—✧—✧—✧—✧—  

TWO GREETINGS FROM

(AN UNDERWATER DUNGEON?)

  —✧—✧—✧—✧—  

     HOLLY FEELS LIKE a fool.

     And who can blame her? Sure, she's as tall as a twelve-year-old, but eleven-year-olds? They're inches below her. They barely reach her knees. But here she is, standing between two first years with surnames starting with an L, looking incredibly out of place. These kids look terrified of her, so there's a gap between her and the next kid, which is far wider than the gap between the other children. Plus, before she was escorted off to get sorted into a house, Pansy and Daphne grabbed her and uttered some spell that dried her off. (Apparently, something in the lake was having a tantrum? What?)

     So she isn't sopping wet, like the little children standing either side of her. She also looks a little less terrified than they do, because, frankly, what's so scary about getting sorted into a house, in front of the entire school? Putting a manky hat on her head isn't as bad as performing the Killing Curse on a rat.

     Holly glances around, hoping to find her new friends and feel comforted by them, rather than the other option — twirling her necklace and forcing the devil to appear. She catches Pansy's gaze, who grins back at her like she's proud of her. Holly isn't sure of what. People are whispering about her, though, if that's the reason why. She wishes they'd tone it down, or, learn how to whisper properly. Amateurs.

     She looks ahead, where the manky hat sits on a stool. A tear along the brim spreads wide, and for a second she narrows her eyes, trying her best not to laugh or question the sanity of this place.

     Oh, and then — get this — the hat begins to sing.

     "A thousand years or more ago,

     When I was newly sewn—"

     Holly starts to glance around. Does no one else see how weird this is? By the looks of it, everyone must be used to this, or something. Either that, or this is seen as normal. Like, yes, obviously, this is far better than Durmstrang, but also, why is a hat singing?

     So she keeps on looking around, because even if everyone else has adapted to this fuckery, she feels like she needs to take in her surroundings. She's got three years of catching up to do, learning the ins and outs of this place. She bets her friends already know a couple short-cuts. She doesn't even know the layout of the hall.

     The four tables are decorated green, yellow, blue, and red. She figures that Slytherin's the green one, because that's where her friends are. Already, a couple on that table have sent glares to students on the red table, so she figures that's Gryffindor. She doesn't know about the other two. She'll figure that out in a minute, when someone's sorted and they walk to the designated table.

     She glances over at the Gryffindor table. They don't look terrible? She knows she sounds like Victor Frankenstein, judging their goodness on their appearances, but for the most part, they just look bored. But, then, so do the Slytherins.

     A boy on the Gryffindor table frowns at her. Holly looks at him for a couple seconds, but the hat finishes it's song (thank God), and she looks ahead. She hopes the sorting goes quickly, and that she gets into the house with all of her friends, because this day is starting to drag out. If she doesn't get to be with the friends she's made, then she wants this to be done as quickly as possible. Just rip the band-aid off, it's easier to deal with befriending new people if this whole thing isn't dragged out.

     "When I call out your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool," says McGonagall. The little girl in front of Holly nods. Holly thinks that's a little cute. "When the hat announces your house, you will go and sit at the appropriate table."

     "Ackerley, Stewart!"

     A boy walks forwards. He's greeted by the house in blue, called Ravenclaw. So yellow means Hufflepuff. Good to know.

     The queue gets shorter and shorter. Eventually, Holly's at the front of the line, waiting for the girl in front to jump off the stool and join the Gryffindor table, who are applauding like they've won a million bucks.

     "Lippincott, Holliday!"

     As soon as she steps forwards, away from the rest of the students waiting to get sorted, the whispers were drowned by silence. She knows why. Look at her. She's obviously older than those standing in the queue, and everyone knows that no one moves schools. It's a rarity caused by desperate times and parents with enough willpower to get an army moving. Plus, her dad's used to muggle schools, where if you don't like it, you can transfer to the other one across town — and if she isn't happy, her dad won't stop until there's a smile sitting on her face.

