Speech Is Silver, but Silence Is Golden

I was glad I had finally been able to board the train. The familiar sight of the scarlet Hogwarts Express, standing there in the slight glow of a cloudy usual London sky, had evoked feelings of melancholy inside of me, which I had hastily suppressed. Those kinds of feelings were the last things I needed while I was in public. Even though many could just confuse them with happy memories of Hogwarts flooding my very being, instead of what they really were.

My anticipation grew, when I padded down the narrow hallways of the train, dragging my heavy suitcase, stuffed with textbooks, clothes and many other magical devices, behind me. Unlike the other few students that had already entered the train, I didn’t greet any people. I remained silent the whole time, not even greeting those that I knew where my year in Hogwarts.

When I found an empty compartment, I pushed the door open with one hand and pulled my suitcase in behind me. Then I shut the compartment-door again and turned around. Pulling my wand out of the pocket of my washed out jeans, I pointed it towards the door and mumbled ‘Alohomora.’ Then, with a flicker of my wrist, I let the blinds unroll, shielding me from curious eyes.

I opened my suitcase and pulled out the school uniform that I had placed strategically at the top, when I had packed my things for another year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Then I began to change, finally getting out of those Muggle-clothes that I despised with all my heart. Those Muggles had absolutely no fashion sense and I felt more comfortable around other wizards when I was wearing my uniform.

When I was clothed in the traditional black skirt, the white blouse with the silver green striped tie, perfectly bound around my neck, and the grey sweater with the green and silver lining around the neckline, I pushed my arms through the sleeves of my cloak. I adjusted the hood so it wasn’t twisted in any direction and pulled my dark brown hair out, letting it cascade freely over my shoulders.

Picking up my wand, I unlocked the door before tucking it away into the inside pocket of my cloak. Then I began to fold the Muggle-clothes and stowed them into the suitcase. I was about to close the suitcase, as I noticed a worn out book lying in there. I picked it up and placed it onto the old, ugly grey-blue patterned seat. Then I pulled my wand out again, pointed it to the suitcase and mumbled ‘Locomotor.’ The heavy trunk lifted off of the ground, hovering in the air, and I directed it to the overhead rack. The old metal creaked ominously as I lifted the spell but I didn’t pay it any heed. The racks were designed to uphold a lot more weight than that of a single suitcase.

I opened the blinds and threw a look outside onto the platform nine-and-three-quarters and sighed. The platform was bustling with people, most of them students. They were chatting happily, joking, laughing, meeting their friends and saying goodbye to their parents or relatives. Many of them seemed just as excited to return to Hogwarts as I felt.

I averted my eyes, feeling the familiar nausea rise in my stomach. Sitting down on my seat next to the window I picked up the worn out book. It was my copy of Intermediate Transfiguration that I had purchased two years ago in Diagon Alley. Even though it was two years old, it looked much older. The edges were crumpled and worn out and the cover was slightly hackneyed, the dark red colour of the binder slowly fading.

As I opened the book, I flipped through the much thumbed pages until I reached the earmarked chapter. It was a chapter about the Vanishing spell. I engrossed myself in the theory of transfiguration, reading attentively through the many pages.

I had only read two pages, when the compartment-door opened and I was forced to look up. A blonde girl, already wearing her school uniform, stood in the doorway, looking at me with raised eyebrows.

“Are the seats in here still free?” she asked brusquely not even trying to sound friendly. Her tone was very civil. I continued to muster her for a second. My eyes wandered from the heart-shaped face, to the bright blue eyes, lower, towards the crest on the left side of her cloak. She was obviously in my house.

Noticing commotion behind her, I strained my eyes, narrowing them as if to discern something that was a great distance away from me. But a second later a red-head appeared behind the blonde Slytherin girl.

“What’s going on?” she asked impatiently and glanced over the shoulder of the blonde girl, at me for a moment.

“Yes.” I finally said and the red-haired girl turned left to yell something down the small gangway, while the blonde one shuffled into the room.

I turned back towards my book, determined to spend the whole time in the train reading. But when the red-head came back to the compartment with another blonde girl, my determination wavered. The three girls were now making a lot of commotion and I was barely able to concentrate. So I decided to listen to them talking inconspicuously.

They were talking about some kind of summer-fling of one of the girls. Apparently the last one that had entered the compartment. She was sitting across from me and blushing, her eyes twinkling happily at her memories that she was busy retelling to her friends.

I suddenly felt reminded of my own summer-holidays which had been incredibly uneventful. Mostly I had sat in my room, doing my homework. But that had only been an occupation for about a week. After that I had resorted to reading a lot. My only action had been the occasional talk with the boy from my neighbourhood, a Muggle-boy about my age, who had asked me what I was doing, as I had been reading in the garden.

