One: The Beginning (of the end)
Don’t get caught.
Welcome to my new fic, lovelies! There’s not much to say, other than that the other chapters will be longer!
CI by me (charme. at TDA)
Rule one: Don’t get caught.
It is a well known fact that all children of pureblood lineage must learn French at a young age. Not only must they lean French, but they also must have a private tutor to teach them their maths and writing. In the thoughts of my mother, it isn’t because there are muggles there (it’s because there are muggles there), it’s because all children must be brought up under the watchful eye of their mothers.
Before you think of her as a muggle hating bitch (she’s a muggle hating bitch) I should elaborate. My mother is a lot to handle. She has a strong personality, and an even stronger philosophy on how children should be raised.
“Children need to know about discipline!” she would say to her friends over afternoon tea, “I run my household with an iron fist, and everyone has a place!”
It wasn’t in a rude way, everyone did
have a place in our house. My father stayed quiet and worked and let the public believe he was in charge, when really my mother was making life decisions and making investments and ordering “the help” around. My brother and I were to do what we were told, and we were told to learn French and listen to our private tutors.
Mr. Nevins was my brother Ryan’s teacher from the time Ryan was about five to the time he was eleven and out the door to Hogwarts.
Old Man was about two hundred and seven and had taught countless other pureblood children just like Ryan: quiet, skinny and smart. Old Man taught Ryan his French and how to write properly and add and subtract and pretty much every little muggle thing Ryan could possibly have to know without having to go into the muggle world.
I liked Mr. Nevins. He was always present at family holidays and dinners, presumably because his family was dead or off doing other things. He always gave me nice presents for my birthdays and for Christmas, and he still comes around to the house sometimes when Ryan and I are home from school.
My teacher was called Miss Yvette. She insisted I call her by her first name, and not her last name because it made her feel too old no matter what my mother told me to do around older ladies I wasn’t related to.
I could never tell how old she was, but she was much older than my mother, and much different than my mother in looks and very similar to my mother in personality. Miss Yvette was allegedly the best private tutor in Britain, but I hated her. She was tall and had the fakest tan and the fakest blond hair I had ever seen.
She taught me my French and would yell at me if I forgot a word or tense or how to end a verb. She made sure I knew how to set a table properly and make my bed the right way. She was cruel, and my mother adored her.
So basically, in retrospect, my being carted off to France is her fault.
Not only did she teach me French, she blatantly told me everything proper ladies
shouldn’t do, naturally pushing me into everything that got me sent away.
Perhaps we should start at the beginning.
“Scarlet, darling, nice of you to join us,” my mother said dryly as I pulled my trunk down the stairs at some ungodly hour before eleven.
“Yes, Scarlet, be a dear and—“
“Hush, Ryan,” my mother cut across his sarcastic remark.
Pansy Montague was not one to be argued with, and on this particular morning she seemed to have something in mind for the conversation.
“Nora,” my mother ordered, “Scarlet needs breakfast.”
Nora, the long standing maid-slash-cook in the household nodded and started banging on pots and pans to make food that I probably wouldn’t even end up eating. Pleased, my mother began one of her famous rants.
“Scarlet, I want to hear nothing from Hogwarts this year, do you understand me? I expect you to throw yourself into your studies, and get perfect OWLs like Ryan did. You’re not to skip classes, or do any of those horrendous things Scorpius has told Astoria people at that school do! When I was your age…”
I could pretty much finish the sentence from there. She didn’t party, so I’m not allowed to party (I’m sure she partied). She never once touched alcohol until her seventeenth birthday, so I’m not allowed to look
at alcohol until my seventeenth birthday is well past (that’s utter bullshit). Her mother didn’t allow her to have a boyfriend until she was of age, and since times have obviously changed (wow, she picked up on that?) I’m not allowed to have a boyfriend until I’m sixteen.
My mother is far from old fashioned, but she has her opinions on things (partying, drinking, dating) that are strictly not okay for a fifteen year old to do. Little did I know that my fifth year would introduce me to all of that (and more, but who is keeping track?).
I guess the story starts not in my kitchen, but on the Hogwarts Express. I’ll skip the gleeful goodbye to my mother and another one of her lectures.
