Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It took me seven years to find myself.

There were flashes at first, half remembered figments of another life, in another country. Memories from another girl. An older girl: an adult. They would hit me when I was learning to read, when I saw something on the telly or as I was taught the names of animals and objects. The meaning of a word, the ending of a story my foster parents were telling me... it would simply form up in my mind. As if I had known it all along and was merely remembering it again, not learning it for the first time.

I graduated quickly from picture books and learning to count to additions and subtractions, from baby talk and scribbles to speaking in full sentences and using crayons to write down my own name –Sylvia Sarramond— in large, round letters.

And even in those early years, when the only thing I had were those blurry flashes of insight, I understood I was different. I just didn't know how different. How large the gulf that separated me from the other boy my age and living under the same roof was. I didn't know how far ahead I was. Not until my foster parents caught me reading 'Bridge to Terabithia' at the tender age of four years old.

I knew then, when I heard the adults talking about me, using words like 'gifted' and 'precocious'. Words that held the keys to new memories, new impossible moments that I couldn't have lived, shouldn't remember. I didn't know if this was really what being 'precocious' meant, but somehow I suspected it wasn't. That there was something more to my oddness, some hidden mystery than even my foster parents weren't privy to.

Things started to change, then. I was moved to a different foster family, for reasons that none of the adults in my life felt necessary to tell me. Perhaps the couple that had taken me at first realized I was too strange, too different from what they'd envisioned a foster child to be. But whatever the reason was, it was a change for the better: my new school gave me some more advanced lessons, and my new foster parents allowed me access to a set of pre-approved young adult books —without pictures!— and overall did their best to encourage my independence and discover my potential.

I enjoyed that. Except for the piano lessons, which sucked. But I enjoyed the rest. It felt good, being the smartest kid in this new home, this new school. Even if I held that dark shadow of suspicion that there was more to the story, that I was somehow cheating my way through life and someday I'd need to pay the price for that.

But neither the teachers at school nor the adults seemed to find anything amiss. Just a promising, gifted orphan girl. My excellent grades seemed to please my foster parents, and I —precocious as I was— milked it for all it was worth. Toys and TV shows and a new backpack, and whatever I wished for as long as I could come up with a way to tie it —even tangentially— to my so-called potential. That was how I got my favourite plushie, Miss Bumbles, because I saw it on a shop's shelf one day in passing, pointed at it, spouted a couple of factoids about bees and looked back at my foster mother with puppy eyes.

And I guess that's where things started taking a turn for the worse, too, even though it took some time for me to realize —talk about being gifted! Because I was sharing that home with two other boys that had already been there a year or so before I arrived —foster kids too, both of them— and that didn't seem to enjoy my special treatment all that much. If at all.

It all started with name-calling: 'nutter' and 'arse-face', and soon escalated to light bullying. Pushing and shoving, mostly, because we were five and they weren't all that bright, truth be told.

It quickly got worse, though.

I was six when it happened. The Americans were launching a rocket, and Elliot wanted to watch it live on the telly. I didn't, and I could tell that my foster parents weren't too enthused about it either. But when I tried to argue for the merits of The Goonies my foster mother told me that we had already watched Doctor Who the evening before, and today it was Elliot's turn. Which, fair point, woman, fair point.

So we were all there in the living room: my foster parents, Elliot, Miles, Miss Bumbles and grumbling me, watching the countdown as the space shuttle waited on the launchpad, a white silhouette against clear blue sky. And then, one of those fore-memories, one of those strange flashes hit me. And I said, not even processing why: "It's going to blow up."

"Now Sylvia," said my foster mother, brow furrowed. "That's not a very nice thing to say, is it?"

I shrugged.

"You wouldn't like someone saying those things about something you enjoy, now would you? So why don't you apologize to Elliot, then?"

I sighed, turned to the kid next to me and mumbled: "Sorry I said bad things about the stupid rocket."

"Sylvia..."

"It's not a rocket!" he replied. "It's a shuttle!"

"Whatever."

"Sylvia-" started my foster father. But then the countdown hit ten and we all shut up, and it went all the way down to zero, and we watched as the shuttle rose into the air atop a column of smoke, all fire and unthinkable power.

And then it blew up.

It took a moment to register, even for me, who by this point was getting used to those moments of insight being always accurate. But I hadn't expected this one to be true, not really. And there were a few seconds of confusion, as we all looked at the screen wondering if this was somehow the normal procedure. Except we all knew it wasn't. And then they all turned to look at me.

That was when I got to collect a new word for my growing list of adjectives, courtesy of Elliot: 'freak'.

My foster parents rationalized it, of course. Thought it was nothing more that a bad taste joke made with exceptionally poor timing. But Elliot and Miles, you would think I had single-handedly destroyed the rocket myself the way they treated me afterwards.

I would soon find my notes from school torn apart, or my grown-up books defaced. And, because something —not one of those fore-memories this time, just a sense of foreboding— told me that if I allowed those attacks to go on unopposed they would only get worse and worse, I of course retaliated.

My life became a constant struggle, then, the foster home a battleground. My lunch would get lost, and Miles would find his backpack covered in chalk dust. My favourite shirt would suddenly sport a chocolate stain, and Elliot's racing car would go missing its front wheels.

Sometimes we would get more physical: subtle kicks and harder shoves when the adults weren't looking. I learned how you could get a bruise from being pushed into a chair; Miles learned exactly how sharp I liked to keep my pencils.

So it was during the worst phase of this conflict —ongoing for almost a year by that point— that I hit the seven year marker, and all hell got loose.

What had been a trickle before then, a steady flow of memories that came whenever I was doing something new —which, to be fair, was pretty much everyday, being a kid and all that— suddenly turned into a deluge the day of my birthday. A stream of images, sounds and smells. Names and experiences and books I had read and places I had visited and skills I had mastered. As if someone had plugged a firefighter's hose straight into my skull, my brain a weary sponge trying to catch every single drop.

It hurt, and it was confusing, and my vision swam. That day I gathered enough strength to stand up and walk out of my bedroom, and put together some rubbish story about having stomach cramps to get out of going to school. But it turned out to be unnecessary: my foster parents took a look at my feverish self and declared I would stay in bed.

So I crawled back under the blankets and collapsed into a heap of limbs, my strength completely drained after the brief conversation. My eyes hurt, so I closed them, but I couldn't escape the cascade of images. My ears sent weird signals to my brain —half remembered words and hallucinated names. I tossed and turned, wishing it would stop, asking for mercy. But it never did, and I just couldn't escape, couldn't close my mind to all that... all that meaning.

Eventually I fell asleep, and by the next morning the river had finally stilled, turned into more of a lake. No more images rushing into my head, just a massive pile of memories to sort through and put together, like the pieces of a jumbo puzzle. And without any input on my part, my brain set to the task of its own volition.

For the next week I barely maintained my basic functions. I breathed and walked and ate food and replied in monosyllabic words, all while my mind went into overdrive. But my foster parents judged it good enough to send me back to school —hey, at least I was alive enough that I could handle going to the toilet— and so it was at Mrs. Grace's class when things finally clicked. When all those fragments came together, stringing themselves almost effortlessly into a coherent narrative.

That of a girl who had been born some years into the future, in a different country. Who had grown up into a teenager, then an adult woman. And then, once she hit her late twenties, nothing. A fade to black. To me.

Reincarnation, maybe. With time travel somehow thrown into the mix for good measure.

It was, to be clear, absolutely bonkers. I must have lost it, during that fever, my brain somehow going nuts from the stress of it. But no matter how I looked at it, the fidelity of my fore-memories, the amount of details from my past life, was too solid to discount as a dream. It felt like I knew things, and I knew that I knew them. And I knew that this was what the adults had mistaken as me being a genius. But I wasn't one, not really. I was just... remembering stuff, rather than learning it.

I did test the new memories, though. In the best way possible: one night I got out of bed at about 1 a.m., when everyone in my foster home was already asleep and walked downstairs to the living room. I turned on the telly and put 'The Shining' into the VHS player, and watched the movie at the lowest volume possible.

It was the perfect test, because it was a movie I knew I had never watched in this new life —hey, we were eleven, so no way our foster parents would've allowed us to watch it!— but that I remembered well enough from the before memories. So I had written down some of the scenes and plot points I could recall into a piece of paper ahead of time, and that way if the movie ended up following that script, I would know the memories were real.

It was also the perfect test because no matter what, I got to watch a forbidden movie. So there was that too.

I ended up skipping ahead, in the end, too wired up to wait for the movie to get on with the exposition, instead looking for those moments described in my by then crumpled paper —my heart beating like crazy in my chest. And sure as hell, all work and no play still made Jack a dull boy, and REDRUM was written on the wall, and the lift still released a full wave of blood all over the lobby when its doors opened.

So it was real, then.

I remember being in shock, after that. The sudden weight of the realization of all I had lost hitting me at once: my family, my brother, my crush, my whole future. My life.

I had lost my life. I had died.

I must have emitted some sound, then. Some sort of keening, wailing cry. Because the next thing I remember is my foster father standing in the living room, towering over me as he scolded me for getting out of bed to watch scary movies on my own, and that it served me well if I had nightmares now and couldn't sleep.

I crushed the paper note further, pretended he was right about the reason for my distress, and went back to bed. And sure, I didn't sleep much that night, or the nights after, but not because I was scared.

No, I was grieving.

My own passing, that is. The loss of my old life. The loss of my independence.

And that's when things really took a nosedive. Because now that I could remember being an adult, living on my own and driving a car by myself, many of the daily things I had never paid too much mind to suddenly became unbearably grating. And I started arguing back: about the age restrictions in shows, movies and books, about what I was allowed to wear, about my bedtime and how often I should wash my hair, even about how the food pyramid thing was a complete scam.

And so in the eyes of my foster parents I might have still been precocious and gifted, sure, but now I also displayed challenging behaviour, whatever that meant.

It all came to a head when I was eight and Miles decided to tear off Miss Bumbles' wings. That time things got proper physical, with punches and hair pulling and all the rest; and by the end of it Miles went rolling down the stairs, breaking a tooth in the process. He claimed I had somehow 'glued his legs together', which of course I hadn't, because that was absurd.

I pointed out there was no glue at all on his trousers, but for whatever reason —maybe because they were tired of my so-called stubbornness and the daily fights, or maybe because a layer of unease had always remained wrapped around me after the rocket incident, like a cloud of pestilence hanging over my head— my foster parents took the side of the little devil spawn. And now my behaviour was not only challenging, but also 'violent'.

I was moved out of that foster home soon after that, the powers that be deciding that maybe placing me in a new environment where I was the only kid around would help pacify me. It might have worked, if they hadn't also decided I needed more discipline.

They placed me under the severe watch of Mrs. Coverdale and her husband, and we bounced against each other as hard as humanly possible. No, I don't need to do my homework, I already know how to do fractions thank-you-very-much. No, I don't want to play the bloody piano. No, there's nothing wrong with watching the telly while I brush my teeth, I have been doing it for twenty-five years. No, I don't understand what's 'improper' about an asymmetrical haircut, you fossilized prude.

That lasted for a total of five hellish, abominable months; until one day I was grounded to my room —I wanted to go watch Beetlejuice with a girl at school I found tolerable; Mrs. Coverdale thought the movie was 'completely inappropriate'; I told her she was also completely inappropriate as a foster mother and yet here we were.

I was pacing up and down my room like a caged animal, reliving the discussion in my head time and time again and thinking of all the witty retorts I could have spat back to her, and all the little things I could do to get up her nose, so to speak, when I noticed a burning smell coming out of my bed.

Surprised, I approached it and removed the bedspread only to discover that the bedsheet underneath was on fire. I panicked, tried to remove the bedsheet, and the flames jumped to the curtain and from there up to the off-green wallpaper —which I had told Mrs. Coverdale was a fire hazard waiting to happen. That was when I legged it downstairs, screaming at the top of my lungs.

One visit of the fire brigade later, and I was considered guilty without even a trial: the fire that had devoured much of the second story of the Coverdales' home had started in my bed, after all, right when I was in the room, grounded and angry. And it sure didn't help that I had a history of 'challenging and violent behaviour'.

So no more foster families for me; they sent me to the Residence.

When they first told me they'd be sending me to the Residence, I could almost hear the capitalization in the word. And I knew enough from my fore-memories to intuit that the system was giving up on me, that I had inadvertently crossed some sort of red line and was apparently now considered too much of a hassle.

But in the end, it was the best thing to happen to me. If I had known it, I'd have burnt Mrs. Coverdale's house much sooner —not that I did, but I would have.

The Residence was a large, two-storied house in London —actually, Brentwood, but who's keeping count— that housed somewhere between seven to ten problematic children, along with a staff of three adults led by an older woman the kids there had nicknamed 'the Giraffe', on account of her being all legs and neck.

The staff was... okay-ish? They were better than the Coverdales at least —though that wasn't saying much. But since there were more kids than staff, they didn't have time to watch our every move and I did enjoy a higher degree of independence, funnily enough.

I was placed in a room with another girl two years younger than me named Astrid, who never ventured more than two feet into the corridor outside without dragging her comfort blanket with her. And it only took me a couple of nights there to discover that in at least half the cases, 'problematic' actually meant 'abused'.

Which wasn't to say they didn't act out, or that I never clashed with them. They did, and I did. But this was not another Elliot-and-Miles' situation. Because while they quickly realized I was a freak, somehow that was tempered by the knowledge that we were all freaks, in the end. That all of us under that roof were either too different, or too broken for the normal system. That most of us would never be adopted or go back to foster families. And that gave us a sort of camaraderie.

So I settled, and started to consider my future. The more I thought about it, the more I realized being reborn was sort of a blessing, truth be told. I had filled a page of my personal notebook with words like 'Facebook', 'Apple' and 'coin', and if my plans came to fruition I knew I'd be able to enjoy a life I had only been able to dream about, back in my fore-memories.

But I still missed it, my old life, my old family. So a few weeks ahead of my eleventh birthday I skittered at night into the Giraffe's office —a room downstairs wrapped in filing cabinets and that contained a desk perennially covered in sheets of paper and small booklets, with one of those old beige computers on its corner— and walked up to the phone receiver there.

Then, I dialled in a number, one I still remembered from my adult memories. I had wanted to do this ever since that seventh birthday, but I'd had to wait. They would've only moved into the house I remembered after my birth.

The tone ringed once, twice, three times; and I was already losing hope when I heard noise at the other end of the line.

"Allo?" asked a raspy woman voice, as if she'd just woken up from her sleep. Which was probably the case.

I had planned words, things I wanted to say. But the moment I heard her voice, they all flew out of my mind. I just stood there, almost gasping for air.

"Allo? Qu'est-ce?" she asked, her patience thinning.

"C'est... c'est Sophie." My own words came almost as a whisper. I just wanted to keep her talking, to keep hearing her voice.

"Sophie? Quelle Sophie?" Her voice was younger than I remembered.

'Your daughter', I wanted to say. But I didn't, because I could hear the growing suspicion in her tone. And I could hear the cry of a baby, somewhere in the background. A baby that could be no other than me. Old me.

Oh, fuck this.

"Désolée!" I blurted out. "Mauvais numéro!" and I promptly crashed the receiver back in place with more force than strictly necessary, ending the call.

So I had been replaced.

Not really, I guessed. It was simply... my former self was still there, living her life, unaware of what had happened. It wasn't her fault I had been... what? Sent back in time? Reborn into a different body, one that looked completely different to my old one? Whatever.

And yet it still felt as if I'd been replaced and forgotten about; couldn't help it. As if I was a copy. The discard. Now I was on my own.

"Sylvia?"

I almost jumped in the air at the sudden voice, turning to see the silhouette of Astrid watching me from the office's open door. She had her blanket draped over her head and shoulders like one of those old-fashioned grandmas.

"Shit!" I whispered, pressing my hand against my chest to still my heart. "What are you doing outside the room, you bloody chipmunk?"

She narrowed her eyes. "What are you doing here? The Giraffe is going to ground you for months!"

"Shh! Keep it down! And how is she going to know, uh? Are you going to tell?"

She shrugged. "Maybe?"

I crossed my arms, unimpressed. "If you do, I'll tell everyone who it was that dropped the Gameboy and broke it. Mutually assured destruction, ever heard of that?"

"But you know that was an accident!"

"Shh! Do you think Charles is going to care? No, he'll be all 'you broke it, you pay for it'."

"That's stupid," she mumbled, entering fully into the room. "I can't pay anything if we don't have any money, can I? What were you doing here?"

"Nothing... just making a phone call."

"A phone call? To who?" Then she paused for a moment, as if she was putting two and two together, and added with a trembling voice: "To your parents?"

I sighed. Astrid's parents had died a few years ago in an unspecified accident —she hadn't told any of us, and I didn't dare ask her— the blanket the only reminder she kept from her previous life. The topic of parents with her was like taking a stroll across a landmine field, you never knew when an off-hand remark would trigger a full-on panic attack. The first time it happened with me in the room, for a moment I thought I had inadvertently broke the girl or something.

"Yes, but it didn't amount to anything," I said, waving my hand. "Just wanted to give it a try, I suppose. Come on, let's go back to-"

But it was too late. The light from the corridor outside came on and we heard ominous steps approaching. Astrid moved quickly, taking refuge in the gap behind the office's door. I, however, wasn't so lucky. I was standing right in the middle of the room, and would need to walk around the desk itself to hide behind it. So instead, I just flattened myself against the row of filing cabinets and hoped whoever it was would just walk by the door and not see my silhouette if they didn't look too closely.

But of course, the Giraffe then entered the office and switched on the lights. And there I was, standing like an idiot, my back to the cabinets, staring straight at her.

I froze, waiting for the inevitable scolding, but then something odd happened: her eyes just roved across the whole room, not once stopping on me —despite my totally conspicuous presence. It was as if she had developed a blind spot that just happened to completely cover me. Or maybe she'd been a T-Rex all along and could only see movement. Or perhaps I had turned into a human chameleon or something. But I didn't dare even moving my head to look at my own skin, just in case the T-Rex hypothesis turned out to be the correct one.

Leaning out behind the door, Astrid's expression seemed one of surprise, her eyes wide open as she looked at me.

Then, the Giraffe turned, switched off the lights, and walked out of the office, closing the door in her wake.

I waited two, five seconds, then released the breath I'd been holding and stepped away from the wall of furniture. Immediately, I heard Astrid's sharp intake.

"Sylvia?! What... was that?!"

"Shh!"

"You were there! And then I looked away for a moment and when I looked back you just... weren't?"

I turned to look back at my hiding spot. A trick of the light, perhaps? Maybe a shadow or something I'd failed to notice.

"Just lucky, I guess," I said, shrugging. "Come on, let's go back now."

I cracked the door open, took a glance at the dark and calm corridor outside, and turned to signal Astrid to follow me. She did, but not before giving me a suspicious look from under her blanket. She didn't say a word again as we returned to our shared room and went back to sleep.

The next few days she was still acting a bit cold towards me, not saying much and giving me significant glances now and then, quickly averting her eyes when I looked back at her and rose my eyebrows. But soon enough things seemed to go back to normal, the near miss at the office seemingly forgotten. And a few weeks later it was already summer, school was over, and life at the Residence became much more sedate.

Not to say we spent all day just lazing about. The staff liked to keep us active and focused, so there was housework aplenty: cooking —which was okay, but I never enjoyed it— and moping floors, and even weeding the tiny garden behind the house —which I definitely hated. And perhaps if it'd been Mrs. Coverdale ordering me to get dirt under my fingernails I'd have rebelled against it, but at least the Residence's staff framed it in terms of shared responsibility rather than pure discipline, and allowed us to switch chores among each other if we so wished.

Aside to that, they also kept us busy with activities: trips to nearby parks and museums, to the zoo and what not. It was after one of those outings —to the movies; the two oldest kids were allowed to watch 'Terminator 2', but the rest of us were unjustly forced into 'The Rocketeer' instead which... ugh!— that I was called to the Giraffe's office.

I approached with certain trepidation. During my stay at the Residence I'd learnt that nothing good ever came out of being summoned to the office, so I wondered which of my recent relatively minor transgression was behind this call. I had nicked a bag of gummy bears at the cinema, after all, but I was confident nobody saw me, and security cameras weren't a commonplace thing yet in 1991. So I doubted that was the reason.

I heard voices talking inside as I approached the door, so I stopped to listen before knocking.

"-and very precocious, yes-," that was the Giraffe. "-could even say gifted. Although her behaviour-"

For a moment, I feared I knew what this was about: a new foster family. After all, the staff was always going on about stays at the Residence being temporary, and that once whatever issue a kid had had been fixed, they'd be placed back into the foster system. In practice, few issues were so simple that they could be fixed at all. But I knew I was calmer as of lately than I'd been in my foster years, and there had been no more fires or violent incidents, so perhaps they'd judged me well behaved enough.

And that would be terrible, because I preferred it here, staff and all. Being among a larger group paradoxically granted me more freedom at the Residence that I had enjoyed at foster homes. That was the main reason I felt better, and the stupid Giraffe was about to ruin it all again for me.

So I gritted my teeth and barged straight into the office, not even bothering to knock on the door; determined to put a stop to whatever plot they were weaving in there for my future. If she was selling that I had mellowed out... well, they were in for a surprise.

The Giraffe paused the moment I entered, reacting with a thunderous look at the interruption; but she recovered quickly, smiled and signalled with her hand at the old man sitting on the chair in front of the desk.

"Sylvia; we were just talking about you," she said. "This gentleman is the Headmaster of a very prestigious boarding school, in which you have been accepted for the upcoming year."

A boarding school? That gave me pause. The gentleman in question was old, so much so that I would have figured him to already be a pensioner. He sported a dense and long white beard, half moon glasses, and wore a brown corduroy suit that would have looked old-fashioned even in the fifties.

"Ah, yes," he said, his voice gentle and deceptively deep. He gave me a friendly smile. "Miss Sarramond, it's good to meet you at last. My name is Albus Dumbledore."

Chapter Text

Dumbfounded.

Yes, if I'd had to put my reaction in a word, that would've been it: dumbfounded.

I just stood there and stared at the old man. The first thought was that surely I must have misheard, so I asked: "Uh... I didn't catch your name?"

"Dumbledore. Albus Dumbledore."

Oh.

The next thought was that this had to be a joke. Except that the Harry Potter books hadn't been released yet, and wouldn't be for a few more years, so it was too early for this joke. And the thought that maybe my fore-memories were wrong, or that I'd been fooled into believing I'd been reincarnated didn't even cross my mind: I had verified their authenticity —and that of the world around me— quite often enough to be sure by then of the true nature of both my own pasts, and that it indeed was 1991.

So not a joke, then.

The third thought —and I arrived there after a full five seconds of awkward silence– was that perhaps the character in Harry Potter had been based off a real person. That perhaps there had existed some real school in Britain whose headmaster's name was 'Dumbledore', back in the early 90s.

Sure, let's go with that.

"That's a- um... an unusual name, no?" I asked.

"Sylvia!" muttered the Giraffe, appalled.

But the old man simply let out a soft laugh. "Indeed, indeed it is! Please, sit down," he replied, motioning me towards the only empty chair in the office. Then, he turned back to the Giraffe: "My sincerest apologies, Mrs. Sherwin, but perhaps it would be best if I were to speak with Miss Sarramond privately. I assure you, we shall of course remain in the realm of utmost decorum."

That was a dismissal if I ever heard one, and I was sure the Giraffe would refuse being asked out of her own office. But she surprised me by nodding enthusiastically and vacating the room, closing the door after her and leaving me alone with the strange old man.

"Ah, I almost forgot," he said, producing a large envelope out of the depths of his antique jacket and handing it out to me. "I believe this is for you, Miss Sarramond."

I picked it up, with red alarms blaring inside my head. It was addressed to: Sylvia Sarramond. Room #3, The Hauxwell Youth Residence. 211th Willcox Street, Brentwood.

"Please, do not hesitate to open it," said Dumbledore, giving me an encouraging nod after I remained frozen with the envelope in my hands for a few too many beats. "I have a feeling you might find its contents rather interesting."

Oh, shit.

I took a deep breath and opened the envelope, extracting the letter inside. And sure enough...

"Hogwarts," I mumbled, reading. "Wizardry."

"The finest school of magic, if I may humbly say so. Now, might you be interested in a modest demonstration?" he asked, producing a thin stick of wood —a wand, a magic wand! Dumbledore's magic wand!— out of another of his pockets. "I have found that young students raised by Muggles, as it is your case, often enjoy such displays."

"Uh... a demonstration would be nice, sure," I replied. Because having memories from a previous adult life was one thing, so familiar by this point that it felt perfectly natural; but discovering the world of a fantasy book series was real... that was another matter entirely. One that demanded more proof than a parchment letter and an old man's word. And I was still half hoping this all was some sort of joke.

He aimed his wand at the sheets of papers spread around the desk, and they all flew into their proper folders, stacking themselves neatly on top of each other. Another piece of paper folded itself into the shape of a little origami bird and took a wide circle around the room, flapping its paper wings as it flew over our heads. It landed on my knee, then jumped onto my hand when I reached to touch it.

"Right," I said, moving the little bird closer to my face, examining it as it pretended to preen its non-existing feathers. "So... it's real."

By which I really meant to say... the story, the book, the whole thing.

"Indeed, magic is real. And you are a witch yourself, Sylvia, possessing magic within you. Do you perhaps recall any peculiar events in your past? Things that you couldn't quite explain, happening around you?"

I snorted. Peculiar? Like knowing the future, or being dropped straight into a fictional story? Oh, boy, if only he knew.

Which reminded me of a little something called legilimency: that the apparently kind man in front of me was supposed to be able to read your thoughts merely by looking into your eyes.

I averted my gaze, trying to make it look as if I was trying to remember. "I guess that means I did burn down the Coverdales' house, after all," I said.

He gave me an understanding nod, perhaps taking my sudden avoidance of his eyes as a sign of guilt. "An unfortunate example of the dangers of accidental magic, yes. It's crucial that you learn to harness and control your magic," he explained. "Which you will, at Hogwarts. Equally as important is keeping this knowledge secret, sharing it only with fellow wizards and witches. The safety of the Wizarding society relies heavily on the preservation of our secrecy."

"You mean I can't tell the Gir- I mean, I can't tell the truth to Mrs. Sherwin and the rest of the staff?"

He nodded. "Indeed. Nor to the other residents of this institution. To them, it will appear as if you are attending a school for gifted children. In a sense, that is not far from the truth, as Hogwarts is in fact a school meant for those of unique talents."

"Uh huh. So what about this, then?" I asked, raising the letter. "How can I get robes, or a cauldron, and do it all without any of them noticing? And do I need to pay for all this? Because I'm not really flush with cash, you know."

Or at least that's what I thought. Maybe there was a vault of gold with my name on it hidden somewhere under London. Maybe I should ask my fairy godmother, which the way this day was going was probably just around the corner and waiting to introduce herself.

"Ah, of course. A professor will soon visit you to gather the necessary school supplies. And regarding their payment: rest assured, the Ministry of Magic maintains a special fund to cover the expenses of those students who require assistance," he explained, his attention slightly wandering across the room, as if he'd said this line many times before. But then he fixed his eyes on me again, and his tone became suddenly more intense and serious. "And always remember this, Sylvia: if you need help while at Hogwarts, you only need to ask for it."

I nodded, focusing my own gaze on the magic paper bird —which was now perched on Dumbledore's shoulder— rather than risking looking straight at his face. But it seemed to satisfy him, because his voice then recovered his gentle, smooth inflection as he stood up and clapped his hands.

"Well. I believe it's time for us to part ways for the time being," he said, gingerly placing the bird back on the desk, where it unfolded itself back again into a sheet of paper. He then escorted me back to the office's door, a hand resting on my shoulder. "I look forward to seeing you again at Hogwarts, Miss Sarramond. Have a most pleasant remainder of your summer."

And after we'd said our goodbyes, and he thanked the Giraffe for her hospitality, he simply departed and left me in an odd, confused state that lasted for days.

It was a sort of introspective, existential mood that grabbed me. Because the revelations Dumbledore's visit brought, the implications put forward by his own very existence, cast a doubt over everything I thought I knew about the world, about myself.

At times I was sent back to wondering if this entire new life was some sort of hallucination. If perhaps I was still the old me, maybe unconscious, hooked up to some IV and in a coma or something. But it never grew into a serious concern: I never truly doubted the reality of the world around me, of my own existence as Sylvia. Because the world was tactile: the Residence's walls solid, the food either tasty or soggy —depending on the day. And time flowed consistently, one minute after another —fast when I was having fun and slogging unbearably when at school— but always without any unexplained gaps.