The Muggles I lived with had encouraged me to invite friends, but I hadn’t done that. For one I didn’t have any close friends, and I didn’t really need any either. I was fine by myself. Even though I was just deluding myself, I liked to think about it that way. Observing people’s behaviour was very interesting.

The blonde girl, Charlotte as she was called, was about to swoon over her crush a little more, when footsteps were heard from the gangway. I glanced over the rim of my book through the window in the compartment-door, just in time to see a bushy brown haired girl and a familiar looking red-haired boy walking past.

Rolling my eyes, I returned to the paragraph in my book about the differences in complexity of the Vanishing spell when using mammals instead of invertebrates.

The blonde girl next to me began to giggle without any apparent reason. I glanced up again, to see what was going on, wondering briefly if they were laughing about me. But then they began to gossip about the newest Harry Potter issue of the Daily Prophet and to my discomfort about Dumbledore.

I took that as my cue to leave for the lavatories, because the lies the Daily Prophet spread about Dumbledore were something I only needed to hear once, to fully comprehend. After all, all of them just feared Dumbledore’s power, thinking he could probably pose a threat to them.

I sighed as I opened the door to the restroom and stepped inside of the magically enlarged room. Closing and locking the door behind me I glanced at the mirror. Familiar brown eyes stared back at me, unfazed, nearly as if they didn’t belong to a living, breathing person. Leaning closer towards the shiny surface of the mirror, I scrutinized my eyes.

The iris was a light shade of hazel tattered with a few dark and even fewer golden spots. They were slightly red-rimmed and seemed small as I had been reading for a long time. I blinked to wet my eyes again, since my sight had begun to blur from holding it open for so long. Then I stood up straight again, washed my hands slowly, splashing the whole sink in the process. When I cut off the water flow, pushing the tap down, I heard heavy steps trample along the narrow hallways outside. Quickly, I dried off my hands with the paper towels that hung to my right and then unlocked the door. I stepped outside and silently closed the door behind me.

I moved down the hallway from where I had come. But I could make out voices now. Slowly, I drew closer to the source of the noise. Three people were standing in the hallway. I identified two of them as Crabbe and Goyle from my year. The other one was currently hidden by the compartment, because he was standing in the doorway. But I assumed it had to be Draco Malfoy. A fifth year Slytherin boy, with sleek blond hair, a pointed chin and captivating, but cold, grey eyes.

I was only three compartments away from them, as I caught a few words, and with the next step I was close enough to hear what they were saying. Malfoy was talking at the moment, reprimanding Potter as it seemed.

“Manners, Potter, or I'll have to give you a detention.” He drawled and I could hear the smugness clearly in his voice, though I didn’t really know him. He was not the kind of people I associated myself with. Of all the students in Slytherin he had the most leading personality. I had often noticed him, lounging with his friends in the Slytherin common-room, as if the whole place was his property. And all of them had listened when he had spoken, as if he was one of the authorities. But personally, I wouldn’t even call him an acquaintance.

“You see, I, unlike you, have been made a prefect, which means that I, unlike you, have the power to hand out punishments.” He said and I raised my brows. By now I was so close that it was only a matter of seconds until Goyle, who was standing closer to me than his crony, would notice my presence.

“Yeah,” I heard an unfamiliar voice. From the agitation that swung in the low tone I figured that it must have been Harry Potter. “but you, unlike me, are a git, so get out and leave us alone.”

Suddenly they all fell silent and Malfoy turned his head. Apparently they had finally noticed me. I caught his gaze before averting my eyes hastily, worming my way around the two massive boys all but blocking the already narrow hallway. I was aware of the eyes following me as I had passed, burning holes into my back. A few dragging moments later, when they thought I was out of hearing distance, Malfoy began to speak again.

“Tell me, how does it feel being second-best to Weasley, Potter?” It was all I overheard of the conversation, before I stepped into my own compartment again. Sighing inaudibly, I closed the door, swiftly picking up on the topic of conversation the three girls were now engaged in. Refraining from any comment, I picked up my transfiguration book and flipped to the page I had read before, becoming engrossed rapidly.

---

I glanced around the dimly lit, cool room in one of the dungeons as I entered the potions-classroom behind a few fellow students, not seeming any less gloom than the room itself. Especially the Gryffindors that the Slytherins had been placed together with again, didn’t seem very excited to take their seats. They mostly took up the latter rows, apparently feeling the need to bring as much distance between them and the teacher’s desk as possible.

