Disclaimer: Do I have to think of something remotely amusing each time I write one of these? No. No I don't. I don't own Harry Potter or any related wizarding-whatever things that JK Rowling invented. Alright? There. Said it.

Happy now?

(A/N: Now. Today I've made a promise to myself. I shall not babble on for half the chapter. And look - this very statement proves that I can make promises. So you're to discard any memories of me not keeping promises in the past, and instead keep this memory firmly in mind. See? Short. Babble. It's snappy. Concise. Rather like these punctuated sentences.

Are you proud?

I'm sorry this took such a long time. But I updated, eh? So I can't be punished too much… and really, you can't go out and torture me, seeing as I'm pretty much dead from suffering through just about a billion GCSE mock exams. (Okay. About 10, not a billion, but pretty darn close) and… yeah. They were gruelling. Gruelling, I tell you! So I really shouldn't be punished any further. That'd be just cruel. And you're not cruel people, are you?

And yes. That's a rhetorical question.

Moving on, this chapter is… well, it's different. But I stuck to my word, and it's Iris last first-year chapter. It was terribly tempting to cut the chapter off at some points, I can tell you. But I didn't. So there. I deserve a pat on the back. It's nice and long too - so you shouldn't have anything to complain about…(Well, aside from the, erm, whole thing I said last chapter about keeping this in the 3,000 - 5,000 word limit… but I suggest you just ignore that for this chapter ;))

Besides, it's got an odd sick twist of humour and a taster of the dark stuff too, so hopefully it'll please you all. Here you get to see what Iris is like when she's panicked, which has sort of stemmed from my rational (or not so rational) thought process when I'm panicked. So forgive her if she gets a little carried away with some mental scenarios. She might be slightly prone to exaggeration. It's all healthy. And doesn't suggest any mental instability whatsoever.

Promise. ;p)

Betwixt and Between

By: Lily Swan

Chapter 8:

Cotton Caught on Thistles

McGonagall holds up the smouldering remains of the firecracker.

I am sitting in her office, I think my knees have cramp, and I feel sick.

For future reference: this is not a very good combination.

Why am I sitting in her office instead of Flitwick's? Because shortly after I did that spell, after the explosion - the room had filled with acrid smoke, Flitwick had burst through the door when it had cleared; witnessed nearly all of the class underneath desks shielding their faces; Sirius slumped unconscious in his chair-

And seen me, standing up, wand still raised, looking very, very shocked.

McGonagall's voice snaps me back to the present.

"Did you put this on Mr Black's desk, Miss Fall?"

All of a sudden, my throat has turned into a tunnel, and it has become exceedingly hard to push out an answer.

"I…" My entire mouth too dry to speak, I wet my lips and try again, "I…" Crap. My brain's dead. Just dead. I can't think. Good God, if I can't flipping think! "Well, you see…" This settles it; I am officiously the world's worst victim. Ever. I should be shot. Or stunned. Or whatever the wizard-equivalent or being shot is.

"No, I don't see, Miss Fall, that's partially the point of the matter…"

"Well, it's just that…I'm not entirely sure I know what you mean," My words are cautious, careful - but the professor before me doesn't seem to appreciate the risks I'm taking in even attempting to talk. The eyebrows on professor McGonagall's forehead seem to be on a mission to completely disappear into her hairline.

"You're 'not sure'," She whistles, "is it that I'm not being clear enough? Would you like me to reiterate for you? Or are you just incapable of understanding English?" At this complete lack of sympathy, the bitter tang of condescending in her words, my mind turns into a raging inarticulate mass of fury. This is completely unfair - just because I can't explain it, just because the evidence was planted in my bag, just because I can't argue back - doesn't mean that it was me!

But when I speak, it's not the proud, confident voice that I have in my head. I don't sound sarcastic and unruffled like I want to - the voice that leaves my dry lips is tremulous, bordering on stuttering.