Compared to that, to the immediate reality of the world that surrounded me, my fore-memories were simply... memories. At times feeling almost dreamlike, like something that had happened to someone else, some other version of me who wasn't actually me. If I had to put something in doubt, it would always be the memories, and not the present, the reality around me. That I was alive, that I was Sylvia, felt as certain as I could imagine.

And perversely, the existence of magic offered a sort of explanation to the mystery that was my own existence, to how I could remember the future. Granted, 'it's magic' wasn't that great an explanation, but all things considered it was more than science was offering me, so I was tempted to grab it and run with it.

Other moments I would forget about the visit altogether, while I was doing my summer homework —which I had argued I didn't need to do anymore since I wouldn't be returning to my old school, but to no avail— or when I was busy with some chore or another. Funny enough, it was Astrid who always sent my mind back to the unreality of my situation. Ever since she heard that I'd be changing schools she started watching me like a hawk, her eyes following my every movement. In our room at night, on those few minutes before we turned the lights off, I'd catch her stealing glances at me from behind the refuge of her ever-present blanket and comic books.

Two weeks had passed when the professor finally arrived to take me to London, with no warning at all. She arrived on the afternoon: an older woman who knocked on the front door and introduced herself as Minerva McGonagall. And like Dumbledore, she too had tried to fit in with her choice of attire, wearing a muggle coat over a button down shirt and matching skirt, a small hat on her head.

I had been wondering which member of staff would come visit, and McGonagall was certainly among the lead options. But it took me a few moments to recognize her, partially because of her unassuming appearance, but also because she didn't really look all that much like the actress in the movies, being younger herself —something I had noticed with Dumbledore too, but only to a lesser extent.

She didn't last long in muggle wear, though, just long enough to convince the Residence's staff to send me off with her. And the moment the front door closed behind us she produced her wand and waved it all over her clothes, transforming them into full wizarding regalia: dark robes of an almost purple tint and an elegant witch hat to top it off.

She then offered me her left hand. But when she noticed I hadn't taken it —still shell-shocked at the second display of magic I'd ever witnessed— she quirked an eyebrow. "Transfiguration is one of the deepest, most complex magic disciplines you'll learn at Hogwarts. And while transfiguring your own clothes is quite effective for short interactions with Muggles, and more ethical than subjecting them to the Confundus Charm, I do suggest you don't attempt it until you have a firm grasp of the subject, as mishaps can be... quite embarrassing."

She then produced a small object wrapped in a cloth of linen, which turned out to be a thimble. "Now, grasp my arm with one hand and touch this portkey with your other hand, so that it can transport us both to our destination. We have a full schedule this afternoon."

Oh, portkeys, right.

I sighed and reached for her hand, mumbling under my breath: "...and here I thought we were going to take the bus." Then, I touched the thimble with the tip of my index finger.

I felt the jerk almost immediately, followed by a sensation of vertigo, as if I was both falling and being dragged forward. I took a glance at our surroundings to see only a nauseating whirlwind of colours, my mind trying in vain to make sense of the chaos and vague shapes flying around us. I could sense that if I kept doing that it would certainly make me sick, so instead I focused my eyes on the thimble itself, the only thing that seemed solid in this tornado of chaos. And soon enough I felt my feet hitting the ground again, and the noise and motion ended as abruptly as they had started, leaving me stumbling around like a newborn fawn, my stomach all upset.

McGonagall was kind enough to allow me a minute of recovery, in which I managed a quick glance around —we were in some random London street, apparently— before having to close my eyes and take a few depth breaths. Then, a whirlwind of a different nature started: she all but dragged me into a mangy, dark pub —I knew it from the fore-memories, sure, but I couldn't remember its name— where we marched towards the back. I had glimpses of strangely dressed people, some of whom greeted the witch. A "Hello, professor!" here, from the man behind the bar counter; A "Oh, new student? Muggleborn?" there, from a woman seated on a stool.

But soon enough we were at the back of the pub, and she was opening the wall of bricks with her wand. I'd seen it in the movies, but there was something... well, magical about it happening in real life, right in front of me. I couldn't stop thinking that this had to be an incredibly elaborate joke. But at the same time, I understood that the idea of a joke of this magnitude was somehow even more unlikely than magic simply existing.

Then Diagon Alley appeared in front of me, and all thoughts of it being a joke vanished.

"Fuck me. It's real," I muttered.

Next to me, McGonagall tutted: "I understand that this might be a startling experience, Miss Sarramond. But please mind your language."

And then we were through, and into Diagon Alley, and already I had inadvertently crossed that threshold into the fantasy world. The one I knew I could never uncross. Not really.

In fact, that was what sobered me up. And as much as the sights in front of my eyes were incredibly whimsical —the crooked walls, the impossible floating books, moving pictures and curious objects behind the shops' windows, the very busy cobblestoned street itself, full of people of eccentric appearances— I frowned at McGonagall for taking that choice away from me. For simply barging ahead across the archway, me in tow, and robbing me of that moment of standing right at the edge of the precipice, of taking that first step by myself; making that critical decision on my own. Petty, perhaps, but I couldn't help but resenting her a little for it.

We advanced, cutting through the crowd, McGonagall explaining the nature of the alley and the sights around us —most of which I already knew: 'that is a house-elf, those are owls, used for sending letters...' But it was interesting to learn that there were a handful of other minor streets that connected to Diagon Alley. Other than the only one I could remember, that is: Knockturn Alley. I risked a glance as we passed by that particular corner, some stairs descending into the shadows of a narrow passageway, and noticed a creepy-looking man staring right at me. I frowned at him, doing my best to hide how vulnerable he made me feel all of a sudden. I became immediately self-conscious of the jeans and loud green T-shirt I was wearing —it featured a Ninja Turtle, with the text 'Born to be Rad' written on the front.

To put it bluntly: I was dressed in obvious Muggle clothing, in the middle of magical London. I guessed, in the eyes of some of the more colourful characters down there, I was pretty much dressed as prey. And once more, it was McGonagall's fault, because had I known which day she'd be arriving to take me to London, I'd have made sure to dress more appropriately.

"-that is Gringotts, the goblin bank," she was saying as we walked past the entrance of the largest building in the street. "It's likely you'll open a vault there eventually, but there's no need to visit it today: the Ministry's fund will suffice to cover the costs of the essential purchases you require. And past that corner is-"

"What does essential mean, exactly?" I interrupted. "I know school robes are included, but can I also get some more personal clothing? Just so that I don't stick out like a sore thumb when I'm not wearing those?"

She looked me up and down, as if seeing my attire for the first time. Then, she produced a piece of parchment that she unfolded and started reading from. I tried to edge sideways around her and take a look, but she wrapped it closed again before I could.

"Very well. The fund does allocate some provisions for additional items of clothing. Meant mainly for undergarments, but in your case we could extend that purpose to... enhance your wardrobe. Naturally, this presumes that you shall arrive at Hogwarts equipped with your own Muggle undergarments, and..."

I rolled my eyes. "Sure, I'll bring my knickers."

She let out a soft sigh and motioned me forward again, resuming her teaching role. "We shall start with your clothing, then. This establishment before us is none other than Madam Malkin's..."

The place was crowded with items in display: robes, yes, some soft and velvety, others thick and patterned, but also boots and pointy hats and all manners of vests and shawls. My eyes roved greedily over the exotic fabrics and attention-grabbing colours, but I wasn't allowed a chance to examine them any closer because the moment we entered the shop, McGonagall and the shop assistant conspired to manoeuvrer me onto a stand, where a dark robe was promptly draped over me and slowly turned into one that fit my short body. I remained motionless while sharp pins danced in the air, passing dangerously close to my skin, all while the two older women discussed among themselves: apparently Percival Moonridge was retiring at last, oh my!

In the end I managed to cajole McGonagall into getting me an extra robe —an elegant dark turquoise thing, with a subtle wavy pattern along the rims— a set of pyjamas with stamped dancing fairies, along with a dressing gown, two shirts, some trousers and a single grey vest. She declared it good enough when she noticed me ambling my way towards the shawls and hats.

We visited Flourish and Blotts after that, the book shop. And while McGonagall quickly gathered the required coursebooks —Hogwarts' books were displayed in nice and easy to grab stacks near the entrance— I took a quick look around. Because now that I was here, in the Wizarding World, the gears in my mind were finally getting unstuck and starting to turn again.

And so I was now realizing the full scope of it, the enormity of the situation I now found myself stuck in: because I was going to Hogwarts, apparently in the same year that Potter and all the others. And so I would have to live through the future war.

I wasn't yet sure what my approach to the whole kerfuffle should be. Whether I should intervene and try to avert the worst of it from happening, or simply keep to the sidelines —which seemed the most reasonable option, given that I knew the side of light would end up winning. But then again I was a Muggleborn myself —to the best of my knowledge— so my own survival was by no means guaranteed.

I could attempt to run away, escape to a different country; but it was surprising how impaired your choices in mobility became when you were an eleven years old orphan. And there was no escaping the fact that wizards and witches existed, that all of this was apparently real, and that I was now one of them. If I tried to leg it, it wouldn't be just the Muggle authorities on my tail.

Plus, I kinda didn't want to live like that: as a fugitive always on the run, with no true control over my own future.

I could do that later, if it came to that, as I still had some years before I needed to make any final decisions; so for the time being the better plan was simply to keep my head down and ensure that I had as good a grasp of magic as I could. My best chances of surviving would be to learn what I needed to know in order to protect myself, and to hone my skills as much as possible so that I could keep as many doors and options open as I could.

So that was why I ended up walking back to McGonagall with another stack of books to add to the school ones, containing titles such as: '101 Jinxes', 'Curses and Counter-Curses', 'The Definitive Self-Defence', 'A Primer on Duelling: Tips & Techniques' and 'The Tale of The Talking Teapot' —and sure, that last one was fiction, but it still looked like fun and I was curious about what a wizarding detective story read like.

McGonagall, however, seemed determined to put a rain to my parade: "Miss Sarramond, I'm afraid that the fund will only cover the cost of your coursebooks."

I sighed. "How much do these cost, then? It's not like I'm swimming in gold, but I should be able to afford one or two."

She gave me a sympathetic smile, for once: "Perhaps it would be better to be patient. Hogwarts contains one of the largest magical libraries in Europe. You'll likely find many of these books there as well, without having to buy them yourself."

That... that sounded smart, actually. It sort of irked me to put them back, because I wanted those books and I wanted them with me whenever I felt like reading them. I didn't want the tyranny of being subjected to the library's rules and regulations. But at least I managed to keep the Teapot one —apparently the Hogwarts library didn't do much fiction— and also convince her to get me the second volume of 'The Standard Book of Spells' series, since I'd be buying it for second year anyway, so it was covered by the stupid fund.

A similar situation happened when I reminded the Professor that the letter from Hogwarts made mention of owls and cats —it had also mentioned toads, but I didn't. Again, she encouraged me to make use of Hogwarts' owls if I needed to send any messages. I sighed, but agreed in the end. After all this time living as Sylvia, I had a good grasp on what I was now: a poor orphan kid, with no vaults bursting with gold. An orphan who hadn't saved magic Britain as a baby. So no Hedwigs for me.

I wasn't nearly so cavalier in respect to the sunglasses, though.

I saw them while we were buying the telescope, quills and other stationery. Silver-framed, with stylish round dark lenses. A bit large for my head size, sure, but I knew I'd eventually grow into them. It was the placard next to them that convinced me; it said: 'On sale! Protective spectacles, rated against Gorgons and Basilisks.'

I didn't know what a gorgon was, but I knew of basilisks. And if they worked for those, I was willing to hazard they would also prevent my mind from being read by any legilimens I happened to cross paths with —an alarmingly high risk at Hogwarts, it seemed like. It was the perfect solution to that particular problem: with these there was no need to spend endless hours learning to shield my thoughts; I could simply wear them, protect myself and look totally fabulous at the same time!

McGonagall, however, wasn't as enthused:

"Do I need to remind you once again that the Ministry's fund covers only the essentials for your time at Hogwarts?" she explained after my second attempt at convincing her, her voice weary now. "Items of fashion are not part of the provisions."

"I know that! But I'm telling you: it's not fashion!" Well, not only. "It's protective equipment, see here?"

"Rest assured, Miss Sarramond, you will encounter no basilisks at Hogwarts. Now, put those spectacles back and let's continue."

"I will pay for them myself!"

She towered over me now, all stern and looking like she was barely containing herself not to throttle me to death.

"And might I enquire if you possess, by any chance, forty Galleons at your disposal?"

"How much is that, in real- I mean, Muggle money?"

"Around two hundred pounds."

What in the-? And that was on sale?!

"Well, I can... I can pay for them later, get a loan at Gringotts."

"Enough, Miss Sarramond! I won't be so irresponsible as to allow you to incur in debt for the sake of appearance. There will be no more discussing this matter! Return them at once, while I complete the payment for the items that you will genuinely require."

And with that, she simply turned back to the shop's counter and let me rooted there, not even giving me the opportunity to reply. I clenched my jaw, fuming, and walked back to the shelf where I'd found the glasses.

I hated this. I hated being treated as a child. I hated having to ask for permission for everything I ever wanted to do, everything I wanted to wear. I hated the adults for keeping the money out of my hands, for putting me in a position where I was forced to beg for anything I wanted, and then not listening to a word I said.

I hated that I couldn't simply buy some stupid sunglasses, even if they were a little on the pricey side. Especially when I had legitimate reasons for wanting them. Hell, if Voldemort was stuck to the back of the head of that one teacher at Hogwarts —as I remembered— it would be irresponsible of me to attend his class without even this lacklustre protection! My fore-memories were the key to the future. In the wrong hands they could just as easily become a tool for evil. And these sunglasses... well, they might quite literally be all that stood between us and the triumph of tyranny.

So of course, I nicked them.

Perhaps I wouldn't have, had I had more time to think about it. Perhaps I would have wondered about magical alarm systems and whatnot. But I only had the one chance when McGonagall was talking to the shop's owner, and I was feeling pretty peeved by then. So I simply placed them into my jeans, secured by one of their arms to my belt, and with my T-shirt covering the evidence. Then walked back nonchalantly to join up with her.

Odd, that in my fore-memories I'd been a bit of a goody two shoes. Too much of it, perhaps. When I was young I'd been fearful of authority, and it was only later... after I'd grown up and saw those authorities fail time and time again that I realized the truth: that authority was merely a facade, just a projected image of control. One that served only those at the top.

But I had never given into thieving —and, at a price of two hundred pounds, I was under no illusions: this was proper thieving. No, that was a new thing, in this new life. It had started during the second offensive of the Great Elliot-and-Miles War —when I got into the habit of borrowing some of their stuff now and then, which I then returned pretty much worse for wear— and gotten worse ever since. The Residence hadn't helped, with the older kids teaching us young ones their more sophisticated criminal ways: how to acquire cans of coke and gummies and toys, all free of charge.

And I showed promise, at that. At school, they had involved me in a plot to obtain the questions to an exam from the teachers' room —although that one didn't fully count, because I was just the lookout. But even if by then I was already aware of being a reborn adult, I still found it hard to rid myself of all the childish impulses that assaulted me everyday.

And maybe my sense of morality itself had shifted too, because while the old me would've been appalled, the new me... Sylvia... wasn't. And of course I wasn't. Old me wouldn't have understood how it felt, how much of a release it was to be able to... what, exactly? Do what you wanted, at last? Rebel? When every other second of your entire life was controlled and regulated by some adult, adults that at the end of the day weren't any smarter or wiser than you yourself had been?

So yeah. Challenging behaviour indeed, but it kept me sane.

In any case, the sunglasses were expensive enough that I started to have second thoughts. Guilt, you could say. But by then we were already out in the street, and I refused to lose face to McGonagall, so I resolved I'd somehow pay them back next time I returned to Diagon Alley, as soon as I managed to save forty Galleons. And with those thoughts in mind, we finally arrived at Ollivanders.

All this time I'd kept my eyes peeled for characters I would recognize —although perhaps it was better to start thinking of them as people, truth be told— but while we had came across a few other children my age and older, which I guessed probably made them students of Hogwarts themselves, none of them had felt familiar at all. No boys with lightning bolt scars or packs of redheads so far.

The old man that greeted us as we entered the narrow, dusty shop I did recognize. Mr. Ollivander was small and wiry, but moved with ease among the stacked boxes.

"Here for a wand, aren't you, Miss...?"

I waited for a beat, expecting McGonagall to lead here as well, just as she'd been doing in all the previous shops we'd visited. But she surprised me by remaining silent, just a step behind me, next to the wall by the entrance.

"Sarramond," I replied. "And yes, a wand would be nice."

He approached, looking at me with curiosity, as one would a strange artefact. For a moment, I wondered again about legilimency. Could this man...?

"But of course, it's the wand that chooses the witch," he muttered. "Isn't that right, Professor? Fir, nine and a half inches, and with the core of a dragon heartstring, if my memory doesn't fail me. How is it handling these days?"

"As good as always, Mr. Ollivander."

"Yes, dragon... Yes, I can see that," he mumbled to himself, retrieving a thin box out of one of the packed shelves while a measuring tape fluttered around me. "Right handed?"

It took me a moment to realize he was addressing me again. "Sure, yes."

He opened the box, and placed the wand inside —a crooked wooden stick— in my hand. "Cedar, ten inches, with a dragon heartstring," he declared.

It didn't feel like anything, just a stick. A stick of wood in my hand, making me look slightly ridiculous. Still, I recalled from my fore-memories that I was supposed to wave it around, so I did. I noticed McGonagall taking a half step away off my line of sight.

But nothing happened. Absolutely nothing. I was just... waving a stick around. Like a lunatic.

I looked at it, confused and slightly betrayed. Wasn't there supposed to be some sort of reaction? To have nothing happen at all would mean... was this when the cameras rolled out, when they announced how much of a fool I-?

"Hmm... wrong wood, most likely," Ollivander said, rummaging once more. "Not willow, either, no. Try this one then: alder; inflexible yes, but also with a dragon heartstring."

Another wand, this one elegant, straight and smooth and of a light brown. And still it was just a dead stick of wood in my hand.

I started to worry then. I had seen enough magic by this point to know all of... this world... wasn't a joke. Hell, I'd been dragged across London in the span of a few seconds. That kind of thing certainly helped dispel any remaining doubts that might linger. But that didn't mean... could it be that I wasn't magical myself after all? That whatever process Hogwarts used to send those letters had tripped up on my unusual circumstances —my rebirth or whatever it was— and erroneously flagged me as a witch?

A third wand yielded similar results, but Ollivander didn't seem dissuaded at all. He glanced at me from a step away, his creepy eyes focusing on my facial features. "Not dragon after all? How curious... I could've sworn..." But then his eyes widened and he stepped away to retrieve one more box in a hurry. "Oh! I see, I see! Detached from this world, of course, of course!"

I felt a deep shiver as those words registered, but I didn't have time to ask him what he meant before a new piece of wood was placed in my hand. This one was so dark it looked almost black, with a neat corkscrew groove that spiralled down its length.

And this one, I did feel.

I was like a strange coiled tension in my arm, almost like a tingling, but not quite. And also the knowledge that I could push it, down my hand and into the wand with just a thought. I was about to do just that when I remembered that I had leafed through a few pages of 'The Standard Book of Spells' back while McGonagall was paying for the books at Flourish and Blotts. So instead I waved the wand in a tight loop that resembled the diagram I'd seen, and released the inner tension at the same time I spoke aloud: "Lumos!"

It was like a flashbang. A flare going off in the little shop, the tip of my wand lighting up so much that it hurt to look at, bathing the stacks of boxes and dusty corners in bright white. Then, barely a second later, the light faded away and the three of us were left blinking. I guessed I still needed some more practice with the spell.

But also: my first spell!

"Yes! Great, yes! Ebony, eleven and a quarter inches," said Ollivander, taking the wand off my hand and placing it back in its box. "Solid, but not unyielding. And with a core of a Phoenix feather... the bird that dies only to rise again from its own ashes, of course," he remarked, eyeing me with a curious look that made my throat go dry; but he simply resumed talking about the wand: "Difficult to tame. Does not trust easily, no; and can display greater independence than most wands, can be stubborn at times—"

"Quite," I heard McGonagall mutter under her breath.

"-but earn its trust and you'll have a lifelong companion, Miss Sarramond," he concluded, handing the box to me.

I wanted to inquire about the holsters displayed on the front window when he asked if that would be all, but McGonagall pre-empted me by getting straight into payment, and I was in too much of a daze to argue. It wasn't like I really expected her to buy me any of those, in any case; it was just the principle of the thing. We did argue shortly after we left Ollivanders because I wanted to carry the wand in my pocket and she said it'd be best to keep it in its box until I was on my way to Hogwarts, lest I misplace it. I let the matter lie, as I was already feeling exhausted from the afternoon full of novelty, and I could tell that the older witch's patience was wearing thin. Besides, I could always take it out the box when I were on my own, back at the Residence.

And so, another portkey trip afterwards, and I was returned tired and nauseated to the Residence's front door, with a large trunk next to me that I had to recruit Colin —one of the older kids— to help me drag upstairs and to my room.

For the next few days I managed my best to spend as much time alone in my room as I could, plotting my future steps and practising with my wand —McGonagall had warned me about the trace, but I sort of half-remembered that it would only activate once I put foot on the Hogwarts train. Or maybe that was just a theory I'd read somewhere online. In any case, boundaries were there just to be tested, so when I didn't receive any visits from the Ministry after my second try, I did start practising in earnest.

I managed to regulate my light charm into lasting for longer than half a second and stopped it from being so searingly bright —apparently focus and intentionality was the key to it, who would have thought? I also made some inroads into the levitation charm —I made my pillow hover for a few seconds— and the 'Finite Incantatem' counter-spell that I found in the second year book. But most of the time I spent simply reading the books and learning the fundamentals, especially those for charms, transfiguration and defence. As much as potions could be an effective tool, if a fight to the death suddenly broke out you couldn't exactly whip out your cauldron and start brewing; it was your skill with a wand that would either save or condemn you. So I was determined to perfect my wandwork.

To Astrid I simply said I was studying ahead —which was true— and left it at that, hiding anything pertaining magic. Since I was supposedly going to a school for genius children, I figured she would think I didn't want to flounder in my studies. But she kept stealing subreptitious glances at me, and the night before I had to leave, she finally gathered enough courage to confront me, right before I went to turn the lights off for the night.

"So, you leave tomorrow," she said, as if we didn't know already.

"Yes. And you get a full room all to yourself until I get back. Lucky chipmunk."

"Is that school- is it like Xavier's school?"

"Like what? What Xavier?"

She pointed at one of the comic books on her bed, an issue of the X-Men. "You know, Xavier's School for 'Gifted' Youngsters." She even did air quotes for the word gifted.

"I- Um- No, not at all like-"

"I know you've got superpowers," she blurted out, looking at me all serious.

"Super-? Astrid, whatever you-"

"No! Don't deny it!" she exclaimed. "I was there too, remember? I saw you turn invisible! That's why the Giraffe didn't catch you!"

I let out a deep sigh, sinking deeper into my mattress. Now, this was a complication I really didn't need. If I didn't say anything, or if I tried to defuse it, I knew she wouldn't believe me and would keep digging and digging until she found something, something that could hurt her. Or maybe she'd tell someone, and word would get out. She could even end up being obliviated!

And if I admitted the truth, and she let it out somehow, then I'd be in violation of the Statute of Secrecy —which McGonagall had warned me about. Twice. I could end up being expelled even before I started my first term!

Except that... maybe not? Because I hadn't really told her about magic, had I? And I didn't need to. This was all her. And if she thought it was superpowers, then I could simply say...

"Fine. Fine. But you can't tell anyone about this, do you get me?"

She looked both enthused and affronted. "I can keep a secret!"

I lowered my tone: "No Astrid, I really mean it. There are people who can take your memories away, make you forget about this, about me. So you cannot tell anyone."

She nodded briskly, pressing her blanket against her chest, her face livid. I felt like shit for scaring her, but scared was better than obliviated in my book.

"So... are you going to be saving people?" she asked after a beat.

I snorted. "As if... I just want to learn more about ma- my powers. Get better at it, to the point nobody dares cross me. Then I can just make some money —I have plans for easy and profitable schemes, you know— and retire as young as possible. Then it's all about living the trust fund life: do fuck-all all day, spend my time wandering the world... enjoying life for once, no one to tell me what I can or can't do. That's the dream."

She nodded, and at last I turned off the lights for the night.

Then, a couple minutes later, she whispered from her bed: "But Sylvia... that's how villains talk."

Chapter Text

It took me a long time to fall asleep that last night at the Residence, and then I had to wake up earlier than usual so that Gary could take me to the station. He was the youngest member of the staff, in his late twenties and with a lush, long hair that put my own wavy, tangly dark one to shame. He also had slight compulsive tendencies, making me check and recheck time and time again the departure time, and that I was carrying everything I'd need. What about your toothbrush? Did you pack enough socks? But at least he was kind enough to lift the heavy trunk for me into the van, and then back onto a trolley once we arrived at King's Cross.

He left me sitting on a bench on Platform 9, in the midst of a throng of commuters rushing this and that way, and convinced —with my help, and that of whatever tricks Dumbledore had employed to ensure the Residence's staff wouldn't inquire too much into the nature of my new schooling— that my train was about to arrive in a few minutes.

I waited there for a moment after he left, examining the people around me, and sure enough I quickly identified a small group that didn't fit in with the rest: a family of four, two adults and two kids, one of them pushing a trolley not unlike my own. Except that they were all dressed in elegant robes of muted tones. Somehow, their odd looks didn't seem to attract any attention from the other hurried travellers.

I saw them approach a pillar by the middle of the platform, and one moment later there were only two of them remaining. I stood up, and when I looked back at them, they were gone.

So that was the entrance, then. I approached the pillar moving quickly now, trolley in front of me, my hands grasping its bar so hard they'd likely leave twin imprints on it. My heart was beating fast as I walked purposefully and aimed straight at the wall of bricks. Right before I was about to collide head-first into it, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.

And I promptly collided into something.

The trolley suddenly stopped rolling as I crashed into whatever it was, and I heard a sharp cry of pain coming from further ahead, followed by someone exclaiming "Seraphina!" I opened my eyes to see that I had indeed crossed the threshold —I was in a different platform now, the bright red locomotive of the Hogwarts Express puffing clouds of steam to my left. But my trolley had run straight into the woman from the family of four I'd seen before. Shaken, she was picking herself up from where she'd fallen to the floor. The man who I guessed was her husband —tall and gaunt and with his hair cropped short— was advancing towards me with a murderous expression in his eyes, wand out and already aimed my way.

"What is the meaning of this?" he was saying, spitting each word out.

"Whoa! Hey!" I said, scrambling to produce my own wand out of my pocket and aiming it his way. I hoped he'd be particularly sensitive to the wand-lighting charm, if a fight were to break out. "Sorry, it was an accident!"

"An accident," he said through clenched teeth, as if tasting the sound of it. But he seemed to calm down when his wife placed a hand on his shoulder, having recovered from her tumble. He looked around, probably realizing we were starting to attract the attention of some of the other parents nearby. "Don't you have eyes on your face, you utter buffoon?"

I tensed my fists, my wand seeming to be coming alive with magic. The nerve of this... bloke!

"I couldn't exactly see you through the pillar, could I?" I replied. "It was your own fault for not clearing the landing area!"

His eyes widened at that, and I was sure he was about to send a jinx my way when one of his children —a girl I put about four years ahead of me, with sharp cheeks and her hair in a ponytail braid— whispered something to him. He paused and looked me up and down, paying attention to my very Muggle clothing.

"Unbelievable. I keep saying it, if we allow this riff-raff to attend Hogwarts, it won't be long before the school's reputation is in tatters."

I was about to say something in reply, but he had already turned his back to me and was walking away with his family, as if I was now beneath his notice. So instead I put my wand back into my pocket and decided to let it lie. And with that remark of casual racism under my belt, I took a look around, advancing along the platform, trying my best so that it wouldn't sour my entire experience.

