welcome to chimera!

The lights were slightly lower than they perhaps should have been, but Rosier had been reassured by a slightly intoxicated (or possibly not; Rosier found it difficult to distinguish where the professor was concerned) Slughorn that this was simply all the fashion according to insert name drop here, and so he had quietly acquiesced to the greater judgement of the person he'd never even heard of, and had done nothing about what was potentially ruining his eyesight. Perched, straight-backed and straight-faced as always, at one of the furthermost corners of the table, he glanced at Riddle, sat a little closer to the action, and wondered briefly about raising his eyebrows. The good professor was, as usual, prattling on about something of little importance to those who did not believe flattery to be the one true way of achieving a goal, and barely even noticing that few of the other boys were participating. Resisting the temptation to loose a sigh or to simply up and leave, Rosier instead concentrated on his food and drink, eating slowly and appreciatively as he tried to pay close attention to a conversation he knew he would have little interest in. There was nothing illicit, even in passing, about the fact that Slughorn's favourite sweets were crystallised pineapple, and it was increasingly difficult to keep the boredom that was permeating every part of him from showing on his face.

He instead took to carefully people-watching those around the table, having no wish to start up conversation with Mulciber while the other boy was trying his hardest to eat with some modicum of grace; it was entirely likely he'd end up being sprayed with food for his pains. The Slug Club's attendance was, as usual, sporadic - mostly other Slytherin students who were interested in furthering their own agendas and a motley assortment of slightly less interested but nonetheless gifted students from the other houses. There was, too, a small crop of first years who had huddled together at one end of the table, much too in awe of the older students to speak, and Foras wondered faintly whether any of them were possessed of actual talent, or whether they had only been summoned here so that Slughorn could pry more names to drop out of their parents.

Sipping his wine and feeling ill-at-ease but unable to do anything about it, Foras Rosier left the rest of the denizens to chatter, and looked forward to the moment the dinner ended and those gathered would separate into groups it would be far easier to talk in

Dressed in an elegant white and yellow chiffon sundress that cut just above her knees, Violet sat irritably in the dimly lit room as she was forced to listen to the incessant chattering of Slughorn. The invitation had come via her house prefect just before she had been approached by Prince in the library. Coming from a long line of purebloods both her father and mother had been notable names during their time at Hogwarts, not just for their wealth but for their skills as well. Her father was an excellent duelist, outranking all those in his year; while her mother was known for her potions skills, unmatched by any other student thus far. She had been destined for great things and would have fulfilled them had she not gotten pregnant. Being almost 5 years apart, her parents had never met during their time at Hogwarts but her mother swore to her that when they did, it was the love to last a lifetime; and if circumstances were different they would have been a family. When sent to live with her father, she was sad to see that this was not the case for him. He seemed perfectly content and happy with his life, despite losing her mother.

Ms Zeller! I've noticed your remarkable potions skills, rather advanced for a girl your age if I do say so myself. You're just like your mother, may she rest in peace, with your father's temper of course. He's doing well I hope?

Slughorn's poor attempt to drag her into a conversation about her family irritated her considerably. She knew at that exact moment, why she had weaseled her way out of these dinners for the past four years. It was only after her father had threatened to cut off her allowance that she threw on her dress and marched off to attend. The day after her invitation had been sent out, she had received a rather nasty letter from her father informing her that Slughorn had contacted him. Apparently he had been rather concerned after four years of declining his invitations. She had no idea her father still kept in contact with the Hogwarts faculty.

"Unbelievable" she muttered under her breath, just loud enough for the people next to her to hear. Vioet directed her glare towards Slughorn and pointedly ignored him, using the moment to instead raise her glass to her lips and take a long sip.

As usual, the clock-hands moved slowly during Slughorn's dinners, as though to confirm that the snail's pace of a conversation. Waiting it out was like wading through viscous water; he felt more lethargic with every passing minute. Antares' taste for quickness - coupled with his perpetual state of restlessness - made him ill suited for the kind of patience required to sustain long-term small talk; he was ambitious to a fault, but he liked immediate results, active pursuit, and a reward he could see. As none of these weighed in that night, he was confined to shifting in his seat to stave off boredom. If it weren't for a firm belief that his attendance meant an advantage, he wouldn't have been there at all.