"No - no, I mean - it wasn't… I didn't - It was in my bag, I had to move it - I didn't mean it to happen like this - I thought-"

"The question," She cuts across me, the hardness of her glare silencing any retort, "is not what was meant to happen, but why it happened in the first place? And what I, personally - as your Head of House - would like to know, is who made it happen? And whether that person, was you?"

I don't answer. Because I can't. Because my thoughts are entangled and confused and I don't even know what I think anymore. I don't know how to get out of this or how to explain myself, and for some reason, the image of Sirius' white face seems to burn on the insides of my eyes, and my blinking doesn't seem to be clearing it. She's still staring at me, all haughty and powerful looking in the dim light, and I feel I should be proclaiming something - standing up for myself, but all I can do is dart my eyes back to my feet, feeling an overpowering wave of shame flush up my face and neck.

After another moment she sighs, like she's disappointed in me, and passes a hand over her eyes, saying in a quieter, though not at all softer, voice:

"Was it you who put this on Sirius Black's desk?" And a question like that - such a direct one - leaves no room for the truth of the matter.

A silence stretches out before us, and like the film of a bubble, it's only a second longer before it bursts.

"Yes," I admit, defeated. "It was me."

"And you are quite certain about that, are you? Miss Fall? It was definitely you?" She's angry now; I bite back the argument I so desperately want to shout at her. That it is in no way my fault, that it was Sirius who was the reason for the danger even if he did end up getting hurt. The voice in my head is furious: I've just admitted it, haven't I? Stop fishing for confirmation to make me feel bad. It isn't me who should be feeling bad. It's. Not. My. Fault.

And with those thoughts, I can completely reflect on how this woman must be seeing me: no more than another petulant child, making excuses at any accusation. And really, is her view entirely inaccurate?

Professor McGonagall's patience is waning, "Are you quite certain?" she repeats sharply.

Forcing out words is like coughing up sand, "Quite sure." I manage quietly.

"Right then." And then suddenly, voice like the crack of a whip: "detention. Nine o'clock. My office."

I dutifully nod my head, and then turn, restraining myself from running from the classroom.

It's nine a clock. I haven't spoken to anyone since the incident (that's what I head Mary calling it at Lunch - everyone was whispering about it, so I left to wait outside the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom twenty minutes before lessons would start up again). I haven't seen James all day, or Remus, or Peter… not even Lily.

They all hate me, don't they?

"Your detention," McGonagall says sharply, effectively shutting up my panicked train of thought, "shall not take place tonight. I am not so cruel to let my own students slack from tiredness in lessons. After I have informed you of what your detention is, you are to go straight back to your dormitory and think about your actions today, and then, sleep. I won't have you un-rested on my behalf. Do you understand?"

Is that meant to be an act of kindness? Am I meant to thank her?

I settle with a jerky nod.

Brusquely, she hands me a piece of parchment, I look down to it, confused.

"I… I already have a timetable, professor." My voice is small.

Her reply is clipped.

"I know that. This is the timetable for a student who is unable to attend her classes. The ones highlighted, are the classes that you will attend for her." I look down to see the red ink circles that blemish the paper like blots of blood, my heart falls. "History of Magic?" I ask, not meaning to say it out-loud. My worst class.

"Correct." McGonagall says, satisfaction lying dormant somewhere underneath her cold bark, "I have decided that your detention is to be educational, as well as a form of punishment." For a crime I didn't exactly commit. "These classes, take place during your lunch break. One hour long classes for a week, I think, ought to set you straight."

Panic bubbles up to my lips "But - I can't - this is OWL level-"

"I know that," The words are weary, "and you are perfectly capable. If you were taking the exam, of course not. But it does not requite acute intelligence to sit in class and listen, Miss Fall. That is all you will be doing. Professor Binns will be talking, and you will be writing what he says. Simple." No. It really wasn't that simple, at least, not to me.

"So… my detention-"

"-is to take notes for Louise Atterbry in her History of Magic class. Yes."

That wasn't what I was going to say. My detention is actually, McGonagall, to make me make a complete fool of myself, because you know damn well I don't know a clue about wizarding history.

But of course, I don't say this.

"Notes," I repeat, rather stupidly.

