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Her first kill is an accident through panicked biting and tearing in the streets.
It happens and some part of her ends up balking in disgust at the torn face of her opponent, and the other is satisfyingly smug in the worst way at the sight.
The corpse merchants sweep into the alleyway with nary a sound before they take the body away and pay her with a single loaf of bread.
She stands there until night falls—when did night fall—and ends up surprised that they actually even paid her for it, given how out of it she was.
It’s an event of a past time that she never brings up to anyone.
The owls and letters come at the break of dawn, and they swoop past her to promptly deliver it before they settle down and stare at her.
She manages to gain a number of five owls before they seem to get the message that she has nothing to offer for them.
Idly, she’s kind of relieved they left because she knows that she wouldn’t put it past herself to kill them for food if the time came down to it.
But as she stares down at the address—“to the 5th alleyway on Marianne Street”—something within her hisses, and she clamps down on it with a viced grip of annoyance.
Things tend to annoy her these days.
Of all things, she ends up in Slytherin.
It’s the worst possible place for her to end up in—her muddy blood and all—and it doesn’t curb the call for blood she has when they start pushing her around.
Her Head of House, Severus Snape, is the only person remotely cordial to her, and she barely manages to cap her violence because of it.
She clearly realizes where she stands in the hierarchy of blood, and the immense offense that some others have at the simple word makes her want to laugh and laugh until the world ends.
If anything, she’s getting tested on her patience levels than anything else in this school.
The blood in her is possibly worse than mere mud, and the insult is less of one and becomes a joke.
She’s definitely been called worse.
When the young girl is seated underneath, the swarm of emptiness that greets is disorienting.
Silently memories are shifted through, there is only a quiet hum given at the revelations, and it considers the girl without consulting her.
Usually, it makes a habit of greeting and explaining the process to it’s Sortees, but it realizes that it wouldn’t prompt much of an appeal for this one.
Especially not given her track record of dealing with—anything, these days.
The images of a maggots in bread, torn fingertips leaking with blood, and the face of an assailant all reach at the climax of a conclusion.
A prayer is breathed, “...Slytherin.”
He ends up with a Muggleborn in his house.
It’s utterly unprecedented.
The small and waifish girl unflinchingly stands before him in the mass of first years, and he recognizes how some of those first years still have not been made aware of her status amongst them.
Severus can spot the large and dissonant gap that tore from the Feast, the moment she sat down, but the girl seems utterly unruffled by the slow movements of the first years starting to move away from her.
A hand reaches out to push her, and he sharply clears his throat to begin his speech for them.
Said hand pauses, and he manages to meet her eyes once when it ends.
He doesn’t attempt Legilimency.
He doesn’t need to.
The mudblood Slytherin makes her way through the ranks of grades before she flounders between making it to the top few, competent, grades.
She hovers there for a few weeks before seemingly deciding to retreat down to the same levels as those in the middle ranks.
Her hand has never reached the air, but the attention has lifted from her to focus onto the infamous Boy-Who-Lived when he joins the student body in her second year.
Attention swarms onto him, and as the tensions between Slytherin and Gryffindor reaches a high that’s never been seen before—except when her heritage was spread around the Common Room.
Said Common Room ends up unusually crowded most days by Malfoy upsurping Flint—which is quite impressive given it’s his first year, but not surprising because of his status—and it ends up incredibly loud.
Malfoy monologues into the depths of the night, and he manages to rally together the younger years better than what any of the reigning Prefects could do.
She covers her ears, hands creating a pocket of air that makes her flinch when she pulls them back to open the door to her dorm.
A spell is used to lock her curtains in place, and she meets the darkness once again.
Sleep is hard to come by.
The sound of feet shuffling forward causes her to whirl around to face a possible opponent—more muscle than lackey, might need to go for a vital this time—and she freezes when she sees the face.
It’s Flint.
She pauses and considers her options.
There are literally bodies around her—how can she get away with this—and she wonders if she can pull enough bullshit to not get this pinned back on her.
One possibility is to completely beat Flint at his own game and wipe all four Slytherins before she sprints to Madame Pomfrey to get them healed.
Another is to strike a deal with Flint.
The chances of it working are just as high as they are of not working, because as far as she knows, Flint has been part of the group of older years who have been ignoring her.
He might accept for the sake of getting to use her own debt against her for the sake of his own Blood Purity bullshit, but that only depends on how much he’s seen.
Flint shoves a wand in her face, and she snaps her hand forward to steal it—can’t spell her if the wand isn’t there—and the wand slips his grip much too easily.
Her eye catches the familiar grooves of her own wand, and she loosens her grip on it as she tentatively stares at Flint.