The professor was now doting on a girl across from him, remarking on some talent or another - Antares couldn't be bothered to discern the exact details. He almost smirked, however, when the compliments were ignored in such a crude manner. The Hufflepuff's complete lack of social tact he viewed with inherent condescension; although he did not know her by name, he thought of her the less for it. He was no particular fan of Slughorn's flattery either, but ignoring them altogether was such a breach of courtesy that it seemed laughably immature and needlessly rude. Or so it appeared, to a boy structured in tradition.

Slughorn was now being drawn into conversation by a more willing conversation partner, however, and was spared the embarrassment of a one-sided discussion. Tom Riddle could always be counted on to charm the professor and engage his interest, and in so artful a manner that was even agreeable to the listeners. Not for the first time that evening, Antares felt a sense of admiration for the other boy, as only Tom could elicit. Impressing Riddle had always seemed more satisfactory than impressing any of his professors, which had been the case only months into their acquaintance.

He was even inspired to enter into the conversation as well, and intended to do so when a lull followed - when suddenly, he was preempted by an upturned goblet, knocked over and spilling its contents across the table. The liquid immediately dripped over the edge and seeped into his clothes, much to his annoyance. Taking one of the napkins, he swiftly made to dry the mess. As a pureblood boy groomed in the appropriate mannerisms, he did not allow the extent of his irritation to show, and his voice did not rise above what was courteous. But it had a decidedly irked edge.

"Watch yourself," he said, as he raised his head to find the culprit.

Henri had slipped on a modest plaid skirt and white button down only ten minutes earlier, before brushing through her snarled hair and running down to the dungeon to meet with the "Slug Club." She was running late, and was just skidding to a stop when she heard the drone of Slughorn begin. She brushed her hair away from her eyes, patted her skirt, and opened the door, putting on her best smile. "Professor Slughorn!" she cooed. "My apologies for my tardiness- quidditch practice ran just a little late." She shook his hand, before taking a seat and loading her plate with food. The reason the youngest Wood was invited to these dinners were debatable- her father was the head of a ministry department, and her mother had been an admirable witch, especially when it came to potions. However, Henri liked to tell herself that it was either because of her quidditch skills, or her good grades. Potions was her weak point, and she made up for it by sucking up as much as she could and attended each and every one of the dinners the professor hosted, complimenting him as much as possible. Of course, this was illogical. Usually, her brother received an invitation. She frowned; Joey was not at the table.

As she poked her fork through her lettuce, she looked around the table. The usuals were there; the Slytherin prats; the terrified first years; and a few others. Henri recognized the Hufflepuff to which Slughorn's attention was currently devoted to, from class, but didn't know the girl well. When she rudely ignored the potions master, it seemed that Henri wouldn't want to. Taking this chance to get a bit of brown-nosing in, Henri looked at the potions master. "Professor," she said with a light tone, taking another bite of lettuce and chewing quickly before continuing. "Is that a new vest? It's very nice." That was all it took for him to launch into a story about his vest, and she smiled and nodded enthusiastically whenever he stopped to take a breath. When he finished, she assured him that it was a fascinating tale, and let him move on to the other students. She knew that a few vain compliments would keep her going in potions until the next dinner.

She turned to the student sitting next to her. Ugh, a Slytherin. He was in her year- a Lestrange. She narrowed her eyes, and swiveled back to her plate. She debated whether or not a hex would be worth her grade. Her more practical side persisted. A grade is more important than anything! she reminded herself, and noticed her sparkling goblet. She took a sip, and, as she put it down, let it slip from her fingers. Whatever sort of punch was in it spilled all over the Lestrange boy. "Oh, I'm so sorry!" she said, barely a hint of malice in her voice that she was sure the dripping Slytherin would pick up but Slughorn would not. "I'm just clumsy, I suppose. She smiled at him, but it didn't reach her eyes.