She purses her lips, intolerant. "Flawless notes. She is currently in the hospital wing with severe trauma and multiple burns to her left arm." I look up quickly, curiosity catching me out; McGonagall's eyes narrow, "Fire," She says coldly, "is not something to play with, Miss Fall. I hope you will remember that next time you plan to plant a dangerous object on someone's desk-" Perhaps it looks like I'm about to interrupt, for she says quickly, "Whether or not your intention was to harm."

McGonagall starts filing papers on her desks, and looks up at me, small, scrawny, in the light cast by a hovering candle, "I must say," She looks back to her papers, "I expected better of you, Iris," The use of my first name does weird things to my stomach. It knots and squirms uncomfortably, like a butterfly pricked to a pin. "You have been consistently good for the time I have taught you. I didn't expect your antagonism with Mr Black to intervene with your behaviour."

Do I blurt out the truth? Yell till she actually listens? Again, the maddening urge to fight back rears inside of me, thick and fine as black smoke. With considerable effort, I force it to concede defeat, but the taste of my unspoken retort still smoulders painfully, scorching the inside of my throat as it goes back down.

She looks up at the clock, sees that it's forty minutes until ten, and stands up. "Now," she says, and I ignore the fact that her voice is considerably softer, "go back to Gryfindor tower and get a good nights sleep."

I walk back in silence. The castle's sort of eerie at night - flickering candles give statues and busts wavering shadows, like ink spreading out over water. It strikes me that the tempo of my heart matches my pace; my footsteps seem too noisy, too quick. I don't want to run, but there are too many alcoves, too many spaces, some part of my head is suddenly filled with terrible images of monsters and evil, lurking behind the corner, just ready to leap out-

I mentally shake myself. This is silly, you're acting like a six year-old. Stop it. This is Hogwarts. The worst that can happen is Peeves dropping a stink pellet on you, and that's easily fixed by a shower. Just keep walking.

I keep my eyes trained to the floor, I don't need to look up; I know the way back to Gryffindor tower, Hogwarts seems to be imprinted in miniature in my head, like a mental map. I think back to the detention I've got, it's not so bad, really. It's just taking notes, nothing too terrible.

But I'll have to take them during my lunch break. Lily will wonder where I am, won't she?

I can't tell her. I just can't. What if she hates me for it? She's always been against rule breaking - that's why she hates James so much, he's always getting into trouble.

Oh God, wait, what if she already hates me? She does. She must do. It's not like I managed to blow up half the Charms classroom discreetly, is it? Heck. Everyone saw that. James and Remus - they'll hate me too. I hurt their friend, I bloody knocked him unconscious. I've hurt him. Sirius.

How badly?

Suddenly, I find myself turning on the spot - and I'm not even walking anymore - I'm running, down two corridors, down a flight of stairs, my breath sparse, skidding to a halt.

Right outside the hospital wing.

I'm still outside, by the way. I haven't actually gone in yet. And yes, it's been over ten minutes now.

Why aren't I just barging in, waking him up, and apologising like crazy? I have no clue. I'm scared, I guess. I'm scared he'll get mad at me, and throw about twenty curses my way (which he probably could, you know, he and James are definitely turning out to be the best at spell work.) And I'm also scared that he'll just stare at me, blankly, and then I'll get informed by a forlorn Madame Pomfrey, (who has never, until this awful moment, been subjected to a forlorn state of mind) that he's undergone serious head trauma, and brain-damage, and has forgotten all of his memories. Oh god. I'm going to go to prison, aren't I? The one with all those creepy things in cloaks swooping about. I mean, I've done the equivalent of an all-powerful-Obliviate - a permanent memory charm on a 12 year old!

Oh heck. Oh heck, oh heck. What if he doesn't wake up at all? What if I haven't just knocked him unconscious, but knocked him into a coma?! God. That's what I've done, haven't I? That's why McGonagall was giving me such disappointed looks…That's why she said the whole: "Fire isn't to be played with." Of course it ruddy well isn't - look what it's done! It's sent Sirius Black into a life-long sleep! He's catatonic! Lifeless! He is no more…

That's it. James is going to kill me.