He glances at her and begins to walk away, and she’s watching him as he turns his head over to her, as if to question her if she’s going to be coming.
Hesitantly, she follows.
Flint doesn’t say a word when he leads her through the halls and back to their dungeons.
She keeps the silence as she attempts to contemplate his reasons for all of this, and decides to stop before she begins to overthink it all.
Better have a gift horse than to look it in the mouth.
Or something like that.
He turns away once more to walk past her, and she doesn’t allow herself to look back at him as she quietly whispers the password.
Flint’s seen what’s been happening amongst the Slytherins after the Mudblood’s joined.
There’s been a split between a majority of the 4th years and under, and in the 5th years and above.
Mudblood herself is quiet in the face of it, and from all the shoving around that he’s seen from the guys, none of them are doing too much to rough her up.
Probably because they were raised better than that, and none of them are really wanting to face the repercussions of seriously hurting a girl—even if it is a Mudblood.
The actual females, on the other hand, know better than to physically lay fingers on her.
He’s always known that girls were demons, and seeing the amount of segregation and poisonous words flung from the shadows of corners at her only solidifies it.
But he also knows that a lot of the Slytherins are just about as dumb as a house elf, for all that are smart, and the girls aren’t afraid to point them toward Mudblood.
It ends terribly.
He witnesses a vile monster rise from the unassuming form of the Mudblood right when he was patrolling the castle.
The sound of shouting draws him in, and he quietly lays his hand on his wand as he slowly turns to watch around the corner.
A wand clatters across the ground, near him, and he looks to see the moonlight illuminate the small form of Mudblood as she jams her own wand straight into her assailant’s eye.
An enraged roar is the answer—he counts three boys, all Slytherin—and she’s forcibly yanked and twisted to the side as her wand gets thrown to the side.
He hears the sound of Merle Rossier cackling as his minion grabs her by the arms and holds her back.
Merle steps forward to monologue like an absolute child, and Flint wants to smack the brat himself from how stuck up he is.
Rossier may be a big name with power, but their kids are all shit until they grow up.
He’s heard the stories.
A sharp howl of pain echoes through the hallway, and Flint looks up to see Merle shout incoherently at his minion who has dropped to the ground in pain.
A hand lifts up to smack him straight in the face, and as Merle topples back like the weak shit he is, the girl kicks the minion on the ground for good measure before she turns back and runs.
She rushes forward and nearly crashes into the window when she reaches down to snatch a random wand and hiss, “Confundo, Stupefy, Stupefy—“
Rossier goes down with the Confundo, and both minions pass out with the Stupefys.
The spells are terribly weak, but given the nature, most Slytherins have a core of Dragon Heartstring, or are more or less compatible with it because of the House’s traits.
It only means that Mudblood is more crafty than he expected.
He watches as her head swerves left and right, and Flint makes the quick decision to pick up her wand.
He steps out.
Flint can appreciate good fighting.
Pucey’s face is as irritatingly blank as ever when Marcus finally confides in him.
He knows that Pucey might be one of the few, only, sensible people left in Slytherin from the shitstorm that’s going to be coming ahead.
Nothing is going right with this year, and from all the action that’s happening in his house—why are there so many private parties, there have been seven in the last month—he can already tell it’s not going to be a good time.
His father has already told him to go and preach his “agenda”, but with Malfoy junior already doing that every day, he doesn’t feel a need for this.
Hell, he’s even been told to flunk his OWLs because apparently he won’t even be in school any longer for it to affect him?
The actual meaning behind that is lost on him, and it absolutely terrifies him.
Apparently he isn’t the only one who’s been told that by their parents and family members, because Nott’s father threw a fit in his dining room last week about his “shitty son” who refused to be held back.
Flint can’t even possibly imagine Theodore Nott, of all people, getting himself held back in any way.
The kid’s too smart for any of them, really.
Mudblood is quietly—always so quiet, like a snake readying to pounce—observing from the top of the hill, and he can practically feel her eyes scanning across the field and courtyard.
Her wand is laid delicately on her lap, but he knows that she’s probably ready to stab someone, again, if they come close.
The image of a bloodied tip of a wand, that’s covered in red, springs forth in alarm when he sees her use it for actual spells nowadays.
She can feel the tangible tension shift in her House when the Triwizard Tournament starts.
Everything has been absolutely suffocating ever since the year started, and while the younger years have been let loose to bully Potter to high hell about his entry into the Tournament, she knows that many of the older years have been extremely stiff shouldered.
It doesn’t bode well, and something bad is going to happen.
Definitely.