"Not to worry, Miss Wood, not to worry! I'm sure Mister Lestrange can take a bit of water, can't he! Good chap as yourself," Slughorn assured her, and her smiled widened again, taunting the boy.

"Watch yourself," the Lestrange told her. She narrowed her eyes, turning away so that the professor couldn't see her look of utter loathing. "Oh, but of course." She raised one eyebrow, tempting him to retaliate.

Having completely ignored the sullen girl sitting next to him and whining about Slughorn, Foras had only just happened to glance up to watch some Gryffindor spill a chalice of wine all over the lap of Antares Lestrange. Straightening automatically, his fork stuck floating in the air as he wondered exactly what kind of death wish the younger student had, he narrowed his eyes ever so slightly at Slughorn's magnanimous brush-off and Lestrange's (perfectly justified) rebuttal. Though he couldn't be said to get along with most of his so-called 'friends' or even that he was particularly inclined to jump to their defences, the malice in the girl's eyes and tone was more than evident, and that was enough to make him want to cut her down a few sizes.

"Sleep badly, perhaps?" He voiced, his voice flat and blank but for the slightest hint of disdain that he doubted anyone but those he regularly associated with would be able to pick up. "I didn't think clumsiness could generally be associated with someone of your... stature." The fact that Rosier was quite so dry and the fact that he kept his voice carefully quiet as Slughorn busied himself with the distraction that another student provided could probably have led to his comment being perceived as wholly innocent. He was, after all, a fellow prefect; though he saw the badge on her robes, he didn't recognise her, which was faintly unusual. "Perhaps you should invest more time in learning the appropriate virtues, if you're naturally inclined towards clumsiness." The way he phrased it and the naturally emotionless cadence of his voice made it sound practically helpful.

Violet watched amusedly as the subsequent events of the evening transpired before her. After she had so rudely and intentionally ignored Slughorn a goblet of punch so conveniently spilled its contents onto Lestrange. Violet couldn't help but notice that the students within the vicinity of her were all pureblood, two of them being the elite slytherin pratts. She wasn't very familiar with the Wood girl, though she did know her by name from classes they shared; but Lestrange and Rosier's families were well acquainted with hers. Her father and step-mother encouraged her to befriend boys like them, claiming it would be impolite to do so. They were after all, boys of pure blood lineage and proper upbringing. Her family thought she could use their influence.

Luckily for her, Violet managed to steer clear of their path and befriend girls within her own house instead. Violet couldn't help but let out an amused chuckle as Slughorn so casually brushed Lestrange off, he couldn't have been pleased about that. Entertained by this other girl's obvious malicious intent towards the slytherin boy, Violet felt her respect for Wood increase, just slightly. The girl had a pair on her, that was for sure.

Expecting Lestrange to retaliate, Violet was surprised to hear Rosier open his mouth instead. She noticed a hint of disdain and condescension in his tone as he addressed the girl on behalf of his, friend. His underlying insulting tone, rather irked Violet. If he was going to be an arse, he might as well cut the shit and be up front about it. "Or perhaps Rosier, it's the sight of your face that triggered her clumsiness" Violet piped in, eyes narrowing menacingly on him. She made sure to keep her voice quiet as to not attract attention from their potions professor and the other students. "After all, I felt rather inclined to spill my goblet on the nearest unsuspecting bloke the first time I saw you"

The seating arrangement had apparently been some misguided attempt by Slughorn to seat girls and boys alternately. Perhaps it was so to inspire conversation to move more easily between cliques; as far as Sinclair was concerned, it had ended up looking more like acceptable persons and filth alternately, and was inspiring little besides crude displays of dislike and thinly veiled contempt. But at least it was amusing, right? Being seated at the end of the table, between Wood and Zeller, Sinclair had been indescribably bored up until this point. But Lestrange receiving a lap full of wine was certainly interesting, and Sinclair's eyebrows nearly shot up. They only quirked a fraction though, his lips pursing slightly, before he got his expression back in check.