Yeah. Yeah, I'm still here. I've sort of nestled myself into the wall now - the alcoves are surprisingly comfortable, when you sort of forget how hard they are and everything. And while I've been sitting here, listening to the occasional groan from the Hospital wing and the scurrying footsteps of Madame Pomfrey, I've decided on several things:

1). I can't go into the hospital wing. Because Sirius is probably in a coma, and I think if I see him there, all limp, and lifeless then I'll probably just about implode with guilt and, well, that wouldn't be so great.

2). I can't go back to Gryffindor tower, because James is probably waiting there with a large mallet or something. And Peter will be next to him with some rope. And Remus will just… well, Remus probably won't join in because he's just nice like that - but he'll sort of wait on the sidelines, throwing me the occasional sympathetic glance, while James sends me into a coma with the said mallet, and then Peter… well. He'll tie me up. Because otherwise he'd look a bit silly just watching with this bundle of rope in his arms.

3). I can't go back to the dormitory, because let's face it: even if I somehow did manage to get past the soon-to-be-murderer-James-Potter, she'd be so shocked and horrified that I'd not only been assigned a week-long detention, but was also about to be carted off to Azkaban, that she'd, I don't know - faint. And then the rest of Gryfindor house would wake up, see Lily unconscious on the floor and whisper things like: "Look - she's gone and killed another one!" and "There goes victim number 2." which would just make me feel like utter rubbish, to be honest. And I don't think I could deal with that.

So yeah.

I probably shouldn't be left, alone, to think like this.

It can't be healthy.

You're not going to believe this.

I fell asleep.

I actually fell asleep.

In none other than that poxy little alcove. With my arms wrapped around my torso, head on knees, huddled against the stone wall (which was damp for a reason that I'd rather not ponder on so now my left arm's damp too.) This is turning out to be one of the worst days ever. And it's made doubly worse by the fact that I am completely freezing. Seriously. I'm so cold my toes feel like they've got frostbite. So right now I'm scurrying back to Gryfindoor tower as quickly as I can. Scurrying. That's right: I'm a mouse.

Screw getting brutally concussed by James. I don't care anymore. I am cold, I am damp, and it's about two in the morning, so if anyone even thinks of approaching me with a mallet I'll hex them into-

What was that?

I freeze. I could have sworn I heard something. A soft snicker. My heart suddenly starts pumping furiously. This is silly. Nothing's here. It's two in the morning your… ears… are playing tricks on you. Just get to bed. But for some reason I can't move at all. It's like I'm stuck in concrete. I see a shadow shift in the darkness - and suddenly I'm not rooted still anymore - I turn on my heals, ready to sprint - running down the corridor-

And falling. I've tripped up. A dull throb sears up through my knees as they connect with the stone floor.

That's when I hear him, the owner of the soft laughter. His breath is clammy against my neck, he's right next to me.

"Down she falls. How fitting."

A knife cuts through the air, and all the breath has caught in my throat.

I'm suddenly wrenched upwards, but not by him - by magic, I'm lifted into the air and set roughly to the ground, and I see him. The quartz eyes, equally pale hair - bleached silver in the moonlight - a smirk twisting his thin mouth.

"And so we meet again, little mudblood."

I feel all sick. I want to get back to the tower - I don't want to be here. It's not safe. He isn't safe.

"Can't say I'm overly happy about it."

I swear - it just slipped out!

"Oh, by contraire, I'm most thrilled we've finally found time to chat." He's dragging me over to the side, he's got the collar of my shirt, why aren't I screaming yet? He's so much taller - about six foot, I'm a whole foot shorter than him. A whole foot.

His hand cups my cheek - and I suddenly want to vomit on him.

"Get. Your. Disgusting. Hands. Off. Me."

Oh God. I did not just say that. I did not just say that!

"What did you say?"

I think he heard. I'm not going to ruddy well repeat it, am I?

He presses me up to the wall, pins down my arms - and my struggle is useless, I aim a kick at his side, only to feel sharp pain seer through my wrist. I am too stupid to think of my wand - too stupid to try and run.