The dungeon itself, ample enough to accommodate a double class, was gloomy though small windows, scattered sparsely and encompassed by dark grey stones appearing to be as old as the school itself, allowed the rays of the forenoon sun to fall into the classroom.

I took my seat in the second row, setting my bag down on the floor and preparing my textbook, a quill and an empty role of parchment, in case we had to take notes.

The few conversations here and there relapsed into silence as the heavy wooden door to the dungeons was closed.

“Settle down!” Prof. Snape said coldly, the sound of the door clicking shut still echoing around the room. His long, black, slightly greasy hair hung into his face, preventing curious eyes from seeing too much of his expression. The long, pointed nose, one of his most distinctive features, was scrunched up barley noticeably.

His command though was hardly necessary. The class had fallen completely silent, as it just so happened to attune every time Snape entered a room, his presence alone sufficing. Now the only noise to hear, beside his light steps, was the splashing of the cold water, pouring from a gargoyle's mouth into a basin in the corner of the room.

My eyes followed the professor as he glided towards his teacher’s desk, while he rose to speak.

“Before we begin today’s lesson” he said, “I think it appropriate to remind you that next June you will be sitting an important examination, during which you will prove how much you have learned about the composition and use of magical potions.” He had reached his desk by now and was staring at everyone in class, along his nose, his posture very upright, though it was not a sign of arrogance. More than likely it gave utterance to his pride.

I could discern the distinct flicker of sullenness as his eyes wandered to the rows in the back, but was sure that no one else had noticed, since it had spent years just observing people and their habits. Prof. Snape had been one of the hardest persons to figure out and I still didn’t comprehend his para-language completely. He was a very mysterious man, who harboured many secrets jealously. Of course everyone tried to hide secrets from the outside world. But in contrast to them, Professor Snape did never slip up on his. He always juggled with words very carefully, until the meaning fit exactly what he wanted to express. To be able to keep this up, he had to be a very intellectual man, and I had no reason to doubt that fact.

“Moronic though some of this class undoubtedly are,” he continued disdainfully. “I expect you to scrape an "Acceptable" in your OWL, or suffer my... displeasure."

I turned around as I noticed that his gaze lingered for a few seconds. Following his gaze, I saw the Longbottom-boy who had actually melted more than three cauldrons during lessons. It wasn’t astonishing to see him gulping vehemently.

“After this year, of course, many of you will cease studying with me.”Prof. Snape continued, his voice sounding smoother now. I didn’t actually turn around to watch him again. Instead I settled for observing Potter who was sitting next to one of his close friends, Hermione Granger, the ‘brightest witch of her generation’, as many teachers called her. He was staring at Prof. Snape with painfully obvious dislike, as said professor continued to talk.

“I take only the very best into my NEWT Potions class, which means that some of us will certainly be saying goodbye." He paused and the dislike in Potter’s eyes deepened a little, though now a triumphant feeling seemed to mingle with the shining dislike.

The silence boomed in my ears as I waited impatiently for the professor to continue. But only as I had turned back around, he picked up on talking again, his eyes flickering away to the front rows again.

“But we have another year to go before that happy moment of farewell.” He said smoothly and took a few steps forward, into the class. I titled my head back a bit to have a better view.

“So, whether or not you are intending to attempt NEWT, I advise all of you to concentrate your efforts upon maintaining the high pass level I have come to expect from my OWL students.” I nodded subconsciously, agreeing with him. Though potions was one of my favourite subjects, I knew that hard work was inextricably linked with receiving outstanding grades. There was more about it than just adding ingredients and regulating the temperature. And seeing as Professor Snape was an excellent teacher, capable of teaching the art of potion-brewing and giving helpful advice about certain ingredients, one could achieve the highest level of potion-brewing-skill with the remaining hard work, long and tiring researches and effective study.

Though the real reason I was so intrigued by this subject was the apparent subtlety. Every wizard and every witch in the whole world knew that potions existed. But only here and there, scattered across the whole world, were individuals who actually could detect poison in their drinks. If you were able to brew potions you had a broad variety of ways to kill people without anyone being any the wiser about what was going on, before it was too late. It was a very useful skill to attain.

“Today” Prof. Snape’s tone morphed and took on a businesslike vibe that threw me back into reality bluntly. “we will be mixing a potion that often comes up at Ordinary Wizarding Level: The Draught of Peace, a potion to calm anxiety and soothe agitation. Be warned: if you are too heavy-handed with the ingredients you will put the drinker into a heavy and sometimes irreversible sleep, so you will need to pay close attention to what you are doing.”

I heard the rustling of clothes as students straightened up in an attempt to raise their attentiveness.