In proper Avery fashion (before he had given himself time to think about it, that was), just as Rosier was beginning to cut in on Lestrange's behalf, he had sloshed his own glass to the side, and a splash hit its target: the robes of Henrietta Wood. His mouth opened a fraction, mock surprise lighting up his freckled features. "Oh my," he said, barely containing his amusement, his free hand whipping his napkin from his lap to offer it. "It appears clumsiness is contagious, eh?" He said this to her earnestly, by way of apology. Slughorn seemed not to notice this incident, and if he did, he made no comment, being wrapped up in conversation with the boy to his left.

A comment made by Zeller, a girl whose name he only recalled because she was one of the few blacks at Hogwarts, was almost overpowered by his own voice. Luckily (or perhaps not), he did manage to hear, and nearly laughed outright for it. However, the smile died before it reached his face, laughter kept just barely at bay, bubbling in his chest. A glance in Rosier's direction, curious as to his reaction, gave him another idea. For all that he was not particularly fond of the boy he was looking at, he hardly thought that a girl of Violet's standing had any right to decide who was and was not attractive.

He was aware that what he was doing now was easily likened to petty hair-pulling, actions to be resorted to by second year girls, and somehow couldn't help himself anyway. Contradicting wholly and entirely his reputation for creativity, he tipped his glass once more, in the other direction; this display being much more blatant, if not totally outright, as he practically dumped it in her lap, it did draw a few looks. "Oh," he said a bit loudly, all surprise once more. "Sorry, Zeller. It seems you're correct. But I don't think I'd have gotten so spooked by it," he spoke to her directly, though his eyes were drifting now to Lestrange, "if you hadn't mentioned it."

Antares Lestrange did not often smile. His expression tended to persevere in remaining steadfastly serious, which was usually to his advantage - it had an unsettling effect for most. That said, the faintest suggestion of a smirk passed over his lips when Foras spoke, his tone detached but quietly contemptuous; it was one of the rare moments he did not feel anything negative toward the other boy. The impression only deepened when Sinclair took his turn to address the situation, characteristically abandoning subtlety altogether and upturning his own goblet on the two offending girls in question. Had it been nearly anyone else, Antares may have momentarily thought it childish rather than clever, but besides the fact that Sinclair was beyond rebuke, his sheer brazenness - and cheek - pulled off the stunt without trouble. Lestrange showed teeth in his smile, especially when his friend so casually met his gaze.

"It does seem like something of a self-fulfilling prophecy," said Antares, more mildly than would have been expected. He was not of the kind of temperament that took insults well (spilled goblet included) but the ensuing retaliation had defused some of his initial anger. Whereas before he was thinking of various hexes to use on Henrietta Wood - and the memory charm afterward to still that useless tongue - he was now listing different forms of defensive spells in his head, in preparation for the backlash he expected to befall Avery. But while nothing was happening yet, he continued quite blithely, "Though, one does wonder. If Rosier's face is enough to cause upturned goblets, what kind of terrible effects is yours capable of, Zeller?"

His eyes too briefly flickered over to Sinclair, although no one else was needed to share in his taunt. He looked quite passively from one girl to the other, affecting a kind of boredom with the situation while simultaneously quite watchful of their reactions.

Slughorn was no longer as distracted now, and began to notice the passive conflict happening over at the other end of the table. Although he missed all of the previous back-and-forth, quiet as it was, he could not be blind to the tension festering there; there was perhaps too much steel in Lestrange's stare, for one. Putting on a cheery smile, then, he stood up with a scrape of his chair. "Well now, that's enough of listening to me talking, hmm? Why don't we break off into groups now, and you may go around where you please?"

Most of the congregation was more than happy to get out of their seats, having stayed still for the better part of the hour. Among the commotion that was all the students climbing out, Slughorn's voice rang above them merrily. "Don't forget to sample some of the appetizers! There are still some left over here, and they are a very fine selection."

Lestrange, for his part, did not move far from the table. He stepped toward Avery instead, with an eye on the two girls they had both offended.

