lack of attention to the lesson and he quickly crumpled the parchment before she could snatch it away from him to view its contents. At the front of the class, Professor Binns was still carrying on about goblin-troll alliances of the mid fifteenth century, largely unaware of the activities of his students.

The second youngest Weasley flushed deeply, before tearing his eyes away from the bushy-haired brunette to stare fixedly at a spot on his desk.

Across the room, Pansy Parkinson was surveying the pair of Gryffindors in between casting nail polishing charms under her desk and smirking.




2:51 p.m. The Dungeons, Professor Snape’s Private Potions Storage Cupboard

Weeding through the dimly lit cupboard, a lumpy girl with wiry black hair pushed ingredients left and right, digging deeper into the Potion Master’s private stores. Here were the unique, difficult-to-obtain ingredients that were imported from various countries, sometimes smuggled illegally from what she could tell as she picked up a small bottle of Sasquatch Blood from Alaska and surveyed the dark, viscous liquid coating the insides of the bottle.

Millicent had been especially careful over the course of the last week brewing in secret in a small unused cupboard in the dungeons. The family recipes that had been passed down from her mother’s side were magically bound and locked away in a rather small, worn out tome that she generally kept pressed between her dormitory mattress and box spring. The book itself was only taken out once a year when Millicent received her call to action. The Slytherin boys, of course, were exceptional potion makers, but Millicent firmly believed it took a woman’s touch to make the brews proper for consumption; magical cooking, her mother always insisted, was the lost art of the hearth. Anyone could produce a potion to make you see pink elephants and little green dancing leprechauns, Millicent could cause your delirium slowly, tantalizingly, force you to pause, believe what you saw and make you beg for more in your rapture.

The brews, beers, meads and liqueurs in question required the delicate treatment of a variety of different constituents, and if Blaise hadn’t absolutely insisted that she procured several ingredients for the more potent concoctions for the Mixer this evening, she wouldn’t be risking her thick neck at the present time to get said items from the Potion Master’s private stores. Blaise, however, tended to be rather persuasive. She still in fact, had two of the love bites below her collar and tie to prove it.

So Millicent slipped through the rows of loose herbs, powders and volatile oils, occasionally dropping a few things into the pockets of her robes; crushed datura seeds, sticky chunks of peyote, an assortment of foul smelling psilocybin mushrooms – but as she was digging one pudgy hand through a particularly deep jar of morning glory blossoms the door to the storeroom creaked open and a black-robed figure slipped into the room. Catching herself before she gasped too loudly, she quickly dropped to the ground behind a el oel of which unmistakably smelled like pickled salamander scales to hide her relatively husky frame from view. The last thing she needed was to be caught red-handed by Snape – the teacher usually turned a blind eye to the goings on of the House Mixer, but surely he’d have her expelled before she could mutter N.E.W.T. if he caught her riffling through the more… exotic section… of his storeroom. The person, obviously male in charcoal gray trousers, but curiously not the Professor, took four strides into the room and paused before a shelf. Millicent noted the scraping sound of a glass vial against its wood holder, before the person turned and stole quickly out of the room.

When she was sure that the coast was clear, she crept around the shelves to the place where the boy had stood and surveyed the rack for the newly missing ingredient. Grinning fiendishly upon spotting the empty spot in between the jars of rose absolute extract and beakers of minced troll’s tongue, the Slytherin noticed the little label had been rubbed down somewhat - Millicent nonetheless knew a class nine regulated herb when she saw one. Someone was definitely going to be in for an interesting night, she mused.




4:02 p.m. Ravenclaw Common Room, Free Period

“Did you see Finnigan at lunch?” Lisa Turpin was sprawled over a bronze and blue chintz armchair twirling a long auburn curl around her index finger. “Honestly that boy is a walking shag waiting to happen!”

Terry Boot looked up briefly from his arithmancy text to roll his eyes. “Really Lisa, you’rartiarting to sound like you should be wearing silver and green and hanging out with Parkinson and Greengrass. Shouldn’t you be curling your hair, love? Or doing your nails?”

“Terry!” she slapped his arm playfully. “A girl has needs you know!”

“Right,” he replied closing his book. “Unfortunately Seamus is as queer as a bent knut. You’ll have no luck there”.

She took a moment to look scandalized, eyelashes batting, before collecting herself and sitting up straight.

“Are you sure you’re not mistaken? Perhaps you misheard me, I said Seamus Finnigan, not Harry Potter.” At that, Terry’s eyes went wide and his jaw went slack. “Oh don’t look so shocked, it’s not like the whole school hasn’t put two and two together.” Terry was gaping, mouth opening and closing soundlessly like a large guppy.