I was early, but there were already a good number of families with their offspring, boys and girls of different ages saying their goodbyes before boarding the train. I kept an eye open, but didn't recognize any of them. Which didn't really surprise me, since except for the Weasleys and possibly that Cedric Diggory character, I couldn't really remember the faces of any of the older kids at Hogwarts. Even those in my own year seemed fuzzy in my fore-memories, aside for the Golden Trio and a couple others such as Malfoy and company. And I suspected most of them wouldn't even look that much like their movie counterparts, anyway.

I approached a stand with a few copies of the Daily Prophet and took a quick look at the front-page, curious to see what the recent news would say. I should really start paying more attention to the comings and goings of the Wizarding World, I figured, but it was hard to do so while cooped away at the Residence, and without any money to pay for a subscription of my own.

The top heading was for Minister Fudge —his picture nodded softly and gave me a smarmy smile— and his new law regarding the breeding of magical beasts, which seemed to be the political hot button for the Summer of '91; but my eyes jumped to the article next to it, the one explaining how the Goblins would be increasing security measures at Gringotts after the attempted break-in.

So, the plot was afoot.

I sighed and advanced towards the train. I boarded one of the carriages near the middle, dragging the heavy trunk after me with some effort.

After much thinking, I had decided that discretion was the better part of valour. I held very valuable knowledge, knowledge that could certainly save lives. But at the same time I also knew that the good guys would end up winning; unless I started changing things to save this or that character, that is. I risked derailing the entire timeline into a complete catastrophe if I tried to intervene; the destructive potential of my actions far outweighing whatever help I could provide. Eyeballing it was simply too dangerous.

Another option I had considered was to come clean to Dumbledore: explain everything I knew, all about my unusual circumstances, and give him a neatly packaged list of the Horcruxes and key future events. Still risky, yes, but not as much if it was Dumbledore manipulating the timeline rather than me doing it. I supposed that would be enough to pre-empt Voldemort's return, but it would also put me in the cross-hairs. Not only Dumbledore's —who would have no qualms using me and my knowledge in whichever way he wished, ugh— but also the Ministry of Magic's, if word of my uniqueness was to ever reach their ears. I might survive the war —stop it from happening, even!— just to spend the rest of my life locked up in a little room, unspeakeables prodding at me. And what was the point of saving the world if you didn't get to enjoy it afterwards?

But more than that, I refused to see my life, my strange rebirth here, as simply a way for the universe or fate or whatever to ensure Voldemort was defeated. I didn't want to be... a mere tool, just here to deliver some valuable info to those at the top, always subjected to their decisions and their wants. There was life outside of Hogwarts, and I had a future to live for. One of my own, that belonged just to me, that I was still to build and that I pretty much didn't want Dumbledore to sacrifice in his altar of noble causes.

After all, the world was full with evil shit, magical or not; it wasn't my responsibility to fix it.

So, I was sticking to my plan: keep a low profile. Priority one: get good at magic, and change only what I need to in order to ensure my own safety, my own survival. And perhaps my own good fortunes, too. Priority two: maybe help save some of the victims if I could find the opportunity in the future, once I'd had more time to decide on which ones and how.

So with that in mind I avoided the compartments with occupants already in them and claimed an empty one. I took advantage of my early arrival to close the door, draw the curtains, and quickly change into my Hogwarts robes before storing my trunk away. That way I wouldn't need to do that later, surrounded by all the little twerps. And sure, perhaps I was also influenced by the way that man had looked at my Muggle outfit, so what?

I doubted for a moment whether to pull back the curtains again or leave them closed as they were, so that I could maybe enjoy an empty compartment for the duration of the entire trip. But I ended up pulling them back. I wanted a low profile, yes, but there was such a thing as going too far; I didn't want to end up as the brooding hermit who talked to nobody, which would also risk attracting attention, if for a different reason. Instead I retrieved the 'History of Magic' book from my trunk and started reading from where I'd left it the days before, determined to simply fit in.

It didn't take long for the door to open again.

"Hi. Can we sit here?" It was an older boy dragging a pair of hovering trunks, followed by a wiry kid my own age. They looked alike, both of them dark haired.

I nodded, removing my feet from the seat in front. I didn't recognize either of them, and the older one confirmed that to me:

"I'm Carl Hopkins, this is my brother Wayne. It's his first year. Yours too?"

"Sylvia Sarramond. I'm a firstie too, yes."

"Oh, that's brilliant! Perhaps you'll even end up in the same house! See? I told you you'd end up meeting people in the train," he said, elbowing his brother, who seemed intent on disappearing into the ground.

I gave them a beaming smile, because I had absolutely no idea who these two were. Which was brilliant indeed, since it meant I didn't have to watch my every word not to accidentally derail an entire timeline and ruin the world. We talked for a few minutes about favourite subjects and what not while the carriage filled up with more students and the train readied for departure, the noise of conversations and people walking past coming from the corridor outside. I wasn't surprised to hear that Carl's most hated subject was Potions, and I could hazard a reason as to why, seeing as he was wearing his school robes over a scarlet red tie, with a lion shield on his breast pocket.

I was about to ask for tips on how to survive unnoticed in Snape's class when the compartment's door opened again.

"Oh, you three are already wearing your school robes? Me too, of course. It's much easier this way, isn't it? Are you reading the 'History of Magic' textbook? I finished it two days ago, but now I've started 'Hogwarts: A History' and I find it much more interesting. Did you know that there are a hundred and forty-two staircases at Hogwarts? I hope I can find them all. I'm Hermione, by the way, Hermione Granger. May I sit here?"

Shit.

I tried to think of a reason for saying no, but Carl was already introducing himself and his brother, and the girl with the frizzy hair was determined to sitting next to me. So I simply sighed and said "Sylvia Sarramond" and shuffled to the window seat. I opened my book again and pretended to go back to reading.

"-and was very surprised when Professor McGonagall brought me my Hogwarts letter and told me I was a witch. Both My parents are Muggles, you see, so I had no idea about magic being real. What about yours?"

"Ah," said Carl, a bit taken aback at the girl's machine-gun-like intensity. "We are half-blood, Wayne and me: our father is a wizard, but mum is a Muggle."

Then they all turned their eyes at me, the buggers.

"I don't know," I deadpanned. "Never met my birth parents."

And then there was silence, which suited me just fine, because at least it seemed to steal the wind out of Hermione's sails, who had been talking non-stop for the last half hour.

After a few moments Carl —being the Gryffindor he was— tried to necromance the conversation back to life: "Oh... uhm... so is that because of You-Know-Who? And... do you live with... uhm?"

"I am Muggle-raised," I explained, taking pity on him.

"Oh?" he said, surprised. "I thought you were... I mean, you seemed to know who Snape is."

Careful now. I shrugged, patted the cover of my book and said simply: "I pay attention, read ahead and such, you know. Also McGonagall took me to Diagon Alley, explained lots of things to me."

"Who is Snape?" asked Hermione, frowning slightly at me.

"It's the Potions teacher," explained Carl. "A proper git. He's also Head of the Slytherin house."

Which turned the conversation to the much safer grounds of which house we wished to be sorted into. Hermione of course gushed over Gryffindor, and asked Carl over a dozen questions in the span of five minutes, ranging from what the common room looked like to how many times they'd won the House Cup. Wayne claimed he wished to join the house of the lions too, but looked less enthused about it. "I just hope I don't get sorted into Slytherin," he added. Unnecessarily, to my opinion, because that didn't seem like a particularly probable risk for the subdued kid.

"I would prefer Ravenclaw myself," I said, sticking to the image I was beginning to cultivate. "I'm not... well, I'm not very chivalrous, but I enjoy reading. And a house where I can do that and get better at magic seems like a nice fit."

Not to say, the stupid online quizzes from my fore-memories had me pegged as a Ravenclaw, so I'd always identified more with the blue house. And with my superior self-discipline, maturity, and learning techniques, combined with the knowledge granted by my past life I was sure I'd soon look like the Ravenclawest Ravenclaw who ever Ravenclawed.

"But you can read books and learn magic in any house," argued Hermione. And she was arguing, because she was frowning and with her arms crossed. "Headmaster Dumbledore is considered the most skilled wizard alive, and he is a Gryffindor!"

I was about to give her a rebuttal, praise the merits of my future house when I double-checked myself. What was I doing? I could not risk accidentally convincing Hermione into not joining the lions. So instead I simply shrugged, muttered "Guess you're right," and went back to my book.

Which seemed to anger her further, for some reason. She was revving up for another assault when the door opened once more.

"Ha- hello. Have you seen a- a toad here? I seem to have lost my T- Trevor."

We all shook our heads, but Hermione stood up, sent an irritated gaze my way, and then walked out of the compartment with the boy, snapping the door shut in her wake. "Hi, I'm Hermione. I'll help you look for it. What is your name?..."

I let out a relieved sigh the moment I heard her voice fade in the distance. Carl gave me a charitable smile.

He said: "Intense, uh?"

I nodded. "Looks like I didn't make a good impression on her."

"Don't worry about that. If you end up in the same house you'll have time to get to know each other better. And if you don't..." He shrugged, as if to say 'who cares, then?'

The rest of the trip went on without incident, or intense girls. We talked some more about Hogwarts, about our respective home lives, and my visit to Diagon Alley —Carl and Wayne were particularly amused at how I'd managed to coax the stern McGonagall into buying me pretty clothes.

And if I did overstate how effective my arguments to her had been, they didn't need to know.

At some point the witch with the sweets trolley made a visit. The two brothers went all in: liquorice wands and chocolate frogs and cauldron cakes, and looked a tad sheepish when I didn't partake. I did have a couple of Galleons and a few Sickles and Nuts that McGonagall had left me with —for personal expenses, she'd said. And I did have a handful of British pounds I'd managed to scrounge over the years —some legally, most not— and that I still needed to exchange. But that was the full extents of my wealth, and I didn't want to squander it before we even got to the castle.

In the end I did ask for a pumpkin fizz, if only to stop the two kids from feeling self-conscious. And also to learn what all that fuss wizards had about pumpkins and pumpkin by-products was about.

It wasn't bad. Fizzy.

We fell into a companionable silence after that: me alternating between reading my book and looking at the rugged landscape of the Scottish Highlands out the window, my mind thinking of the challenges to come; the Hopkins talking low among themselves, playing some sort of trading card game which I eventually joined —I won a couple of cards, probably because the boys went easy on me, one of Dumbledore and one of Copernicus. Hermione did return a short while before we arrived at our destination. She didn't say much to me, and I returned the favour.

Getting off the train was pandemonium. I suddenly found myself stumbling down a steep hill in the dark and surrounded by screeching kids, all pushing and elbowing each other to get to the front of our little group, some because of raw excitement, others because of fear of getting separated or lost.

Not that it was a risk, given that Hagrid towered over us lamp in hand, like a duck mum over her ducklings, visible for miles around. He wasn't really a mountain of a man, I realized the moment I put my eyes on him. No, it was more than that. He was monstrous, in a way that was impossible without magic —or very, very unique genetics.

I guessed it was both of them, in his case. And I also knew he was supposed to be the kind-hearted, gentle giant; but I felt dwarfed and intimidated by his enormous presence all the same. He would have intimidated me even if I was still adult-sized, but being eleven it felt like beholding a titan who could crush my skull with his bare hands if he so chose.

I did my best to avoid his notice and ended up in a boat along with the younger Hopkins, Hermione and another girl with mousy hair I didn't recognize. Hermione being with me was concerning: wasn't she supposed to be in the same boat as Ron and Harry Potter? Or maybe not. I looked around, but I couldn't identify the occupants of any of the other boats just by their silhouettes.

The devil was on the details, and it was the details that I couldn't remember, so I couldn't get rid of that feeling of something being already wrong. Already different, somehow.

The feeling that I shouldn't be here; that this was not for me.

But then the boats turned around a bend of the shore, the lake opened up, and I entirely forgot about all that. Hogwarts appeared over us. The castle's vast and majestic silhouette an impossible sight full of dramatic towers and stone buttresses, contrasting against the darkness of the starry sky; the windows lit up in a warm, inviting-

"That there must be the Great Hall!" exclaimed Hermione. "Oh, and that is the Gryffindor Tower! It says in 'Hogwarts: A History' that the stairs to get there can move on their own, and that-"

"Shh!" I said. Then grumbled low under my breath: "Don't ruin it for me." I hadn't meant for her to hear that last thing, but in the sudden silence of the lake the whisper seemed to carry further, and I could feel Hermione's eyes on my back all the way into the docks and up the stairs we climbed afterwards.

My entrance into Hogwarts was half-surreal, half filled with trepidation. From the moment we disembarked and I set foot on the flagstone floors of the castle I couldn't stop thinking that there was no way this fairy-tale place could be real, that I must be dreaming somehow. And at the same time there was a complete solidity to the powerful stone walls surrounding us, to the elegantly arched ceilings. That realness, that familiarity of materials and construction would conspire to make me forget I was in a bloody magic castle, make it look like it was yet another old building, a cathedral or some old monastery like those I'd visited in my fore-memories. But then we would walk pass a moving portrait, or a floating candelabra and the vertigo of where I truly was would hit me once more.

I wasn't new to these sort of existential tensions, though. And in the end, the weight of the moment-to-moment present life won out, imposing itself by sheer stubbornness as it always did. And sure, I understood that this was a castle out of a children's book, but at the same time I couldn't deny that this was real; that this was my life now, apparently. And while children's book existed, children's worlds did not. Like the Muggle world I knew and despised, the Wizarding World was too an adult world, ruled and shaped by adults. And I wondered about which parts had been edited out of the first Harry Potter book, their nature too complex, too subtle for the light-hearted adventure story.

We gathered in front of the large doors I assumed led to the Great Hall, and there stood McGonagall like a gargoyle, causing everyone to fall into a hush with her mere presence. She surveyed the crowd, not paying me any special attention, and then said: "Welcome to Hogwarts," and launched herself into an explanation of the houses system, which I already knew enough about, so I let my eyes wander across the group of first years.

Now that we were under some more light I could recognize some of my classmates. I'd lost track of Hopkins before, but he was a little to my right, next to two twin girls who looked like they were of Indian descent: the Patel twins —or Patil, I couldn't remember. Over there was Neville Longbottom, who I'd already seen on the train. And the blonde kid with the narrow face and haughty airs could be none other than Draco Malfoy, which meant the two pudgier blokes next to him were Crabbe and Goyle —or Goyle and Crabbe. I noticed that Draco was also paying more attention to the crowd than to McGonagall, as if he too already knew everything there was to know about the different houses.

And then... Ah, there he was.

The Boy Who Lived didn't look like much. To be fair, none of us did —we were eleven, after all. He was somewhat weedy and dishevelled, the glasses dominating his face. He seemed out of place, as if he too wasn't sure he belonged here —which was a ridiculous notion, it was his name on the cover after all. Maybe he was overwhelmed. But mostly: he looked like a kid. Just a kid. You wouldn't imagine he would grow up to save the Wizarding World, to defeat Voldemort.

Hell, if he knew what I knew, he'd probably be well on his way to France by now.

Or maybe not. Maybe he would stare resolutely at that dark future ahead of him, and stubborn his way through it. Wasn't that his thing, after all? And I couldn't help but feel sad on his behalf. And guilty, because here I was with all the answers, and I was going to do nothing but hide in the shadows, let him take the brunt of it.

Then he shifted his weight and his eyes met mine for a beat. He quickly looked away, and gave his hair a fast sweep with his hand, positioning it so that his scar was covered.

Right. I guess I was gawking at a celebrity, wasn't I? I wasn't making a good impression on the Golden Trio so far. Now I only had to insult Ron's family for the hat-trick. The red headed boy next to Harry seemed unaware of me, though, so better to keep it that way.

McGonagall left, and there was a sudden commotion when the ghosts made their appearance. They were... odd. I had that memory from the movies that they were supposed to look and sound like people; floating, see-through people. And they did, for the most part. But when you looked at them out of the corner of your eye they seemed to lose definition, somehow becoming blurrier and misty; and their voices had an ethereal quality to them that I found strangely unnerving.

But I put them out of my mind because soon enough we went through the doors and into the Great Hall. It was... well, it was something.

Larger than in my fore-memories, the tables longer and the aisles wider, but somehow familiar at the same time. Bathed in the warm light of hundreds of floating candles; with colonnades at the sides that rose to disappear into the night sky overhead. And dozens of students already seated, looking at us with curiosity as we queued into the centre of the enormous room, lined up in front of the stool with the old hat on it.

And beyond the stool, the head table with the teachers: Dumbledore, now looking much more impressive —and unmistakable— in his flowing colourful robes rather than that old corduroy suit. A man in dark robes and with a hooked nose that I quickly recognized as Snape. The short professor of Charms —I couldn't remember his name, Flickit or something?— who looked as excited about the sorting as Snape didn't. Another name that eluded me was that of the stout grandmotherly witch who taught Herbology. But she was there, along with a few other adults I didn't identify.

But there was a notable absence, because the guy with the turban, the guy with Voldemort's face sticking out the back of his head —Quirrell, I believed his name was— was nowhere to be found.

It took me a moment to notice, and one more to scan the entire room in search for him and to realize that no, he wasn't here. And one more moment to start panicking, because... why wasn't he here?

The hat was singing, but I couldn't hear the words. A cold fear was filling my veins, my heart beating fast. What the hell was going on? He was there in the movies, I knew that, he attended the banquet after the sorting ceremony. But was he there in the books too? Did he join later? I racked my memories, struggling to remember every detail from a book I'd read a lifetime ago; literally.

I was still trying to recall when the sorting began, McGonagall's no-nonsense voice rising across the hall: "Abbot, Hannah!"

Shit. What was going on? Was this normal, expected? Or was it...?

I knew I wouldn't be able to recall it, not that small a detail. So what could I do?

"Hufflepuff!"

I bit my lip, took a deep breath, and approached one of the female students at the Ravenclaw table: "Ah... excuse me?"

"Brown, Lavender!"

I tugged at her robes. "Excuse me?"

She turned, no doubt surprised to see a firstie addressing her. "What? Uh, hi. Do you need anything?"

"Crabbe, Vincent!"

"Right, I'm sorry but... I was just wondering..." I pointed at the head table. "Do you know who is our Defence professor this year?"

She looked at me like I'd grown a second head.

"Slytherin!"

"I think it's... that one," she said at last, "the witch in the green cloak next to Professor Snape. Not sure what her name is. Why?"

Oh shit. Oh no.

"W- wasn't there supposed to be a Professor Quirrell, then?"

"Granger, Hermione!"

She shook her head. "No, you got it wrong. Quirrell used to teach Muggle Studies, but he's in a holiday or something of the sort. This year we have a new professor on that class too. But shouldn't you be paying more attention to-"

"Gryffindor!"

"Right. Thank you," I said, returning to my place in the queue, my legs feeling like jelly.

This was wrong.

Not Hermione going to Gryffindor; that was right. Among the only light in the tunnel I suddenly was trapped in. Because... what the hell? Quirrell gone, some nobody professor teaching Defence? What the...?

I had a moment of hope as I considered if perhaps the whole thing wouldn't happen. If perhaps Voldemort hadn't returned in the form of an unholy abscess. If perhaps the future didn't hold all those terrible things I remembered.

But it was short-lived, because I had read about the Gringotts break-in in the Daily Prophet. And I knew that it was Voldemort behind it. So what gives?

"Hopkins, Wayne!"

It was my fault. It had to be. I didn't know how, but my presence here was the only change I was aware of. And now this. Perhaps the day Dumbledore had visited me he was meant to reply to Quirrell's letter or something, and he hadn't and now Quirrell wasn't here and now the timeline train was off the tracks. Whatever it was, though, I had a deep suspicion it had begun with me.

"Hufflepuff!"

So what do I do now?

Well, I had to do something. If Quirrell —or someone else possessed by Voldemort— was out there and trying to access the Philosopher's Stone through other means, there was no longer any guarantee he wouldn't succeed. Which meant I'd need to act after all, if I wanted him to remain bodiless and things not to deteriorate into an early war. And sure, there was the tell-Dumbledore option, let him deal with the fallout; but I still saw that as a plan B. Or C, even. Still not looking forward to become another pawn on his board, thank-you-very-much.

So if I had to act, better to keep it on the low. Which meant I'd need to gather more information, and then maybe nudge a thing here and there to keep the timeline shipshape as best I could. But that changed my calculation: because if this was the lay of the land ahead, I couldn't simply Ravenclaw my way through my Hogwarts years. I'd need to stay close enough to the plot for my foreknowledge to be of use. And it didn't get any closer than the Golden Trio themselves.

Which meant, I had to get myself sorted into Gryffindor; if only because it would be the easiest way to eavesdrop on those three, and to earn enough trust as to subtly guide them into the proper path.

But I could do that. I would be their advisor in the shadows.

"Potter, Harry!"

A hush fell over the entire Hall, conversations dying as all the students on the tables focused on the Boy Who Looked Terrified. He advanced in silence and sat down on the stool. The hat started muttering to itself, and we waited. It felt endless, the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. And then:

"Gryffindor!"

The table of the lions erupted in cheers, and I let out a breath. It was good to know at least not everything was out of whack.

The relief was short-lived, however, because after just a couple other students, McGonagall called: "Sarramond, Sylvia!"

Right, here goes nothing.

I advanced towards the stool, my fists clenched and my mind wondering if all my planning would be in vain; if the hat would not raise the alarm the moment it touched my head, shout out the interloper's secrets for everyone to hear.

At least most people weren't paying much attention to me, my name a complete unknown to all but Hermione, the Hopkins and a couple of the teachers, maybe. But the one who was looking at me most intensely was the Headmaster, oddly enough. Dumbledore followed my every move with the same focused gaze that he'd previously deployed on Harry.

I risked a glance at McGonagall as I walked up to the stool, but her poker-face was unbeatable. You'd say she had never seen me before. So I simply sat down, took a deep breath; and the Hat fell on my head.

"Hmm... Not a Hufflepuff, that's for sure. You aren't a fan of hard work, are you? Now, let's see..."

Wait, that was it? Straight to the sorting? No comment on the whole... uniqueness of my situation? Hell, even Ollivander had-

"Ah, but I'm just a Sorting Hat, and I have no understanding of a Seer's visions. Though if it is understanding you seek, then I could sort you into Ravenclaw, hmmm? Yes, I believe you would learn much there."

I disregarded the mention of me being a seer as the hat simply being confused as to the true nature of my fore-memories. But the offer was tempting, and I almost accepted right then and there. It was what I'd planned for, after all, and I could almost imagine how it would play out: how I'd be able to find out more about my own origins, slowly untangle the mystery of my fore-memories by piecing together clues taken from musty tomes and arcane parchments. It would be a long project, take me years probably, but at the end I would have my answer, one I'd been looking for since I was seven. I would have loved to say yes.

If there wasn't a madman outside the castle trying to come back to life, that is.

"I really, really need you to sort me into Gryffindor," I muttered instead. "If you've seen my memories you know why."

The hat sounded hesitant: "Oh, Gryffindor, hmm? Gryffindor is for the chivalrous and brave of heart, and-"

"Yes, yes, I know! But look, what I plan to do is certainly brave, isn't it? I'll be risking myself, going against You-Know-Who, sneaking around at night. That's peak Gryffindor right there!"

"Ah, a compelling argument! Still sure that you don't want to be sorted into Ravenclaw? Hmm... No? I see, I see. Yes, a good argument, but... you know in your heart that the bravest thing you could do would be to confess your visions to the Headmaster and seek his help, hmm...? But now I know where to put you, yes. You certainly belong in-"

"No, wait!"

"-Slytherin!"

Chapter Text

I stood up like a spring, removing the hat while muttering at it "You stupid piece of felt!" under my breath. But judging by the hat's smug expression, my outburst only seemed to reassure it of its decision.

And what sort of decision was that?! Slytherin was for pretentious pure-bloods coming out of stuffy family lines, which I most certainly was not. Sorting a probably Muggleborn into it was a recipe for a future of bullying or social isolation, at the very best.

But with no recourse, I walked up to the snake pit and plopped myself down on the bench, in front of a thin boy I didn't recognize —who gave me a quick perfunctory nod— and next to a girl with cascading blonde hair who didn't even acknowledge my presence. Malfoy was already there, two seats away, as well as his two bodyguards. At least I was able to pick the bench facing the rest of the Great Hall, so that I could keep the other tables in view.

Also in view was the head table, and I noticed that despite the next student after me being already on the stool, Dumbledore was still looking straight at me. His expression was serious and pensive, with a hint of resignation. He looked almost visibly older.

I avoided his gaze, tried to pretend everything was normal, and sighed in relief when he eventually returned his attention back to the proceedings, an eternity later.

What the hell was that about? He hadn't reacted like that for any of the other Slytherins, so why me? Was it because he was the one to personally deliver me the acceptance letter, was more invested in my sorting? Or because he assumed me to be a Muggleborn, and was worried about my future treatment?

There were some muttered conversations —specially coming from Malfoy's neighbourhood— but nobody talked to me and I returned the favour. The last few students were sorted quickly, with Ron Weasley going to Gryffindor as I expected, and the very last of them —'Zabini, Blaise!'— getting into Slytherin. A tall black boy who gave me a condescending smirk as he sat by my right side.

Stupid hat.

With the sorting now finished, Dumbledore stood up and pronounced his random words, back to his usual joviality —a joviality that I was starting to put under doubt, seeing as how quickly it came and went away. He clapped his hands, and the space in front of each of us filled with food: platters of roast beef, chicken and glazed ham; honey-glazed carrots and peas; pitchers overflowing with iced pumpkin juice and jars of butterbeer. So much food that the table let out a groan at the weight suddenly placed on top of it.

I dug in, following the example of the other kids —my housemates now, I guessed, and wasn't that a weird concept to come to terms with. At least the food was great: the meat tender and savoury, the butterbeer refreshing. I discovered I was famished after the long train trip.

People started talking in earnest then, the kids seemingly more relaxed now, and I discovered to my growing horror that most of the Slytherin first year already knew each other, and the topics of their conversations weren't that inclusive: they ranged from their plans for the Yule Ball at the Nott's estate to them agreeing that someone called Cygnus would probably congratulate Malfoy for getting sorted into Slytherin.

It allowed me to put names to their faces, at least. The thin boy in front of me was Theodore Nott, polite and cold and probably the son of a Dead Eater, if my memory didn't fail me. His demeanour was pretty much the polar opposite to Malfoy's flashy bluntness. Talking to him was Sally-Anne Perks, demure and measured, but not as much as the posh girl to my left: Daphne Greengrass, who ate with aristocratic delicateness, each and every bite measured and elegant. I didn't remember if her family liked to torture Muggles in their basement too, but I did remember her younger sister wouldn't grow old.

To the other side of Nott sat Pansy Parkinson, brown haired and snub-nosed, leading the chatter with the Malfoy princeling; and the bulky girl next to her was Millicent Bulstrode. I quickly pegged her as Parkinson's very own Crabbe-and-Goyle; and like them, she was more focused on the food than on the social niceties.

I wasn't the only straggler, thank God. Zabini next to me didn't seem part of the in-group —not that he minded it, judging by how he looked at everyone as if he was in a league all of his own; and the last girl —Tracey Davis, short and sporting a bobby haircut— didn't talk to anyone and simply ate her food with her eyes downcast, as if she wished to disappear entirely.

I was hoping I myself would slip more or less unnoticed too, but by the time the banquet was coming to an end Parkinson deigned to address me. She said: "Pass me those pumpkin pasties."

Just that. No pleases, excuse-mes, or even asking for my name. I figured that was how she talked to her house-elf or something. Just a command, and the expectation I'd simply do as told.

So I grabbed the tray and put it close to her, but just far enough that she wouldn't reach without having to stand up. She frowned at me.

I winked at her. "You didn't say the magic word."

It was like sharks noticing a drop of blood in the water, because a hush seemed to radiate across our end of the table when those words registered. Even Malfoy stopped jabbering for a moment, sensing the unfolding drama. Parkinson stood up, dragged the tray closer to her, and sat back down.

"It's so funny you talk about magic," she said, showing me a poisonous smile. "What was your surname again? Sarramond? I don't recognize it. Are you from a half-blood family, perhaps?"

And there it was, their supremacist nonsense making its appearance at last. It was always going to happen, though. And now I had to decide whether to downplay it, or maybe attempt to diffuse or dispel their suspicion by claiming some estranged ancestry on the continent or something of the like.

It was probably simpler not to lie outright —which they might be able to see through— and play up the orphan angle. My origins were a mystery in truth, so I could be honest about that, at least. The fact that it would leave my blood status in a limbo was also a welcome side-effect.