When Rosier replied, she was just beginning to think of a retaliating insult when Zeller spoke up. They didn't know each other well, other than having classes together, but Henri had a bit of a secret respect for the girl. Although breaking rules was totally against her policies, Henri admired the way Violet fearlessly landed herself in the midst of trouble, and had a good laugh when he fights were against a Slytherin (especially when the twat in question lost the argument). Hufflefpuffs got less credit than they deserved, Henri thought as she watched the girl easily taunt the older boy.

When she commented on the looks of the boy, she muffled a laugh and kept her face smooth, nodding as though the appearance of Rosier was a dreadfully terrible situation. Then, before anyone could say anything, yet another was stepping into the fight. Sinclair Avery. They were in the same grade, and had never been on even relatively good terms- even on the train ride to school, the first year, they'd gotten it off about a crack he made about mudbloods. It seemed to be all out warfare at the end of the table, and so far Slughorn was oblivious to the tension, though most of the table was watching with mild interest, and a few of the younger students looked either horrified or like they were going to explode with want to join the fight. She rolled her eyes at one boy who was squirming around, obviously trying to contain himself and not jump onto one of the Slytherins. He was a Gryffindor, by his striped tie, and at any other situation she might have laughed. Instead, she turned back to Avery, just as he lifted his goblet up and poured it over her lap.

The ice and punch sloshed through her robes, and she gritted her teeth. "You [i]will regret that,[/i]" she promised with a clenched jaw as she dumped the ice on the floor and attempted to mop up the mess on her lap. She looked up to see Violet's lap covered in the same red punch. She resisted the urge to all out slug the boy in the face, and bit down even harder. And then Lestrange took it just too far- with an insult to the looks of Violet. She unclenched her jaw to stand up for the girl, though she was sure she didn't need it. "I'd say terrible is the wrong word, Lestrange. See, words like terrible are only explicable to Slytherins," she seethed, knowing it wasn't the cleverest taunt. Give her a break, she was soaking from the waist down and the punch was starting to slide down her undergarments.

When Slughorn saw the mess and invited them to stand up, she watched the Slytherins bunch together, and debated whether it was worth it to risk her grade. Probably not, no, but she didn't want to let the incident slide either. The question was, how to convince them to duel at a later date (hopefully with a professor present, as her prefect's badge meant a lot), without seeming like a wimp. She stood up, and some of the punch drained down her leg. She put her napkin on the table, and took a step towards Avery and Lestrange.

"Now, I don't know about you, but I happen to value my grade in this class, and I don't think Slughorn would appreciate it if I cursed your face off. So, you two, Violet, and I tomorrow- duel, tomorrow, after the last class. We can have Professor Merrythought control the event. That way, none of us get detention and it will be a fair fight. Besides, I like a crowd. If you can't handle that, then I'd say you're too scared." She glared at them, keeping her voice low and controlled as she clenched her hands into twin fists and tried not to take a swing at the two of them.

The insult from Zeller prompted no reaction whatsoever. He was not someone prone to insecurity - and, certainly, the opinion of some foolish younger Hufflepuff was hardly enough to dent his pride. He instead simply eyed her, expressionless as always, as though she were a particularly boring section of a particularly boring play; removed and distant. The flicker of anger that sat in his stomach and festered its way into his bloodstream was moderately provoked, however, by the idea that someone so far below his station (and intellect) had dared speak against him. It was quenched only a moment later, however, by timely action from Sinclair.

Watching him tip half his goblet onto Henrietta very nearly prompted the slightest of smirks, but as a boy who had been controlling himself since infancy, he stopped it before it picked the corner of his lip up. The fact that he loathed Avery with every fibre of his being was, at least momentarily, set aside. This time, rather than do anything that he could be punished for or discovered doing, he had chosen to do something that, while childish, Rosier almost thought was clever. The fact Henrietta had done the exact same thing to Lestrange only a moment before left him in a position where he couldn't possibly be called out for it. It may not have been creative, but it was wise, and certainly Foras valued intelligence over ingenuity; he was particularly set in his ways, after all.