Too scared to scream.

A wand is jabbed against my throat, I can't breathe.

"It's about time I taught you your place."

And suddenly all the strength in me vanishes. Fades away into smoke. And I'm just a shell. Just eleven soon to be twelve. And I can't do anything to defend myself. I'm that damn weak.

My own voice is wispy: cotton caught on thistles, I can't look at him when I speak.

"Please let go of me."

He grins - euphoric.

"What's that, mudblood? Can't handle a little pain," He twists my arm so that it's outstretched towards him, and I relinquish a little gasp, breathy and tight. It hurts to speak.

"Please let go. Please."

He's leering - he's sick - he's pinning against a wall and hurting me for fun.

"Manners won't help you now, little mudblood…"

Kick him. Yell out. For heaven's sake - fight back!

"Let's see how you handle this…" I feel dizzy; he's removed the wand from my throat - tracing it down my arm - I'm too slow to stop him: I see a flash of scarlet - the trickling sensation of warm liquid- "how strange… not as muddy as I thought… perhaps if I dug deeper-" He grabs my chin, looks firmly into my eyes and smiles, and then presses the wand down harder.

I can't help it - I scream. Suddenly, there are stains blood on his shirt, a smarting scar on my arm - I kick out violently, desperate to get him off - my eyes fall back to the wound, see the crimson, my head whirls. Oh God, it's like I can taste it - rust, metal-

Malfoy clamps a hand to my mouth; I watch panic flash through his eyes.

"Stop that." He mutters, "Stop it - stop yelling."

I feel like I'm going to be sick, everything's spinning - I watch, distantly, as a portrait on the wall wakes up, bleary eyed and confused. Moustache quivering as his eyes widen, Malfoy follows my gaze, and before the portly man can do more than let out a gasp, a black curtain has obscured the painting.

Am I the one making that noise? I must be; my throat is raw, and the hand Malfoy has clamped over my mouth is suddenly pressing harder. But suddenly, my muffled screams aren't the only noise - there are the sound of footsteps approaching, echoing of the walls. Methodical, quickening steps. But I can't summon any relief - my panic's too potent - I scream louder, thrash harder - and for the first time, I see Malfoy's resolve falter.

He looks fearful.

"Shut up!" He hisses, "Shut up."

Right then, I do something very brave, very pathetic, and very weird, in one impulse-driven-moment.

I bite Lucius Malfoy.

And I wish I was kidding.

He curses under his breath, bringing back his hand that was seconds before covering my mouth - there is actual blood on his hand, I have drawn blood - and there's a shard of utter incredulity in his quartz eyes before I draw back my hand, curled up into a tiny fist and slam it into his jaw.

It's not much, but it knocks him back a bit. And it creates that crucial millisecond of time, in which I dart under his arm, and pelt down the corridor. A part of me knows he could cast a hex any second now - paralyse me, trip me up, stun me - but then there's the fact of which direction I'm running in. Towards the closer-approaching staccato footsteps - I'm round the corner, yes! - I look back, and relief swells up inside me like some warm comforting balloon.

But naturally - probably due to the fact that I happen to be one of the most misfortunate people on the planet - that balloon decides to burst. Because a second later, I'm scrawled across the floor, and I can't quite recollect how I've got there. I feel a sensation of a dull throb - much less than the sharp pain I had when Malfoy cut me - just a dull, heavy blow against my skull.

And all of a sudden, there's a frantic pair of hands on my face, and someone's hauling me up - and I think: It's Malfoy! - and so start punching feebly with my hands, only to find that I can't punch anymore… because my arms are all limp. And I'm looking up - looking up into someone else's face - and it certainly isn't Malfoy. Because this guy's a lot smaller, and he has a much less evil-grip, and his hair's blackish - not platinum… and…and…

And he's saying my name…

"Iris, Iris? Iris, you're bleeding? What? I don't get - no stay still-" and I recognise that voice, that's the voice I've been fretting over all day - it's the same one that taunted me this morning. It's the bloody voice that caused all this!

