By Shadow Rise
Her silver (Not gray, silver) eyes darted around the small, tile-ridden room, searching for any other signs of life. She allowed the glorious smirk to spread over her full, cherry-stained lips and she exited the bathroom of Pansy Parkinson's private Head Girl dorm. Vaguely, she marveled at how ironic that name was since given to Banshee Pansy.
Lightly, the brunette swayed from the dorms, letting the tapestry fall into place once more. She padded away from the scene of the crime quickly, her bare feet becoming chilled. Actually, all of her body was chilled. It was five in the morning and she was only in a Foulmouth Falcons Quidditch jersey and her tighty-whities.
"Bloody Boogies Bludger." she murmured, glaring at the mirror.
The thing, Imogene, had always hated her, ever since first year when she almost broke it. It wasn't her fault Filch and his damnable cat had almost seen her out after hours. Even if she was a Slytherin, Filch would never pass up the chance to report her.
What was it about her? No matter who it was, they usually either hated her with a fiery passion or was trying to get into her tight-fitting, leather pants.
Tracey Davis creeped up the wooden stairs of the Slytherin Girl's Dorm and into her own dorm, 'Seventh Years'.
She'd never admit to doing what she just had. It was common knowledge in the 'snakepit' that Parkinson and Davis were in a constant state of war; verbally, physically, and practical joke-ly. Needless to say, Davis was more than slightly better at it. The reason she would never admit to it was because of how utterly lame it was. Which was a first, seeing as she had play apprentice to infamous Fredric and George Weasley since she was eleven. They had said, despite her being Slytherin, she would make a perfect replacement, as well as their little sister Virginia.
That was another reason not a lot of Slythies liked her, she befriended Gryffs and Huffies and Ravens. And not to mention Weasleys.
Forty-three dungbombs in her toilet, honestly. Tracey sighed and slipped off her jersey. Maybe she could get some homework done at breakfast. She'd never been able to go to sleep after she woke up, especially so early. She tugged her long brown hair up into two large knots on the back of her head, one next to the other and pulled on a, rather on the small side, black wife- beater that fit her perfectly and looked at the mirror. Green plaid skirt, black shirt, green and black checked socks, and black Maryjanes with green buckles. What a color scheme. she thought sarcastically.
Negative to popular belief, not all Slytherins were as prim and proper in choosing their clothes as Princess Parkinson. Hell, most of the time she just grabbed whatever was jammed in the closet. It was a pretty easy, seeing as most of her clothes were either black or green.
Tracey exited the room with her bookbag on her shoulder. She really needed to finish that Transfiguration Essay today. As she walked through the common room, she felt her breath still at the sight of him. Her one and only, who didn't know she thought of him in any other way than friendly- like.
Breath, Davis, breathe in; breathe out... This is an issue, hon. she reminded herself, He can't kiss you if you're dead.
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