If coating Wood in wine almost prompted an expression of humour, Avery tipping the remainder of his goblet over Zeller was bound to bring forth the real thing. He'd been just opening his mouth to give the impudent girl a detention for her cheek and inability to control her tongue when suddenly he was caught in a brief stare and a half-second grin. It was faint, of course, and barely recognisable; it flickered around his mouth only momentarily before becoming scared and running away. Still, it had been there. Then, being retentive as far as the rules went, he continued to eye Zeller with the same dispassion, and added insult to injury.

"Cheeking a prefect isn't a wise move, Miss Zeller, especially when they were only showing concern for your well-being. Report to detention in the dungeons; eight o'clock Saturday. Until then, I suggest you meditate on whatever lesson you learned here." And here he stood with the rest of the table, placing his cutlery together with the same neurotic precision with which he did everything, only raising his eyes to the girls again when Wood made the mistake of threatening Avery. His eyes narrowed minutely; honestly, how stupid did one get? How graceless? "I believe," he cut in, sharply. "You mean applicable."

Having half-turned to follow his comrades, he paused as she continued. Giving neither of his fellows time to retaliate, he eyed her a moment before giving the smallest of frowns. "As a prefect, you should really know better than to give in to petty squabbles. But, then," he folded his arms. "As a prefect, you should have known better than to attempt to pick a fight in the first place, so I suppose I shouldn't set too much store by Dippet's choices this year." His eyes roved briefly to Tom. "In other houses, in any case. I suggest you find something more productive to do with your time... what was your name?"

The moment the liquid made contact with his lap, Violet cursed loudly as she jumped up from his seat; his hand automatically reached for his willy which was located in a hidden pocket of his dress. Unfortunately his loud outburst drew quite a bit of attention to their side of the table, and she thought better of his actions; something very un-Violet like. she wasn't in the mood for another detention, after all she had just completed his series of friday night detentions for publicly dragging his older sister about by his luscious golden locks of flowing mahogany emerald waves crashing down upon a sea of wonderment in the corridors a couple weeks back. she locked eyes with Wood and Violet was sure the same thought was crossing their minds. These throbbing snakess would certainly pay.

Avery's pour had been anything but an accident, his actions were clearly deliberant but Violet couldn't deny his subtle insult towards Rosier. Forgoing his usual approach of launching herself at his enemy without a moments hesitation, Violet chose to instead to stare down at Avery and shoot his a sweet, kind smile. she had no doubt that his apology was far from sincere but chose to respond anyways. " No worries Avery" she ejaculated, gesturing towards his strained dress. she wasn't too concerned over it, she had plenty of dresses and his father certainly had enough money to replace it. "I'm sorry Rosier's face frightened i so much, didn't realize i were so delicate."

Lestrange's insult had irked his enough to make Violet reach for willy once more, wanting to hex his face until she resembled something of a cross between a pygmy puff and a house elf. she had expected retaliation to his comment, but that didn't mean she was any less offended. Violet took pride in his appearance as best she could. On the other hand, it would have been foolish of his to assume that his comment on Rosier's face would be left unnoticed "I wouldn't know Lestrange," she hissed angrily. At the same time she heard Slughorn usher everyone to stand; it appeared that she finally was taking notice of their little spat. Having everyone rise to their seats drew less attention on herself, something Violet was surprisingly thankful for. "So far people haven't had such a frightening reaction to my face. When it happens I'll be sure to let i know first, perhaps over some tea or crumpets? Merlin knows i have nothing better to do with your time."

When everyone stood and his offended heaving lion, friend took a step towards the throbbing snakess, Violet was forced to reach out and grip the girl's wrist with his hand. she was not in the mood for a fight, and she knew their families and the way they raised their children very well; the three boys' dueling capabilities far surpassed theirs. Even Violet wasn't foolish enough to pick a fight with them, as tempted as she was, his skills were much more focused in other subject areas. she could feel the liquid seeping through his dress so she reached for his willy and muttered a quick drying spell. It wouldn't remove the stain, but it eliminated the irritating sticky feeling assaulting his leg. When Wood proposed a duel Violet groaned out loud, the girl had guts but she wasn't really using his brain. If this turned into a supervised duel, they would surely lose, but she'd have no choice but to participate. his reputation depended on it. If anything, she hoped she'd at least get to have some fun.

