Hagrid was suspended until the start of the next term. When Harry and his friends went to visit him, they learned that the report letters had been written by Vespera.
Two letters.
One was about Norbert, and the other was about the punishment in the Forbidden Forest.
A heavy stone seemed to weigh on the three children's hearts, a feeling impossible to describe. Hagrid was their friend, and so was Vespera.
The suspension order came swiftly and abruptly. Consequently, Vespera was summoned to Dumbledore's office once again.
The report letter was neatly placed on the desktop; she saw it the moment she walked in. On the bird perch, Fawkes burst into flames and reduced himself to a pile of ashes.
"Sit down, Miss Quinlan. Let us talk."
"The contents of the letters are identical. Didn't you also have two identical ones?" Dumbledore's desk was always laden with sweet candies.
Vespera picked one; it was still very sweet.
"Hagrid has been suspended."
"I know, I heard. It's to be expected. He really needs to change; a suspension is good for him."
Dumbledore was momentarily at a loss for words. What Vespera said was the truth. "Hagrid is merely a bit reckless. He is a kind man... and I will handle it."
"Are you making excuses for him?" Vespera clearly could not understand why a headmaster hailed as the greatest white wizard of the twentieth century would make excuses for a grown man who had made a mistake.
And such a lame excuse at that. Kind? Who isn't kind?
"Of course you will handle it, only not as quickly as the Ministry of Magic." There was undisguised skepticism on the girl's face. "Headmaster, you are very strange."
"You are willing to make excuses for a grown man who committed a mistake, yet you constantly suspect me, a child."
Vespera did not let slip a single expression of his, pressing him step by step: "Because of what? My eye color? My half-blood identity? Or... Wool's Orphanage?"
Dumbledore concealed his expression well, but she still detected a very subtle change in it. "It seems it is the latter two."
"Miss Quinlan, I believe our conversation ends here. Someone is waiting for you outside." Fawkes, reborn anew from the ashes, hopped onto the desk to cause trouble.
"Very well, Headmaster. I wish you sweet dreams tonight."
When she opened the door, she saw Draco pacing back and forth. "You've come to see the headmaster too?"
"No. I came to find you, Quinlan." He had clearly already washed and freshened up; as he drew closer, there was a faint fragrance of green apples, and his blond hair was fluffy and elegant.
The two walked side by side, Draco looking as though he had something on the tip of his tongue to say.
Vespera had to remind him, "If you haven't figured it out yet, you can wait until next time."
Before they knew it, they had reached the fork in the road where they parted ways: Ravenclaw was in the high tower, and Slytherin was down beneath the Black Lake.
"You... you said I was very naive last time... I've been having nightmares ever since the Forbidden Forest, dreaming of You-Know-Who... I..."
Perhaps for the first time, Draco's account was clumsy and chaotic.
"Calm down, Draco."
"Yes, yes. I need to calm down, calm down." His mind was in a whirl, repeating Quinlan's words over and over.
And so, Vespera could only soothe him first: "Blooming orchids."
A large bouquet of purple lilacs was thrust into his arms. The all-pervading fragrance seemed entirely pale violet—rich without being gaudy, tinged with a clear lucidity.
"You should tell your father about what happened in the Forbidden Forest. If You-Know-Who returns, the Malfoy family, having betrayed him, probably won't have an easy time."
"You're right." Draco lowered his head, burying his entire face in the lilacs. "Was it because you mentioned consanguinity... that I..."
"Of course not. You were simply too frightened. Besides, aren't your parents hardly related by blood at all? The hypothesis doesn't hold."
"A Malfoy cannot be that frightened." His voice was even softer; Vespera barely caught it. "Never mind, Draco is allowed to be."
"Go to sleep." Draco nodded, holding the flowers as he walked toward his dormitory.
Vespera was also very sleepy. Having stayed up late reading books last night, she desperately needed to make up for lost sleep.
Yet she had barely climbed two steps when someone gently tugged at her sleeve. "What is it this time?"
"—I am not him."
"Apologies, Zabini. I thought..."
"You gave him flowers. You gave him flowers, Quinlan." A head reeking of alcohol, flushed cheeks, half-closed eyelids—he looked as though he had sneaked quite a bit to drink.
Vespera was completely wide awake now. She reached out to lift his chin, staring unblinkingly into his eyes.
"Zabini, you like me."
To be honest, this affection was rather baffling.
Vespera did not consider herself someone of extraordinary charm; she had only met this person twice at most, yet he had grown to like her like this.
They had even spoken only once.
Zabini gazed at her infatuatedly, his waist swaying unconsciously toward her embrace. His fingertips lightly pinched the corner of her robe, not even leaving a single crease.
A drunkard was a nuisance, even if the scent of alcohol on him smelled rather nice, and even if he possessed a remarkably handsome face.
"You don't like me, I didn't get a Christmas gift, and I didn't get flowers either..."
"Go back to your dormitory first, all right? Zabini?"
Perhaps because he had too much to drink, silent, large tears fell drop by drop. Zabini, Zabini, he was still Zabini.
This was the first time she had ever encountered someone who could cry so much; the children at the orphanage had stopped crying so recklessly long ago.
Vespera made no soothing gestures, remaining quiet and perhaps indifferent, letting him clutch the hem of her robe and lean against her shoulder. Her robes were soon soaked through with tears, but she did not mind.
She was exceptionally gifted in Charms; a simple "Mending Charm" from Professor Flitwick's favorite pupil could easily fix it.
"What are you two doing, Quinlan?"
"Zabini?" A puzzled female voice.
Nearing curfew time, Percy and Gemma were conducting their routine night patrol when they happened upon this peculiar pairing.
Hogwarts' resident romantic expert and Ravenclaw's mad-genius prodigy.
"Good evening, Prefect Weasley, Prefect Farley. As you can see, he... is not in a good state. Would you mind escorting him back to his dormitory?"
Percy and Gemma, with tacit understanding, each took one and parted ways at the fork.
If they weren't Gryffindor students, Percy generally didn't care. Being a Slytherin student, Gemma naturally let the matter slide lightly.
Gemma supported Zabini, but as they neared the dormitory, she shook off his arm. "Stop pretending, Junior Zabini. Your booze-soaked clothes stink to high heaven, and she didn't care about you at all."
Zabini straightened up, his gaze clear and sharp, bearing no resemblance to his previous state. "Pure-blood."
He walked in unassisted, his expression cold and detached, though the moment he turned his head, he transformed back into that affectionate and charming Zabini. "Senior sister, whatever goes on has nothing to do with you, and I don't care to hear any superfluous words either."
"Senior sister should be off now. Prefects have a lot to do, don't you? You ought to go back to your patrol."
Gemma watched his departing figure and muttered a curse under her breath about a deranged asshole.
If not for that pretty face of his, what could they possibly see in him? A whole family making a living off their looks, clinging parasites.
Some romantic prince—who knows how many men his mother has whored him out to.
His outer robe, reeking entirely of alcohol, was casually tossed beneath the bed. Zabini stared at the half-bottle of wine remaining on the windowsill and mused: Next time, I should just drink it straight.
Too clumsy. She saw right through it at a glance.
How annoying. He wanted to bite off that calm exterior of hers and see what it looked like underneath.