Come the Revolution, Chapter Four, Part Two
Tracey Davis - Slytherin, Muggleborn and Essex girl. This is her story, and the story of a revolution in the making.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four, Part One
Part One
Chapter 4 - Part Two
Slytherin as a whole took the loss of one hundred points in one go rather hard. In the days immediately after the incident even the more sympathetic of her housemates were giving Tracey black looks. She kept her guard up in case of any retaliation from Malfoy but the loss of fifty points seemed to have made him think better of it and she was left unmolested.
It wasn’t all bad. Another of her mother’s sayings was, “Every cloud has a silver lining,” as Tracey was reminded when she walked into her NEWT Arithmancy class the following Wednesday. Most of her classmates were in an eager huddle in the corner of the room. Theodore Nott, the only other Slytherin in the class, was sitting as far away as possible from the chattering group, head bent over his desk, eyes apparently glued to his notes. The conversation stopped dead as soon as they noticed her arrival. Feeling rather self-conscious, Tracey hurried to her usual seat and unloaded her paraphernalia, trying to ignore the sensation of twelve sets of eyes burning into the back of her head. She flicked open her text book and started to read.
“Hey, Davis.” She looked up. Padma, the Ravenclaw Patil, was standing over her. “Is it true you beat Malfoy in a duel?” Tracey eyed her classmate warily. In the three years they had studied Arithmancy together Patil had scarcely addressed three words to her. Still, there was no point in denying it. The gory details had probably been several times round the Hogwarts rumour mill by now.
“Yeah.”
Patil’s face broke into a broad grin. “Brilliant! He’s had it coming for ages.” The other members of the class had drifted across in ones and twos to cluster round them, and a murmur of agreement went round the group.
“Good for you.” The voice of Hannah Abbott of Hufflepuff could just about be distinguished above the babble.
“What happened?” Hermione Granger of Gryffindor demanded, pushing a strand of her unruly brown hair out of her eyes. So Tracey told them and if the tale gained a little in the telling who can blame her? She was already feeling starved of companionship and their admiration was hard to resist. When she reached the end of her story Granger nodded approvingly. “It’s nice to see someone from Slytherin standing up to Malfoy for a change.”
Stung by the other girl’s attitude Tracey snapped, “There are plenty of people in Slytherin who stand up to Malfoy all the time, Granger. You just don’t hear about it!”
Granger had the grace to look embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Davis. I didn’t - .“ At that point Professor Vector came breezing in and clapped her hands to call the class to order.
“Settle down, settle down, please. We’ve a lot to get through today.” As the group dispersed to its seats Tracey suddenly caught Nott staring at her with an unfathomable expression on his face. As she met his gaze he hurriedly looked away. “Today we are going to work through a practical example of Ivanoff’s Variation on Woland’s Theorem. I would like you to work in pairs. Mr Nott, you go with Miss Patil, Miss Granger, you’re with Miss Davis -“
Half and hour later, Granger tapped her pencil on the line of scribbled equations in front of them. “There’s something wrong with this. The answer doesn’t make sense.”
“No,” Tracey agreed, considering the neat row of symbols at the foot of their workings. “If you cast it that way you’d probably blow your head off.”
“So, how - “ Granger was running her eye over the first row of equations. “Ah!” She stopped half way through at a section in Tracey’s handwriting. “Here - see? You’ve used the second declension instead of the seventh.”
“Oh, sod it, you’re right.” Tracey scribbled some alterations.
“And that makes it -“ Granger crossed out two symbols in the conclusion and substituted others. “There! That makes a lot more sense.”
“Thanks.” Tracey smiled at the other girl.
Granger returned the smile, and then leaned forward, her face assuming a serious expression. “Davis - about earlier - I really am sorry. It was a stupid thing to say.”
“You only said what everyone else was thinking,” Tracey pointed out with a touch of bitterness.
“Well, it’s good to know that there are some people in Slytherin who are on the right side.”
Tracey held up a hand. “Whoa! Stop right there! OK, I might not be on the side of You-Know-Who - I’d be barmy if I was, seeing as how he hates Muggleborns - but I’m not totally sure I’m on the other side, either. And I certainly wouldn’t say I believe they’re the “right” side. I don’t think there is any “right” side for people like me.”