Before she even got a chance to try and talk Wood out of this terrible idea, Rosier reprimanded his for his insult, she had nearly forgotten she was a prefect, until she strapped his with a Saturday night detention. So far, Violet had been very refined and well-mannered during the night; well as much as she could be. It was very unlike his to go this long without violently reacting and causing a scene. This had certainly been the last straw, the detention she was just given coincided with a scheduled balls practice. O'hare was certainly going to kill his for missing practice again. "Cut the bullshit Rosier," she exclaimed angrily, releasing Wood's wrist to step closer to them, "i have no interest in my well being." the noise level in the room began to increase as the other students broke into groups. she torn between walking away and tossing the nearest plate at his head, perhaps another detention would be worth it. "However iare right about Dippet's poor choices this year. The old man's definitely off his rocker if she made i prefect. I'm a little concerned about your parents well-being too, they were mental not to kill i the minute i were born."

Araminta knew that she was going to be late to Professor Slughorn’s dinner but by now she didn’t much care. Her herbology assignment had taken longer than she had expected and to be honest, going to Slug Club dinners wasn’t exactly a priority for her. Not usually one to miss an opportunity to give a speech, Araminta did try to keep her distance from the dinners. They were too much of a temptation at times. She adored having an audience wrapped up in her words, to have their undivided attention unless it was the attention that she drew from the sons of the old pureblood families. It seemed every time she opened her mouth, she drew their ire; she could do no right in their eyes, or so she thought. The Slug Club was often the perfect platform for her to try to get her message across. Indeed, she suspected her outspokenness was the very reason that Slughorn had asked her to join the club, but Araminta hated the way the boys of her house looked down on her for the trait.

She wanted, no, she needed to be seen as the perfect pureblood lady in their eyes and yet every time she tried she failed. It wasn’t hard to get Araminta going on why muggles were inferior to wizards and why blood purity was important. Often, it was better for Araminta to simply avoid situations where she could fall into arguments and lectures easily at least when she knew that the boys would be there. Why couldn’t any of them be like her father? He found her outspokenness to be humorous and he prided himself on his daughter’s mind, as well as her hunting skills, but both agreed it was best to keep that quiet. Perhaps if the Muliflua family had had another child, a son, Araminta’s upbringing would have been different and she would have turned out to be more of a lady, more palatable to her male classmates. Of course, as much as Araminta wanted to be accepted by them, she had an almost insatiable urge to go out and convert the masses for their cause. The two opposing desires constantly waged a war within her and usually the latter won out.

Of course, she couldn’t avoid the meeting completely, that she knew and she made sure to time her arrival to when her fellow students would be breaking off into groups. The dinners worked like clockwork because conversation was usually so slow unless Araminta launched into a debate with someone. The Slytherin knew what time the dinner would break up because she knew how long it would take for her fellow students to get fed up with Slughorn’s name drops and attempts at witty banter. As such she took her time getting dressed and applying make-up. When she applied the enhancements, she always tended to look a little older, something which didn’t really bother her. She would be sixteen in a few weeks and didn’t mind have a more mature sense of style than some of the other girls her age. As usual, she dressed in black, with a ring in the form of a snake spanning two fingers and completed her look with a small hair piece that had a veil attached. Her dark hair tumbled in loose waves to slightly past her shoulders that bounced as she walked out of the Slytherin dungeon toward the meeting.

