Rabbit Hole (Marauders era)
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Word count: 2004 words
Chapter 9
The Slytherin common room glowed dim and cool, lake-light rippling green across stone and leather. A low fire snapped more for mood than heat. The usual corner had been claimed: books sprawled like fallen soldiers, Snape’s spidery Potions notes dominating one sprawl of parchment, Pandora’s Charms diagrams (smuggled in via secret passage) pinned beneath goblets. Barty had abandoned Transfiguration for explosive runes scrawled in textbook margins.
Rhea sat cross-legged on a cushion, quill hovering uselessly over her Goblin Rebellions essay. Severus brewed headache potion over a portable flame—officially for study, unofficially because Dorcas had winced through Barty’s latest house-elf tirade.
“Stop fidgeting,” Snape muttered, not looking up. “You’re destabilizing the fumes.”
“I’m thinking,” Rhea said.
“Violently,” Evan drawled from his half-dead sprawl on the sofa, dark-creatures book open unread across his chest.
Pandora perched on the arm of Rhea’s chair like gravity was optional. “Your hair’s blocking your thoughts tonight. All wild spirals. Like charmed smoke, or night sky caught in curls.”
Rhea swatted half-heartedly as Pandora tugged a lock, watching it bounce. “Lake humidity. Always.”
“Exactly.” Pandora slid behind her, knees bracketing shoulders. “Braiding settles them. Constellations instead of chaos. Hold still.”
Dorcas glanced up from hex-doodling on her wrist. “Pandora, Arithmancy. Not hair salon.”
“Numbers don’t sing tonight,” Pandora said serenely, already sectioning curls with cool, deft fingers.
Barty smirked. “Rosier’s turning her into a princess. Ribbons next?”
“Jealous?” Pandora asked sweetly. “Yours could use taming. Thunderstorm chic.”
“Pass. Dangerous over decorative.”
Regulus, pretending to read Ancient Runes while eyeing the door for Thaddeus Hale, spoke at last. “She doesn’t need braiding. She needs protection from polite Ravenclaws.”
Rhea groaned. “Reg, not again.”
“If Hale says ‘good morning’ one more time—”
“He won’t,” Severus cut in. “He’s probably reciting etiquette to his owl.”
Evan snorted. “Or debating owl pedigrees.”
Pandora’s laugh was wind chimes. Her fingers worked steadily—dividing, twisting, weaving. Rhea’s thick curls fought at first, springing free, but slowly surrendered into a loose, intricate plait from crown to tail, silver ribbon produced from nowhere to tie it off. A few tendrils framed her face.
“There.” Pandora brushed the end. “Thoughts in orderly lines now. Little soldiers.”
Rhea reached back, tracing the smooth rope. It felt contained, deliberate. She smiled. “Thanks, Pan. Feels… nice.”
Dorcas leaned in. “Older. Mysterious.”
“Less tiny,” Regulus muttered, approval flickering despite himself.
Barty raised an eyebrow. “Mysterious enough for doxy eggs in Flitwick’s room?”
“Still no,” Dorcas said.
Snape passed Rhea a vial without comment. “Drink. Your essay’s dying.”
The group settled—parchment rustling, quills scratching, Barty snorting at his own notes. Pandora lingered, twirling the braid’s tip absently like a talisman.
The next day, at the Slytherin table: Regulus at the end, posture rigid, scowling at the Prophet; Barty stabbing sausages like personal enemies; Evan lounging beside Dorcas, staring at the ceiling; Severus annotating Potions journals in red ink.
Pandora arrived last, gliding in, Ravenclaw scarf an afterthought. She dropped beside Rhea and immediately checked the braid.
“Still perfect. Silver sings with your magic.”
Rhea rolled her eyes. “Ridiculous.”
“Observant.” Pandora tore a croissant into flakes. “You’re glowing. Secret-library glow. Don’t deny.”
Cheeks pink, Rhea glanced around. No one heard. Remus had been careful last night—two corridors’ distance, no running. Still, his soft “Rhea…” lingered like honey. He was a third-year Gryffindor, one year ahead, and their stolen moments in hidden alcoves felt like a delicate spell that could shatter if anyone—especially Regulus or the other Marauders—found out.
Regulus snapped the paper shut. “What glow?”
“Nothing,” Rhea said too quickly.
Pandora’s eyes sparkled. “Girl things.”
Before Regulus could press, Dorcas leaned in. “Snape, tell them what you overheard.”
Severus didn’t look up. “I don’t gossip.”
“When it’s useful,” Barty grinned.
