Open to a student in year 3+!

May 19th, 1888 — Hogwarts Library

Cameron was really not prepared for his upcoming examinations, but unlike many of his more-sensible classmates, he had a policy of "out of sight, out of mind". He'd read textbooks, yes, but strictly under the guise of curiosity and firmly held the believe that if he didn't already know it, he was never going to.

Until today.

After one of his classmates had asked him to hold their studying cards for them to practice reciting potion ingredients aloud, Cameron had ended up in a fit of panic after realizing he'd known absolutely none of them. As such, he'd almost darted to the library, having even been stopped by the head boy (and one of his quidditch team-mates) who'd insisted he slow down before he ended up in the Hospital Wing (where, apparently, they might not let him study).

Seven minutes later on the dot, Cameron found himself frantically flipping through pages of books before realizing he had absolutely no direction and needed help. Spotting the nearest oldest student, he quietly called down the aisle (earning him a stern glance from another, less helpful looking student) until they arrived at his table.

"Please, please, please help me with Potions! I know nothing! If I fail, they'll kick me out!"

  

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Her luck in the library had not been stellar of late and so it was mostly out of pure necessity that Beatrix had settled herself in for a long session of study, refusing to budge from her deliberately awkward position half way down an empty row even when larger groups of students came along and were forced to split up to sit down. It was the lone entertainment as she read steadily through her History of Magic notes.

It was dull of course, but reassuring to realise she remembered it all for the most part. Something must have slipped through when she was not paying attention because Trixie could not recall putting in any particular effort and yet each rebellion and uprising was familiar to her and she had quickly moved onto the library’s supply of history books that dealt with the uglier side of their history. It was quite comforting in a way. People were always terrible to one another out of fear and yet the consistency with which they did it calmed her nerves.

Suffice to say she was not especially pleased to be interrupted in her perusal of a drawing of a witches’ cradle by a panicked voice.

“Well, if you know nothing you shouldn’t be here in the first place should you?” She replied spitefully.

  

If Cameron hadn't been worried about what the older girl might have thought about him, his face might have slipped into a pout. A frown stretched across his face instead, and a noise that came across as distinctly offended left his throat.

"I don't suppose you're a master of all classes then?" he retorted, though made a strong attempt to avoid a tone of disdain or unfriendliness — tones that would likely run her off before she could help him — when he spoke. "It's just Potions class I'm clueless about; I've never been good at that. You don't happen to be, do you?"

  

---

It was abundantly clear that the younger student had no intention of leaving her alone anytime soon and so Trixie huffily closed her book and looked at him properly. Red and gold: Gryffindor. Vaguely familiar, which either meant he played Quidditch or his family were distinguished. She highly doubted the latter.

“So what if I am? If I help you what’s in it for me?”

It never hurt to have someone owe you a favour, even if it was more of the ‘fetching and carrying’ sort, rather than something that might change her life.

  

Cameron didn't know what he had to offer the other student. He wasn't rich, powerful, or even in a position within the school to do anything to help. As such, like any twelve-year-old boy might do, he gave a cheesy smile.

".... I won't bother you anymore! Ever!"" he offered. "And come on, it's just a few minutes! I'll even tell my professors just how helpful you were; maybe they'll give you some points or something."

  

---

The Professors were hardly her biggest fans so the offer was at least a passable one and a few points might go some way towards redressing the balance of the ones she had lost through the year. They might even win the cup, not that it was the sort of thing that concerned Trixie, but it would raise her standing a little and that could never hurt. But was it worth the trade if she had to willingly spend time with a Gryffindor?

“Fine,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “What are you not understanding?”

  

Success! A bright smile on his face, Cameron flipped the book around so she could look at the page while using his other hand to grave the flashcards—the very half-asses flashcards—he'd been forced to make.

"I never thought we were going to have to recite potion ingredients, but I obviously thought wrong," he began, pointing at the illustrations that matched with his cards. "And, unfortunately, I know only some of them. I needed someone to practice with me—if only for a few minutes."

  

---

“Fine,” Trixie drawled again, reaching out to snatch the cards away. They were terrible. Even by her standards, which was laughably low when it came to potions where she simply could not understand the purpose of a calming draught or a sneezing solution when her father had already introduced her to the world of potions to make one suggestible or confuse your enemies.

“You do know he’ll mark your down just for being a Gryffindor anyway, don’t you?”

  

After nearly two years of Hogwarts, Cameron was not the sort to fall for tricks easily; he shot the Ravenclaw an dubious look. "They don't do that—at least not Professor Valenduris," he pointed out, his gaze falling to the potion ingredients in her hand. Now, Professor Valenduris might use his Gryffindor-ness to explain his failures, but it would not be the cause of them! "Please - just help me recite them."

---

  

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He was deluded if he thought for a moment that any of these teachers weren’t entirely biased but Trixie doubted his mind was one that could be changed: Gryffindors has a tendency to be stubborn to the point of unreason and she saw little advantage to even bothering. It wasn’t as though she cared what he thought anyway.

“Fine. Draught of Living Death. Go,” she said with a roll of her eyes but with a surprising amount of patience for the whole endeavour. It wouldn’t hurt after all.