"I wouldn't know, I'm an orphan. I've never seen my birth family; wasn't raised by them," I replied easily, shrugging as I grabbed one of the pasties from in front of her. "They might all be dead for all I know."

"But you are one of us, aren't you?" interrupted Malfoy. "You must be, to be sorted into Slytherin. You were raised by wizards at least?"

I shook my head. "Raised by Muggles; didn't even know magic existed until this Summer."

He looked as if I'd just told him I'd been raised by wolves in the forest or something, his face a mask of disgust. "Wait! Are you telling me you were raised in a Muggle orphanage?!"

"Muggles don't have orphanages anymore. I went through a couple of foster homes, and now I'm at a group home. It's... sort of a house where a group of kids live together, with some adult staff and-"

"That does sounds quite like an orphanage," interrupted Zabini, looking amused for the first time since he sat down with us.

I tilted my hand in a so-so gesture. "Well, when you put it like that..."

Draco's eyes were about to roll out of their sockets: "So you're a Mud- a Muggleborn!"

"Maybe? I mean, I don't know. I'm Muggle-raised, if you want to be-"

But he was no longer listening. He turned to his sidekicks instead: "I can't believe the Sorting Hat would put a Mu- a Muggleborn in Slytherin! Wait until father hears about this!"

And the gossip seemed to spread like wildfire from there on, heads along the entire table soon turning to look at me in curiosity or open disgust. Parkinson observed all this self-satisfied, grinning at me like the cat that ate the canary. Even Tracey Davis seemed interested, shooting me quick glances. I rose an eyebrow at her, and she focused once more on her dessert.

I pretended to ignore it all and bit into my pasty. It tasted good, but not as much as I'd maybe hoped for.

The feast ended soon after that, and my attention returned to the head table where Dumbledore was once again on the move. His welcome speech was unremarkable for the most part: the Forbidden Forest was forbidden, as was the third floor corridor —so it was confirmed, then: the Stone was in Hogwarts. The only deviation from what I'd expected was his introduction of the new professor for Defence Against the Dark Arts as one Xenia Duskhaven, a former curse-breaker who had also been teaching at Ilvermorny School, in America. The witch in the green cloak stood up briefly to give us all a curt nod.

She was an unknown factor. Someone not in my fore-memories and that I could know nothing about. Was she in cahoots with Voldemort, or on Dumbledore's side? Or maybe she was on her own side, pushing her own agenda.

But I had a more immediate problem to deal with, because with the banquet now ended the Headmaster dismissed us, and one of the Slytherin prefects called for us to follow her down to our common room:

"Oi firsties, listen up! I'm Gemma Farley. You can call me Farley, or Prefect, or my favourite: Prefect Farley. Our common room is in the castle's dungeons, so follow me now and don't get separated! Sarramond, what's the problem? Afraid to join us?"

I looked up at the knowing smile in the prefect's face. A face I recognized: it was the girl with high cheekbones and a ponytail, the same one whose mother I'd trampled down with my trolley back at King's Cross.

I sighed. "No, just... apologies for, you know, before?"

She let out a bark of laughter —to the confused looks of the other first years— turned without a word and started leading the way, the rest of my new housemates following her. I shook my head and joined the group.

We went back through the same wide stairway that we'd climbed to get to the Great Hall, and advanced through stone corridors and down more flights of stairs, the air growing colder as we went on, the colours muted and the sounds of our steps echoing in the depths of the labyrinth of passageways that opened up around us.

We were descending some spiralling steps, with Farley explaining how this path was fastest than going through the Grand Staircase —which I was still dying to see— when Vincent Crabbe slowed down until he was by my left side. Then, out of the blue, he shoved his shoulder into me.

Or, more accurately, he tried to. But because he didn't know that my reflexes had been forged in the fiery hearth of the Elliot-and-Miles' conflicts of the late 20th Century —plus, he was Crabbe, like... not the brightest crayon in the box— he was utterly unprepared when I simply sidestepped his telegraphed attack without even breaking my stride, effortlessly getting out of his way. Surprised and without the support of the body he was intending to impact, he started tilting forwards dangerously, tripping on his own feet as he tried to regain his balance in increasing desperation.

Right before he was about to go rolling down, though, I managed to grab his arm and steady him again.

"Steep stairs, no?" I said.

He pushed my arm away. "Keep your filthy hands off me!"

I was about to reply with some cutting remark about his own table manners or lack thereof when the prefect's voice rose from somewhere underneath us: "Crabbe! Sarramond! What's the matter? Stop dilly-dallying!"

I shrugged and pointed at the stairs: "After you."

There was a momentary look of pure, undiluted loathing in his face, but reason prevailed and we climbed down the last steps without any incident, me palming my wand under my robes as we landed onto the corridor where Farley and the others waited, just in case there were more surprises waiting ahead.

She took us to a nondescript wall, said "Subterfuge," and a hole opened on it, growing to the size of a door. Then she turned to us: "The password for the next week is always on the noticeboard in the common room. Needless to say, never share it with anyone from the other houses unless you want a first-hand demonstration of the Cruciatus Curse." Her wolfish smile made it hard to know if she was serious or merely joking. "I'd also add not to share it with anyone in our own house either, because if remembering a password proves too challenging for any of you, you might not be a good fit for Slytherin; no matter what that old hat told you."

There were a couple of gazes going my way at that, as we rushed to follow her into the common room.

The lobby of an upscale hotel. That was my first impression, and what I likened the place to. Polished floors of emerald marble, engraved columns rising to an arched ceiling far above our short heads, walls covered in artwork and hung animated tapestries, enormous dark leather armchairs clustered in little archipelagos; and the tall windows, impossibly holding back the weight of an entire lake, and that now only offered a view of absolute darkness.

Our older housemates were already in the common room, having taken command of the seats and couches sometime before our arrival, and looked at us with bored curiosity as Farley explained the fundamentals: this is the boy's dorms, that is the girls'; bathrooms are there; better wake up and be on the common room in time for breakfast tomorrow morning, or hope that you could make it back to the Great Hall on your own.

She was winding down her explanation when a gravely voice interrupted her: "So, is it true, then? Do we have a mudblood now?"

We all turned to look at the speaker: a teenage boy, which I pegged as a sixth —possibly seventh— year. He was indolently leaning back on one of the leather seats, looking at me with cold eyes.

Ever since I first took real conscience of my own nature back on my seventh birthday, I'd been... unimpressed by adults or teenagers. I'd begun seeing them as I remembered from my fore-memories: without that innate respect and deference children my age were supposed to have towards those older and bigger than them. And while I admitted I could still learn from other people, my respect wasn't based on mere age. Adults weren't all wiser or more capable than me. I knew; I'd been one myself, after all.

And so I'd developed this habit of talking back freely, of challenging their orders and opinions when I didn't agree. I tended to treat them as if they were my equals, like it had been before I died.

But this teenage boy, he gave me pause. I held my tongue and swallowed hard.

Because he radiated danger, in some primal and subconscious way I couldn't really put my finger on, but that made me feel as if I was a mouse in front of a house cat. It was in how his face lacked any expression other than a subtle sardonic smile, how his eyes looked bored and soulless, or how his hand rested carelessly over a narrow, almost needle-like stick of a wand.

I was no psychologist, but even then I had no doubt: that teenager in front of me was a psychopath. An armed one, and surrounded my his own cadre of sycophants, judging by the cruel snares his mates were sending my way.

"Selwyn," started the prefect, "She-"

"She has a tongue, Farley," he interrupted. "Let's hear what she has to say for herself."

Farley didn't look happy, but she crossed her arms and remained silent, which spoke volumes about the hierarchy of relative power in the Slytherin common room, given that unlike the prefect this boy —Selwyn, apparently— didn't carry any badge pinned to his own robes.

And by now every pair of eyeballs in the room was focused on me, and my year mates had all taken one or two steps away, as if I was contagious or something. Or more likely, they just didn't want to stand on the line of fire.

"I... I don't know," I said, trying my best to keep my nerves under check, to appear self assured. "I'm an orphan. I was raised by Muggles, yes, but I never met my biological parents, so I don't know if I'm a—"

"Sarramond, is it? It doesn't ring a bell," Selwyn said, clearly enjoying my predicament. "Have you heard of a Sarramond family before, Burke? Flint?... Anyone?"

No one said a word.

"So you can see the dilemma I'm in," he continued, his voice almost a smug purr. "Because I take pride in the cleanliness of my house, as any proper wizard should do; and a mudblood in Slytherin... well, that just wouldn't do, now would it?"

My mouth felt dry. I wasn't sure what the threat was, exactly. But while I liked to think that Dumbledore and the other staff wouldn't allow an older student to seriously injure —or murder!— a first year, I also was very aware of the cavalier attitude displayed by most adult characters in the story towards child endangerment, so I wasn't willing to put that theory to the test.

I took a deep breath. All right, time to make use of my foreknowledge, even though I wasn't a hundred percent sure on this particular piece of lore: "But... I read that there were some Muggleborns sorted into Slytherin in the past," I argued. "Wouldn't that be a... a precedent?"

Selwyn's face took a sombre look as he addressed the room at large, rather than just replying to me: "Yes, at some points in the past our house wasn't as... thorough as it should have been. But we have raised our standards since, haven't we? And we shouldn't let them fall again into the filthy ground; we should pride ourselves in being part of the cleanest house, and keep it so. Past mistakes are no excuse for making new ones."

"Selwyn, have you considered she might not be a Muggleborn?" interrupted Prefect Gemma Farley, who seemed to have found a new source of courage. "You heard her. She admits to being raised by Muggles, but that doesn't mean her parents were Muggles themselves. She could just as easily be a half-blood."

"And what are the chances of that, Farley? Do you want to bet on it?"

She frowned. "Well, she was sorted in here, wasn't she? That skews the odds. Many half-bloods hid among the Muggles during the war, we all know that. If that's her case and her family didn't make it–"

He waved his hand dismissively: "If, if..."

"But it's like in that book of yours about the old pure-blood customs, Selwyn. Didn't it say anyone gets the chance to prove their own blood status if challenged? So what's it going to be, then? Are you going to deny that right to a first year just because you don't recognize her name, or are you going to honour your own words?"

For a moment I wondered why the prefect was defending me, but then I saw the way Selwyn and her locked eyes, Farley's hand clenched around her wand, Selwyn grinding his teeth, and realized that this wasn't really about me. These two looked like they had a prior history, and Farley wasn't so much defending me as opposing Selwyn for her own reasons. At the risk of coming to conclusions, this looked like one more battle on a war that preceded my arrival, a war for power and influence over the common room. I was just today's excuse.

But whatever her reasons, they suited me just fine. You go, girl!

Selwyn jumped out of his seat, his listless indolence vanishing in an instant, his wand not quite aiming at the prefect yet, but threatening to.

"Are you really going to come at me, Farley? The first day?"

She shrugged. "I am a prefect now, Selwyn; there are rules I have to follow, and make sure others follow too. Are you really going to force my hand?"

They observed each other in tense silence, and for a moment we all took a step back, sure that a duel was about to break out.

"Very well!" Selwyn said after a beat, spitting the words as he turned to me, his voice full of venom. "We'll delay the inevitable if that's what you want. You have until winter break, Sarramond. Either you prove that you aren't a mudblood by then... or you better not come back."

With those encouraging words he turned away and retreated towards the dorms, followed by his sidekicks and a moment later by the rest of the students still in the common room, now that it seemed the moment of excitement had ended.

Prefect Farley took the first year girls, me included, up a short span of stairs and into a large circular room with several four-poster beds, all of them draped in muted green velvet curtains and all of them facing a central lounge area with a stove, now off. The room should have felt oppressing, with the stone walls and the lack of windows; but the curtains, rugs and portraits that covered every exposed surface managed to soften the mood enough into making the place feel as somewhat of a soothing refuge.

Our trunks were already in place by the foot of the beds, so my year mates simply marched on towards their designated spots. I held back, loitering by the door.

"Thanks," I muttered to Farley.

She paused by my side and shot me a considering glance.

"Don't thank me yet, I might have pushed him too far... It's not like everyone in our house is a blood purist, mind you, but most people keep their mouth shut and so Selwyn and his ilk end up believing they're the kings of the common room."

My gaze was firmly forwards, observing the other girls unpacking their stuff. I said: "Not everyone is a blood purist, but blood status is still important, right? I guess expecting the hat to know what it was doing was too much to ask for. Any ideas on how to go about this?"

"I don't know; owl the Ministry, or hit the Library and ask for some books on magical bloodlines, look for your surname in there."

"Right. And when I turn out to be exactly what it says on the tin, what then?"

She gave me a shrug. "They can't actually push you out, you know. This is your house too. They might threaten you, and they might try to harass you, and use this or that jinx or curse or something. But there is only so much they can do without crossing the line; and this is Selwyn's last year at Hogwarts anyway. So if you make it to Summer, next year should be easier."

If.

I gave out a long sigh. Being harassed for months on end by a psychopathic racist teenager wasn't on my bingo card for this year. I could try to do it, but it would suck having to watch my back at every waking moment. And because of my fore-memories I wasn't as confident as Farley that they wouldn't resort to using the worst kind of spells on me. I knew something that she didn't: that some of those guys would surely end up becoming Death Eaters once Voldemort returned.

She lowered her voice and gave me a conspiratorial wink: "But if that doesn't suit you, well... I suppose there must be some reason the hat sorted you into Slytherin, after all."

Was she suggesting...? Well, yeah. I guessed I could cheat. I guessed in fact, I'd need to cheat, if I turned out to be as much of a Muggleborn as I suspected. The question was how to do that, exactly.

Not for the first time, I cursed the Wizarding World's obsession with blood status and the snake it rode in on. So many backward beliefs taken at face value... I couldn't wait for Hermione to become Minister of Magic.

Farley left us after that, with some last minute instructions and reminders to be up in time in the morning. Then I closed the door and finally walked up to my trunk.

My bed was the second clockwise from the door, between those of Tracey Davis and Daphne Greengrass —whose levitating hairbrush was busy at work while she leafed through the pages of a magazine. Parkinson and Bulstrode were opposite me, as far from my own bed as physically possible, which seemed like the ideal distribution to me. As I opened my trunk and changed into my sleepwear and dressing gown —under the privacy of the four-poster bed's curtains— I wondered vaguely if magic was involved in that. It seemed overkill, to use some sort of spell to ensure the most peaceful bed assignments for first year students, but also like something Wizards would do.

Or maybe it was the elves. Didn't the castle employ scores of them, to cook and clean and such? I guessed moving our trunks here from the train was part of their tasks. I would need to find a way to give my thanks to them. My adult memories told me that being in good terms with those people who handled your stuff —concierges and kitchen staff, janitors and waiters and house cleaners— was always a winning strategy. They might not rule the world, but they pretty much kept it running smoothly, and could easily ruin your day if they so chose.

I was placing my school robes back into the trunk when I noticed everyone else had paused in their own routines and they were all observing me.

"Wot?" I asked. Maybe a little more bluntly than warranted, but by this point I was already getting tired of all this pure-blood asininity. And it wasn't even the first day yet, technically.

There was a moment of silence, and then Parkinson pointed at my pyjamas and said in a disgusted tone: "What's that you are wearing?"

I followed her finger. The stamped fairies had stopped dancing and chasing each other and now they fluttered in place with arms crossed, giving her the stink eye.

"Uhm, fairies pyjamas?"

"I know what they are! They're giving me a headache! Merlin, you're so—!"

"It's... ah... a bold choice," said Sally-Ann Perks from her bed, wearing her own pyjamas with stars and moon motifs. Unfortunately for her, none of them were animated.

"It's childish, it's what it is," continued Parkinson, who herself was wearing the dullest nightgown ever made and was probably actually dying of envy at the sight of my faeries. "What are you? A child?"

"... yes? We are eleven."

"Fairies are for kiddies who still wet—"

"My sister likes fairies," interrupted Greengrass. Her voice was calm and neutral, almost as if she was making an offhand remark about the weather. She didn't even look up from the magazine open on her lap; but Parkinson shut up immediately.

Curious...

"She has good taste," I said after a beat. On my pyjamas, the stamped fairies were resuming their usual flight patterns. There was... a lot of motion, now that I thought about it.

"She does."

I turned my head back towards the other side of the room, to see if Parkinson had anything to add. But it seemed she was simply smouldering in place. It was this hidden hierarchy thing once more, I realized. On paper, we were all equal: first-year students at Hogwarts sorted into the same house.

But our house was Slytherin, which meant we weren't all equal: both Perks and Davis were half-bloods, I'd quickly learned during the banquet. But Tracey Davis was a lower class of half-blood, apparently, which would have put her on the lowest rung if it weren't for me taking that particular spot. And while the other three girls were all pure-blood, it seemed the Greengrasses were a step above the rest. Daphne pretty much acted like royalty, like she was a magical princess, and during the banquet I had noticed even some of the older kids treating her with the same sort of deference they gave Malfoy, or Nott.

I didn't know the motive, though, what reasons caused some families to be above or below the others. Perhaps it was money, or prestige; most likely it was just stupid blood purity. But whatever it was, or however absurd this game was, I was sort of forced to play it now. And with some luck maybe I could get Daphne, if not on my side, at least to act as a calming force in our dorm. A bulwark of sorts, one that could rein in Pansy Parkinson and Bulstrode's worse tendencies and stop them from acting out against me.

The question was whether Daphne was aware of this, or if she was simply going through the motions. She was only eleven, after all, and I doubted she was a little politician, calculating her every subtle move for maximum effect. God knew Malfoy wasn't. But her parents undoubtedly were; and they might have instructed her and drilled her on what her position meant, and how she should act while at Hogwarts. Plus, she did seem a tad sharper than the blonde twat.

Time to give it a try, then. See if she was aware enough of her own power to make conscious use of it. So I yawned and said to her: "Well, good night. Hopefully we'll get some sleep tonight without any noises waking us up; tomorrow is a big day."

She didn't acknowledge me, didn't turn her head even a fraction. But after a few seconds she said: "Yes, I hope that too."

I locked eyes with Parkinson first, then Bulstrode, to drive the hint home. They might have been Slytherins, sure, but again: they were also eleven years old, and those subtle are not.

Except for Greengrass, apparently. Note to self: don't antagonize Daphne Greengrass.

They seemed to forget about me, or pretend to. Good enough. But just to be sure I also placed my wand under my pillow —more to protect it than anything else, since I still didn't know any actual offensive spells; but I certainly did not want the two girls to put their hands on my actual magic wand oh-my-god while I slept.

I was tired, knackered from the whole train trip and the stress of it all; but still my eyes refused to close when the lights went out, and I simply laid there in silence, my gaze lost in the darkness of the windowless room as the other girls fell asleep one by one.

I was at Hogwarts.

Ever since Dumbledore had intruded into my life I'd known this day would arrive, but it had always felt distant and abstract. Even after witnessing all the magic back at Diagon Alley, the castle still remained fixed in my mind as something out of a fantasy book. Unreal. More a dream than anything else.

And now I was at Hogwarts. And tomorrow, I'd open my eyes and I'd still be at Hogwarts. And the day after that too.

I was at Hogwarts, learning magic.

It was an intoxicating thought, and I could understand why the school cast such a disproportionate shadow over the entirety of British magical society. It was simply... fascinating. Mysterious and mythical and so full of possibility.

And also danger. Because somewhere below us was a bloody basilisk, and so far nothing was going according to plan: I was supposed to be up at the Ravenclaw Tower, not deep into the dungeons and fending off murderous blood supremacists; and the plot —that incredible succession of near misses and unlikely events— seemed to be on risk of derailing, if it hadn't fallen of a cliff already.

The beginnings weren't auspicious, and I remembered the words of the Sorting Hat: 'The bravest thing you could do would be to confess your visions to the Headmaster and seek his help.'

It would be so easy, doing that: just find his office and tell him the whole story, rebirth and children's books included. And if his head didn't explode out of an existential aneurysm, I knew he'd handle it all. Make it all go away.

Including myself. My own future and freedom. Maybe.

Or maybe not. But the possibility was there, and the uncertainty was more than I could swallow. Walking into the darkness, trusting only this authority figure I didn't really understand and couldn't fully predict, was more terrifying than a basilisk.

Besides, I always had time to change course if I found myself exceeded by the situation, didn't I?

Chapter Text

There was no funny business during the night, and in the morning we all fell into a silent rush as we changed into our robes and prepared for the day. We emerged into a common room bathed in the cold turquoise light coming through the windows. I could glimpse hints of algae and some fishes darting past the glass, but there was no time to recreate myself in the fascinating sights before Prefect Farley gathered us and set us in motion.

She guided us back towards the Great Hall, all the while giving us a primer on house unity which I guessed was motivated by my own presence. It essentially summed up to 'please keep all bullying of Sarramond confined to the common room' and 'don't make us look weak in front of the other houses'. On the one hand, I appreciated not having to spend the whole day looking over my shoulder —assuming the little snakes did as told, that is— but on the other hand she was pretty much giving them a green light to 'air their grievances' in the common room.

I guessed I'd just have to avoid spending any more time than strictly needed in the dungeons, then. The castle was large enough that it should be no problem: I could do all my homework and studying at the library, spend my free time exploring its secrets, and there was always the Room of Requirement if... well, if I required it.

The Great Hall welcomed us with a cloudy morning sky, a healthy breakfast, and a lot of excited chatter coming out of the Gryffindor table for whatever reason. Our own table felt more subdued, still only half awake as we silently grabbed bowls and food, toasts and eggs.

On the bright side, that also meant I only got a couple of scathing snorts during breakfast: one from Parkinson when I opted for the apple juice rather than the pumpkin one, and another one when I muttered "Charms first? How charming" under my breath upon receiving our schedules. But that last one was from Zabini, who had also snorted dismissively at something Malfoy had said about his family being on the Hogwarts' Board of Governors, so I guessed it didn't really count.

Our first class was with the Hufflepuffs, so we filed towards it together after breakfast, and that was my first experience with inter-house rivalry: because I saw Wayne Hopkins as we entered the classroom and waved at him, but he totally pretended not to see me and took refuge deeper into his group of housemates.

Oh well, his loss. Little wuss.

The Charms classroom was divided in two, with benches in each side facing each other across a central isle. We Slytherins claimed the left side of the room, opposing the Hufflepuffs to the right. I ended up seating next to Tracey Davis by the edge of our group —the hidden hierarchy manifesting itself once more— and we opened our books as Professor Flitwick reached his podium and commenced his roll call.

"Let's start, then!" he said after that, picking up his own wand. "Has any of you performed a spell before? Raise your hands."

About a quarter of the Hufflepuffs and more than half of the Slytherins rose hands. Instead of following their example, though, I took my wand, muttered "Lumos!", and rose it high above my head with its point shining bright; a perfect textbook example of the wand-lighting charm if there ever was one. Everyone turned to look at my display.

"Ah! Well done Miss... Sarramond, was it? Two points to Slytherin, thanks for demonstrating. Now, those of you who have cast a spell before will surely have noticed how..."

Oh.

I placed the wand back on the desk, its light turning off.

Oh... that felt good, earning points.

Hmm...

An idea started to take shape in my mind. A simple one: I didn't know how to prove I wasn't a Muggleborn —which I suspected I pretty much was anyway. But perhaps I could prove that I was a plus for Slytherin. If my housemates saw me as someone who wasn't dragging the house down, but that was a net gain to have around... well, that might get me some allies, at least. Some leeway.

And now I knew how to do that: earning points. Simple enough.

Yeah... that could help.

Professor Flitwick told us to go to a page in the book full with the diagrams depicting the basic wand movements, and that we would be practising some of those today: two kinds of swishes and a loop. We used our own wands, simply repeating Flitwick's motions as he went here and there correcting postures and sharing encouragement: "a little slower, MacMillan", "relax your arm, Nott", "that's great, now repeat it once more."

It felt oddly familiar, and as we approached the end of the class I realized why: this is what learning to play an instrument was like.

When my foster parents had enrolled me into those dreaded piano lessons, this is what they were like: playing scales, C major, correcting hand postures, then repeating those again and again until your hands learned the movements: committing them to muscle memory.

The wand, I figured out, was an instrument.

It all clicked then, with that very thought. If the wand was an instrument, each spell was a melody. Melodies you'd need to learn, to practice repeatedly before you could play smoothly. And magic, it was like music: something of an art, a craft, but also with rules of harmony and mathematics —or, arithmancy in this case— underlying it.

And just like with music, every time you performed the same song the result would always be slightly different. It explained why wizards sometimes did things ineffectively, or why they'd pay someone like... say, Madam Malkin to tailor their clothes rather than doing it all themselves. It was more convenient that going through the pain of learning a bunch of spells that you wouldn't use that frequently anyway. And if you only cast those spells —played those melodies— once a year or so, you'd be at risk of forgetting the motions or mangling the exact invocations by the next time you needed them. Easier, then, to pay someone who used those spells every single day, who had mastered them thoroughly.

It also explained why some wizards were better than others. Just like some musicians were merely competent while others were virtuosos, even after going through the same training process. Hogwarts, I guessed, would train us up to a common standard: learn to play this music competently enough, learn the most common spells to heart, and at least gain some familiarity with a few of the less used ones.

But your individual focus, your drive, would determine the end results. Just like in piano lessons, you had the kids like me who would do the bare minimum to pass the class, and the annoying music nerds who liked playing different instruments and kept practising even when on their own time; the ones who might end up composing their own songs and becoming professional musicians.

And then you had the true geniuses: your Mozart, your Wagner.

Your Dumbledore, your Tom Riddle.

So part of it was talent, part of it was drive. One of those, I could control. I focused on my movements, then, trying to perfect them, trying to grab the wand just so, to move my wrist and elbow just like Flitwick was explaining.

It helped, seeing it as another instrument, a weird sort of piano lesson. Because I knew what to expect from those, the mental state they demanded. And yeah, I hadn't liked playing the piano before, but then again, a piano could not rewrite the laws of reality. So I was a teeny bit more motivated now.

"Very good, Sarramond! Now try the reverse loop. Yes, just like that, one more point to Slytherin!"

And... I was better at it than most, too. Maybe because all those piano lessons had granted me a more precise control over my hands' finer movements. But also, because it was magic. And while I had never been too musically inclined —always had trouble telling notes apart— magic felt... more natural; easier. I could feel it underlying the motions, a sense of intensity that I could intuit and regulate. I knew how the mix of wand movements and incantations made my magic tremble and stretch. I hadn't tried it yet, but I guessed that was how non-verbal spells worked: you just replicated that feel, that twist of the spell on your magic.

Perhaps it was my unusual circumstances playing a part here, too, making it easier for me. I remembered having been a Muggle, lacking this particular sense. So now it was simple enough to spot the difference, to put my focus on that weird new sensation that I'd never had on my past life.

An unfair advantage, I thought as I noticed Tracey Davis looking at me out of the corner of her eye; she was one of the few Slytherins that hadn't raised her hand before; and even I could tell her own wandwork needed more work: the loops too sloppy and lopsided.

No... earning points wouldn't be enough, I realized. That would only get me resentfulness, like it got —would get?— Hermione. If I wanted allies it wasn't enough to be known as a bright precocious witch at best, a know-it-all at worst. I also had to make sure whoever associated with me would benefit personally. And I was starting from a bad position already, because of the stupid blood thing.

Hmm...

"Say, Davis," I whispered, turning halfway to the girl next to me. "Want me to teach you the wand-lighting charm?"

She frowned and looked at me, then at my wand, then back at me. I could almost see the internal battle: I was toxic, in terms of in-house reputation; but she was barely one step above me and so far none of the pure-bloods in our house had deigned to address her. So like it or not, I was her natural ally. It was me or nothing.

Well, me or figuring out the spells on her own. But if that was an option, she would have raised her hand before, right?

"What do you want?" she said at least, narrowing her eyes at me.

"Not much. Just help me out in some other class, yeah? When there's something you know that I don't. You can sit next to me in the other classes too."

I almost said 'act like we're friends', but I bit my tongue. It would have sounded too desperate at this stage.

She considered for a few moments longer, then gave me a quick nod: "Fine. I'll sit next to you, but only today. Then we can meet after dinner."

"Yeah, wait for me in that empty classroom in the dungeons, the creepy one next to the bathrooms."

"Why not in the common room?" she asked.

I paused and gave her a look.

She shrugged. "The creepy room's fine too. I'll be there."

Yeah, Charms class went swimmingly.

The same wasn't true of Potions.