"You…" I try to explain, but for some reason the words taste all fuzzy and weird in my mouth. He looks genuinely worried. Why? Is my tongue suddenly ridiculously large? Huh. I feel awfully light-headed for some reason. Was I scared before? What was all that about? Everything's fine. I'm fine. He's fine…oh, maybe not - he's waving his wand about… that's not exactly a sign of fine-ness…

"Just stay still Iris - I'll get Madame Pomfrey - oh, she is so going to kill me - no, no wait - don't move! You've hit your head!"

I have not hit my head. He's being preposterous. I'm going to sit up, and confront him, because this is just silly. He should be in the hospital right now, what on earth is he doing skulking around the corridors? Honestly. It's probably past three am!

"You-" I try again, but he's not listening, he's muttering one heck of a lot of weird spells, and I'm sure he shouldn't be doing that, because let's be honest, he's about as qualified a Healer as I am a hippogriff. (Which I'm not, by the way. At all hippogriff-esque, I mean.)

"-Should just stay back, okay? Don't try and move, please, Iris. Just don't move, 'kay? I'm going to lift you up now-" What? Why?! "hey - hey, easy there… I'm just - I need to get you back to-"

I've pressed my hand against his mouth. I need him to shut up. This isn't making any sense.

I look him straight in the eye, determined to not blink first.

"You… are meant… to be… in a…coma right now…"

Then, without warning I can see bright lights. Spiralling circles. And suddenly I'm tipping; there's a second where I swear I can feel a feverish hand pressed against my cheek, and then I'm falling, falling backwards…

The last thing I'm sure about is Sirius Black, perplexed, saying: "What?"

Oohh. Action ;)

This might seem like an odd way to culminate Iris' first year… but what the hell. I'll be different. I've decided to 'Go out with a bang' as they say. (No one says that… do they?) I have a slight apology to make, because the sneak peak I gave last chapter… well, it never really showed up, did it? That's because I've cut out a scene I was going to include: Iris' detention, with boring professor Binns. It didn't fit with the rest of this chapter, so it's been cut off, sadly. But if anyone wants to read it - I can send it off in one super long cut-out-not-really-a-sneak-peak-more-of-a-deleted-scene-type... thing?

Sorry about the change of page breaks - fanfiction's decided it doesn't like me using stars today, and I'm too tired to fix things... anway: 11 reviews for the last chapter, and well, personally - I prefer this one… so, d'you reckon there should be more reviews for this one? Nod if you agree…. Right. I definitely had a tumult of virtual-nodding-vibes just then. I'll take that as a yes ;)

Thankyouthankyouthankyou to my wonderful reviewers (all eleven of you!) : Jade Lyssy Swan; dancingqueensillystring; Blastendedskrewt; Sirius'sGirlForEver; Spartans2300; I'S Watcher; krazykook; Mrs. Rose Malfoy, Joelle8; Sumii; and last, but certainly not least, Squid7000. I owe you all a lot. Hope you liked the chapter, it's dedicated to all of you :p )

Sneaky Peaky (which will actually show up!) of next chapter:

"Iris, is that a corset? Bloody hell - you're stick thin as it is, you don't need to look any thinner!"

"It's a waist cincher," I say impatiently, "and I don't want to wear it anyway. I told you, stupid old fashioned mothers aren't worth the hassle. Just get it off - I can't breathe properly."

Lily let's out one of her bossy huffs and grudgingly obliges, pulling loose the strings-

Right then the rickety toilet door swings open, and sandy-haired first year boy stares up at us. Me, half undressed from the waist upwards and Lily clutching the corset that was previously covering my chest. He stares for one more horrified second, and then I slam the door in his face, sinking to the floor and moaning. Lily's the one who finally speaks:

"I think we've just scarred that poor boy for life. I really do."

Lily - who has really cut back on the babble, and who would LOVE you if you reviewed. Not in a creepy way either. Honest. And she knows you will review, because after all, one doesn't just send out Virtual-nodding-vibes for no reason now, do they? :p