“Impossible!” he muttered. Lisa puffed up her considerable chest and looked triumphant.

“Really, Terry,” she gave him her most patronizing look. “And you were ribbing me about where the sorting hat stuck me. Honestly, with that look on your face I could almost see you in Hufflepuff colors.” With that, she gathered her robes around her and made to leave through the staircase ascending to the girl’s dormitories. Pausing before the stairs, she gave him a quick grin over her shoulder, “You really should pay a little more attention at dinner, analyze the way he reacts to the way a particular blond Slytherin gets him all riled up, you know,” and winked before departing.

Terry merely stared after her. Unhinging his jaw and shaking his head to clear it while pulling his arithmancy text back into his lap, he made a mental note to give both students an analytical once over before dinner had finished. For intellectual purposes only, of course…




6:01 p.m. Charms Corridor

Professor Flitwick had barely dismissed his last class of the day before the group of ten or so Hufflepuffs staggered out of the Charms classroom chatting amiably amongst themselves. In a couple of hours the seventh years would start piling into the Slytherin dungeons and the excitement was practically palpable. Justin Finch-Fletchley was running bets as to how much everyone could possibly drink that night and who would end up in whose bed. Unfortunately for Justin, he didn’t remember the last incident at the Ravenclaw Mixer where he’d successfully downed five tankards of spiked butterbeer, three shots of firewhiskey and a pint of some bubbling blue concoction created by Millie Bulstrode before he wound up snogging the statue of Gregory the Smarmy dressed in nothing but Susan Bones’ nightdress and a pair of orange and black striped socks.

Hannah Abbott, one of the last stragglers of the group, fiddled with the stack of books in her arms to balance them better on her way back to the common room before dinner. Looking down past her folded arms to ensure she wouldn’t trip over the hem of her robes, she didn’t have a moment to notice the group of Slytherins coming around the corner as the sleeve of Vincent Crabbe’s robes caught on the corner of her Herbology text and pulled the stack from her grasp, scattering them across the floor.

“Why don’t you watch where you’re going Huffleduffer?” jeered Malfoy from the middle of the throng. Hannah felt her cheeks go red as a lump at the back of her throat began to materialize. She crouched down, letting a blond pigtail obscure her face from view and she began collecting the scattered texts, parchments and her quills from the stone floor. If she could keep her head down until the Slytherins passed she would hopefully avoid making even more of a spectacle of herself by crying in front of that arsehead Malfoy.

“Ignore him,” a husky baritone said from her right. Crabbe had knelt down beside her and was assembling the last of her quills, “it was my fault, really.”

She chanced a glance at the burly boy who was displaying a real act of kindness to her, the first that she could ever remember in her seven years at Hogwarts. She was so shocked that she froze mid-reach to her inkbottle that had rolled a foot away. He smiled shyly, not meeting her gaze. A slight pink flush had crept into his cheeks and over his collar just under his pudding-basin haircut.

“Here,” he said, collecting the inkbottle and handing it to her. His friends had disappeared down the corridor, though Hannah hadn’t noticed. She was far too distracted by the warm brush of his fingertips as he slipped the cool bottle into her grasp. Brown eyes met her hazel for a brief moment, before they both stood and shuffled awkwardly.

“Well, I’d better…” he dipped his head in the direction his housemates had gone.

She nodded dumbly as she turned and began heading towards the common room again. Pausing, she assembled her courage as she heard his footsteps start to move off in the opposite direction and turned back.

“Thanks,” she said quietly to his retreating figure.

Crabbe stopped abruptly to turn and smile over his shoulder at her. Hannah Abbott blushed furiously and ducked her head, a smile quirking at the corners of her lips causing dimples to appear in her round cheeks. She turned averting her eyes shyly, and continued down the corridor to dinner, now with a distinct spring in her step.




8:45 p.m. Gryffindor Boys Dormitory

Harry Potter stood in front of his four poster bed and surveyed the clothing selection left out by Hermione and Ginny who had invaded his wardrobe only a few minutes before and pulled out a few articles of clothing for him to try on.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, combing his fingers through his messy hair trying to force it to lie flat.

Across the room, Seamus was tearing through his own closet, causing several pairs of trousers, socks, a few shirts and several shoes to fly over his head before a trainer hit Neville Longbottom on the shoulder.

“Ouch!” he exclaimed. “Seamus watch it would you?” the pudgy boy scowled and pulled his pet toad Trevor closer to him protectively from his place between the bed hangings. Dean Thomas was stretched out beside him watching the proceedings with a bemused expression on his face. In front of them, Ron was pacing, narrowly avoiding a flying sock to the back of his head.