It started the moment we entered the classroom —gloomy and smelling of all sorts of strange pungent ingredients— and we took our seats. Because we were supposed to sit in pairs, except that we were an odd number of Slytherins.

It only took a moment before I realized that —of course— I was the only one left standing. It might have been my own fault, because I had ambled up to the bookshelves by the side to look for a particular Potions textbook —annotated by a particular Half-Blood Prince— which I retrieved and quickly placed into one of the pockets in my robes. But by that time Tracey Davis was already with Sally-Anne Perks, and Blaise Zabini was with Daphne Greengrass, and Theodore Nott was with Goyle, and the rest of them were a no-go.

So yeah, flashbacks to primary school right there, when Elliot and Miles had managed to taint my reputation so much that nobody wanted to partner with me at class. My own generally acting like a freak sure hadn't helped, truth be told, but I still blamed them. They were the ones who spun that tale about the worms, after all.

So because of that, and because the rest of the class were all Gryffindors, I was sitting on my own when Severus Snape burst dramatically into the classroom, wrapped in his dark fluttering robes and stepping on the flagstones as if they owed him money. I was expecting that; as I was expecting his famous little speech on the virtues of potion-making over wand-waving —not that I agreed, of course, wand-waving was brilliant! But what I wasn't expecting was him suddenly stopping by my side and looking down at me like I was something Filch's cat had dragged in.

His voice was a cold, angry whisper: "You. Why are you sitting on your own? Weren't the class' instructions on the schedule not clear enough for you?"

"But..." I started, confused. I could hear Parkinson's sniggering noises. "We are an odd number of Slytherins this year. Uhm... sir."

"Then sit with one of them!" he said, aiming at the Gryffindors. At one very particular Gryffindor, in fact: Hermione, also sitting very alone, looking like she wished the Earth would swallow her.

Wait, what? Why is she alone? Was she always alone in Potions in the original story? Was that... supposed to happen?

"But... but she is a—" a main character, I couldn't say. So I bit my tongue.

Snape wasn't having it, though: "A what? Speak aloud."

"A... a Gryffindor!"

Which made the entire Slytherin wing burst into laughter, and all the Gryffindors in the room stare daggers at me, Hermione the most. And shit, was Draco nodding at me? Ugh.

"Silence!" commanded the human-sized bat, but his voice had a faint trace of amusement. "More the reason, then, to have someone watch over her and make sure her cauldron doesn't meet an... explosive end."

He pointed his finger at me, then at Hermione's desk with an air of finality. So I gathered my books and other stuff and sat next to the frizzy haired girl with a sigh, as Snape drawled his way through the roll call.

"Ah, yes," he said when he reached Potter's name. "Our new... celebrity."

And we were back on the rails. I guessed. Pretty much? The girl next to me and trying to burn a hole through the side of my head with her gaze begged to differ. I guessed she could have very well been sitting on her own in the original story, which meant I might have stepped onto any number of butterflies just by virtue of existing here, of providing a partner for her that shouldn't exist in the first place.

Or maybe I was thinking too hard about it, because I wasn't sure of what the original Hermione seating arrangement in Potions had been like. Who could remember that? And wasn't the pairing a movie thing, and not in the books? I couldn't remember. Perhaps this was another of those strange changes, like the missing Quirrell.

And hadn't I decided to dive into the thick of it myself, anyway? I had even tried to trick convince the hat to sort me into Gryffindor, after all. So why was I worrying so much about this?

Because it was scary, maybe, and also unexpected. Because the more the world veered away from the events that I knew, the more vulnerable I felt. That had been the true reason I wanted into Gryffindor, hadn't it? Not to change the plot into something different, or better; but to make sure the events happened as they should. To nudge things back into place. To make my world more predictable.

This, this what the opposite of that.

I tried to put all those thoughts behind me and focus back on Snape's little speech "...shimmering flumes, liquids creeping through veins..." but Hermione's silent fury on top of everything else about this situation was making me too nervous, so I finally turned to face her.

"I'm a what?" she snapped at me the moment I turned, her voice a whisper laced with venom.

"What?"

"You were about to say something else, didn't you? So what was it, then? What am I? I bet I've heard it before: a know-it-all? A smart-arse? A swot?... Or were you about to call me a Muggleborn? Or something... worse?"

"A Muggle—? Granger, I told you I was raised by Muggles myself!"

"Oh, and am I supposed to believe you? You might have been lying. You were sorted into Slytherin, weren't you? There must be a reason for that."

"I'm resourceful and morally flexible, apparently. Look, can't we just—?"

"Be quiet, I'm trying to pay attention to class."

"Be quiet?! It was you who—!"

"Shhh!"

"Ugh!"

I opened my Potions book a little harder than strictly necessary, while Snape commenced his interrogation-slash-humiliation of The Boy Who Didn't Know The Answers to the amusement of Draco Malfoy and his gang:

"Potter. Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

"I don't know, sir."

Hermione did know, as evidenced by her stretching her hand as far as her arm allowed while keeping her buttocks on the seat. I considered telling her not to interfere, that Snape wasn't really looking for the answer, but instead I shook my head and focused on my book and notes. The way this was going, she'd think I was trying to stop her from earning points or something. And we still had the entire class ahead of us.

Joy.

Snape, no surprises there, didn't call on Hermione to answer his questions, and pretty soon we were deep into the brewing of the boil cure potion. I had known we would be making a potion, of course, but hadn't remembered which specific one so I hadn't read ahead. Also, I'd rather read on charms or defence, to be completely honest. Potions reminded me too much of both cooking and chemistry, neither of which I had liked in my before memories.

We worked out a simple system —or Hermione did, and I followed along— where I prepared the ingredients and she did the boiling in the cauldron, stirring it clockwise and counter-clockwise according to the instructions. It didn't go unnoticed to me that she had assigned me the dumbest part of the work —'just use the pestle to crush the snake fangs, you can do that, can't you?'— but that was fine. I trusted her not to mess up the brewing, and I was hoping letting her take the leading role would assuage any bruised egos, let her blow off some of her steam.

Speaking of which, we were adding the porcupine quills when we heard a loud hiss across the class followed by a scream of terror.

"Idiot boy!" erupted Snape, rushing towards Neville Longbottom and Seamus Finnigan.

Oh, that was today?!

I could see how causing this whole ruckus on his first day at Hogwarts would help to cement Longbottom's reputation. In front of the Slytherins, no less, who were already mocking him relentlessly as we all stood atop our stools and watched Snape clean the mess next to the whimpering boy.

I had to admit, it was sort of funny, the big brooding bat scolding him, apparently blind to how Neville's face sprung ever more fiery red pimples with every passing second. Not that I allowed even a ghost of a smile to appear on my face, for fear of invoking Hermione's wrath once more. I was pretty certain she was observing me out of the corner of her eye, in fact.

Our own potion we completed without incident, and it more or less acquired the colour it was supposed to —a bit smokey, though, which made Hermione harrumph about me adding too many nettles. Whatever. At that point I was practically bouncing in my seat to get out of the bloody classroom, which I did the moment we poured the potion into the vials labelled with our names and she walked up to Snape's desk to hand them over.

I joined my housemates as they left the dungeon and we moved together towards the last class of the day: Defence Against the Dark Arts. Malfoy spent the entire walk there recalling Neville's incident:

"—and did you see Potter's face when Snape turned on him?!" he laughed, imitating the sullen frown.

"Snape is such a sensible Professor," commented Parkinson as I passed by her side, her voice full of false, twisted sweet honey. "He makes sure to put all the smelly trash together, away from the better students. Don't you think, Draco?"

He gave a chuckle. "That's very true. I say... Sarramond! Did you make a new friend? One better suited to your own status?"

I turned to face the two of them and shrugged. "Can't say that I did. But it looks like you made an enemy, no? What's going on between you and Potter? Lovers' spat? Did he steal one of your plushies or something?"

That got a laugh out of Goyle, of all people. It was short lived, though, stopping abruptly the moment Malfoy gave him a narrow look.

"I'm not the one going to bed wrapped in faeries, Sarramond," he replied, to general merriment. Then he turned to speak to the rest of the group as if I wasn't the one who had just asked: "I tried to be his friend, you see. I invited him to join proper wizarding society, as my father taught me, and what does he do? He spits in my hand and chooses the likes of Weasley! Why, he thinks he's better than me!..."

He went on like that until we reached the Defence classroom, and then some. It was easy, not getting in Malfoy's sights: just mention Potter. He was like a moth drawn by a flame. Zabini's knowing grin and slow nod told me he had noticed my manoeuvrer. I returned the sentiment with a wink.

Professor Xenia Duskhaven was already there and waiting for us, standing ramrod straight, her hair black with grey stripes. She was wearing a velvety green cloak and held her wand horizontal to the ground, grasping each end with a hand. She looked like a statue. One I eyed with curious fascination, as she was the wildcard, the odd new thing that wasn't supposed to be here.

Like me, I supposed.

The desks and chairs had been pushed all the way to the sides of the classroom making a space in the middle, so we simply gathered around and stood in place in front of her. Her voice sounded like steel, unyielding and cold: "I am Professor Duskhaven," she said the moment we all had entered. "Welcome to Defense Against the Dark Arts. Today's lesson will be on identification, which is the first step..."

She went on explaining, and we all started to relax. That is, until two minutes later she said out of the blue: "Tell us, Mr. MacDougal, what are the Dark Arts?"

One of the Ravenclaws across the room went very pale, stammering something that only halfway resembled a word.

"No?" she continued, without even looking his way. "Does anyone know the answer?"

Her open question was met with silence, obviously. And I almost groaned at the realization that she was one of those teachers, the ones who are always asking random students, forcing you to pay attention to every single word unless you wanted to be turned into an example, ridiculed in front of the class.

"Mr. Nott? Perhaps you'll be able to give us a definition."

Theodore tensed, but spoke in a clipped tone: "It's magic that's used to cause harm."

"Correct, and yet incomplete. During your schooling, in this class you will learn how to protect yourselves from both dark curses and creatures; you will learn how to escape a grindylow or distract a rougarou. But neither of those are the most dangerous threat this class is meant to prepare you against. Neither is that threat a dark wizard or witch, as terrible as those can be. No, the real threat is in the class's very name: Defense Against the Dark Arts. That is the greatest danger you will face in your future: The Dark Arts themselves."

She paused to look at the gathered crowd, fixating in our eyes, her hands and whole body still.

"The Dark Arts are a living force in and of itself," she continued, relentless, "an evil presence in our world, intelligent and always evolving. Dark creatures and spells are but manifestations of its nature. The American Magical Congress did a study on the effects of the Dark Arts across the magical population, and I'm of the opinion you all should know its results: in a group of young wizards and witches such as is gathered here, at least one —possibly up to three— of you will be gravely hurt if not killed by some sort of dark curse or creature during the course of your lives."

There was a tense gulp from somewhere in the group. But Duskhaven hadn't finished; she examined the Slytherin side of the crowd and said: "And at least one of you will be corrupted, becoming a dark witch or wizard yourselves. If you are lucky, you will be sent to Azkaban. If not, the Dark Arts will consume you until only a husk of your former self remains."

The silence was so deafening you could almost heart everyone's heartbeats.

"This class will teach you how to resist the external threats, those posed by creatures and hexes, but resisting the corrupting influence of the Dark Arts is more difficult, and often not explained at all. But remember this: as with all magic, intention is key. A perfectly common spell such as the severing charm can be considered dark magic, if you were to use it to cut someone's jugular vein and cause them to die. Yes, Miss Sarramond?"

"Uh... does that work the other way around too? Say if I use the Imperius Curse to force someone evil to do something good?"

The woman fixed her eyes on me for a long beat.

"That, Miss Sarramond, is the fastest way to become corrupted by the Dark Arts there is."

I blinked. "Uh... but the intention—"

She tilted her head marginally. "—is not always clear enough, specially when regarding Unforgivables. Would you be using the Imperius Curse because it's the best choice, or because it's merely the easiest? How could you be sure you're not lying to yourself?"

She lowered her voice, the steel in it becoming marginally less intense: "The Dark Arts are corrupting by nature, and you wouldn't be the first witch to fall into their abyss by accident. First you find a dark spell in an old tome, abandoned in some tomb; you keep it somewhere locked, but at hand, just in case; and then someday you use it during a crisis, for a noble reason. Maybe that's true the first, even the second time. But the more you use it the easier it will be to keep using it, and the blurrier the line will get. The dark intent within the spell also influences us, alters our own nature, our perception of what is fair. Soon enough you go looking for something more powerful, more effective.

"There have been many dark lords and ladies in the world's history, but they always end up falling, their rules ending. Their dependence on dark magic is their weakness: they allow it to twist them into monsters, creatures of chaos that aren't truly human anymore. Always remember this: dark magic works on us; it pollutes our intentions."

I... wasn't sure I agreed. And it wasn't just because of Snape's Potions book —with its Sectumsempra curse— weighting my pocket and conscience. No. It was because it sounded like a magical version on the Just Say No campaign against drugs. Too all or nothing, black or white for my liking. My fore-memories told me the actual world was full of grey. And I liked grey, it felt more comfortable that way. Plus, I remembered some of the good characters in the Harry Potter books using dark magic at some points, without any of them becoming twisted or addicted to it.

I didn't discuss it further, though, and soon enough Duskhaven instructed us to spread across the classroom.

"Many at your Ministry of Magic consider the Revelio charm to be too taxing on a first year. Nonsense! I have been teaching it successfully to students your age at Ilvermorny for five years now, as having the proper information on the threats around you should always be your first priority when in danger. The hand movement follows an inverse raido runic pattern, like this, and the incantation is: 'Revelio!' Try it now."

We spent the rest of the class trying it out, to mixed results. None of us managed to perform it to Professor Duskhaven's standards, but after half an hour or repeated attempts I got a glimpse of something half-hidden in the ceiling. I turned to look at it, but it was already gone and I didn't manage to see it again. It didn't help that it was the last class of the day and my mind was starting to lose focus out of sheer exhaustion. I was eleven, after all.

But still, I had to grit my teeth and keep going, because I had to meet with Tracey Davis after dinner. I managed to slip unseen into the shadows of the dark, empty classroom —more of a dusty storage room where they kept unused furniture, with old chairs and desks lining the walls, topped one over each other— and looked around for her.

No one was here.

Odd. She had left ahead of me, I was sure of that.

For a moment, I tensed, anticipating a betrayal. That would be an easy and quick way for Davis to gain some clout with Parkinson and her ilk: just tell her I would be here. At night. Alone.

Shit.

Shit!

I raised my wand and shouted "Lumos!", illuminating the classroom, but the abandoned furniture projected dark eerie shadows on the walls, and most of the room remained hidden from view as I scanned my surroundings for the trap I had surely missed.

Then I remembered our recent lesson: "Revelio!"

A silhouette, perched on a desk, a wand in its own hand. But it was too late: the shadow was already moving, climbing off the desk. Shitshitshit.

"Took you long enough," said Tracey Davis. "I thought you had changed your mind."

Oh, it was her, the silhouette. I relaxed a bit, but still kept my eyes open. "You alone?" I asked.

She looked at me surprised. "Yes? I mean, it's not that... but I don't want them... you know. Don't want people to know I got help from you? Sorry."

I stared at her, my heart calming down. Yeah, we were alone.

"So, can we get started?" she raised her wand and performed the motions of the lighting charm, but it only gave out a soft glimmer.

"Yeah, right. Right. But you know, this isn't free."

She crossed her arms. "I told you I'd help you and sit with you. It's not my fault there was no sitting in Defence."

"I'm talking about Potions. You left me alone with Granger. Granger! She hates my guts!"

"That doesn't count. You took too long."

I shrugged "You never put a time limit. So now I want more: you sit with me in class everyday, and the Great Hall too, and we walk together in the hallways."

Yeah, I was thinking of using her as some sort of anti-bullying protection, so to speak. Not as a human shield, mind you, but simply because the two of us together would make a harder target than if it was just me on my own.

"What?! I won't follow you around the castle like I'm your bloody house-elf!"

"Only if we're going to the same place, then. Like between classes."

She mumbled something under her breath. Then said: "Fine! But then I want more too: you help me with all other charms, not just the wand-lighting one. And with the homework too."

"Okay, but you also need to come to the library with me."

"What? No!"

"Not always, but at least twice a week. We'll do the homework there, and the practice here."

"Hmph! All right. But you also have to help me with Potions' homework."

"Perks not up to the task?"

She frowned at that and started walking towards the door. "If you don't want to–"

"Wait, wait! Just joking. I will help you, but I won't do your homework for you. That fair?"

She nodded and put her hand forward.

I grinned as I took it. "Brilliant! We have a deal, then! So, let's get started on that charm...!"

Making friends, the Slytherin way.

Chapter Text

The owl landed right in front of me during breakfast, stepping on dishes and almost causing my apple juice to spill all over my robes. It was enormous, the largest bird I'd ever seen —at least that close and in person— in both my lives. All talons, menacing sharp beak and imposing golden feathers. It carried a small letter tied to one of its feet.

"You couldn't just drop it from above, like all the other owls?" I asked it once I'd recovered from the initial commotion.

The owl looked at the nearby bacon plate, then at me.

"Right, stupid question." I untied the letter under the combined gaze of all the Slytherin first years. Then I took a piece of bacon and offered it to the owl. Its beak closed with a terrifyingly loud snap right next to my fingers, and the animal took off again; leaving behind a cloud of dust and feathers that got into my hair.

"Arsehole of a bird," I muttered under my breath as I examined the letter. It had the stylized 'M' logo of the Ministry of Magic. It was also, technically speaking, the first letter I'd ever received by magical post, since the acceptance letter had been handed directly to me by the Headmaster.

I broke the seal with some trepidation and started reading, even though I already had a fair idea of what its contents would be.

Ministry of Magic

Department of Magical Records

Subject: Inquiry regarding family history.

Dear Miss Sarramond,

We are writing in response to your inquiry into the existence of ancestral records tied to your family name. After a comprehensive examination of the various parchments and archives within possession of the Ministry, we regret to inform you that the surname 'Sarramond' does not appear in any of our records for extant families in wizarding Britain during the last fifty years.

As for your question regarding your birth date: no, we do not have any records of an infant born to a magical family on that specific date. But we encourage you to get in contact with St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, as their own records might differ from ours, due to the confusion and uncertainty prevalent during the Wizarding War.

Should you have any further questions, please do not hesitate to get in touch again with our department.

Yours sincerely,

Fenella Lancet

Junior Archivist

Well, it was worth a try.

I folded the letter into my pocket, muttering a quick "later" to Tracey who had been trying to read it over my shoulder. We had grown somewhat closer since we started sitting together, but I didn't want to air my failure in front of the whole table. I went back to my breakfast, and soon enough the conversations resumed around me, the novelty of me receiving a letter quickly forgotten.

I had owled the Ministry a couple days ago, as Prefect Farley had suggested. I had also made some attempts at finding something in the Library. That was challenging, though: there were just too many volumes about heraldry and old family lines and searching through all of them was like looking for the metaphorical needle in the haystack.

You would have thought my surname was weird enough that it should be easy to find, or remember hearing. It was also a name that... sounded magical, to my ears at least. Maybe because it was so odd and uncommon. Mine was the kind of name a witch would have, so I had fooled myself into being hopeful. Maybe I was a lost child, after all. Maybe, just maybe I belonged to a magical family.

But no dice.

I figured the better option would be to ask the Muggle authorities. I was in the Muggle foster system, after all, so someone must have written down my name into some form at some point in the past. It was just a matter of finding out where that name had came from. The problem being that I couldn't exactly do that while at Hogwarts, could I? An owl wasn't an option, and I didn't know if the Muggle post reached us all the way here. I'd need to ask one of the professors, maybe.

But the St. Mungo angle was promising. I would go to the owlery and send them a letter after Herbology today; it didn't hurt to try. And maybe I should also owl the French Ministry of Magic at that. After all, I—

"Miss Sarramond!" said an icy voice behind me. I turned to look.

"Oh, good morning Professor McGonagall?"

She looked thunderous and livid, barely constraining her anger.

"Miss Sarramond," she said, chewing each word. "I distinctly remember telling you to return those spectacles when we were at Diagon Alley," she said, referring to my superbly stylish sunglasses. The very same sunglasses that I was wearing right now, in the Great Hall.

What can I say. If you've got the looks, you've got to flaunt it.

I'd already worn them the day before at lunch, in fact. They had garnered me a lot of stares, as expected, and some envious scoffs from my housemates; but no comments from any of the Professors; so I figured McGonagall had already forgotten about the whole thing. Evidently not. Or maybe she just hadn't been present at lunch yesterday, I wasn't sure.

"Uh... you won't believe it Professor, but these aren't the same ones you saw," I replied, trying to project confidence. "These ones actually belong to... Greengrass! Daphne is allowing me to wear them because I loved them so much."

"You are correct, I do not believe it. Now, hand them over at once."

I shot a desperate gaze towards Daphne next to me. She met my eyes for a moment, then let out a soft sigh.

"She is not lying," she said, her voice neutral and almost bored. "They are a gift from my aunt Antigone, for my being sorted into Slytherin. She has a horrid sense of taste, of course; I would never wear such a thing myself."

"Ouch," I muttered to her.

I turned my gaze back at McGonagall, who looked like she wanted to murder the both of us. But I suspected if she opted to pursue this particular thread, Greengrass' family would have her back to hell and beyond, even more so against the famous Head of the Gryffindor House. I saw the Professor arrive to that realisation herself.

Checkmate.

I must have looked too pleased with myself, though, because she changed tacks: "Regardless, those are outdoor wear, and this is the Great Hall. You are not allowed to wear them in here."

I pointed at the bright sun visible through the enchanted ceiling and deadpanned: "Doesn't that count as 'outdoors'?"

McGonagall's lips went so thin that they disappeared from sight. Next to me there was a sharp intake of breath from Tracey, her eyes comically wide.

And I braced myself, because I knew adults, and I knew what came next. I had first-hand experience on this. This, this was me crossing the line. Purposefully. This was when she exploded at me, raged at me, gave me detention. This was Mrs. Coverdale sending me off to my room.

But I never got to witness it, because suddenly Snape was there, almost like he'd just popped into existence out of nowhere, like a greasy-haired Batman or something. He said: "Minerva. I believe disciplining the students in my house for... transgressions against the dress code falls within my purview, not yours."

She turned to face him and replied in a lower volume, saying something I couldn't hear well enough but that sounded a lot like 'bald-faced liars'. Snape, though, he just gazed over his shoulder at the ruckus coming from the Gryffindor table and said: "I'll see to that. But perhaps you should put order in your own house, before someone gets injured. Not that it would be a loss."

They locked eyes for a moment, then McGonagall rushed to the other side of the Great Hall, barking "Fred! George! Stop that right now!" as she went. I guessed the Weasley twins were about to pay dearly for my cheek.

I turned to look at Snape.

Snape looked down at me, unimpressed.

I wiggled my eyebrows, causing the sunglasses to move up and down.

He snarled: "Take that silly thing off your face, you foolish girl!"

I didn't take the sunglasses off, but perched them to the top of my head instead. He shot me an annoyed glare, then turned and walked away.

Compromise, the keystone of a healthy relationship.

"Thanks," I said to Greengrass once he got out of hearing range. "I owe you one."

"Yes you do."

"Come to the library later," I said, gathering my stuff to leave. "I have the Transfiguration homework done already, so you can copy it if you need to."

Zabini across the table chose that moment to interrupt: "Oh? Because she's not smart enough to do it on her own, you mean?"

You trolling prat.

"No! Sorry, nothing of the sort!" I rushed to say to Daphne, ignoring Zabini's amused grin. "Just that maybe... you have other things that you'd rather... be doing, no?" I finished lamely before leaving. But I noticed the heiress had an almost imperceptible smile on her face, so I hoped I hadn't offended her.

Tracey Davis was not as content with me when we walked together towards Herbology. "Merlin! Why did you have to needle Professor McGonagall like that? Do you want to get detention? Over wearing those stupid glasses?"

"I..." I sighed. I wasn't sure how to explain it to her. Or if I could.

Because it wasn't even about the stupid —but oh so snazzy— sunglasses anymore, not really. It was something else, a deeper need within me. It was stepping over the line just to prove to myself that I could; that McGonagall would not cow me like I was a child. No matter the punishment, or whatever retaliations she had prepared for me.

It was that burning desire to be... me. To make my own decisions and follow them through. And the fear that the alternative... if I allowed adults to rule my life, decide on how I was to dress or when I was to go to bed, my old identity would simply... fade away. Vanish into the depths of my memories, like a half remembered dream. That I would then become just one more child. Just Sylvia Sarramond, age eleven, with no traces of Sophie, of who I had once been.

So no. I was not having that. Not when I was with my foster parents, not now, not ever. I would fight whoever it was just to keep my hand firmly on the wheel of my own life.

But I didn't know how to explain all that to Tracey, so I simply shrugged and said: "It's in my nature, I guess."

Which didn't seem to satisfy her, but I guess I had already garnered enough of a reputation as the Slytherin oddball over the last few days that she let it slide.

And that was perhaps why my plan of keeping a low profile had been doomed from the start: because I just couldn't. I hadn't accounted for that need of mine, that almost overbearing necessity of asserting myself, no matter what.

And because I wasn't really an eleven years old kid. Or maybe I was, but I was an uncannily mature one at that, thanks to my fore-memories. So whenever one of my housemates tried to bait or humiliate me on account of my low status, I could simply... let it slide. I didn't get worked up over what at the end of the day were childish insults. My housemates didn't know what to think of me, and I didn't blame them.

And speaking of doomed things, I reached Herbology to discover my puffapod had managed to die over the last two days, its central bulb deflated and starting to decompose already. Professor Sprout handed me some new beans, after giving me some more warnings not to treat the plants so roughly, and taking away two points from Slytherin.

Over the last days —our first two weeks or so at Hogwarts— I had entered into sort of a routine. I went to class together with Tracey —except for Potions, that is— we did our homework at the library —homework which later I also offered to Perks, Goyle, and sometimes Nott and Zabini in exchange of favours, a Galleon here and there, and mostly them not being total arseholes to me— and then Tracey and I had our little tutoring sessions after dinner where we practised spells. We were making good headway there, already ahead of the one Flitwick was currently teaching in class.

But other than that I was on my own: and so I did my best to spend every other minute doing something productive: I'd be either exploring the castle in search of sights I could remember from my fore-memories, taking long walks around the lake while practising my wand movements, reading ahead in the library —I had in fact found those same books that I had been interested in during my visit to Flourish and Blotts— or practising even more spells on my own.

All together I had already mastered the levitation charm and the unlocking charm, the knock-back jinx and the ever so important general counter-spell, that I found in the second year book. I was now working my way through the shield charm: the wand movement was simple enough, but the difficulty with that one —and the reason it wasn't taught to first years, I assumed— was in properly focusing your intention even while you were under attack. And I wouldn't know for sure I was doing it correctly until I used while actually under danger, which was a scary proposition.

All that work was bearing its fruits, though: I shone in Charms —sometimes literally— and Defence, and was already starting to get the beginnings of a budding reputation as someone not to cross wands with. Transfiguration was hard, but most of that came from the underlying theory, which included solving equations to work out which element or shape matched which other. I wasn't used to equations having alchemical symbols or arithmancic runes, but I remembered enough about the fundamentals of solving them that my fore-memories gave me a leg up on the other students my age.

I was competent enough in the other subjects that didn't involve wand-waving: Potions I didn't love, but if you could follow the instructions and be thorough, it wasn't too difficult; plus Hermione was there to ensure I got good grades no matter what. Most of Astronomy so far I already knew from my fore-memories, with the only novelty being the magical effects caused by the planets' movements. History of Magic was soul-crushingly boring, yes, but I'd had other subjects like that in my previous life. So I would simply ignore the teacher and use the time at class to advance my homework. Whatever was required of me to know about History, I could always read from the textbook itself later.

Herbology, though, was the only black mark in my otherwise good record. I hated getting my hands dirty and sticky, the cuts from the thorns, the heat in the greenhouses, the buzzing insects. And the plants, somehow, seemed to return the sentiment: they would puff spores into my face to make me sneeze and get my eyes to tear up, they would dig their roots out rather than stay put, entangle each other's leaves to make it more difficult for me to properly prune them. I wouldn't put it past them to starve themselves to death just to spite me.

But overall, I'd say my main project of getting good at magic was progressing well enough. My other project, that of worming my way into the main storyline events, getting information on what the situation was with Voldemort and Quirrell, and being able to influence Harry Potter and his friends... Well, that was still stuck at zero percent progress.