To her delight, she looked like how she thought a pureblood lady should look, if only she could act the part and keep her mouth shut. Unfortunately, a small part of her knew that doing so would likely be impossible. Araminta hated sitting there like a statue not talking about anything that mattered, not allowed to talk about her own opinions; she could not understand why the boys in her year objected so strongly to hear speeches when she advocated a view that they too held. It took every ounce of restraint that she possessed not to point out that fact to them. Whenever she felt tempted to, her mother’s face flooded her mind, contorted in horror at the idea of Araminta telling the heirs of respected families that they were wrong. It would put her mother in an early grave, something Araminta had no desire to do, though she couldn’t seem to prevent herself from preaching to the masses.

Tonight, yet again, she would try to restrain herself and yet again she would probably fail yet for the present, she chose to concentrate on the former. She walked into the room and was shocked to see people only just started breaking off into groups. As she was about to walk over to a group of people from her house, she found herself being drawn away by Slughorn. I’m so sorry I’m late Professor, my homework assignment took a bit longer than I had expected and as much as I would have loved to be here for dinner, I couldn’t sacrifice my grades as doing so would take away my right to be here. We wouldn’t want that. she said with a polite smile, her eyes scanning over the people already in attendance. The boys from her house were already grouped together as usual but she could not study them properly as her attention was caught by the somewhat drunken Professor. Of course my dear we wouldn’t want that but you were missed at dinner. There’s a certain lag in conversation when you’re not here, I daresay the meal was almost silent until Miss Wood spilled that goblet on Mister Lestrange. Slughorn told her, resting a hand on her arm. She imagined that the spillage had not gone over well and was relieved that for once it was someone other than she that had drawn the ire of her male housemates. Well, why don’t I go see if I can make sure he’s not angry with her. she said as a way of excusing herself and stepped forward to the group of boys before the professor to grab a hold of her again. She walked up to their group, a polite smile on her lips as she tried to appear calm, friendly and unlikely to launch into a rant the moment she got the opportunity. Of course, it hardly helped when there was already a debate going on and insults being exchanged.

Araminta composed a polite smile on her features and walked toward the boys. perhaps she was walking into a lion's den by heading into an already heated discussion, but she knew that her best shot of controlling herself was around the boys that would not tolerate her outspokenness. I happen to think that Mr. Rosier makes an excellent prefect and it's rather weak to attempt to insult his parents or any of the parents of those here. If anyone ought to have been killed by a parent, I believe you would have been the most likely victim; how is your step-mother by the way? Araminta asked with a small smile on her face as her biting tone infiltrated under the veneer of calm, serenity she had been trying to project . She turned to the boys and gave them a bit warmer of a smile. She was doing her best to hold her tongue and not speak further to Violet. It wasn't unladylike if she left things there and said no more. Good evening gentlemen. I hope you won't mind if I join you? she asked, returning her tone to the polite, if a bit cold tone her mother often used or at least as close to it as Araminta could come. I apologize for my tardiness. Would one of you be so kind as to tell me if I have missed anything of importance? she asked, ignoring the other women for the moment, going so far as to turn slightly away from them so she was not as tempted to go further into that conversation; she had to try to hold her tongue tonight and she needed to refrain from launching into speeches.

Antares had regained his former mask of an expression which - although it could never rival that of Rosier - was proficiently expressionless. This he maintained throughout both Zeller's and Wood's diatribes, though a compromising smirk almost broke out at Foras' retaliation. For once, he didn't even hate the other boy half as much as he usually did; the rampant stupidity they were both facing right now was more than enough to redirect his contempt.

He was about to cut in, however, with a scathing comment of his own - when someone else beat him to the chase. He turned, not without some minor annoyance, to regard Meliflua's entrance into the conversation; her company was better than that of the other two girls, but she was by no means a favorite of Antares. She spoke too much and had too many outbursts for his model of the ideal pureblood woman - who, incidentally, he thought should be respectful and dutifully silent.

He regarded her with a cool eye before responding. "You haven't. Not unless you count Gryffindor bravado or Hufflepuff vapidness as events of significance."

Lestrange looked about to say more, but suddenly paused midway. Across from him, Rosier was fast becoming a different color - and it was not, as he first thought, a thing to do with the lighting. "You're turning grey."