“Ron, mate, you’re going to wear a trench in the floor,” Harry said over his shoulder to his best friend while picking up a black and red polo shirt and eyeing it suspiciously before throwing it onto the heap created by Seamus.

“I can’t help it Harry. Tonight’s my last chance with ‘Mione, what if she doesn’t –“ he gestured broadly in the air, “you know!”

“Put out?” Seamus tried hopefully, turning around. The Irishman had since stripped off his top and was standing barefoot in a pair of brown corduroys, his belt tugging down on the waistband of his trousers.

“No!” Ron flushed red. “Well, I mean-” before Ron could answer the door to the dormitory banged open. Framed in the doorway were both his sister and the young woman in question.

“Really, Harry! We’re going to be late!” Hermione scolded stepping into the room.

From across the room, Seamus let out a mock high-pitched squeal. “Oi! No – girls – in – the – dor – mi – tor –y!” he yelled while throwing a shirt and two bundles of underwear in Ginny’s direction. Ginny’s face flushed a bright red as she took in the half-naked Seamus as the boy quickly placed two fingers across each of his nipples and pretended to act coy.

“This is not a peep show!” he cried. “That’s eleven sickles each!” cackling, nipples still covered as Ginny grabbed Neville’s hand and hauled him out of the room, still blushing furiously.

Hermione tutted impatiently at the two half-dressed young men as Harry scrabbled for a pair of jeans and a green top.

“Good choice Harry,” she said appraisingly before turning heel and heading for the stairs. “We’ll wait for you in the common room. C’mon Ron, Dean -” she cast a disparaging glance at Seamus now bouncing from foot to foot, a huge grin on his face with his elbows stuck out at his sides – nipples, still covered, before digging in her pocket, pulling out a knut and flicking it at the Irish boy. He yelped in surprise, dropping his hands and twisting suddenly – his corduroys drooping several inches exposing a bare patch of flesh on his bum.

“You may want to consider a better belt, Seamus,” she said smirking, and walked down the stairs.

“And what?” he called after her hiking up his pants and grabbing a pullover, “disappoint all the ladies?”

Harry cast a glance at his friend’s bare arse and noted dually that Dean had taken a quick peek over his shoulder before following Hermione down the stairs. Harry grinned inwardly, stepping out of the room behind his housemates and trying desperately to ignore the flutter of butterflies that were making themselves apparent in the pit of his stomach. Ron had been right; tonight was their last chance for a lot of things. He only hoped that it would eventually fall into place before it was too late.




9:01 p.m. Slytherin Common Room, the Inter-House Quarterly Mixer

Blaise Zabini sat back onto an austere-looking leather couch with a lager in his hand, and waited.

Draco was hovering around one of Millicent’s cauldrons, probably trying to determine which alcoholic punch would prove most deadly to his social ambitions if he had too much to drink. Goyle and Crabbe were hovering around the food table, clearly restraining themselves from stuffing their faces, and Pansy had just entered the common room after threatening the lower years from coming down to the party. Theodore and Daphne had reserved themselves to a pair of chairs in the corner, and appeared to be in the midst of a heavy brooding session.

Blaise, however, was waiting for the portrait hole to open and their guests to arrive to make an assessment of the riffraff that would inevitably destroy the house’s common room that evening.

At 9:05 the Hufflepuffs arrived and the drinking began. By 9:15 the Ravenclaws had poured in, and by 9:20 the Gryffindors had joined the fray and the liquor was starting to flow more than freely. At 9:30, Blaise stood up on a coffee table and cleared his throat.

“May I have your attention please? Hogwart’s Graduating Class of 1998!” he was met with a raucous chorus of cheers. Smilingly smugly at the crowd, he continued. “If you would please note, the drink and food tables will be refilling themselves all night. All we ask is that you engage yourselves well; enjoy the company of your fellow houses putting aside past disagreements and strife,” his eyes twinkled and he flashed the crowd a bright grin. “This is our last party as Hogwarts students; we expect that you will all make the best of your last hours before studying for exams begin and make up for the lost time you’ve spent over the last few years hexing, jinxing and cursing one another, ousting one another in your clubs and quashing each other’s grades!” more cheers. “The best way to accomplish house unity at this late hour is to…” he paused for added drama, “DRINK!” and lifted his lager aloft in toast. The common room erupted in loud cheers and applause.

“Welcome, all of you! To the Inter-House Quarterly Mixer!”

Stepping off the coffee table, Blaise Zabini slipped into the crowd to search for his first engagement of the evening, one hand wrapped around his lager and the other fisted around a small vial in his pocket. This evening would definitely be an event to remember…