Hermione should have been the key to unlock that particularly stubborn lock, but she remained determined to give me the cold shoulder. And the only time we spent together was during Potions class, under Snape's ever watchful and unnerving eyes, so I couldn't exactly talk freely to her. She arrived just in time, left just as the class ended —never lingering for even a minute— and generally tried her best to avoid spending with me a second longer than necessary.

So that wasn't working.

I would need to think of some new plan to advance on the Hermione front. Not today, though. Today I had other things on my mind, other plans to enact. More... risky ones, perhaps. But today was one of those very important days, the ones I had pretty much marked in my personal notebook of thoughts about the future, the one I kept buried deep into my trunk —and which I still had to shield in some sort of protective spell.

You see, today was the first day of flying lessons.

So by the time both Gryffindors and Slytherins gathered on the Training Grounds under a clear blue sky I was feeling a mix of apprehension and anxiety at the combined weight of both the plans I had for later in the day, and the fact that I was about to rise in the air sitting on a broomstick what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-these-people?!

I seemed to be the only Slytherin afflicted by the pre-flight shivers, though, which didn't surprise me one bit. I assumed most if not all my housemates would have done some flying with their families already, being of magical heritage; I was probably the only one to which this was a novel experience.

I did see my fear reflected in a pallid Hermione across from me, along with Harry Potter who fidgeted constantly and Neville Longbottom, who looked like he was a hair's breath away from emptying his stomach.

At least I didn't embarrass myself when Madam Hooch instructed us to call for our brooms. I imagined the flimsy-looking thing to be a pet, some exotic breed of dog, and called "Up!" like I would have done when playing with my brother's mutt, back in my fore-memories. The thing leaped up to my hand.

Or well, it leaped almost to my hand. I did have to lean a bit and catch it in the air before it could fall back, but nobody saw that so I still counted it as a win.

We mounted the brooms and Hooch corrected our postures, telling me not to grab the handle so tight, and she was about to give us the go ahead when Longbottom did his thing. He shot up above our heads, slid off the broom, and crashed back into the ground. It had been sort of funny when I saw it in the movie, but hearing the crunchy sound of his bone breaking in real life was a little sickening, actually.

"Shit," I muttered.

"Language!" scolded Hooch, but it was almost an afterthought. She had bigger fish to fry, tending to the boy. They retreated towards the castle, leaving us on our own. Like that was a good idea.

And sure enough...

"Did you see his face...?" started Malfoy.

The argument between Draco and Harry resembled what I could recall, and I let myself relax a bit. I had been bracing for the worst, but it seemed I could simply let it play out: Harry would show off with his newly discovered flying skills and get instantly recruited into the Quidditch team by a shocked McGonagall —who apparently had no qualms bending the rules when it benefited her, the hypocrite.

Not that I was bitter about breakfast.

I relaxed a tad my grip on the broomstick, silently thanking Longbottom for his sacrifice. At least I'd have more time to mentally prepare before having to float in the air myself, precariously keeping my balance lest I wanted to follow his path. But the relief was short-lived, because I noticed that the discussion was ending.

And sure enough, Harry was talking to Weasley about something, and Draco was regaling us —once more— with his own exploits on top a broom; about that time he flown with his family over the channel to visit France.

This was wrong.

We were off-script.

I felt my heart skip a beat, felt that odious sensation of the world tilting on its axis, becoming different. Becoming unpredictable. Uncharted and unchartable. My mouth was suddenly very dry.

What was it? What had changed?

Neville's trinket. That must've been it. He was supposed to drop it, then Draco would pick it up. But he hadn't. Why not? Had Neville not dropped it?

Fuck.

"Sylvia?" whispered Tracey next to me. "You all right? It's okay, you aren't going to fall if you don't panic like that. Just let the broom carry you."

I ignored her words, but something about Tracey was tugging at my attention.

Tracey was next to me.

But she wasn't supposed to be next to me, right? She was only next to me because of our agreement.

And because I was here.

So because I was here, she wasn't standing where she was supposed to be. Which meant Malfoy wasn't standing where he was supposed to stand. None of the Slytherins were.

Which meant...

I took a step forward, my eyes scanning the grass in search of... there! A shiny ball-shaped thing, resting a little to my right. Malfoy hadn't seen it. I walked up to it, picked it up and held it in front of my face, making sure everyone would get a clear view.

And the moment I touched it, the ball turned red.

Uhm. Curious.

"That's Neville's Remembrall," said Harry Potter. "Give it to me."

I turned to look at him, but didn't move to return it. I couldn't just give it back! Not if I wanted everything to happen according to plan. But I also had no experience on top a broomstick, so I couldn't exactly take off and play cat-and-mouse with him myself, not if I wanted to keep my bones in one piece.

Come on Malfoy, what are you waiting for? It's time to be a twat.

But I had to do something. Harry was advancing towards me, hand extended. So I took a couple of steps back and towards the other Slytherins, pretending to examine the trinket. He shot me a look of utter indignation, a look that was also mirrored on Hermione and Ron's faces.

Yeah. This... this shit wasn't going to help me much with that "influence the Golden Trio" project of mine, was it? Hell, this was my first actual interaction with Potter. And now he would only think of me as yet another prick in cahoots with Malfoy.

At least Draco's attention seemed to have returned from wherever it had gone off, because he plucked the Remembrall out of my hand. He said: "Nice find, Sarramond! Here, let's put it somewhere for him to find... How about the top of that tree?"

With that, he climbed atop his broom and shot into the air, followed by Harry despite Hermione's protests. She turned to give me a furious look. I shrugged at her, as if saying 'boys, right? What can you do?' but she wasn't having it.

I sighed. Oh well. At least I got to see Harry fly. It was... something. Malfoy wasn't bad either, having been flying since before he had use of reason probably, but the Boy Who Broomed was clearly a level above that. At times it even looked as if gravity didn't have any hold on him at all, and I wondered if there was more magic than the broomstick's own enchantments involved in that. If he wasn't subconsciously altering physics somehow.

To be completely honest, I couldn't really fault McGonagall for bending the rules to accommodate that. It would be a crime to let it go to waste.

For the rest of us, however, things weren't that exciting. Once both boys had landed and Harry was escorted out, Hooch resumed the class. She had us hover at a short distance above the ground as we flew eight-shaped loops. The first seconds had been alarming, I almost panicking as my feet abandoned the safety of the ground; but soon enough I got used to the feeling of being suspended in mid-air by my crotch.

It even got to be a little boring by the end. Though maybe that was because we weren't doing any tight turns, nor were we so high that I could feel any real sense of vertigo —only about the height of the second floor; so it felt sort of like riding an oddly-shaped bike. But I wasn't looking forward to when Hooch would decide we were ready to be thrown into the deep end, and so I welcomed it when the class finally ended and we were allowed to return to the castle. To its solid flagstone floors, walls, and its ceilings.

I had my chance to make up to Potter and his friends –or friend, since Hermione wasn't part of his little group yet— later that same day, at dinner.

I was finishing my desert pudding when Malfoy returned along with his two minions from his habitual pestering of the Gryffindor table. This time though, he was preening.

"You are preening," I commented.

He pretended he hadn't heard me, talking to Parkinson and Zabini instead: "I just challenged Potter and Weasley to a duel, today at night."

"Oh, Draco!" said Pansy, looking up at him with false adoration. "You simply must let me watch! He doesn't stand a chance."

Zabini, though, seemed more sceptical: "At night? Won't someone hear you? Where will this be?"

Malfoy waved his hand, smirking: "I don't plan to attend; please, I have better things to do. But they have this stupid Gryffindor sense of honour, don't they? So they will be there. I will simply tell that squib Filch and let him go and deal with them himself."

"Consider me impressed, Malfoy," commented Zabini. "That is actually cunning, for once."

"I know! But of course, that is our house strength, after all." Draco leaned back, self-satisfied, not even noticing the barb hidden beneath the taller boy's praise.

I looked at Zabini and gave him a subtle nod; he had an amused glint in his eyes.

I rushed to finish up my pudding after that, making a fairly good impression of Crabbe and Goyle. With a last sip of tea to push it all down, I stood up and moved towards the Great Hall's entrance.

"Wait!" said Tracey, still at the table. "I'm not done yet!"

"Need to go to the loo!" I replied. "I'll see you later!"

I exited the Great Hall, passing by the four hourglasses that tracked house points and leaving its ever-present noise behind for the quiet calm of the Hogwart's corridors. But instead of going ahead and towards the bathroom, I went left and towards the Grand Staircase. I took refuge behind one of the columns right under the ornate stone arch that connected to the corridor, and sat down to wait.

There were a handful of Ravenclaw and Gryffindor students moving about, but it was otherwise empty —and sort of eerie, at night, the staircases projecting long shadows as they rotated on their own under the light of the unnatural braziers, the soft sound of scraping stone filling my thoughts. At some point, one of the ghosts —the Fat Friar— floated upwards and disappeared in the looming darkness up above.

I was nervous. I knew the Slytherins had been told to leave me be —at least, in public, and at least until winter break— and I also knew the homework I traded with Goyle and Perks ended up working its way up the ladder to Malfoy and Greengrass respectively, so they were invested in my not-dying, at least out of pure self-interest. But they were also Slytherins. So I never liked being in a position where a housemate might find me alone and defenceless. Still, while this staircase did indeed connect to the dungeons, it wasn't the fastest route there was to the our common room, and so I hoped if any of my housemates had seen me leave early and decided to hunt me down, they would assume I'd left the usual way.

I bid my time in restless patience, though, and about fifteen minutes later I was rewarded when the first Gryffindors deigned to appear. Still, I waited in the shadows, examining each passing face, until... there!

I stepped out and said: "Oi, Potter!"

It was funny, how both he and Ron did a little jump at my voice. And also heart-warming how Ron shielded Harry with his own body, interposing himself between the both of us wand in hand.

Of course, it wasn't that heart-warming, on account of his bloody wand being aimed at my face.

"You!" said Ron. "What do you want? Come to protect your little boyfriend?"

"My... what?"

"Malfoy, who else? You can turn away now. Tell him we're not calling the duel off, right Harry?"

I felt myself going cross-eyed.

"Malfoy is not my boyfriend... you couldn't be more..." I shook my head, deciding instead to address Potter directly: "I just wanted to apologize for before, on the Training Grounds."

"You should apologize to Neville, not us," said Harry.

"Well, yeah, you can pass it on." I rested my shoulder casually against the wall. At some point in my other life I had watched a nature documentary where they explained how lions react to aggression with more aggression, so if you found yourself in front of a lion —as one does— you should try to act relaxed, and even lie down so as to not provoke them. With no Internet nor Wikipedias, I didn't know if that was true or a mere myth, but it seemed to do the trick with this particular breed of lions, because Ron at least lowered his wand somewhat.

I continued: "I also come bearing gifts, you know, as a... way to make amends? So, I wanted to give you a warning about that duel—"

"So this is all about the duel!" said Ron, "I knew it!"

Very perceptive, Ron. I decided to go for the kill: "The duel is a trap. Malfoy doesn't even plan to attend; he was boasting about how you two would get caught and into trouble if you went."

"He doesn't plan to go?" asked Harry. I almost could see the plain relief in his face.

"That's rubbish, Harry! She's lying. She wants us to miss the duel so that we end up looking like cowards. I mean, just look at her robes! You don't know Slytherins like my family does, but my father says they are all liars and self-ser—, serv—"

I smirked. "Big word, no, Weasley?"

"You slimy git!" he said... aaand his wand was back on me.

Okay, okay... Harry was half-convinced, but I hadn't counted on the younger Weasley and his hate of all things snakish. I'd need to give them something more if I wanted Potter to ever think I could be trustworthy, not to second-guess all I said now and forever. A piece of the honest truth, so to speak.

"You're not wrong, though," I said with a shrug. "I am self-serving. It just so happens that warning you also serves me. It's Malfoy I'm backstabbing here, not you."

"You're betraying... Malfoy?" said Harry, frowning at me as if the mere idea of acting against a housemate was inconceivable. "Why?"

"I have plans, Potter. You see, someday I want to be the Queen of the Snakes; the Black Mamba, if you will, and taking Malfoy down a peg or two would help me loads with that. And I also don't care for this vendetta between the two of you. Don't like it when it affects me, like it did today."

"So you just expect us to believe you, and don't go to the duel?!" asked Ron.

No. I expected them to ignore me and go to the duel anyway. And when they discovered Malfoy wasn't there, they'd see I was telling them the truth all along. So next time I suggested them a course of action they'd be more likely to listen to me. I was playing the long game here.

I shrugged. "That's up to you, no? You've got your warning, so now we're even again. Good luck tonight!"

That seemed to leave the both of them confused, so I seized the chance to step off the wall and walk up to a downward staircase that had just rotated into place. As I started descending towards the dungeons I heard Ron mutter behind me: "I tell you, these Slytherins are all bloody mental."

Chapter Text

That night I didn’t go to sleep. I got into bed, and then simply remained awake, my eyes open to the dorm’s darkness, and waited impatiently until all the other girls had finally fallen asleep, their breathing evening out.

Then, ever so silently, I got up and slipped out of our dorm and into the common room.

The large lobby-like room was deserted at night, and so I could explore it to my heart’s content. I hadn’t been able to spend much time in here —if at all— on account of either Selwyn or his followers always being here doing homework, or torturing puppies or whatever it was they did. The common room was hostile territory, to cross with my head down and at a quick pace.

But now it almost felt welcoming, the way it was softly lit in the warm light cast by the embers in the large fireplace —its magical fire never went out, it simply shifted intensities during the day. And I spent a few minutes walking around, sitting on one of the leather armchairs for a change, and examining the paintings of landscapes at night and old people sleeping.

A towering grandfather clock placed against the side wall told me I still had some time to wait until Harry’s duel was supposed to happen, so I walked up to the grand windows and gazed at the blackness of the lake outside.

Of course, there was nothing to see. With no light at all coming in from outside, the windows’ glass only showed me my own reflection. That of Sylvia, the angular face I was now wearing, the tangly black hair I was by now so accustomed to.

I rested my left hand against the glass; it was cold to the touch, the lake’s chilliness seeping through.

I could imagine all the weight from the lake, all the immense pressure the unthinkable tons of water exerted over that fine pane of glass. And I couldn’t help but feeling a sort of kinship to it, to this window, as weird as that sounded. I imagined I was myself another piece of glass; holding the pressure of the future. The weight of my knowledge, of all the things I could change, all the people I could save. And not only in the Wizarding World, but across the entire Earth. Could I stop wars and terrorist attacks? Could I warn of natural disasters?

And if I didn’t, were all those deaths because of me? Were they my fault now, should I choose not do anything?

I knew the window could only hold the lake back because of its enchantments, because of the help of magic. I wasn’t so sure about myself, though. Was there something else keeping me sane, some bulwark within me I hadn’t noticed so far? Or would it be too much at some point? Would I someday collapse under this weight, simply crumble into myself like a piece of paper?

“Help,” I muttered to the window.

The building, of course, didn’t respond.

So I let out a sigh and stepped away from the lake, turning my gaze at the clock once more. It was time: plans to do, plots to enact.

I gathered my courage, double-checked my wand was in my pocket —and that was one thing I had now that was unarguably better than in my previous life: pockets!— and walked out of the Slytherin common room.

The dungeons at night were chilly. Which wasn’t surprising, because Hogwarts itself was chilly at the best of times; but the dungeons were chilli-er, especially so in my pyjamas. But at least I’d had the foresight to wear my dressing gown on top of them —and also because, as much as I loved my fairies, they were not the best choice of attire for a covert mission. So I just wrapped myself in it and moved forwards as fast as I dared, making use of all those previous years’ accumulated experience when I’d skulked at night while at my foster parents’ or at the Residence.

And there was something I liked about the world at night. Something calming, peaceful. I liked how it all looked familiar and yet so different at the same time, without light and without people. How I could be a different kind of me, a freer one perhaps, not having to watch over what I said and what I did in front of everyone else. Not having to pretend as much.

There was less talking, more doing; a more visceral way of experiencing life. And as a bonus: it was easier to appreciate the details of Hogwarts’ architecture —even if they were only illuminated by the soft glimmer of my wand, the lighting charm at its lowest intensity so as to not wake up the paintings. But the moving shadows put things into relief in a way that just didn’t happen during the day, and that highlighted the decorated archways atop the corridors, the detailing on the statues and the little imperfections, the erosion on the banisters after literal centuries of use.

I ascended towards the ground floor of the castle, at some point having to wait behind a corner for a couple of prefects making their patrol to walk past —they were easy to anticipate, not trying to hide their presence in the slightest as they talked about their favourite Quidditch league team. Up here the corridors and hallways were wider, harder to hide in, so I tried to move as quickly as I dared.

And soon enough I reached my destination by the Entrance Hall. I leaned around the corner to check that it was empty and... jackpot! I rushed forwards towards the door.

You see, tonight was Harry’s duel at midnight. I didn’t know if he and Ron would be in the trophy room or not after my warning, but that changed nothing. Because I knew Draco would have told Filch regardless, so Filch would be there no matter the case.

And if Filch was stalking the trophy room, it meant he wasn’t here; in his office.

Which I was about to raid.

“Alohomora,” I muttered. I was rewarded by the click of the door’s lock unlatching. I pushed the door open smoothly, checked to see the office was indeed empty, and let myself in.

Filch’s office was a small room dominated by his desk. Or maybe it felt small because of how cramped it was: with large wooden cabinets covering three of its walls, an assortment of chains, manacles, and large iron keys hanging from the hooks in the wall. Any free space between or on top the cabinets was filled by crates stacked on top of each other.

“Okay... let’s see... Lumos!” I held my lit wand in my mouth, holding it in place with my teeth as I used both my hands to open cabinet doors and drawers, looking for that one specific item. But I only found stupid stuff: loads of papers and stationery, tools —hammers and a shovel, and some others that looked positively medieval. One of the cabinets was filled to the brim with old clothes and rags.

Come on... where are you... where are you... There! One of the cabinets had a lettering that read: ‘Confiscated and dangerous’.

“Alohomora.” Shit, how many locks...? “Alohomora. Alohomora. Alohomora!”

I eyed the now open four locks with some bewilderment. I mean, it’s not paranoia if they’re really out to steal from you, right? Just... ineffective.

But now I was in. There were loads of interesting items inside the cabinet: fireworks, of course, a broomstick —which I didn’t believe for a minute would be safe to use, if it was stored here— some sort of rope, a quill that was... writing on a piece of parchment? I edged to look at what the words said:

‘—homora. Alohomora!’ said the little thief. The criminal started going through the loot stored in the cabinet, her eyes glinting with greed. She read the parchment written by the Self-Writing Quill. ‘What the...?’ muttered the miscreant. ‘Uhm. Testing? One, two, three,’ she continued. ‘Oh, you’re coming with me!’ she excl—

I placed the quill in one of my dressing gown’s pockets —I figured it was like the one that reporter woman from The Daily Prophet carried– along with a few of the other items: a handful of stink pellets, some of the smaller fireworks, a small metal box with a label that said ‘Sneezing Snuffbox’, a shiny finger ring, plus some of the other various trinkets.

But the one item I really wanted wasn’t here.

“Revelio!” I tried, but to no avail.

So, no Marauder’s Map.

Which sucked, because getting the map into my hands was half the reason I had planned this little outing, even though I’d had my doubts it would still be here. I knew the Weasley twins were supposed to have stolen it from Filch’s office during the first year; I just couldn’t remember if that was their first year or Harry’s first year.

Theirs, apparently.

And this was a spanner in my works, because the map would’ve been a godsend. Something I could’ve exploited the hell out of for two entire years before I’d had to lend it to Harry —which would have also garnered me some favour in his eyes.

And it was wasted on the twins. Yeah, they were more effective pranksters thanks to it, but that was all they were using it for, wasn’t it? I could do so much more with it, even if solely as an excuse for my information, if say... I chose to warn Dumbledore of the presence of one Peter Pettigrew.

Not that I planned to, at the moment; there was just too much risk and too little benefit for that one manoeuvre. It would upend the plot in unpredictable ways, and I didn’t want to underestimate Pettigrew and have him escape ahead of time either. But it was a moot point, since without the map I had no solid way of justifying how I knew the random rat was actually the creepy animagus I knew it was.

Well, nothing to it, I guessed. At least I wouldn’t leave empty handed, I thought as I rummaged through the depths of the cabinet. A good yield for a dishonest night’s work.

The rope looked interesting, even though I had no idea what it would do. But it was simply too heavy and large to hide in a pocket if, say, I happened to run into a sleepless McGonagall or something on my way back. So regretfully I left it behind.

There was also one of those chattering teeth plastic toys. I absent-mindedly picked it up to examine it closer, since I remembered having had one back when I was a child in my previous life; but the moment my fingers brushed it, it leapt out of the cabinet, the teeth clacking as it darted across the office like a small panicked animal, all the while screaming in a shrill loud voice: “Aaaaah!! Heeeelp!! Don’t hurt meeeee!!”

Its noise pierced the night’s silence like an arrow.

“Shut up, you stupid thing! You’ll wake up the entire castle!”

“Nooooo!! Pleeeeease!! Heeeeeeelp!!”

Yeah, time to leg it.

I rushed out of the office, not bothering with closing the door behind me —there was no hiding all that ruckus— and ran across the Entrance Hall and towards the stairs that would take me back to the dungeons.

“Noooooo!!”

I was halfway there when I saw the moving light coming from the nearby corridor. I hid behind one of the columns there and watched as Filch ran towards his office, carrying a lantern to light the way. He didn’t seem to have seen me.

“She is here!” shouted the painting right above my head. It depicted an older gentleman wearing a top hat. “She is hiding right here!”

“You snitch!” I snapped back. But Filch was already turning back towards me, so I ran once more, this time towards the only available exit: one of the twisting staircases that lead up to the second floor. I ran up the stairs two steps at a time.

I raced past door after door and corridors I didn’t know where they led to. All the while with the telltale light of Filch’s lantern just on my heels. At some point, I realized this wasn’t working, since he probably knew the castle in and out, shortcuts included. So I fished one of the items I’d just picked up from the cabinet. The little pouch had a label in what I guessed was the caretaker’s handwriting that said ‘Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder’. I emptied it across the corridor, causing a cloud of black fog to cover it competently.

There goes three Galleons, at least.

It did the trick, though. I managed to pull ahead, then turned and entered the Grand Staircase, finally out of Filch’s sight. I started quickly descending back towards the dungeons when the flight of stairs I was standing on suddenly started rotating, repositioning itself so that it now led towards another flight that headed upwards.

Damn it. The dungeons are downstairs, not up!

I had no choice but to follow the stupid stairs up, though. Well, I could always try jumping to a lower level; but that wasn’t just risky, it was potentially suicidal.

And soon enough I wished I’d taken that broom from the cabinet, dangerous or not. Because yeah, the Grand Staircase took me straight to the third floor. Because of course it did.

I shook my head and let out a tired sigh.

It was okay, though. Or at least that’s what I told myself. The castle was large, and I wasn’t that close to the forbidden corridor. Plus, if Filch had had time to return to his office, that meant the Gryffindors were probably well on their way towards their own common room by now.

If they didn’t heed my warning, that is. Maybe they listened to me and stayed home tonight. And that would be me changing the plot, but I didn’t mind it too much. Without Quirrell in the castle that side of the plot was pretty much out of whack anyway, and so I was willing to sacrifice what remained of it if that meant getting Harry to listen to my advice in the future. But it had also been a calculated risk, because I pretty much expected them to not have taken my words at face value, which meant it was likely they had been around these parts not too long ago.

I just had to move slowly and keep an eye out for more surprises, that’s all. Forget about the Grand Staircase, I would instead make my way towards the Ravenclaw tower and then descend using the spiral stairway there; that one at least behaved like rational architecture.

A few minutes later I was finally starting to relax when I heard it. It sounded like a whimper, like sniffing, coming from the hallway to my left.

I paused, not sure of what to do. Like, the Ravenclaw tower was right there. Right there!

Of course, curiosity won out in the end, and so I slowly approached the source of the sounds, wand in hand. There was some moonlight coming through the windows along the wall, so at least I didn’t need to cast a lighting charm.

Sod it. Why not, Sylvia? Stick your nose into the obvious complication. What could possibly go wrong?

I crept along the wall to discover... a house-elf? Well, it was a small creature dressed in rags and with comically large ears, so I guessed that’s what it —he, she?— was. Whatever their gender they were sitting on the floor, crying. And... was that blood? What the hell?

It painted an odd picture, the little creature bathed in the eerie silvery moonlight, the blood in their ill-fitting tunic catching the eye. And, I guessed I must have made some movement, or perhaps those ears weren’t just for show; because the house-elf turned to face me, quickly lifting themselves with a brisk jump.

“Master said no one was to see Squeeble!” he moaned. “Not teachers and not studentses, he said!”

“Erm... hello?” I tried, approaching him slowly and with my hands visible, like you would a panicking child.

“Squeeble is seen! Squeeble is seen!”

“Well... you know... technically, I didn’t see you. I heard you first.”

He let out another crying fit, grasping and tugging at his tunic with both hands. “Master is right! Squeeble is a poor excuse of an elf!”

“Shh... don’t be so loud. Who is your—”

But he simply disapparated away with a ‘pop’ before I could even finish the sentence. Rude.

I was about to walk away when I saw a glint out the corner of my eye. I walked up to the spot where the elf —Squeeble, apparently— had been sitting not a minute ago and examined it. There was a metal key on the floor. What, had he left it behind?

I picked it up, turning it under the moonlight. There were no marks nor any symbols or words engraved on its milky white surface.

Oh well.

I pocketed it, and went back towards the dungeons. This was enough excitement for one night.

At least the Ravenclaw staircase was empty of people, Gryffindors, prefects, caretakers and house-elves alike. And so I had no more tense encounters as I descended and crossed back the ground level to finally return to the Slytherin common room. I entered our dorm in complete silence, stored haphazardly my dressing gown —with all of tonight’s loot— in my trunk, and climbed back into bed.

“Sylvia?” whispered Tracey Davis from the bed next to mine. “You were gone.”

“I had to pee.”

“You were gone for more than an hour.”

“I had a lot of pee. Go back to sleep, Tracey.”

She gave me an annoyed harrumph, but turned in her bed without any more comments, and soon enough her breathing betrayed her to be asleep once more.

I placed my wand back under my pillow, and ran my fingers once more across the smooth surface of the odd little key the elf had dropped. I felt asleep wondering what it could open, although I already had some ideas of what it might be.

The next morning, after all that stress and excitement from the previous day I wanted nothing but to eat my toast in peace and silence. We had History of Magic first hour, something which I deeply approved of, seeing as it would be my chance to recover some of my lost sleep.

The universe seemed determined to ignore my —pretty reasonable— desires, though. Call it Karma if you will.

First it was Malfoy, who spent the breakfast making annoying noises about Ron and Harry still being at Hogwarts despite his warnings to Filch. He then went on and on about his father being in the Board of Governors, and how he was going to make sure the two Gryffindors would never set foot in the castle again. The only bright point of all that was that —looking at the mix of tiredness and excitement in Harry’s face— I heavily suspected they had pretty much ignored my warning. Which served me well, since by now they would know for sure I had been telling them the truth the day before. So one point in my favour.

This bright point didn’t last long, though, as the owls arrived soon after that, one of them carrying the replies for me from both St. Mungo’s and the French Ministry. They were two very polite letters telling me that they had no idea of what in the world I was talking about, and that no, that weird surname of mine wasn’t in any of their records. The lady from St. Mungo’s even gave me the oh-so-very-helpful suggestion of asking the Ministry of Magic.

I must have been a bit too careless in my discouragement, because at some point Bulstrode of all people put hands in my letter from St. Mungo’s and gave it to Parkinson, who said with false commiseration: “Oh, no... Are you having trouble finding if your family was magical, Sarramond? Perhaps... perhaps that is because they weren’t? Do you think that could be the reason?...”

And because I was feeling more annoyed than witty that morning, I replied by accidentally knocking her pumpkin juice all over her cereal, and saying: “Oops.”

“You filthy mudblood!” she started. “You are going to—”

“Really? Are we going to do this here in public, after what Prefect Farley said? Do you need reminding?”

That took the wind out of her sails, but she said in an ominous tone: “Farley isn’t going to save you come winter break... if you even make it that far.”

“If I make... is that a threat, Pansy? You threatening me?”