A sigh. “Mulciber and Avery heard Hale asking Slughorn about advanced Healing draughts—family curse scar flaring. Slughorn was purring.”
Rhea’s stomach twisted—not jealousy, just curiosity. A tiny, absurd wish to be the sort of person Thaddeus asked serious questions around.
Regulus pounced. “Suspicious. Plotting.”
“He’s Head Boy,” Evan drawled. “Allowed to talk to teachers.”
“Allowed to breathe too much near Rhea,” Regulus muttered.
Rhea buried her face in her hands. “Begging you to stop.”
Pandora patted her consolingly. “Murderous because he loves you. Very Black-family romantic.”
Barty toasted with his goblet. “To murderous protectiveness and polite Ravenclaws who don’t realize they’re doomed.”
Severus’s mouth twitched. “If he threatens her, I’ll handle it. Quietly. No dramatics.”
Regulus looked affronted. “I do quiet dramatics.”
“You do loud and call it quiet,” Dorcas said.
Laughter rippled—except Severus, who returned to his notes.
Rhea stole a glance at the Ravenclaw table. Thaddeus sat straight, sleeves immaculate, laughing quietly at a fourth-year. Tired shadows under his eyes, smile not quite reaching them. She wondered about that curse scar, whether cold weather made it ache.
She looked away.
Pandora noticed, leaned close. “Admiring from afar is allowed. Just… don’t fall too deep. You’ve already got one boy leaving books in corners.”
Rhea’s heart stuttered. “I’m not—”
“You are. A little. Sweet. Be careful with both.”
Rhea nodded once.
Remus entered then—scarf askew, hair chaos, books under arm. He didn’t look over. But as he passed the Gryffindor benches, his eyes met hers for one private smile. Nearby, his friends—Sirius (her eldest brother, ever the dramatic third-year Gryffindor), James Potter, and Peter Pettigrew—were causing their usual ruckus, oblivious to the quiet exchange.
Rhea smiled back—tiny, fleeting—then turned to her toast.
Regulus ranted on. Barty tried convincing Evan exploding Snap counted as revision. Dorcas nearly spilled juice laughing. Severus pretended they didn’t exist.
Pandora’s fingers brushed the braid again, light as breath.
For a moment, the Hall felt wide, safe, full of small secret magics.
After breakfast, the second-years filed into Charms with Professor Flitwick, the classroom buzzing with levitation spells gone awry—feathers drifting lazily overhead like misplaced snowflakes. Rhea slid into a seat beside Dorcas, who was already doodling protective wards on her parchment margins.
"Watch this," Dorcas whispered, flicking her wand at a stray quill. It twitched but didn't lift. "Ugh, Wingardium Leviosa—why does the swish matter so much?"
Rhea stifled a laugh. "It's all in the wrist. Like this." She demonstrated, her feather rising smoothly to join the flock above. Flitwick beamed from his stack of books, awarding Slytherin a point for "exemplary form."
Barty, two rows back, wasn't so lucky—his feather exploded in a puff of down, earning a chorus of snickers from the Hufflepuffs sharing the class. "Bloody wand," he muttered, brushing feathers from his robes. "Must be defective."
Evan leaned over from his seat. "Or user error. Try not to hex it next time."
Regulus, ever the perfectionist, had his feather orbiting his head like a tiny moon. He shot Rhea a smug look, but she just rolled her eyes and focused on helping Dorcas, their whispers turning to chatter about the upcoming Quidditch match. "Gryffindor's got that new Chaser—James Potter," Dorcas said. "Thinks he's Merlin reborn."
"He's friends with Sirius, I think he's got the Keeper position with Potter last year, i heard him brad all summer about it." Rhea replied quietly. "They're all show-offs" She caught herself and busied herself with her notes.
The class dragged into practicals, with groups pairing up. Rhea ended up with a chatty Slytherin named Lila Travers, who spent half the time gossiping about the third-years. "Heard your brother Sirius hexed a Ravenclaw for looking at him funny. Marauders are wild this year—Potter and Black strutting like they own the castle."
Rhea shrugged, levitating a stack of books for practice. "Sirius is... Sirius. Dramatic as always." Inside, she wondered if Remus had been involved—hoping not, for his sake.
By the end, feathers littered the floor, and Flitwick dismissed them with homework on precision charms. Rhea's braid held firm through the chaos, a small anchor amid the spells.
Potions followed in the dungeons, the air thick with bubbling cauldrons and Slughorn's booming praise for his favorites. Severus dominated as usual, his Draught of Peace simmering a perfect lilac. Rhea paired with Barty, who kept sneaking volatile ingredients into their mix "for fun."