We were standing on the platform when I saw her.
Carmen Higgs had dark hair and dark eyes and lips that were always too red to be natural (obviously). She was what one would call a best friend, but a shitty one at that. That’ll come later.
“Scarlet!” she called from across the platform, “Lovely to see you! And it’s my pleasure, Mrs. Montague… how are you?”
My mother loves Carmen. She often tells me that she wishes I acted like Carmen around adults, but I’d rather have fun. She puts on a good show, Carmen.
So we went to the train and sat down in compartment three-E. It was almost a tradition.
We chatted about our summers, things that seem so petty now.
Did you meet any hot boys, did he talk to you, and oh my god you talked to him first? You walked with a boy on the beach, you almost kissed him, he took you to dinner, why the fuck didn’t you get his phone number?
At fifteen, there wasn’t much else that mattered, until a hot boy actually walked into our compartment and leaned against the door as if he owned it or had ever talked to us before.
“Welcome to fifth year,” he said in a tour guide’s voice, “Welcome to living.”
We’d heard about this moment before, but we’d never quite believed it until it was happening to us.
In Slytherin, life works like this: you spend four years on the bottom, one year fighting and clawing and pushing people out of the way to get to the top, and if you’re lucky, two years on the top.
Scorpius Malfoy was the boy who stood before us. Quidditch captain, prefect, and a head as big as it could possibly be without exploding. He was very tall, and very blond. His face was slim, and he had a pointed chin and gray eyes and a dotting of freckles around his nose.
The way he spoke was as if we hadn’t spent our pre-Hogwarts years sitting together in tea shops and in foreign countries as our mothers shopped and gossiped.
“I don’t care what rumors you have heard, or how you might think you know everything about the inner workings of Slytherin house. You do not, in fact, know everything. What you will be told is very little, should you choose to participate.
“Before I forget to ask, do you two want to be a part of something that is entirely illegal and definitely expellable?”
I don’t remember if I thought he was serious or not, but shit, was he serious.
We nodded furiously, and he smiled.
“Well then, welcome to the family. I’m Scorpius Malfoy, and you two must be Scarlet Montague and Carmen Higgs,” we nodded again, and he shook our hands.
He began to explain what the traditional induction ceremony was.
As it turns out, it was very illegal and very expellable. In turn, it was very fun.
The plan was simple, and there was only one rule: don’t get caught.
You don’t slip up, you don’t ruin twenty years of tradition, and you don’t tell anyone anything.
They don’t ask, you don’t tell. Even if they do
ask, there are only a few select people you can
tell. So you don’t speak.
There’s a reason why fifth years always do better on their OWLs than seven years do on their NEWTs, and it has nothing to do with the material and everything to do with what you’re allowed
to do. Seventh years order fifth years around and there is simply no time to study (bullshit). Fifth years aren’t allowed to speak but amongst themselves, thus creating too much time to study.
The system is bullshit, and people who follow it are fucking stupid, but that’s what happens when you’re fifteen and a hot boy asks you to do something: you do it.
During dessert, fifth year Slytherins start to straggle out of the Great Hall. We leave in pairs, because a big group is too noticeable but pairs are completely normal.
Carmen and I are the second to last group to leave.
We see David and Marlene Goyle strolling into the dungeons with a box full of what we know are bottles.
Carmen and I push open the front doors and walk across the lawn to the Beach tree near the lake. A seventh year red head hands us two boxes a piece and we walk back across the lawn to the doors and peer around.
No teachers, no Peeves. Clear.
We walk back into the castle and follow the path David and Marlene took into the dungeons.
From there, we went past the common room to a class room that had to have been unused for decades. We placed the highly illegal alcohol on a desk and walked out, wondering how no one had ever discovered it or how we hadn’t been caught.
When we went back into the Great Hall, McGonagall was halfway through her beginning of the year speech.
Scorpius Malfoy shot us a thumbs up, and when Carmen looked away, he winked at me, and I half smiled back at him, because I had no idea what else I was supposed to do.
That’s where the beginning of the end begun, of course.
okay, so needless to say everything will be explained next chapter.
expect an update soon!
:) edited 5/6/12