She had the audacity of looking surprised: “Threat—? Oh, why would you think that? You are now in polite society, you see; not in a... a Muggle orphanage! There is no need to act like—”

“Yeah, right. Perhaps you should give her the etiquette lessons instead,” I said, pointing at Bulstrode next to her, whose nose sported a stain of blueberry jam.

I pretty much ignored the two girls after that point. I wasn’t really worried about them: Bulstrode lacked initiative and Parkinson lacked courage to do anything more than needling me. As long as I kept it to spoken barbs and insults, and avoided escalating the fight, I should be safe from them.

Of course, it didn’t escape me that knocking her drink down pretty much qualified as escalating. But what could I say: I’d never been that good at toeing lines.

And then there was Tracey.

I had hoped she’d have forgotten about my little escapade the previous night, but then one of our second year housemates mentioned: “You should avoid Filch today. I heard someone ransacked his office last night and he is proper miffed.”

After that, the girl’s face transformed into a scowl.

But what did she expect? We weren’t really friends, we just had an agreement, with very defined bounds. So why would she expect me to involve her in any of my other plans and ventures?

Because she was bloody eleven, of course. Because there’s only so much pretending she could do before she started catching feelings.

And because she was alone, other than for me.

I guess in a different world she could’ve ended up getting along with Sally-Anne Perks, falling into Greengrass’ orbit like the other girl had, becoming her glorified handmaid. But instead she had visibly aligned herself with me, just by virtue of sitting by my side at class. And because I was toxic, the rest of our house also shunned her by extension. She should have anticipated that, of course; but again: she was eleven.

She at least was mature enough to know that I didn’t owe her any explanations, but not enough to prevent her own feelings from showing through. So for the rest of the morning I had my very personal grey cloud of rain following me whenever I went: to History of Magic, to Transfiguration...

Tracey was also my only ally, because I was failing at finding new in-roads with the other Slytherins in my year. My little homework-sharing scheme had been successful enough to buy me some acceptance from my first year peers, but it hadn’t evolved into anything other than strictly academical. They tolerated me well enough, but didn’t really include me in their activities or conversations, nor they considered me one of their own. It didn’t help that I didn’t have the option of socializing with them in the common room.

The better path to advance in that front was through Greengrass, but she was too neutral for that, and I had the feeling she wouldn’t show any open support towards me while Selwyn had me in his cross-sights. Perks I could attempt to steal from Greengrass’ side —and I suspected she would probably enjoy being with me and Tracey much more than being subservient to Daphne’s wishes— but that would for sure turn the little princess against me, so better not to do that. And as for Zabini... he seemed to like me well enough, but I doubted he would ever lift a finger to help anyone other than himself.

So I had hit a glass ceiling in Slytherin, so to speak. At least for the time being. If I wanted to grow my circle of influence, I needed to look elsewhere.

Which was why that particular afternoon found me entrenched in the library —behind a Jenga tower of books that rose about a foot or so over my head— even when I didn’t have any actual homework to work on, and it wasn’t one of the two days that Tracey Davis had to spend with me. It also gave me some relief from her scowl, so yeah.

Not that I was idling my time away. I was reading ‘A Comprehensive History of British Magical Families: Genealogy and Achievements’, and pretty much scanning page after page in search of any surname that started with an ‘S’ and sounded even vaguely like mine.

“Solomon Sweetingwater... no. Sherwood Swindonhurst... no. Sophronia of Snowdonia... no, and wow did your parents hate you...”

Because it wasn’t enough to try to learn magic while preventing a war from starting early, no, of course not. I also had to deal with the sword of a psychopathic Damocles hanging over my head. And to be fair, the letters I got that morning had rekindled the fire on me to find a way to solve this thing already.

I’d need to ask about for a way to send a letter to the Muggle world. I’d considered asking Snape, on account of him being technically my head of house, but I’d rather try first finding the information on my own —asking other students, that is— before bothering him. And that was also a problem, because there were no Muggleborns in Slytherin, so I’d need to ask people of the other houses. And I guessed a random Slytherin approaching people to ask if they happened to be Muggleborns could end up raising some alarms.

Hermione would know, though. Probably. There had to be a way for her to keep in contact with her parents, right?

And as if on cue...

“Oh! Of course it is you!”

I rose my eyes to meet the young girl standing in front of me, her arms crossed over a bag, her whole body posture radiating annoyance.

“Hello Granger! Anything I can help you with?”

“Don’t you pretend to– ugh! Did you seriously take out every single copy of ‘Extreme Incantations’ in the entire library?”

My gaze followed hers to land on the towering pile of books on my table. I shrugged.

“Oh. I did, didn’t I? How silly of me.”

“And you have five– no, six copies of ‘Intermediate Transfiguration’ here! I was looking for that one too.”

I waved magnanimously at the free chair across from me. “Be my guest.”

“Why?!” she asked me in a scathing tone, that turned into an angry whisper when she remembered where we were. “Why are you doing this? It must have taken quite some time. Does irritating people amuse you so much?”

“Well, yes? But that’s not why I did it. I’m actually starting a club. Congrats by the way, you’re the first member! After me, that is.”

“A... club?”

“Yes. You know how at university they have all those student clubs and such? Well, I thought I could start one here. More of a study group, though. But only for the brightest students in our year. I don’t know about you, but sometimes it’s hard to find people in my house who also like reading ahead...”

Yeah, I was shamelessly tugging at her heartstrings. But it seemed to work well enough, because even though she was still annoyed, I could tell she also didn’t want to be excluded from a club literally for the smartest people at Hogwarts. She glared at me, but in the end she placed her bag down on the table, extracted the two books from the pile —not with little difficulty— and sat down in a huff.

Victory!

“The books are the bait,” I explained, because I was just dying to share my totally genius plan with someone. “Like, if you want to catch flies, you use honey. So if you want to catch brainy students, you use...”

“Books,” she grumbled.

“Ah, but not just any books! These are the ones who aren’t needed for homework, but that the professors mentioned for those of us who wanted to read in advance, or learn more than what will be covered in–”

“Yes, very clever. But now that I’ve finally found a copy of ‘Extreme Incantations’ I’d like to read it in silence.”

I nodded in acquiescence and closed my mouth. I had to be careful now. The trap had worked, but I didn’t want to annoy her to the point she would simply walk away with the tomes in her bag. And I wasn’t sure if the club thing would actually work, in fact. After all, Hermione was always pictured as the nerdiest of all the students, so perhaps she’d turn out to be the only one going after these particular books.

My fears were allayed not too long after, when two Ravenclaw students approached the table. “Hi,” said the taller one. “Can I borrow one of those?”

I guess my expression was one of extreme smugness, because Hermione rolled her eyes as I turned to the Ravenclaws saying: “Be my guest...”

But I could tell she liked my idea, because soon enough she stopped reading in silence to introduce herself to the other two, who had taken seats around our table. And just like that a lively conversation started, to the point that we had to ask forgiveness to Madam Pince after she threatened us with detention. It was probably a welcomed relief for Hermione, a respite from the isolation she must’ve been going through at Gryffindor.

Also a respite for me, from my own isolation at Slytherin, if I was being honest here.

We ended up with five people in the group, me included: Hermione, the two Ravenclaws —Anthony Goldstein and Michael Corner— and Susan Bones from Hufflepuff.

We did receive one last unexpected visit, not long before we had to leave for dinner: that of Blaise Zabini.

He approached and looked at me, then at the now diminished tower of books, then at the group of four siting around the table. I could almost see the gears turning inside his head, and the moment they snapped into place a second later, a fox-like grin blooming across his face.

“Oh... what webs we weave?”

“Piss off Zabini, a beehive can only have one queen,” I said.

He tutted, grabbed a book from the pile, did a lazy mock reverence to me, and sauntered away.

I shrugged off the others’ curious stares. “Believe me, it’s better this way.”

We hashed out some basic rules for our little group: we would meet here once a week to study together, or discuss book recommendations. Bones insisted we invited more people, but the Ravenclaws and I were reluctant. In the end we agreed other people could join as long as they were vetted by the rest.

It was a good catch, Susan Bones, and well worth the compromise. I didn’t remember the exact details, but I knew someone from her family was some sort of high ranking official at the Ministry, which was always a useful connection to have.

And now I have become Slughorn, the snatcher of talent.

Chapter Text

Tracey Davis waited two weeks and until we were both at sixty feet above the ground before she decided to confront me, which I figured pretty much vindicated the Sorting Hat putting her into Slytherin in the first place.

The two of us were alone, perched on our respective brooms and flying lazily under a foreboding dark and cloudy sky that threatened rain, a chilly wind tugging at my robes, trying to get at my eyes —protected behind my sunglasses— and freezing my hands to the point I had almost lost all feeling in my fingers. Or maybe that was because I couldn't help but grip the broom as if my life depended on it —which it pretty much did!— Something that no amount of gently coaching by Tracey seemed able to change.

Flying was one of those wizarding things she was better at than me —vertigo was very common with Muggleborns, she had said, not unkindly; so this time it was her tutoring me. I had argued at first against the need to be so high up, but she countered that this way nobody on the ground would see our faces and know we were first years. With the Quidditch season just around the corner they'd simply assume we were players ourselves doing some sort of training exercise in our own free time.

Of course, that was if they didn't notice my own wobbly and erratic flying and wonder just which of the houses would have a player who liked making pretty accurate impressions of a bumblebee's flight. But hey, maybe they'd just think I'd had one too many firewhiskeys.

Privately I suspected the true reason she wanted us all the way up here was because Madam Hooch never allowed us to be any higher than the second row of windows on the Bell Tower. So this was Tracey's little rebellion of sorts, then. One that afforded us an unparalleled view of the lake, the ominous Forbidden Forest to our left, the little town of Hogsmeade, and the expansive lush valley that surrounded the grounds of the castle, fading into the foggy distance.

Besides, it's not like what we were doing was strictly forbidden. It was more a case of a legal grey area: they simply assumed as first years we just wouldn't have any access to brooms outside of Flying class so there was no need for an explicit prohibition. But Tracey knew where Hooch liked to store the school brooms, and I knew the unlocking charm; so here we were.

"I just don't get it," I was saying. "Why do this when you can just Apparate instead. That's a much better way of travel."

"Not everyone can Apparate, and brooms are considered safer than Apparition."

"That's rubbish! You can't fall to your death when Apparating."

"You can splinch yourself to death. But it will be years before we can Apparate, anyway. How are you going to travel in the meantime if you don't learn to ride a broomstick?"

"There's the Floo network," I replied, wisely.

"Do you have a Floo at that Muggle orphanage? Try leaning a bit more to your right."

"Not an orphanage, and we don't even have a fireplace, so no. What about portkeys?"

"Can you make one?"

"No. But how hard can it be?"

"My mother says it's harder than Apparating. Now sit up to slow down again."

"A car, then. A Muggle car, enchanted to fly and turn invisible."

She turned to look at me with an odd expression. "Where are you going to find something like that?"

"I'm resourceful. I bet I can find one in the wild, sometime in the future."

"The Ministry would confiscate it if you did. There's a department for misuse of Muggle objects, you know."

"Well, then I will just take the bloody Knight Bus!"

"You better not let anyone in Slytherin hear that's how you get around, if you do."

I shrugged, as much as I could with my stiff muscles. "One of the advantages of not having any reputation worth a damn in our house. I don't need to protect it."

She laughed. "Are there any other advantages?"

"Oh, yes; I get invited to all the Gryffindor parties!"

"Parties at night? Or with that group you have in the Library?"

And there it was.

She had asked it nonchalantly, but I still noticed the tension beneath her words, a mix of jealously and annoyance. As if I was leaving her behind.

Which I was entitled to do. After all, she did spend time in our common room doing who knows what, a place that was pretty much still verbotten to me.

I leaned forward, my broom gaining some speed, the cold wind hitting my face and ruffling my hair.

I could've argued about that, about how if anybody here should be jealous, that should be me. Jealous of how she would always be a step above me in the Slytherin totem pole no matter how good my grades got or how much I excelled with a wand in my hand, simply by virtue of her birth; jealous of how she could slip past the junior death eaters' notice, taking only a lazy jab here and there; jealous of how she'd had a toy broom when she was an infant and so now she didn't have any vertigo when flying.

Or jealous of how she still had a fucking family waiting for her at home.

But I didn't want to ruin our relationship, so I decided to put it in different terms instead:

"I didn't think you wanted me to include you. It wasn't in our deal. Besides, the more time you spend with me, the more the others will–"

"I know that!" she snapped back, easily overtaking me and then arresting the forward motion of her broom as she turned to face me, forcing me to stop. Nice manoeuvrer, by the by. "You think I don't know that?"

"Do you, really?" I couldn't help my voice becoming harsher. "Because it can get bloody lonely, you know."

"It's already lonely," she admitted. "They all ignore me anyway, so what's the difference?"

"The difference is Selwyn."

That at least seemed to give her pause, and we did a full loop of the Training Grounds wrapped in a meditative silence.

"How is that going? The Muggleborn stuff?" she asked at last.

The 'Muggleborn Stuff' had become our codeword for that little quest of mine of figuring out what my origins were. Or more accurately, of coming up with an excuse Selwyn would find good enough not to murderize me on the spot come winter break.

"No records of my surname in the Wizarding World," I summarized my findings. "And not much luck from the Muggle side of things either: I managed to get a letter to my Residence thanks to Michael Corner, who told me about the postbox near Filch's office. Turns out there is a police incident file with–"

"Police?"

"Muggle Aurors. Someone called them because there was some man walking across a golf course in Epping with baby me in arms. They said he was in a daze or something, and repeating my surname again and again. But of course, he disappeared before the police could identify him or interrogate him. Apparently 'Sylvia' isn't even my real first name! It was the police officer who came up with it, I guess because they had to write something down into the form."

"Disappeared or disapparated? Because that sounds–"

"Suspicious as all hell? Yeah I know, but that's the thing: there's no more thread to pull. The Muggles don't know who this was, there isn't even a physical description; and it's been so long they aren't looking anymore. So unless he decides to do me a favour and come out of the woodwork, I'm stuck."

She remained in silence for a beat, then said: "They could've been obliviated."

"The Muggle police? Yeah, I thought of that. But that doesn't change anything; whatever they knew about this bloke is lost anyway."

Although, now that I thought of that... wouldn't the Ministry keep records? If those were Aurors who did it, there would exist some paper trail, wouldn't it?

Food for thought. In the meantime I asked something that had been on my mind for a while: "Do you think I could simply... ask for the Ministry to test my blood or something?"

She shook her head. "No. That's... the Ministry doesn't test for blood status, I don't think. That's just not done."

"Hmm... what about Gringotts?"

"Gringotts? Why would they? They're goblins, they don't care about that."

I... had my own doubts about it, but opted not to challenge her on that point. I hadn't even been inside the bank, after all.

Tracey continued: "But... perhaps Nott..."

"Not what?"

"Nott. Theodore Nott."

"What about him?"

Her look was that of a self-satisfied cat. "I'll tell you... if you tell me what you stole from Filch."

I sighed. "You don't need to make it into a deal, Tracey. If you are sure you want in, I will just tell you."

"I want in."

"Okay. Well... fireworks, some cards, stink pellets, and other stuff I'm not sure what it is. I can show you later. I planned to sell most of it to the Weasley twins; if there's something you like you can keep it if you help me with that. So... what's it about Nott?"

"Just that it was some relative of his who wrote that book about the sacred bloodlines. The one all those pure-blood families have? And they are a very old family themselves, very obsessed with this. So you know... maybe they'll have some sort of secret source on magical lineages? Or a test of some sort?"

"Oh, that book," I said. I had forgotten about that particular detail. "That's... that's brilliant, Tracey."

"Great! Now let's go back to see your loot," she turned her broom on the spot and shot herself downwards, all the way shouting: "Race you to the ground!"

"Race–? Hey, not fair! Wait!"

We met the Weasley twins at the Transfiguration Courtyard the day after, protected from the soft rain under the arches that covered its walkways. We were deep into Autumn by now and the courtyard's ground was carpeted in shed leaves, all yellows and browns. I could feel how it was already getting colder by the day, and I definitely wasn't looking forward to spending the winter months in the Scottish Highlands.

The twins stopped their chattering among themselves the moment they saw us approaching. Tracey had intercepted one of them during lunch at the Great Hall earlier to tell them to be here, and that we had some stuff to offer them. They now looked at us —but mostly at the bulky bag Tracey carried with her— with curious, if not hungry interest. One they tried to hide behind easy smiles and relaxed postures.

"It seems like I owe you five Sickles, Fred," said one of them. "It's not a Slytherin trap after all."

"It's not everyday that you find two snakes with honest intentions," the other commented, observing the two of us.

"But they can't be so honest, can they? If that bag has what we think it has."

"Only the best quality in forbidden items," I said, joining their game of verbal sparring. "Now in offer for the discerning buyer."

They flashed me identical smiles; but I had mixed thoughts about the twins. It was one thing to read about their pranks in a book or see their exploits in a movie; it was another thing entirely to see them in real life, without the safety net afforded by being on the right side of the TV screen. Especially because Slytherin students tended to be their favourite target for their pranks, which had garnered them quite the negative reputation in my house. I hadn't seen them crossing the line into bullying yet, but sometimes they liked to walk right up to it.

I didn't mind it so much when they went after someone like Flint —who pretty much was a colossal arsehole in desperate need of some sweet karmic justice. But they had also pranked Adrian Pucey —which I judged to be a pretty decent human being, for a Slytherin— with some sort of jinx that had him leaking sweat for an entire morning. Which wouldn't have been so bad, except that apparently all that perspiration came out of his body for realsies, because he ended up spending the night in the Hospital Wing due to dehydration.

And besides, they were third years, which meant they were a full head taller than me or Tracey, and with much more magical expertise. So it was with a little trepidation that I approached them and signalled her to show them the contents of our bag. At least, I reminded myself, I hadn't seen them go after any first years before.

Which didn't mean it hadn't happened, of course. Just that I hadn't seen it.

The bag contained the entirely of my loot, except for the Self-Writing Quill —which I was keeping for myself— and a few of what Tracey had told me were Hiccough Sweets from Zonko's, which we had opted to keep and share because apparently they also worked in reverse —stopping a hiccough fit if you already had one.

The rest was presented in full to the two brothers, who looked like Christmas had come early this year.

"–and that's an Ever-Bouncing Boggle Ball!"

"Look, George! Isn't that our Chameleon Ring? The one Filch confiscated?"

"A Chameleon Ring?" asked Tracey, suddenly interested. "What's that?"

"Yeah," I added, eyeing the ring that I hadn't tried myself —I knew better than to put on unknown magical rings; I liked my fingers too much for that. "Does it turn you invisible? Because if it does, then it's not for sale."

"No, look." Fred took the ring before I could stop him and put it on one of his fingers. I didn't see any visible changes, but then his tongue shot out —all four feet of it— grabbed one of the dungbombs resting on the ground between us, and rolled back to drop it in his hands.

"Eww... it's definitely for sale," said Tracey. I nodded in agreement.

"For sale? But it was our ring," said George. "It was just temporarily lost."

I shrugged. "Consider it a finder's fee, then."

"And where did you find all this?" teased Fred with a knowing look in his eyes.

"Oh, just an old cabinet," I said, distractedly.

"One with four locks?"

"And many boxes piled on top?" added George.

"Inside a certain office?"

I shrugged: "I admit nothing."

"Fred, I dare say we found Filch's mysterious thieves. And they are first years! Who does that remind you of?"

"It looks like someone is following on our footsteps, dear brother!"

Not really. I wasn't interested in their pranks gimmick at all. This was all just a means to an end for me: selling this stuff and getting some Galleons. And if I could also get me one or two versatile magical items in the process, well, I wasn't opposed to that.

Of course, I stayed silent. Let them believe what they wished, as long as it helped at getting them to see me in a positive light, beyond the green trimmings on my robes.

"Very well," said Fred at last. "We are interested. We can trade you some of our own not-so-legal stuff."

I paused. That, that was an opportunity I hadn't considered before. Could I simply trade all of this for the Marauder's Map? That would be brilliant, if so. Of course, I couldn't simply mention it myself, or they'd wonder how exactly it was that I knew about it.

"Do you have anything interesting?" I asked instead.

"Oh, not just anything. We have everything!"

"We have Mimic Mints, a Whopie Cushion, Giggling Gums..."

"...a Sneakoscope, Frog Spawning Soap, Glow-worm Lollipops..."

"...Squeaking Shoes, a Petrifying Pillow, a Hovering Hat..."

The image came unbidden, completely out of the blue. One moment I was looking at the two red-headed boys playfully boasting about their many pranking tools, the next it simply... hit me.

It was an image from the movie: Fred Weasley's dead body resting on Hogwart's flagstone floors, broken pieces of masonry laying around. Her mother, Molly, kneeling and crying next to him. Devastated, broken herself. Except that in the image I saw, the face was not that of the original actor; it was the face of the boy in front of me.

Older perhaps, his cheeks harsher, less full. But also grey, expressionless. His eyes open and void. Without any of the life of this Fred, without any of the laughter. Without the easy smile.

And it was my fault.

"... a jar of Bubble Bees, Screaming Yo-yos... hey, are you good?"

I rose my hands to my head, maybe to try and stem the sudden tide of emotion, maybe to try and cover my eyes. Because suddenly I just couldn't look at Fred's face.

"Sylvia?" Tracey's voice seemed to come from behind some far away wall.

"N–no..." I replied, my voice weak. What I was replying to I didn't know. "I, I have to–"

I rose up and rushed towards the open ground, suddenly in a desperate need for more air, fresher air. A despairing need to not be there any longer, to not remain in front of him. The cold rain hit my face, but it just wasn't enough. It wasn't strong enough to cleanse that image out of my mind. Nothing was. An image I pretty much didn't want in me. I wanted it out. Out. OUT! GET OUT!

I bent down and quickly lost my lunch.

I was left gasping and dry heaving, my body feeling very weak out of a sudden, my robes heavy and soaking wet with the rainwater, as if weighting me down.

_{“Is she okay?”}

_{“I don’t know? She ate all that pudding after lunch...”}

I shook my head. This was stupid.

Stupid.

Was this what I was going to do starting now? Break down anytime I saw someone I knew would die if I didn't do anything to stop it? There were just too many people for that: Fred would die, sure. But so would Cedric Diggory. Snape would die too. Dumbledore would die. Shit, even bloody Crabbe —or was it Goyle?— would die.

People died. If I couldn't deal with that, I might as well do as Selwyn wished and go back to the Residence right now, because it certainly wouldn't get any better.

And besides, who knew what could happen if I tried to intervene now, so early in the story? Maybe I would save Fred, yes, but cause George to die in some sort of freak accident that should never have happened. What if trying to prevent Voldemort's return totally backfired on me and I caused a never-ending reign of magical terror across Britain?

Yeah, now that would suck.

I didn't need to torture myself, though. Most of the deaths I cared about happened by the end of the books. So I had time. Fred had time. I would warn him ahead of the Battle of Hogwarts, if we both made it that far. It's the least I could do.

And as much as anyone could ask of me, really. Because what right did anybody have to demand any more than that? To demand I be a hero? To sacrifice myself, to risk it all for them?

Nobody had that right.

Nobody.

I paced back towards the little group. I first tried to keep my focus to only George, but his face was so similar to Fred's that it didn't help much, so I resorted to keeping my gaze down and on the items we were bartering away. "Sorry," I said, giving up on the Marauder's Map. It hadn't been on their list so far, and it was simply too naive to believe they'd trade away a unique marvel like that. "Can we finish up here? I'm feeling a bit under the weather. We'll just take Galleons for all this."

"What about the Sneakoscope?" said Tracey. "It spins to warn you of threats, could be useful."

We were Slytherins living in the Slytherin dorms next to Parkinson and Bulstrode, with Selwyn and his little group always in the neighbourhood. It was probably going to spin itself into smithereens. But you know what? Okay, fine. I didn't feel like discussing anything at the moment.

"The Sneakoscope then, the rest in Galleons."

We completed the transaction —which netted me a total of eight Galleons and five Sickles; I allowed Tracey to keep the Sneakoscope— when she took a look at my still trembling hands and all but dragged me towards the Hospital Wing, ignoring my feeble protests that I was feeling perfectly fine and didn't want to be late for Potions.

"You are going to ruin your ingredients and do a Longbottom if you go like this," she said, which was probably accurate. Not that I'd ever admit it.

It would have been endearing, how intensely she was taking this whole 'being friends' thing, if it didn't mean losing one of my rare opportunities to spend some quality time with Hermione and slowly convince her I wasn't a devil incarnate. The two weeks of the Read-Ahead Club –as Michael Corner had nicknamed it, I much preferred 'The Order of the Hydra' but I'd been outvoted— had helped in that front, with her finally being able to relax around me enough to throw herself deep into the whispered discussions about which of all the advanced Charms were more interesting to study on your own, and which were better to wait for next year.

And yeah, she might have some know-it-all tendencies, and perhaps liked a bit too much to dominate the discussions, but so did the rest of the little group I'd gathered; so no one really faulted her for it, focusing mostly on countering her arguments rather than getting on her case for being too overbearing. I figured it would be a welcome reprieve from her treatment at her own house.

It was one for me, too, if I was being honest. I liked to act like none of the put-downs I received daily from my own housemates affected me, like I was a statue made of the strongest marble and nothing ever stained me, the taunts simply slipping off my impregnable skin; and in a sense it might've been true. I knew that had I been just the eleven year old I appeared to be, it would have crushed my spirits, but my fore-memories afforded me a wider picture, a more mature outlook that helped me put the childish abuse into context.

However, I was discovering quantity had a quality of its own, and being disparaged daily for the littlest of transgressions to proper Wizarding etiquette was starting to get bothersome. As were the cultural references that eluded me. No, I didn't know what Maledictus meant, where Upper Flagley was or why it was so evident that the Tutshill Tornados were the better team in the British Quidditch League. In fact, Tracey had tried explaining me the Quidditch rules two times by now, and I was still baffled by them.

At least with the Library group I was free to ask for clarification without losing status —and if I didn't want to ask, I could count on Hermione's curiosity and subtly put on her path whatever it was I had doubts about, so that she would ask in my stead. The others were specially fond of explaining us the more obscure points of Wizarding society, too, as if we were doing them a favour by way of being uncultured in their customs.

So by now Hermione didn't actively hate me, and was merely neutral towards me. I guessed it also helped that I hadn't visibly gone after any other Gryffindors, and she hadn't witnessed me doing anything she considered dishonest. But I was at a merely acquaintance level with her, and so still a long way to go until she started to actually trust me beyond the basics of homework tips and collaborative Potion-brewing.

In the end I had to admit defeat and let Tracey have her way, because I wasn't feeling like fighting her on this and risk losing her brand new friendship; and it wasn't like I was really looking forward to spend my afternoon under Snape's overbearing nose, all the while wrapped in my now cold robes, dripping water.

It wasn't enough for Tracey that I agreed to go, though. I guess by now she knew me too well, because she essentially escorted me to the Hospital Wing's doors and only left after Madam Pomfrey had me under her own wing and I'd told her some lies about my stomach being upset ever since lunch.

Madam Pomfrey was kind enough to dry my robes and hair with some charm I definitely needed to learn, guided me to one of the many empty beds and then went back to her office to rummage through her collection of potions.

I sat on the bed —with one leg folded under my body, the other hanging off— and examined the large ward with distaste: it was almost empty —only one other student, an older Gryffindor with a bandaged leg that was reading a book and pretty much ignoring me. But the Hospital Wing reminded me too much of the Intensive Care Unit I'd visited in my previous life, when my father had his accident. Madam Pomfrey's little kingdom within Hogwarts was similarly laid out: rows of beds separated by privacy curtains, and there was a similar attention to cleanliness and orderliness that contrasted with the rest of the castle. Only here there were none of those beeping machines, and the different smells that drifted in the air weren't chemical in nature.

I grouchily had to admit that the tall windows letting in the afternoon light were also a nice touch; one I'd have appreciated way more had today not have been a cold, rainy misery of a day, the only light coming through casting the room in a grey gloom.

"I told you my stomach was upset," I protested when the matron returned with my potion, some sort of dark mystery liquid contained in a small cylindrical bottle. "Now you want me to drink something that smells of cat piss?"

Pomfrey's face was unamused: "Stop whining and drink it, it will make you feel better."

"You know what? It must be working already, because all of a sudden I don't feel that bad anymore."