     She can see everyone staring at her. People are whispering along every table, wondering why exactly there's this girl that's obviously not a first year, and yet, is new to Hogwarts. Various inquisitive eyes are staring at her. Like a girl on the blue table, looking delightfully intrigued. Or a ginger boy on the red table frowning... Or the boy next to him, with glasses, looking at her weirdly. She sees Pansy, who smiles.

     She sits down on the stool. She desperately hopes that it isn't as fragile as it seems, because breaking the stool really isn't the best way to start a new year at a new school. McGonagall steps forwards, and places the hat on Holly's head. It barely grazes the top of her hair before it lets out, "SLYTHERIN!"

     Her plain black robes dissolve, green-and-silver decorations appearing. The Slytherins are clapping and cheering, like they did every time they got a new student. Pansy leaps out of her seat and grabs Holly by the hand, dragging her further down the table, away from the first years and towards their friends.

     "We told you!" says Pansy, a grin on her face. Holly smiles back at her, as Millicent and Tracey, across the table, smile at her. Daphne puts an arm around her for a second, in a congratulatory fashion. "You're such a Slytherin. The hat barely touched your head, and it knew!"

     As the next few first years are sorted, her friends keep on whispering to her, introducing her to the other Slytherins in their year. Pansy looks over the moon when she introduces Holly to her step-cousin, Draco, who Holly's never met. Or, at least, she doesn't remember ever meeting him. All her childhood memories include her dad's side of the family, the ones with strong American accents and houses near the beach. The relatives she knows are muggles. Her mother's side of the family is uncharted territory.

     Dumbledore clears his throat once everyone's finally sorted. Holly looks over at the table with all of the teachers. The hall is boiling hot; Durmstrang must have some charm to keep the place cold at all times, because even with their hall in full-swing, it was never this warm. Come to think of it, the candles' flames always looked a little cool-toned...

     "I have only two words to say to you. Tuck in."

     And, with that, the hall erupts into countless conversations. Immediately, bowls of roast potatoes and plates of roast chicken are being passed around, forks grabbing at slices and pieces, and the group she's met since eleven o'clock look at her.

     One of the boys, Blaise, says, "You went to Durmstrang?"

     "Yeah," says Holly, nodding.

     "What's it like?"

     Tracey nods. "Yeah, you never told us!"

     "It's different to here," says Holly. She isn't sure how much she should say, regarding the whole hi-my-dad-is-a-little-paranoid-about-war-and-stuff-because-in-school-he-learnt-how-to-prepare-for-nuclear-war-so-when-he-thought-my-school-was-a-little-dodgy-he-pulled-me-out-and-here-I-am-hi situation. "It's cold there."

     "Is it that top-secret? You can't say anything?"

     Holly sort-of nods as she piles carrots onto her plate. She doesn't know what to do, all right? Does she mention the fact that she used to feel on-edge all of the time, because you never knew at Durmstrang? Does she mention that the big, bad Durmstrang was a terrifying castle, worse than the one Count Dracula resided in? Does she mention that she'd rather be on the bad side of Frankenstein's monster than get a detention?

     The obvious answer is no. Those are the sort of revelations that emerge a little later into a friendship. And, anyway, if she were to spill the beans right now, she'd lose her sense of mystery. Durmstrang taught her lots of things — how to torture someone, how to show no fear in the face of wicked teachers, how to figure out the areas of the school you can whisper about the teachers — but the best lesson she ever got was this. Mysteries attract. And Holly needs all the help she can get, keeping friends.

     Anyone that's ever joined a new group of friends knows that there's this period of time, where you're just hanging around with them. But you're not in the group. Not yet. But, then, once you're past that stage, you're with them until the end. If she plays her cards right, she can get past the teething stage.

     "So, Draco," says Pansy, and Holly can't help but think how weird his name is. Draco. Her step-aunt and step-uncle must've been on something thinking about that... But, then again, how can she talk? Sure, she was discretely named after Holly Golightly, but also, you know what else is holiday? The venture to an all-inclusive in Benidorm. "What were you saying about Christmas?"

