The Silver Three

Slytherin becomes my new house and kingdom. My name earns me bowed heads, but it’s my words that earn me laughs or whimpers. Green and silver were always the colors of my family. Generations of us have been draped in the colors that once belonged to Salazar himself. Father has made a point of me knowing this.

I am not mean to others unless I have to be. Draco is the one speaks most often. I wait for the perfect opportunity. People are more likely to make mistakes around the quiet ones, and I enjoy finding them. I know that Pansy Parkinson doesn’t like the way that her nose is upturned. And I know that she admires Draco. I tuck these secrets like daggers away for later.

There are a lot of things that I know. I know that Margaret Thorne sleeps with a small stuffed animal, but she hides it from us during the day. She is afraid of the creatures in the lake that move passed the windows. I’m not afraid of anything, like Margaret. I tuck more daggers away for later.

Professor Snape shows favoritism without worry of being criticized. His least favorite person is the Boy Who Lived, the famous Harry Potter. Harry has kind eyes and hair dark as ink that looks as though it hasn’t had a proper brushing in years. I wonder if it’s because he didn’t have parents to teach him to brush it properly. I also wonder why his glasses are always broken and crooked.

Draco taps me in potions class. I look at him, brushing a strand back into my neat braid. We’re allowed to talk in class, being favorites of Professor Snape. Even though he has greasy hair, a crooked nose and talks in a peculiar manner, I don’t mind him so much. He’s good at potions, though it seems that he wishes he weren’t.

“Why do you think that Granger girl is such a know it all?”

At Draco’s question, I look to the front of the classroom. Hermione Granger is quite small like I am, but her hair makes up for it. It’s tangled and poofy, hardly tamable at all. She has brown eyes to match her hair, and her face is delicate and often upturned. Like Draco says, she is a know it all.

“Father calls it ‘overcompensation’,” I whisper back. I look at my book, not sure what page I’m supposed to be on. It doesn’t matter, I already know how to slow poisons. Mother is good at poisons and antidotes. In fact, I once saw her slip Banebarry into Cicero Hangford’s wine at a dinner. He was an auror. Was. “He thinks that mudbloods try to be know it alls to prove they belong.”

“Fakers.”

I shrug. “We can’t all be naturally as good as others.”

“Miss Blackburn,” Professor Snap drones. He draws out the ‘n’ at the end of my name as though he is about to fall asleep. I look up at him, waiting for him to continue. As usual, he takes a lengthy pause before saying, “Give me one example of a poison that a bezoar would not stop.”

“Basilisk venom.”

“Five points to Slytherin, for excellent knowledge beyond the level of a first year.”

These are loaded questions. Professor Snape already knows that I am familiar with potions, poisons and such. Especially any of the nasty sorts. Professor Snape will never ask someone in green in silver a question he knows they cannot answer. He also will never ask Hermione Granger a question, knowing that somewhere under that frizzy hair lies the answer to most, if not all of his questions.

Hermione’s hand shoots up into the air. I shake my head. “Sir, the same goes for Sanguinitrum Para-"

“Five points from Gryffindor,” Professor Snape snaps, making frizzy-haired Granger bow her head. I know that she is right, and that she was about to answer with Sanguinitrium Parasum, a poison that thickens and clots the blood. It is not unlike making jello. “For speaking out of turn, Granger.”

Draco and I glance at one another. In unison, we mouth ‘overcompensation.’ After a few weeks of being companions, we already think alike. Often times he says the things that I am already thinking. On most occasions, he will ask me for a second opinion before he does something. Nine times out of ten, I have the same answer.

Professor Snape lets us out early. I begin to gather my books and put them into my bag as Draco begins talking about the latest news. Gringott’s was recently broken into, and Draco has his suspicions. I have my own, but I do not voice them out loud. This is partially because I know that it is dangerous to reveal what you’re thinking, and partially because it is hard to imagine that Voldemort still has influence.

The Dark Lord. I know his name. I have heard it in my halls, in my dining room and by the fire place. Father has told me stories about Voldemort, about a vision of purity and clean blood. There is a running theme of unity, power and clarity that echo in my father's voice when he talks about Voldemort. My only opinion is that is name is hard to pronounce.

As Harry Potter passes me, his shoulder knocks into mine. I turn around and scowl at him, rubbing my shoulder. He turns to quickly apologize. Instead, I find him narrowing his specky eyes behind his wretchedly crooked glasses.

“Watch where you’re going,” I hiss, putting my shoulder on my bag. “Maybe everyone should call you the Boy Who Stumbles.”

Draco snickers behind me. “Hard time walking, Potter?”

Harry says nothing. Instead, he turns around and follows his friends out of the door from the cold room. Harry knows that he can’t take on Draco and I at the same time. Draco is mean and I am smart, a wicked combination. With Crabbe or Goyle around, Malfoy is only half as harmful. Without Malfoy around, I am only half as willing to snap.

Together, we are lethal.