“You’re Muggleborn?” Granger looked visibly shocked. “I didn’t think there were any Muggleborns in Slytherin.”
“Well, that’s something you’ve learned today, isn’t it?”
Granger groaned and ran her fingers through her messy hair, making it, if possible, even wilder than ever. “I seem to be putting my foot in it a lot today, don’t I?” A rueful smile lit her face and for a moment she looked almost pretty.
Tracey smiled in return. “Seeing as how you’ve just dug me out of a hole I’ll let you off.” Professor Vector’s voice called them back to the matter in hand.
“Everybody finished? Good. Now, Mr MacMillan, Miss Abbott, would you please step up here and demonstrate your conclusions?”
At the end of the lesson Granger fell into step with her as they left the classroom. “At the risk of putting my foot in it yet again, what did you mean when you said there was no right side for people like us?”
Tracey was normally wary of getting into conversations of this sort but noting the use of the word us she decided it couldn’t hurt for once. “Well, everybody agrees that we’re fighting You Know Who because he hates Muggleborns and wants to drive them out of wizard society - right?” Granger nodded. “Then you tell me this. You’re Muggleborn; do the other lot actually make you feel welcome in wizard society?” After a moment’s reflection, Granger shook her head reluctantly. “Me, neither - and let me tell you, Granger, it pisses me off that all I can see in front of me is a lifetime of being treated like a second class citizen. Call that the right side? ‘Cos I don’t!”
“Maybe when You Know Who is defeated -, “ Granger began.
Tracey sighed heavily. “Yeah, I know. We’re at war, more important things to think about, blah, blah, blah. You know what I think? There’s never going to be a right time. There’ll always be some excuse.” They said their goodbyes and Tracey made her way down the corridor towards the staircase leading to the Slytherin dungeons. As the turned to descend something made her look back. Granger was still standing where she had left her, wearing a very thoughtful frown.
Tracey, emerging from the shrubbery at the rear of her destination, looked around cautiously and breathed a sigh of relief. So far so good. Sidling round the corner of the building, she pointed her wand at the door and muttered a quick spell, opened the door, and slipped inside, her mind still turning over recent events.
Two weeks later her post-duel euphoria had seemed very much a thing of the past. Reluctantly stuffing her washing bag once again with Muggle underwear she wondered dismally how she’d managed to get herself into this. Her only hope was that she’d managed to put the fear of God into Bitzy so badly that the snivelling little wretch wouldn’t dare shop her a second time. That faint hope vanished in a puff of smoke two seconds later.
With a resounding “crack!” the ugliest, filthiest, most disreputable-looking house elf she’d ever seen in her life appeared at the foot of her bed. The creature fixed her with a look of utter loathing and contempt and announced, “Kreacher has come for the washing.”
“Where’s Bitzy?” Tracey demanded.
“Bitzy is asking to be reassigned. Kreacher is looking after this dormitory now.” It grabbed Tracey’s washing bag, opened it, and started to rummage through its contents, muttering to itself. “Master is saying Kreacher must work at Hogwarts. Kreacher doesn’t want to work at Hogwarts, oh no. Kreacher hates working for filthy Muggle lovers and Mudbloods. What would Kreacher’s Mistress say if she could see him now? Ah!!” The huge bloodshot eyes gleamed in triumph and it grinned at Tracey maliciously. “The Mudblood is still breaking school rules. Oh, it is going to be in so much trouble!!” Tracey lunged for it but it vanished with a “crack!” leaving her clutching empty air.
The sequel to this little scene was not long in coming. She had just started breakfast when Parkinson strolled over looking as if she’d just won the National Lottery. “Twenty five points, Davis. Next time it’ll be fifty.” She sauntered away to rejoin her clique, who were all whispering to each other, giggling, and pointing surreptitiously at Tracey.
“Twenty-five points?” Tim paused, a spoonful of cereal half-way to his mouth. “OK, the duel I can understand, but this? You never lose points! Are you trying to beat Potter’s record for the most points lost in a term, or something?” Reluctantly, Tracey explained. Tim looked deeply embarrassed. To cover his confusion he poured himself another cup of coffee. “Look Trace, I’m your friend but I’m afraid I think you’ve gone bonkers.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “It’s not as if anyone can see what you’re wearing under your robes.”
“That’s just the point!” Tracey shot back, defensively. “It doesn’t matter, so why shouldn’t I wear what I want?”