     "Oh, we're all staying for the holidays," says Draco. He's a little full of himself. "My father says school's having a ball."

     "A ball?" asks Pansy, her eyes growing into the size of saucers. Holly feels like this is a regular occurrence. Or, at least, whenever Draco's in the question. Holly figures her friends just know him better, considering they've all been friends since their first year.

     But, the idea of a ball lifts Holly's spirits, even higher than making friends so easily. She's the first to say that she loves dressing up. Sometimes, in school breaks, she'll take her dad's boyfriend's dogs for walks near the fancy shops around London, and she'll pass the windows filled with pretty gowns worth the price of a house, and she'd struggle not to drool. So the idea of having to get a gown? For school purposes? Hogwarts sounds amazing.

     Draco nods. "Well, considering we're having the Tournament here—"

     Holly frowns. "What tournament?"

     "The Triwizard Tournament," Draco says, with so much pride that he knows of it, it's like he invented the damned event. "Father says it hasn't happened in centuries, but they've decided to bring it back. Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang compete altogether—"

     Holly's stomach drops. Sure, she left Durmstrang on good terms with every student she met, but the teachers? How is the headteacher going to react, when he comes here and sees that one of his students left his school for this one? She's going to be crucified.

     She needs to borrow someone's owl, and fast, to write to her dad and get her out of this place... Or maybe, someone here miraculously can turn her invisible, every time Karkaroff's near...

     Holly should've known better.

     Durmstrang would've never been this easy to get rid of.

     "So!" says Dumbledore, after some time passes. Holly's knee is bouncing up and down under the table. She doesn't want this. She really doesn't want this. "Now that we are all fed and watered, I must once more ask for your attention, while I give out a few notices."

     "Oh, here we go," Pansy whispers, sounding a little bored. "Ten points to Gryffindor."

    "Mr Filch, the caretaker—" Note taken, Holly thinks. "— has asked me to tell you that the list of objects forbidden inside the castle has this year been extended to include Screaming Yo-yos, Fanged Frisbees, and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs."

     "Well, what am I going to do with them now?" mutters Holly.

     Pansy snickers. Holly smiles at her.

     "The full list comprises some four hundred and thirty-seven items, I believe, can be viewed in Mr Filch's office, if anybody would like to check it," says Dumbledore. He pauses for a second. One of the boys — Theodore, she thinks — yawns. "As ever, I would like to remind you all that the forest on the grounds is out-of-bounds to students, as is the village of Hogsmeade to all below third year... It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year."

     There's uproar. Holly sees, on the other side of the hall, the boy that was frowning at her earlier look like it's just lost a limb. She frowns, and turns back to her friends, who look equally appalled. "Don't you have swimming, or duelling?" she asks.

     "The lake's too cold for that," says Tracey.

     Holly nods. "Oh, that makes sense."

     (She's swam in the dead of winter at school. The teachers get pissy if you use a charm to warm yourself up, and you get into trouble if you're caught, but it's either that or freeze to death. Tough love sometimes lacks the love.)

     "Yeah, and we're not allowed to duel."

     "It's a long story."

     "Oh, OK."

     (How do you think she's got quick reflexes? Either spit a spell or writhe on the floor.)

     "This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers' time and energy," says Dumbledore. Holly's tired. She feels like her bones are being rattled. "But I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts—"

     The huge doors leading into the hall open with a bang.

     A man stands there. The upset caused by cancelling Quidditch has been deafened, and for a minute, Holly panics and wonders if it's Karkaroff, arriving early with a selection of his prized students. But, quickly, she realises that that's certainly not the case, as the man limps forwards to the teacher's table.

     "May I introduce our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher?" says Dumbledore. "Professor Moody."

     She hears Draco grumble something about him. The two called Crabbe and Goyle laugh at whatever he said. Blaise and Theodore look ahead. So Crabbe and Goyle are his minions, then? she thinks. I have great relatives, huh.

