Alice didn't notice that her Head of House, Professor Snape, hadn't taken his eyes off her once.
Up at the staff table, Dumbledore caught Snape's stare and fell into thought, fingers steepled under his chin.
Alice, meanwhile, was sparkling-eyed and zeroed in on the Bloody Baron. She blinked at him cutely.
"…Uh." The Baron pointed at himself.
Alice nodded enthusiastically.
"…Right. I'm the Bloody Baron, Slytherin house ghost."
As soon as he spoke, the Ten-Thousand Soul Banner on her wrist started burning like a branding iron. Alice mentally snapped at it.
Chill out! You can't have Hogwarts ghosts—if you snag one, we're both on the run!
Or cuddling up in Azkaban for life…
Though you'd probably love Azkaban. Souls galore.
The heat dialed back, but she could still feel its greedy little pulse.
"Mr. Bloody Baron, mind if I ask why you became a ghost?"
The Baron's vacant stare sharpened. Alice noticed his eyes kept drifting—subtly—toward the Ravenclaw table. She sneaked a glance: a female ghost sat there.
Ooooh, tea. Gossip sparkled in Alice's eyes, but years of etiquette training kept her mouth shut.
He clearly wasn't in the mood to spill. Plenty of time for that later.
She finally turned to the food.
Roast beef, lamb chops, boiled potatoes, roasted potatoes, fries, carrots, gravy…
Looked like variety, but really it was just meat and a potato parade.
Okay, first: Alice swore she had zero beef with British food.
Second: She'd been raised on dishes perfected by her grandpa's personal chef.
So… maybe suggest the school hire one of their cooks? Give Hogwarts a little food shock-and-awe?
Or at least gift the house-elves a few cookbooks?
Her mind wandered until the Bloody Baron cleared his throat—she'd missed that the feast was wrapping up. Next came the school song.
What followed was the freest choir performance she'd ever heard. Everyone picked their own tempo. The Weasley twins were still crooning to a funeral march long after everyone else finished.
Dumbledore clapped along like it was jazz night.
McGonagall's face was thundercloud dark.
Finally, the chaotic day ended.
Led by the prefect, Alice reached the Slytherin dorms—dungeons under the Black Lake.
The upper-years didn't hurl insults, but the malice rolled off them in waves.
The prefect droned on about pure-blood pride and glory. Alice saw contempt, judgment, and isolation in nearly every pair of eyes.
Wow, Sorting Hat, thanks for the challenge.
Her dormmates: Pansy Parkinson, Millicent Bulstrode, and a few others—all pure-blood royalty.
The second Alice walked in, brows furrowed like she was a stain on the carpet.
Pansy—not a looker—was the ringleader. She whipped out her wand and aimed it square at Alice. They'd planned to humiliate the Mudblood.
The instant the wand moved, the Banner scorched her wrist. An invisible soul-pressure rippled out—Pansy's spell veered wildly.
Alice casually drew her ten-inch yew wand, pointed at Pansy's legs, and said, "Tarantallegra."
Same spell Pansy had tried. Alice didn't know what it did—she'd just seen it once and copied. Her wand practically purred with joy.
Pansy's legs started break-dancing in front of everyone. Alice had to bite her cheek to keep from laughing.
When Pansy face-planted, the room exploded with giggles.
Alice's eyes glinted. Not a monolith, huh? Give them the right nudge, and they turn on each other.
And the right nudge? Alice never worried about that.
Everything has a price.
She crouched beside the flailing Pansy. "Got opinions about my blood status?"
Pansy couldn't answer—too busy wrestling her rogue legs.
Alice watched, stone-faced, until the other girls shifted nervously. Then, still to Pansy:
"Your spell control is trash. Pay me, and I might give you a tip."
She stood to unpack. The circle parted like the Red Sea—then she whipped around with a sweet smile.
"Hey, Pansy—you got a crush on Draco Malfoy?"
She'd clocked Pansy's glances in the Great Hall. When Alice had forced Draco to scoot over, Pansy had fumed.
Pansy's face went beet-red. Bullseye.
Gossip is universal—even among baby wizards. The targeting flipped to curiosity; every head swiveled to Pansy, who turned redder.
Before Pansy could combust, Alice knelt again, gently patted her hair, and said softly:
"Being Draco's groupie won't get you far. Level up and stand beside him—that's how you catch his eye."
"Study hard, girl. Quit daydreaming."
"Alright, lights out—big day tomorrow!"
She layered the words with a subtle Banner intimidation. Worked like a charm. The room went dazed, then quiet.
Only Pansy—legs finally still—muttered, "Stand… beside him?"
Alice scratched her nose. Huh. Extra effective on her.
As she slid into bed, the Banner sent a grumpy vibe.
Alice parsed it: [You won't feed me souls, but you keep using my powers?]
Her face hardened. She thought back, firm:
One of us is in charge, and it's gonna be me. Otherwise, I march to Dumbledore, tell him everything, and ask him to torch you.
Silence.
Besides, our goals align. I get stronger → you get stronger → you make me stronger. Using you is how I level up. Got it?
Silence.
No objections? Good. Stay quiet and watch the pro. I'll get you quality souls—promise.
Act up again, and I'll stuff you with a thousand rat and cockroach souls. You'll be refining garbage 24/7. Bet that'd suck.
You don't want a gut full of trash, right?
Silence.
After "comforting" the sulky artifact, Alice's eyes lit up.
Wait—I've got it. Here's how we feed you…