“Because it’s against the rules. Oh, I know it’s stupid but you can’t beat the system. Give it up before it turns really nasty.
Miserably, Tracey made an attempt to nibble a piece of toast but gave it up as a bad job. “I can’t. Can you imagine what Parkinson and Malfoy will make of it?”
“And can you imagine what the rest of them,” Tim jerked his head down the table to the far end where the news was obviously spreading and little clumps of Slytherin students were muttering and casting angry looks in their direction, “will make of it if you lose us another fifty points? Give it up, Trace.”
Unable to take any more, Tracey left the table without answering and almost ran out of the Great Hall. A burst of derisive laughter from the Malfoy/Parkinson end of the table followed her. She paused in the Entrance Hall, unable to decide where to go next, knowing only that she wanted to be alone. The Library seemed to be the only place that offered sanctuary on a Saturday morning. She began to climb the stairs.
As she reached the top she spotted Daphne seated in a window embrasure of the landing with Theodore Nott, apparently deep in intense conversation. Nott was doing all the talking, his expression serious, illustrating his argument with urgent gestures. Daphne listened calmly, nodding occasionally. She seemed distant, and to anyone who knew her well it was clear she was not really interested in what he had to say. It struck Tracey that Daphne looked ill. She was pale and drawn with large violet shadows under her eyes, and she’d lost weight. As Tracey ducked swiftly into the corridor leading to the Library before they could spot her it occurred to her to wonder why these two were doing having what seemed to be a clandestine meeting. What on earth could they possibly have to talk about?
Over the next few days Tracey lost count of the times she started and then abandoned a letter to her mother. Tim would have been horrified to hear that it was his well meaning advice that prevented her from completing it. After one of her numerous clashes with her stubborn daughter Janet had often been known to say with exasperation that Tracey was, “exactly like her grandmother!” To which Pete, chuckling, would reply, “Yes, she’s just like Ma. If you told her black was black she’d insist it was white just for the sake of an argument.” Barbed remarks from other Slytherins, Parkinson’s smug smile and Malfoy’s endless knicker quips only served to make it worse. Tracey’s letter stayed unwritten.
When, two Saturdays later, Parkinson took fifty points from Tracey, most of her housemates sent her to Coventry. Tim, loyal to a fault, stuck by her but he could not help making his feelings on the matter clear. Eventually, the whole thing became a taboo subject. Both of them recognised the next row might well be the kind that breaks friendships. Luckily, the events of the first Hogsmeade weekend took the pressure off her quite a bit. As the news about the attempt to smuggle a poisoned necklace into the castle spread like wildfire her transgression was forgotten as the school lost itself in a welter of speculation about the identity of the culprit and who the necklace had actually been intended for. Of course, Tracey felt sorry for Bell of Gryffindor, now lying seriously ill in St Mungo’s, but she could not help a sneaking sense of relief that she had been replaced as the favourite topic of conversation in the Slytherin common room.
She spent the next week in miserable speculation about what Parkinson’s next move was going to be. Obviously, she couldn’t go on taking points forever without attracting attention from someone she would be very reluctant to upset - their Head of House. In common with the rest of her housemates, Tracey was terrified of the acid-tongued Head of Slytherin but not terrified enough to back down in the face of a Snapean tongue lashing. Grimly, she decided she was seeing it through to the end. Even a detention was worth it to see Snape’s reaction to the word “knickers”. Parkinson, however, proved far more cunning than her opponent expected.
On a dreary Saturday in early November, as she left the Great Hall, expecting any moment to see Parkinson bearing down on her with Snape in her wake, she was accosted instead by a Gryffindor second-year with a note.
“Tracey Davis?” She nodded and he thrust the note at her. “Professor McGonagall told me to give you this.” As he made a rapid retreat, Tracey unfolded the note, wondering what the hell the Transfiguration Professor could want with her. As far as she knew she hadn’t any homework outstanding and she felt reasonably confident that the last essay she’d turned in would achieve a reasonable mark. As she took in the contents she swore under her breath.
Miss Davis,
Miss Parkinson, in her capacity as Prefect of Slytherin House, has bought to my attention certain irregularities in your dress while on school premises. She tells me that she has tried on several occasions to resolve the situation with you but that you have proved somewhat obdurate. She has therefore sought my intervention as Deputy Headmistress and teacher in charge of pastoral care for the female population of the school.