“The ingredients and method” Prof. Snape flicked his wand with a subtle but precise movement of his wrist. “Are on the blackboard.” Where they appeared, as I noticed, when averting my eyes to scan through the concoction fleetingly.

“You will find everything you need-” He flicked his wand again. “in the store cupboard.” The door of said cupboard swung open. “You have an hour and a half... start.”

At being called upon, many students began to shuffle around the room, some picking up ingredients which caused a long queue in front of the cupboard. I remained in my place for a moment, rubbing my hands together subtly, to warm them a little, since the coolness of the room had finally affected me. Having eased the stiffness of my fingers, I started the task we had been given.

When we had about ten minutes left, Snape spoke to the class again, the level of his voice raised considerably to be heard over all the commotion. “A light silver vapour should now be rising from your potion.” I glanced at the vapour above my own cauldron, eyeing it sceptically, trying to figure out if it was the right shade of silver or a little bit too dark. The colour was something between glimmering silver fog and a slightly darker, blurry shade of grey.

Throwing a curious glance around the room, I noticed that I could be more than satisfied with my work. The potions of the other students either stank repulsively or they weren’t even close to the colour of what the potion should look like.

I noticed Prof. Snape as he stopped at my cauldron, staring down at the brewage along his hooked nose. His eyes scanned the surface for a long moment, before he looked up and nodded in approval. I returned the gesture respectfully, before beginning with the next step of the concoction. Stirring the potion counter clockwise three times.

I was in the middle of my new task, as Prof. Snape raised his voice again, loud enough to be heard by every student in class.

“Potter, what is this supposed to be?" Just as many of the Slytherins in the front row, I looked up, though I was not hungry to witness how Snape pestered Potter again. Potter received enough attention already. And I felt no desire to find out even more about him.

As I looked up from my potion, my eyes landed on the jars, filled with pickled animals floating in mostly greenish liquid, all around the walls for a second, before I averted my gaze to search for the centre of attention. I found it in one of the back rows.

Prof. Snape was hovering above Potter’s cauldron, staring at the contents with obvious malicious pleasure. His eyes were shimmering with suppressed anger, his eyebrows raised sardonically. For, to me unknown reasons, Prof. Snape always found something to pillory Potter with. Needless to say he did this on purpose. The slight malicious glint in his eyes gave away his intention to humiliate him immensely. And after having studied the professor for many years, I felt confident enough to state that he didn’t act without carefully deliberating the consequences.

“The Draught of Peace.” I heard Potter’s tense answer. His voice was firm, suggesting that he wasn’t afraid of the renewed showdown.

“Tell me Potter,” Prof. Snape said softly, his eyebrows twitching slightly, assuring me that the following words wouldn’t be pleasant for Potter at all. “can you read?”

I couldn’t help but raise my eyebrows sceptically. In front of me, Malfoy erupted into devious laughter, causing many of the Slytherins to join in. I ignored his inappropriate behaviour, wondering why Prof. Snape was acting like an immature boy whenever it concerned Potter. He usually was a highly intellectual and austere, minimally strict man who did not act unreasonably.

Potter stiffened visibly, his shoulders rising defensively, emphasizing his tension even more.

“Yes, I can.” He answered rigidly, barley opening his mouth while forming the words. A muscle on his cheek flexed momentarily, his Adam’s apple jumping as he gulped.

Prof. Snape smirked nearly invisibly, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards the smidge. His voice wavered shortly, before steadying again, as he ordered Potter to read out the third line of the formula. I was barely listening to his reading, already concentrating on my potion again. There was only little time left to finish the assignment and I wasn’t about to waste my time with blather.

“Did you do everything on the third line, Potter?” Prof. Snape’s voice cut sharply through the anticipating silence that had laid itself upon the front rows like a thick cloak, casting a spell over everyone. Even I couldn’t keep myself occupied with my potion. I had to look up.

Potter mumbled something that didn’t quite reach my ears. And Prof. Snape seemed to know that, because not even a second had passed, before he spoke up again, all but obnoxiously loud.

“I beg your pardon?”

“No!” Potter nearly yelled, though it was absolutely silent in class. “I forgot the hellebore.”

I set my forehead in deep wrinkles, while slowly turning my head back to the front again. For an instant I met Malfoy’s grey, maliciously glinting eyes. I felt my throat constrict for a second, before I lowered my gaze to my cauldron.

The rest of the lesson passed in a blur. I could barely concentrate on Prof. Snape’s unfair behaviour or the way Potter stormed out of the classroom as soon as the bell had rung. The only things I knew were that I had noted down the homework – twelve inches of parchment on the properties of moonstone and its uses in potion-making, which was due Thursday – and brought the phial with the sample of my potion to the teacher’s desk.