     "As I was saying," says Dumbledore. "We are to have the honour of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year."

     Someone shouts, "You're joking!"

     Everyone on the other three tables laughs out loud. Holly glances at the Slytherins, who for some reason all have something against whoever said it. "Weasel can't keep his mouth shut for one second, can he?" mutters Draco. Pansy nods, rolling her eyes. Holly frowns. She'll ask about that later.

      "I am not joking, Mr Weasley," says Dumbledore. "Though now that you mention it, I did hear an excellent one over the summer about a troll, a hag, and a leprechaun who all go into a bar..." McGonagall — Holly thinks? — coughs. "Er, but maybe this is not the time... No... Where was I? Ah, yes, the Triwizard Tournament... Well, some of you will know what this tournament involves, so I hope those who do know will forgive me for giving a short explanation, and allow their attention to wander freely."

     "The Triwizard Tournament was first established some seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition between the three largest European schools of wizardry: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. A champion was selected to represent each school, and the three champions competed in three magical tasks. The schools took it in turns to host the tournament once every five years, and it was generally agreed to be a most excellent way of establishing ties between young witches and wizards of different nationalities — until, that is, the death toll mounted so high that the tournament was discontinued."

     "There have been several attempts over the centuries to reinstate the tournament," says Dumbledore. Holly wishes she found out about this sooner. At least she could've researched it, or something? "None of which has been very successful. However, our own departments of International Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports have decided the time is ripe for another attempt. We have worked hard over the summer to ensure that this time, no champion will find himself or herself in mortal danger."

      Millicent mumbles, "Lovely."

     "The heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving with their short-listed contenders in October, and the selection of the three champions will take place at Halloween. An impartial judge will decide which students are most worthy to compete for the Triwizard Cup, the glory of their school, and a thousand Galleons personal prize money."

     Pansy whispers, "I bet they'll choose a Gryffindor."

     Daphne shrugs. "You never know... They might choose a Ravenclaw, or Hufflepuff," she says. "They won't pick one of us, but that's expected, isn't it?"

      "We get our glory later," says Pansy, nodding. She nudges Holly's arm. "See, you've picked the best house... Just no one else admits we're the best."

     "Eager though I know all of you will be to bring the Triwizard Cup to Hogwarts, the heads of the participating schools, along with the Ministry of Magic, have agreed to impose an age restriction on contenders this year. Only students who are of age - that is to say, seventeen years or older — will be allowed to put forward their names for consideration. This is a measure we feel is necessary, given that the tournament tasks will still be difficult and dangerous, whatever precautions we take, and it is highly unlikely that students below sixth and seventh year will be able to cope with them. I will personally be ensuring that no underage student hoodwinks our impartial judge into making them Hogwarts champion, therefore beg you not to waste your time submitting yourself if you are under seventeen."

     "I bet Potter will find a way to get in," says Draco. He says Potter like the kid murdered his family or something... Oh. It takes Holly a minute to put the dots together and realise that Potter means Harry Potter.

     Then why does her cousin hate him? Didn't he defeat Voldemort, or something?

     "The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving in October and remaining with us for the greater part of this year. I know that you will all extend every courtesy to our foreign guests while they are with us, and will give your whole-hearted support to the Hogwarts champion when he or she is selected. And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rested as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning."

     A number of people let out protests.

     "Bedtime! Chop chop!"

—✧—✧—✧—

      IT'S SEVEN O'CLOCK when Holly breaks.

     She tried her best, all right? She's gone through a multitude of new experiences today without her hand moving up to her necklace, twirling the familiar shape of the diamond around between her fingers. Sure, there were moments where she almost reached to it, but she didn't. Even when she's shown the Slytherin dungeon — an elaborately decorated place where the dark stone walls only add to the charm — she doesn't hold onto the diamond, running it along the gold chain as she watches one of the merpeople swim past a window.