I expect you in my office at 3.00 pm today to discuss the situation.
Yours sincerely
Minerva McGonagall
Snape was one thing, McGonagall was quite another. Tracey knew that Snape, no matter how much he might bluster, would want to make sure that the status of his House didn’t suffer and she had been counting on that. McGonagall, on the other hand, had a reputation for firmly sticking to the school rules even if it meant she had to take points from her own House. Parkinson had cleverly shifted the problem off her own shoulders while ensuring that Tracey would still suffer.
At precisely three pm that afternoon Tracey knocked apprehensively on Professor McGonagall’s office door.
“Come!” As the door swung open the Deputy Head of Hogwarts looked up from the letter she was composing. “Ah, Miss Davis. Come in and take a seat.” She gestured to a chair in front of her desk and Tracey obediently seated herself. For a couple of minutes the only sound was the scratching of McGonagall’s quill across the parchment. After what seemed like an eternity to Tracey the Deputy Headmistress signed the letter and put down her quill. She clasped her hands in front of her on the desk. “Now, Miss Davis, we both know why you are here. Perhaps you would care to explain why you have chosen to flout school rules in this manner?”
Hesitantly, Tracey told her story. She had decided there was no point in trying to lie to McGonagall who seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to that sort of thing. It didn’t pay to try and bullshit her.
“Why,” Professor McGonagall demanded sternly as Tracey finished, “did you not simply write to your parents and ask them to send you your school underwear? Honestly, Miss Davis, I had you down as a sensible young woman. Your behaviour this term has been far from sensible.”
Tracey drew a deep breath. Now came the really difficult part. “I didn’t see it mattered that much, Professor.” McGonagall gave her one of those patent severe glances over the top of her spectacles and Tracey was instantly transported back to that momentous day six years ago. If I’d known then what I know now …
“Miss Davis, the school rules are there for a purpose. The uniform rules, for example, ensure that all students who attend Hogwarts do so on an equal footing. You cannot choose which of the rules you will observe and which you will ignore. If you wish to continue to attend this school you must learn to observe all of its rules.”
Tracey’s temper, another inheritance from her Irish grandmother, rose to the fore. “But it’s such a pointless rule! What difference does it make what I’ve got on underneath my robes? Nobody’s going to see it!!”
“It is the principle of the thing,” the Deputy Headmistress replied, frigidly, “and I’ll thank you not to shout at me, Miss Davis.” White hot fury possessed Tracey. She no longer cared what she was saying or who she was saying it to.
“Then it’s a stupid bloody principle!!! Why do I have to spend half my time wearing comfortable stuff and the other half togged up like something from a Victorian melodrama just because you lot are fifty years behind the times? It’s ridiculous!”
Professor McGonagall’s face was rigid with anger. “You chose this life, Miss Davis. If you find it too restrictive you are quite at liberty to leave.”
“That’s always the answer, isn’t it? If you don’t like it you know what you can do!” Tracey spat back, recklessly. “Why is it always people like me who have to make the sacrifices? Why can’t you let us be ourselves? You bloody purebloods, you think you’re so wonderful but where would you be without us? Stuffed!!”
“Enough!” McGongall’s hand came down sharply on her desk and Tracey fell silent, astonished at her own effrontery. “Miss Davis, the massive chip on your shoulder notwithstanding, you are in breach of the school rules. That is the beginning and the end of the matter. Will you or will you not write to your parents and request that they supply you with a sufficient quantity of regulation school underwear?”
Tracey had gone from blazing hot to ice cold in seconds. As if from very far away she heard herself say, “No, Professor, I won’t.”
“Then you will spend every Saturday until the end of term in detention with me. Furthermore, if you have not written to your parents by the end of term I shall be writing to them myself. I shall point out to them that persistent breach of the school rules is an offence which merits expulsion. I suggest you think very carefully about this, Miss Davis. I can only hope your good sense will prevail in the end. Please report to me for detention at 9.00 am next Saturday. That is all. You may go.” Still buoyed by fury Tracey rose and stalked to the door, shutting it hard behind her. The still small voice was trying to tell her that she’d put herself in deep shit but she ignored it. Her blood was up. This was war.
End of Part Two