"Careful," she warned, stirring counterclockwise. "Last time you did that, it smoked out the whole room."
Barty grinned wickedly. "Adds character. Besides, Slughorn loves a spectacle—from the right house." He nodded toward a Gryffindor table where a girl name Anna was earning quiet admiration for her flawless brew. "Longston's is too good for that lot. Should've been Slytherin."
Rhea glanced over, she nearly dropped her ladle, earning a suspicious glare from Regulus at the next cauldron.
"Focus, Black," Slughorn called jovially. "You've got potential—family legacy and all!"
Classmates chattered during cleanup: Mulciber boasting about Dark Arts books, Avery complaining about Muggle Studies. Rhea kept quiet, but Dorcas pulled her aside. "Heard Hale's in the library later. Studying scars again?"
Rhea sighed. "Not my business." But the curiosity lingered.
Lunch brought a quick bite in the Hall, then Rhea slipped away—dodging Regulus’s latest “stay visible” lecture—and drifted toward the forest edge, drawn by heavy movement in the underbrush. (The Hagrid encounter proceeded as before, with the Niffler delighting her and leaving her with that quiet warmth.)
That evening, dinner in the Great Hall was a glittering affair under enchanted skies, stars twinkling like distant secrets. Rhea sat with her usual group at the Slytherin table, but Pandora and Evan had joined them—Pandora sneaking over from Ravenclaw with a conspiratorial wink, Evan sliding in beside Regulus. The four of them—Rhea, Regulus, Pandora, and Evan—all fluent in French from Black family summers and Rosier heritage, switched seamlessly to the language for their private trash-talking session. It was a tradition: dissecting Hogwarts' inhabitants with sharp wit, safe from prying ears.
"Regardez cet idiot de Potter," Regulus began in French, nodding toward the Gryffindor table where James was juggling goblets to impress a crowd. (Translation: Look at that idiot Potter.)
Pandora giggled, her voice light as she replied, "Il se pavane comme un paon sans plumes. Et Black—ton frère, Rhea—il est encore pire, avec ses blagues stupides." (Translation: He struts like a peacock without feathers. And Black—your brother, Rhea—he's even worse, with his stupid jokes.)
Evan smirked, spearing a roast potato. "Sirius pense qu'il est rebelle, mais il n'est qu'un chiot bruyant cherchant l'attention. Et Lupin? Toujours l'air fatigué, comme s'il cachait un secret loup-garou." (Translation: Sirius thinks he's rebellious, but he's just a noisy puppy seeking attention. And Lupin? Always looking tired, like he's hiding a werewolf secret.)
Rhea choked on her pumpkin juice, shooting Evan a warning glance, but played along. "Ne commence pas avec Remus. Mais Flitwick—ce nain surexcité. Il grimpe sur ses livres comme un gnome de jardin." (Translation: Don't start with Remus. But Flitwick—that hyperactive dwarf. He climbs on his books like a garden gnome.)
Regulus leaned in, eyes gleaming. "Et Hale, ce Ravenclaw poli. Il sourit comme s'il avalait du vinaigre. 'Bonjour'—pathétique. Il devrait apprendre à être menaçant." (Translation: And Hale, that polite Ravenclaw. He smiles like he's swallowing vinegar. 'Good morning'—pathetic. He should learn to be threatening.)
Pandora twirled a fork, adding, "Les professeurs sont les pires. McGonagall avec son regard de chat affamé, prête à griffer quiconque rate une transfiguration. Et Dumbledore? Ce vieux fou avec ses bonbons ridicules." (Translation: The professors are the worst. McGonagall with her hungry cat stare, ready to claw anyone who messes up a transfiguration. And Dumbledore? That old fool with his ridiculous sweets.)
Evan chuckled. "N'oublions pas les Hufflepuffs—tous ces moutons loyaux, trottant comme des lemmings. Et les Gryffindors? Courageux? Non, juste imprudents." (Translation: Let's not forget the Hufflepuffs—all those loyal sheep, trotting like lemmings. And the Gryffindors? Brave? No, just reckless.)
They dissolved into quiet laughter, switching back to English as Barty wandered over, oblivious. "What'd I miss? Sounded fancy."
"Nothing you'd understand," Regulus said smoothly.
The trash-talking left Rhea lighter, the French words like a shield against the castle's chaos. As plates cleared, she touched her braid again—still holding, like the day's small magics.
After dinner, the group dispersed, but the warmth lingered, carrying her through the evening's quiet studies.