     But the idea of Durmstrang coming here makes her sick. Her old headteacher still makes her skin crawl, her vocal chords pull tight, warning her to shut up don't say anything, you don't know everything that annoys him, you can't get a detention, you cannot. Karkaroff doesn't scare her, but he knows how terrible he is. She thought she escaped that.

      Holly excuses herself to bathroom for the fourth-year girls. If anything, she's grateful things have worked out and she isn't sharing a bathroom with any other years, because, not only does that mean she'll be able to have a shower quick and easy in the upcoming months, but also, right now, she knows her friends are in their room, with no intention of leaving, so she'll have the bathroom to herself.

      She took her necklace off, a few minutes ago, when she was changing from her uniform into her pyjamas. (She thinks she'll accidentally choke to death if she wears a necklace to bed. Anyway.) But, before she left her dorm room, she had grabbed the necklace off her nightstand, holding tightly onto the diamond. The devil likes to take her time sometimes.

      So, as she's pacing up and down the length of the bathroom, a figure materialises. A blonde girl, a little older than Holly, floats a couple inches above the stone floor, the blood eternally on her hands glistening like always.

      "Took you long enough."

      Holly wants to introduce her ghoulish counterpart with this: Susannah Adams is moronic. Not only moronic, oh no. Susannah Adams is the sort of ghost that could be fun to be around, if this was a movie, and she was the funny sidekick. But this is not a movie, and Susannah is not going to leave her alone when production ends and Holly moves onto her next job. Susannah's hobby of somersaulting in the air is fun for the first five minutes, until she starts doing it every single time you're in a difficult situation, and up there, up above your old headmaster's head, is a ghost performing the teddy-bear roll mid-air.

     "I like this new place. It isn't dead on the inside," says Susannah, floating around. Holly keeps on pacing, but she pulls a face of horror. Susannah raises an eyebrow, looking at her quizzically. "What did you do?"

     "What did I do?" says Holly. If she wasn't worried about her new friends hearing her talk to seemingly no one, she would be shouting, or talking a little louder, at least. "What did this school do! They're having a tournament — and guess who's coming!"

     Susannah's eyes widen. "John Lennon."

     "He's dead," says Holly.

     Susannah frowns. "No, he's not."

     "Yeah," says Holly. "He died in the eighties."

     Susannah lets out a huff and crosses her arms. "Then who's coming?" she asks, looking disinterested now that John Lennon's out of the question. There's still three more Beatles, but OK, whatever. "Elvis?"

     "Elvis is also dead," says Holly. "Karkaroff. That's who's coming."

     "Karkaroff?" says Susannah. "The old place's principal?"

     Holly nods. "Yep!"

     "Oh," says Susannah. "Well. You're fucked."

     "I am aware," says Holly. She can already imagine it. There her old headteacher will stand, looking like he's as glorious as Macbeth or something, and there she'll be, not knowing what to do. He doesn't like her. She knows that. Her dad sent a strongly worded letter and although Holly never read it, she's heard her dad quote it over the summer, along with what her old headmaster responded with.

     And even before that — surely, he's pissed off. Holly was a good student back at Durmstrang, since it was better to listen and get on with school rather than rebel against what was happening within the walls. But he's got to be pissed off. Not only did a student manage to transfer schools, and not just drop out, but that student got good grades. Not to mention, Holly could duel and swim and play Quidditch... Albeit, the last one was no more, she wasn't big and burly enough to compete with the other team's players...

     Susannah lies on her side, in mid-air. "So what are you going to do?"

     "I don't know," says Holly. "I guess I'll just hide from it."

     Susannah says, "That's why you're not in the brave house."

     "Which one's the brave house?" asks Holly. "How do you know that?"

     Susannah rolls her eyes, like it's disgraceful that Holly doesn't know. "Gryffindor is the brave house," she explains. "I was eavesdropping earlier. The famous one was confused when you were with all of the little children."

     "Famous one?"

     "I don't know, do I?" says Susannah. "I'm that mudblood thing."

      "No, you're a muggle," says Holly.

      Susannah shrugs. "Well, I have no clue," she says. "But he was asking. He was just confused, though. Most people were. They were all like, oooh, who's that? It's a good thing you use that magic-stuff on your hair, because people were like, ooooh, she's pretty." Holly frowns. Susannah waves her hand dismissively. "But don't worry. Most of that died down when you got into Slytherin. Well. Some were still staring. It was a little gross. But, really, thank you, because I got to shove mashed potato up their noses. You know I'm trying to use my powers for good nowadays."

     "You're welcome?"

     "I really am. I was getting bored." 

     "Makes sense," says Holly. She begins to frown. "Wait — the famous one?"

     Susannah raises an eyebrow. "John Lennon?"

     "He's dead!"

      "Oh, you mean the one here?" says Susannah. Holly nods, her patience running thin, as Susannah catapults into the air, and starts to perform some kind of synchronised swimming routine. "Yeah. What about him?"

     "Did he have black hair?"

     Susannah says, "Think so?" 

     Holly frowns. She slips her necklace back into the pocket of her pyjama shirt, and she makes her way back to her dorm room, leaving Susannah to do whatever she's doing.

     When she gets into her dorm room, her friends are talking about the Tournament. Holly flops on her bed, and carefully sets her necklace on her bedside table. Daphne looks over, and says, "You took a while?"

     "I got a little lost," says Holly.

     Immediately, Pansy lets out, "Well, just let us know, we can help you out—"

     "Can I ask a question?"

     Pansy frowns. "Sure?"

     "Why do you hate Harry Potter?"

     Daphne opens her mouth, about to explain, but Pansy beats her to it, letting out the most annoyed grumble Holly's heard in — well, in a few hours, the lady in front of her at the kiosk in Kings Cross was pissed off they didn't have almond milk. But, Pansy sounds annoyed.

     "Well," says Pansy. "Potter thinks that he's better than Slytherin. All of them do, the idiots in Gryffindor. But he's the worst — you know what happened with his parents, right?" Holly nods. By this point, Pansy's standing on her bed. In rage, maybe? "He thinks that, because that happened, he's this magical chosen one who's entitled to everything in the world — and every single year, it gets to the summer, and for some reason, there he is again, getting himself into life-threatening situations, getting everyone to talk about him! He just wants attention, it's disgusting. And then he saunters around, thinking he's better than us, because we like to be a little clever and cunning, and not just jump straight into a fight? What kind of idiot—!"

     Tracey scoffs. "And that's just the beginning."

     Millicent nods. "They're all like that. His friends, too."

     "His two friends," says Pansy. "You know the ginger that talked earlier? That was the older brother of one of his friends. That whole family — they're not the good kind of family, you know? They're traitors. Idiot little scabs."

     Daphne sighs. She lies back on her bed. "You know," she says. "It would be nice for that whole house to realise that we're not terrible."

     "Yeah, and that we're better than them—"

     "Please, they'll never admit that," says Daphne. "But it would be nice, you know? For something to happen, at least, for them to think, oh, Slytherins do have hearts... It would be so cool if one of us was a champion."

     "Don't say that," says Holly. "Somehow, one of us'll get it."

     Pansy jumps off of her bed, and sits on Holly. "Hey, didn't you say that you did all of that swimming and dueling and stuff at Durmstrang? On the train? Right?"

     "Yeah," says Holly.

     Pansy frowns. "It's a shame. You'd probably ace it."

     "But I'm not seventeen," says Holly.

     Pansy nods. "There's bound to be someone in Slytherin worthy enough. Hell, we're all worthy of representing the school!"

      Daphne snorts. "Tell that to the other three-quarters of the school."

      Holly frowns, watching Pansy sulk as she returns to her bed. This is weird, surely? Why would a school have such a hatred for a house? How seriously do they take this housing system?

      Above, Susannah floats through the walls, performing the breast-stroke to do so. Holly tries not to roll her eyes.

—✧—✧—✧—✧—