"Your hands are still trembling, and you still look like you just saw a Boggart. Now, don't make me take out my wand. Just drink it all and then you can rest on the bed for a while."

I had a moment of impulsive, suicidal curiosity about what exactly Pomfrey would do if I forced her to 'take out her wand'. Would she jinx me? Paralyse me while she poured the little bottle's horrid contents down my throat? Did she herself even know? Her no-nonsense attitude and commanding tone was probably enough for most students, so I doubted she'd ever had to actually take out her wand on anyone before.

Sure, I was pretty much procrastinating, my shaky hands holding the concoction as I wondered about the sort of ingredients Snape had us students use: beetle wings and larvae, hair, slugs and all kinds of disgusting secretions. I'd never made the quite obvious connection that the unholy stuff we made our class potions out of, was actually the same unholy stuff that also went into real world potions.

Real world potions... as if that wasn't a crazy thought in and of itself.

"Ahem," said Pomfrey, still very much next to me, her arms crossed as she waited.

"Don't hurry me. You know, this is actually the first potion I ever drink. I want to... ah, savour the moment."

That seemed to soften her marginally. "It's easier if you don't hesitate. Just drink it all in a single gulp."

"Like a shot of Tequila?"

"Excuse me?"

"... Nevermind."

She pinched the bridge of her nose. "I do have other patients to attend to, you see. So will you girl please drink your potion already?"

I turned my gaze to the Gryffindor in the other bed, who still seemed perfectly happy reading his book and definitely not in any sort of pain or medical emergency. Then, I let out a sigh. Because I guessed at some point I'd have to drink one of these abominations, living in the Wizarding World and what not. This was as good a time to start as any, really.

I closed my eyes, put the mouth of the little glass bottle against my lips, and tilted it all the way up, its contents running across my tongue and down my throat. The taste was vile —as I expected— and I had to resist the urge of throwing up once more; but at least it was short-lived, and soon enough the magic of the potion started taking effect, calming both my stomach and my trembling limbs.

"See? It wasn't that hard", Pomfrey gloated. "Now, lie down on–"

"But–"

"Lie down, I say; you will rest here for the remainder of the hour. I'm not above using the full body-bind spell, so I don't want to hear any complains!"

"I know the counter-spell," I muttered under my breath. But I still followed her orders, since I wasn't that sure I'd be able to perform it with my wand in my pocket. Besides, I didn't exactly oppose the opportunity of laying down for a quick nap until the next class —Transfiguration, which was always demanding, specially now that we were starting with the practical exercises in depth. It was just being ordered to do so that ruffled my feathers.

Apparently satisfied, Madam Pomfrey returned to her office, and I let my eyes wander aimlessly across the room, my mind still somewhat reeling from... whatever it was that had happened before. Had it been a panic attack? Or maybe a guilt attack? I decided I didn't want to know. There was a large, musty carpet in the attic of my mind that I pretty much did not want to look under. It was easier to pretend it had never happened.

So much easier.

In the end I must have fallen asleep for a spell, because the room was a little darker when I opened my eyes again and the Gryffindor was talking to a visitor I hadn't seen enter, some girl he was obviously preening for. Ugh, just kiss already!

It was still a few minutes before the turn of the hour, but I was already feeling well-rested enough that I was starting to get bored, and Pomfrey wasn't looking; so to no one's surprise I simply slunk away and left the Hospital Wing.

I didn't descend the stairs to meet with the Slytherins —they would be finishing with the Potions class in the dungeons about now— rushing instead towards the Greenhouses where I knew the Hufflepuffs just had Herbology. When I got there they were already leaving, and the little badgers eyed me with open wariness.

I ignored the stares, heading straight for my target with a genial smile as the herd reconfigured itself around me: "Hey Susan! Bones! Susan Bones!"

The girl with the long braid gave me a surprised nod and proceeded to walk up to me, which seemed to calm down the others. We moved a bit away.

"Sarramond? Why are you here?" she asked. "We don't have a meeting today, do we?"

"Oh, no. Just to ask you for a personal favour, actually. You said you had family in the Ministry, no?"

"My aunt Amelia, yes."

"Right... and does she by any chance happen to work at or near the Obliviator Headquarter?..."

Chapter Text

"You know," said Tracey Davis, a hint of frustration noticeable in her voice. "When I told you I was in, I never imagined you'd have me spend Hallowe'en morning looking at art!"

I paused to turn away from the painting I was examining, depicting a Dodo —sorry, a Diricawl— along with its baby chicks, all gathered around an egg that was shaking slightly on its own, cracks beginning to appear across its smooth surface.

"We're not looking at art," I reminded her, gesturing at the many paintings that covered the corridor's walls. "We're looking for a secret."

"Yes, yes. A painted apple, you told me already."

"A pear! Don't tell me you've been looking for an apple all this time! Oh, come on Tracey! We'll have to start again–"

I stopped my tirade when I realized she was sniggering at me behind her hand. I shook my head. "You prat."

She continued laughing as I walked up to the next canvas over, of a wizard eating some grapes. Fruit at last! So close and yet so far. 'Do you mind?' the painted man asked me, annoyed at my staring.

"I just don't know what's so special about it," asked Tracey, recovered from her laughing fit and now examining a painting of a chocolate cake. "Why spend our entire free hour doing... this?"

"It's a surprise, Tracey. The point of a surprise is that you don't know."

"I don't think I like surprises anymore," she commented in a rueful tone, "I used to like them, but then the Sorting Hat went 'Surprise!' and sorted me into Slytherin."

"What were you hoping for? Hufflepuff?"

She shot me a glare. "My father is a Hufflepuff."

"Nothing wrong with it," I shrugged, stepping in front of a portrait of a broken lute. "And I mean, you are at least patient and loyal, if you're still down here with me rather than... you know, up there and flying on a broom by the lake or something."

For a moment I thought the reminder of what else she could be doing with her time would prove to be a dire mistake on my part, as I saw her resolve waver for a moment, but then she simply turned towards the next painting on her side of the corridor and said: "Sure. But no, I didn't have a favourite. It's just... I guessed it would be either Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw, like my mother. I never expected to be in the pure-blood house, you see."

"That I can sympathise with, believe me. I even asked the hat to put me into Gryffindor, but here I am."

She seemed to remember then who she was talking to, because she remained awkwardly silent after that last comment of mine, her attention focused on the paintings once more.

"The Sneakoscope was buzzing before, by the way," she commented at last. "Right after we woke up."

"It's always buzzing. That's why you had to put it under all those clothes."

"Yes, but it was buzzing harder. Maybe Parkinson and Bulstrode are up to something."

"They always are."

She let out a frustrated huff. "You're impossible!"

I nodded wisely as I paused in front of yet another canvas, this one much more promising. And sure enough: "I think this is it."

"You know," commented Tracey as she approached to look at the piece of art. "We could have saved a lot of time if you'd told me the painting was of a bowl of fruit."

I gave her a shrug. "I wasn't sure, couldn't remember that detail. But look at this..."

Tickling the pear felt oddly invasive, all my previous visits to museums in two separate lives almost screaming at me at the taboo nature of the act. I could see Tracey felt the same, because she cringed and looked at me accusingly, like she was thinking: 'You only look at the art! You very definitely never ever touch the art, you degenerate!'

But the pear itself seemed to like it, because it let out a chime that resembled a laugh as it morphed into the shape of a doorknob, emerging out of the canvas' surface.

I grabbed it, said "Voilà!" to Tracey, and opened the door at once, stepping into the Hogwarts' Kitchens, with her following on my footsteps.

And in retrospect, perhaps visiting the Kitchens on the day of the Hallowe'en feast wasn't my brightest idea. Because it was madness.

The five tables that mirrored the distribution of those in the Great Hall above were bursting with all sort of platters, dishes and pitchers, some magically piled on top of each other into unstable stacks that rose far above our height. A dozen stoves were burning hot, with large pieces of beef levitating on top of some of them, enormous bubbling cauldrons over the others. Flying across the air were bowls of ingredients, knives and spoons, tableware and pieces of cake. I had to crouch to dodge a very aggressive salt cellar that shot by my head the moment I stepped foot into the cavernous kitchens. And pumpkins. There were bloody pumpkins floating everywhere.

There were also house-elves everywhere: elves running down the isles and under the tables, elves perched to the top of the tower of puddings, elves shouting about missing carrots, elves cleaning dishes by the sink visible in the far distance, elves handling the stoves with one hand while peeling potatoes with the other, elves carrying bowls of soups larger than themselves, elves running towards us and saying: "Studentses! Studentses in the kitchen! Oh no, they must be hungry if they's here!"

I rose my hands, trying my best to placate their onslaught, but it was futile and a moment later I found myself holding a tray of biscuits and a glass of pumpkin juice in my hands.

"Uh... thanks. Thank you, but–" aaand now one of them was crying because I had just thanked them, the other calling for even more elves to join us, just so that they could also witness my gratitude. In the distance, I heard a couple of plates crash into each other and shatter into a thousand pieces, as the elves' attention went to us.

I turned my gaze at Tracey with no little desperation, hoping that her magical background would be more effective at dealing with the little creatures, but she was still in her shell-socked-at-the-pandemonium stage; her mouth open wide and her hands holding a bowl of peach rings that hadn't been there a moment before.

I sighed, took a bite off a biscuit and made some pleased noises to pacify them —which seemed to work, because slowly they started to return to their work— and then approached the two of them who had noticed us the first.

"The food is great," I said, carefully walking my way around the word 'thanks', "but that's not why we're here, actually."

"Ith's noth?" asked Tracey behind me, munching on a peach ring.

"Oh, does you need something else? Your clothes cleaned, your bedspread mended? You can tell Dripple!" said one of the elves, taller than the others, with a full face and droopy ears.

"Or Plixiette!" said the other, which I guessed was a her. She was stick-thin and with a sock worn as a scarf around her neck.

"Well... now that you mention it, one of my socks is a little worn out, but– wait! Hold on! That's not why we're here either! Actually, I'm looking for a house-elf. I ran into him some days ago and he was hurt and bleeding. I guessed you guys would know who he was."

"Bleeding elfses?"

"Hurt elfses? In Hogwarts? Impossible! Master Dumbledore always treats us good. He would never!"

"No, no, I'm not saying it was the Headmaster," I clarified. Then sighed, this was going nowhere. "Just... do you happen to know a house-elf named Squeeble? Does he work here too?"

Both creatures scrunched their faces in concentration, muttering 'Squeeble, Squeeble...' Then they rushed back into the depths of the kitchen, towards the little shanty town that covered one entire wall of the room, built out of stacked barrels with small doors and windows opening into them.

I turned towards Tracey, who was shaking her head: "How did you know about all this? This place?"

"I read it in a book," I said, completely honest.

"And do... these elves make all the food we eat?"

"Where did you think it came from? It can't be conjured; remember that lecture of McGonagall about Gamp's Law?"

She shrugged. "Don't know... I never thought of it, I guess."

"It's slaves. It's always slaves. Just like with the pyramids."

"House-elves aren't slaves!" she protested, indignant.

"Are they paid?" I asked, waving my hand to encompass the dozens of creatures... well, slaving in the kitchens. "Can they refuse an order they don't like?"

"That's such a Muggleborn thing to say! House-elves actually like helping wizards."

"Yeah, and I'm sure there's no magic involved in that, at all. They totally don't look like they're under the effects of a love potion or something. Like... definitely, no wizard ever cast some sort of will-binding curse on their bloodline or anything like that. Riiiight."

She crossed her arms and frowned at me. "You don't know that."

"No. But I know wizards."

"What do you mean? You're a witch yourself, you know."

"Exactly."

She had a confused look, as if expecting me to elaborate. I really, really didn't want to. Because I could understand it just too well. Virtues of my fore-memories, I guessed. Or perhaps this came out of this very life as Sylvia. Of my experiences at the foster homes, what little scraps I'd gathered about the pasts of the Residence's other kids.

I gave it a try anyway, knowing Tracey was too young, not nearly jaded enough to understand that it wasn't always the Voldemorts of the world. It wasn't always the Grindelwalds. Sometimes it was the ordinary people: the Elliots and Miles, the Mr. and Mrs. Coverdale, the Petunias and Vernons.

Sometimes it was even the Traceys and the Sylvias.

"They are called house-elves," I started. "Meaning there are, or were, some other kind of elves, no?"

"Like those crazy ones in Germany?"

"Uhm... sure, probably. But here's how I think it happened..."

And so I started explaining my little pet theory as we waited: that, say, hundreds of years ago, maybe two or three thousand years, who knows... some of those wild elves did one too many nasty things against us humans. Or maybe it was wizards themselves who started it, because really, just take a serious look at human history, will you?

So there is a war, wizards against elves. Except that elves' magic is completely and terrifyingly powerful, without many of the limitations of human magic, right?. So it wouldn't have been a cakewalk for the wizards, and at some point I could imagine them starting to get desperate. The losses mounting, things not going their way.

And then, someone comes up with the idea. Or maybe they find a dark spell in an old tome, like what Professor Duskhaven said. A binding. A grand Imperius curse, a love potion of sorts that would be inherited, that would affect an entire race of magical beings.

I could imagine how appealing that would have sounded, to people who had been fighting and had lost loved ones, or who were simply afraid of losing them and wanted to put an end to the fighting before it happened. I could see how they'd leap at it, convince themselves it was even better for the elves too, because if they could be slaved then they wouldn't have to be killed. And maybe that they'd look for a better, more permanent solution in the future.

But of course they never do, nobody does; because it's more convenient like this. And so they put it off, until some generations later the knowledge is finally lost —maybe even on purpose— and new wizards simply take their helpful dispositionfor granted. Why would you look a gift elf in the mouth, after all?

Tracey scoffed after I gave her the abridged version, rolling her eyes: "Now you're just making stuff up."

I shrugged. "Maybe? But name me any creature that exists just to help some other being at the cost of themselves. That just doesn't happen, Tracey. Not naturally."

She seemed unconvinced, which to be fair, wasn't that surprising. It's not like I had really expected to shift her entire outlook on the whole house-elves' situation within the span of a single conversation, especially since she'd been raised in the Wizarding World and she probably just took it for granted too; the way a millionaire's kid would take for granted the existence of 'the help'.

Besides, she wasn't wrong: I was making stuff up. Sure, if I had to place a bet, I'd wager my story was closer to the truth than 'they just love Wizards so much that they have to help us, tee-hee'. But it was still a tall tale without any solid evidence. And there might be other stuff I simply wasn't aware of that could also explain it.

But truth or not, at least Tracey was now looking at the little magical creatures with a thoughtful expression; so I chalked it as a win.

Not that I planned to do anything about the house-elves, or to join Hermione's little future S.P.E.W. club, if that still happened this time around. I had already way too much on my plate, thank-you-very-much, and liberating the house-elves seemed like the kind of world-altering quest that could take you years, if not a lifetime. I would have to content myself with treating them decently, and do my best to ignore the lingering sense of guilt at consuming the food they cooked and that I pretty much hadn't paid for.

In any case, the two elves were returning, all but dragging a third one along with them, each grabbing one of their arms.

I said: "Uhm... that's not the elf that I saw, sorry."

"Oh, no, no," said Dripple, shaking the other elf's arm. "This be Dizzlenob, and he knows Squeeble! Tells them, tells the studentses!"

Dizzlenob didn't look too happy at his comrades. Had they just woken him up from his nap or something? But he simply furrowed his brow and spoke in a gravelly tone: "Yes, yes... Dizzlenob knows Squeeble. He wasn't an elf of Hogwarts, he belongs to one of the professors. But they isn't here no more."

I tensed, because this was just what I had feared. But still, I had to ask, if only not to arouse Tracey's suspicions, and to give me a cover story in case I needed it later to justify how I knew what I knew. Because one thing was knowing how to find the kitchens, and another thing was knowing too much:

"Which professor?"

"Professor Quirrell," he replied, his voice bitter. "He always liked his own Squeeble better than us Hogwarts elfses. If you seen Squeeble, maybe his master forgetted something here and he was recovering it. But he is no more a Professor's elf, so he should have askeds us!"

Yep, he was recovering something all-right. And that definitely confirmed my suspicions: Quirrell had not simply disappeared into the ether thanks to Duskhaven's arrival, and his plot to steal the stone was still very much in motion. It's just that now he didn't have direct access to the castle, so he was sending a minion in his place. I imagined whatever protective spells were in place around Hogwarts prevented the undead abomination from simply barging in; but maybe elves were immune to those.

I also imagined this Squeeble had been unsuccessful so far, given the sorry state I saw him in, plus the fact there was no giant Dark Mark skull in the clouds above the castle. Better not to chance it though: "That's incredibly impolite!" I said. "You should definitely be on the lookout in case he comes again, and have a stern talking to him."

"Oh yes!" said Dripple with a savage smile. "Dripple likes stern talkings, he does! He will stern Squeeble if he sees him again!"

We started receding towards the door after that, Tracey appearing a bit confused about the whole interaction —which, to be fair, I was starting to think was simply the normal side-effect of talking to house-elves— when the realization hit me.

"Say, Plixiette. You wouldn't happen to be French, would you? I mean, your name..."

"Yes, Yes!" she said, bouncing up and down. "Plixiette was an elf at Beauxbatons before she was an elf at Hogwarts!"

"Oh, really?" I said, a grin with too many teeth splitting my face.

"Crepes?" asked Tracey.

"No," I said. "Crêpes."

She rolled her eyes and returned to her own treacle tart, the philistine. At least Daphne Greengrass seated by my other side had the good sense to eye the piece of culinary art sitting in front of me with a certain disguised envy. Parkinson was trying so hard not to look at my plate that she was in danger of permanently twisting her neck into a corkscrew.

We were at the Great Hall, and after much anticipation the Hallowe'en Feast was finally underway. Unhealthy amounts of delicious sweets —and jack-o'-lanterns— surrounded us; but I only had eyes for the love of my life, for the crêpe sucrée I had managed to extract out of Plixiette.

"Just eat it already," said Perks. "Stop being weird!"

"You are weird," I said half-heartedly. I just wanted to spend a few more seconds staring at this fallen piece of heaven, take in as much of its mouth-watering aroma as I could. Eventually I took a first bite, my hands trembling and my heart trying to escape out of my chest.

"Oh là là ! C'est incroyable !"

Zabini scoffed, because of course he did.

"It tastes of Paris!" I insisted, inhaling another bite.

"Have you even been to Paris before?" he asked.

"I was French in a previous life," I confessed distractedly, earning myself a roll of his eyes. Half the crêpe had already vanished somehow, so I tried to pace myself to make it last longer. "You know," I added. "This... this changes everything!"

"Uh-huh" said Tracey.

"It's not just the crêpes, it's all of it! Now that Plixiette knows my tastes, the sky is the limit. Begone, foul British cuisine, for the béchamel is here! Get lost, breakfast toast, you can't compete with the mighty croissant!"

"Plixiette?" asked Zabini.

"She's a house-elf," clarified Tracey.

"You can't bring your house-elf into Hogwarts!" protested Draco, two seats away but still listening on us, apparently. "I would have brought Dobby myself if I could, but my father said I wasn't allowed."

"And how can you of all people have a house-elf?" asked Pansy Parkinson, looking haughty at the 'you' in question.

"It's a Hog–" started Tracey, but she shut up when I kicked her —softly, because I wasn't a bully— under the table.

I bit another piece of my perfect desert, looked at Parkinson as I chewed it down, then simply said: "Délicieuse."

For a single moment she looked outraged, and I wondered if she'd do anything stupid. Oh, please, Pansy, please do something stupid.

She didn't, though. Her twisted expression going away under a mask of feigned indifference. Then, she turned towards Malfoy and asked, first making sure that I was still looking at her: "Say Draco, what were your plans for winter break again? It's little more than a month away now, you know."

Draco seemed to miss her little byplay, because he launched himself into a detailed explanation of how Yule Ball was celebrated at the Malfoy Manor, which caused Zabini to audibly groan, and pretty quickly lost the interest of those among us who weren't either simpletons or shameless arse-lickers.

But that reminded me of something, so I downed my crêpe and then switched seats with Tracey, ending up next to Theodore Nott. The young boy's face was serious, consuming his food while pretty much ignoring all of us. He'd quickly gotten a reputation of being aloof and acting as if everyone was beneath his notice; but unlike Zabini, I didn't think that was true in his case. I thought he was just shy. Possibly sad, too, by how he could eat sweet after sweet with no emotion at all showing on his face.

"Hey Nott," I started. He turned his head marginally, but then he returned to his desert, pretty much ignoring me.

Yeah, I could see how he'd obtained that reputation of his.

I rested my head on my hand, and simply stared at him. I could see he looking at me out the corner of his eye, now and then. It only took a couple of minutes for the awkwardness of the situation to become overbearing.

"What do you want, Sarramond?" he asked at last. "I don't want to be seen associating with you."

"No associating necessary," I assured him. "But they tell me your family knows a thing or two in matters of blood status."

"They?"

"Yeah. People. Mates."

"Your... mates." It was hard reading him. I wasn't sure if he was unbelieving, making fun of me, or simply unfamiliar with the concept of talking to people.

"I get around, you know? Well, maybe you don't, but I do get around. And that's the rumour on the grapevine. So I was wondering if your family does, in fact, have some sort of secret info on magical bloodlines, or any sort of test that I could use to–"

He turned to look at me fully. His tone was neutral: "Do you know anything at all about my family?"

"Uhm... well, I do know about the book of sacred bloodlines. And that you... your family I mean, don't like Muggleborns too much."

Zabini let out a low laugh, like the eavesdropper he was. He commented: "That's one way to put it, for sure."

Nott grabbed his plate and moved even further down the bench, almost to the very end of the communal table; I shuffled after him and said, in a lower voice: "So? Is it true then, what they say? Do you have something that could help me? I'm quite certain I have a magical origin," I half-lied, "and I'm looking into the Ministry angle for confirmation. But getting the records might take some time, so it'd be nice to have some sort of alternative to that."

"If you know about my family, then you know why I don't want you to be seen next to me. I can't help you."

"Can't or won't?"

He didn't reply, returning his gaze to the dish in front of him. I remained there, biting my lip as I thought of what to say, how to get him to do what I wanted. Because I had noticed what he hadn't said, the unvoiced implication: it was his family that wouldn't like me. Not necessarily he himself.

"You know... it would help you, and your family," I said at last. "If I've got magical blood, and you help me prove it, then I would owe you a big debt. And if I turn out to be a Muggleborn... well, then you gain respect in front of the other Dea–... eh, the other pure-bloods; because you'd be the one to expose me for good."

"My family's reputation is already flawless. We don't need more... respect."

Well, this wasn't going well. Should I... be myself? Perhaps I shouldn't.

I could do without yet another enemy.

But I could also do with his help... decisions, decisions.

"You could also lose respect, you know," I said, almost nonchalantly, placing my own arm around his shoulders. He went completely rigid, as if I had just petrified him with a spell. "Like, if... I don't know, people start seeing us sitting together at lunch and such."

His look was murderous. Oh well, too late to stop now.

"The Slytherins will know the truth, sure," I continued. "But think about the others, like the Gryffindors over there. Ron Weasley already thought Malfoy was my boyfriend just because he saw me talking to him once. So what do you think he'd say if he saw us like–"

Nott pushed my arm off his shoulders, shuffling away from me as much as he could in the limited space, his buttocks almost at the very border of the bench. "You! You can't–! I will just–!"

He was so apoplectic he couldn't finish a single sentence, just sputtering angry sounds my way. I let him calm down for a beat, giving him some space, then lowered my voice further, making sure he got just how serious I was:

"You don't have to be my ally. You don't have to be seen with me. And I will pay you for any information you give me, so it won't cost you anything. But if you won't help me, then... well, you know what they say about caged beasts, no? They lash out. If I'm going down for the crime of being a Muggleborn, why wouldn't I take you down with me; the son of a Death Eater?"

He went very, very pale. To be clear: he was still furious, but now he was also furiously pale. He looked at the other students sitting around us. Only Tracey and Zabini were paying us any attention, but I hoped our lowered voices couldn't be heard in the cacophony of the Great Hall —most of which somehow seemed to emerge entirely out of the lions' table.

"I'm– I'm neutral," he whispered.

"Then be neutral! Just give me what I need to prove my own status, and you'll benefit no matter what! That's not helping a mudblood, Nott, that's helping yourself. Even Selwyn would understand that."

He considered my words for a moment, then said: "I will send a letter, that's it. But you don't talk to me again. You don't sit next to me again. You don't–"

"Yeah, I get it. We got a deal, Nott." Then I stood up and stepped away. "Come on Tracey, let's go pester the Gryffindors!"

She doubted for a moment, but then she followed me. She also looked annoyed, and I wondered how much of the interaction she'd heard.

"It was your idea, you know," I told her, once we were a few steps removed from our house's table.

"I didn't tell you to threaten him, you nutter!" she replied sharply. So, she'd heard enough.

I gave her a helpless shrug, as if to say 'what did you expect?' But we were already close enough to the Gryffindors that I let the matter lie. I was sure she'd bring it up again once we were on our own, anyway.

The reason I wanted to confront the Gryffindors —or, more specifically, two Gryffindors in particular— was that Hermione wasn't in the Great Hall.

I hadn't been sure whether she'd be here or not. According to my fore-memories, she wasn't supposed to be. But now she had the Read-Ahead Club, so she probably wasn't feeling quite as lonely as in the original timeline. That said, the group met only once per week, and we weren't friends, not exactly; there wasn't much emotional support going on in there, just book discussions.

Tracey herself was the only friend I had in there, and she was only sort of an unofficial member: she'd been present at one of our gatherings, but had been bored so out of her mind that eventually she'd just used the time to advance her homework.

So with no actual friends, and having to deal with Ron Weasley's tact, or lack thereof, it wasn't so surprising Hermione had refused to attend the Feast after all.

The problem was that, without Quirrell here to release a troll —something I'd half-expected to happen anyway, but the Feast was already about to end with no trolls in sight— there was no reason for Harry Potter and Ron Weasley to go looking for her.

And this... this was one of those key plot elements, wasn't it? One of those whose consequences echoed into the future for years to come, like the waves on a lake's surface after a stone had dropped into it. Harry and Ron saved Hermione from the troll, and the Trio was born.

Which meant: no troll, no Trio.

I couldn't do much about the lack of trolls, but I hoped if I could make Harry see the error in his ways, he'd go look for the girl of his own volition and apologize. Would that be enough to kickstart their friendship? Who knew. But it needed to start somewhere, and subtly nudging the boys into apologizing seemed like a good first step.

"Oi, Potter!" I said as we approached the boys, loud enough that other people at their table turned to look at us, "I heard you've been bullying Granger!"

There. Subtle enough.

"W–what?"

"What's it to you?" said Ron, frowning at us as he took the lead role.

Oh, right, I was the self-serving snake to him. Had to keep appearances, couldn't look too charitable now.

"She happens to be my Potions partner, if you haven't noticed, so I've got a vested interest in her well-being."

"Then you go look for her, if you like her so much!"

I ignored Ron and focused in Harry, who was looking sort of guilty. Ron was a tough nut to crack, me being in Slytherin and all, but Harry I knew where the weak spot in his shield was. Because he'd been bullied himself, by his cousin; so I only needed to remind him of that:

"What did you say to make her cry, Harry?"

"I– I didn't say any–"

"Maybe they insulted her and laughed at her?" commented Tracey, following my lead, her arms crossed as she too stared down at the two Gryffindors in false indignation.

"They're bigger than her," I said to Tracey, "Maybe they chased her around?"

She gasped. "Do you think they would hit her?"

"You know bullies," I said with a shrug.

"We would never hit her!" protested Harry.

"But you would insult her, no?" I replied, bitter. "Why?! Maybe you think that she is less than you? That she is a freak?!"

That might have come out a bit too harsh, a bit too honest. Too many emotions about Elliot-and-Miles and my foster parents mixed in my voice, too many things that I thought were already behind me. Tracey turned marginally and looked at me with hidden curiosity.

But it seemed like the right comment to make, judging by how Harry jerked at that, his face red with shame. Ron too had gone silent, looking at his desert as if it contained the answers to the nature of the universe.

It was Harry who first stood up. His gaze went everywhere but to my face, as if he was afraid I was a legilimens myself or something. But he said: "You're right. We should apologise to her. Come on, Ron."

I believed for a moment that the red-headed boy would remain sitting, too stubborn and too reluctant to lose face to a couple of snakes. But he surprised me by giving us a curt nod of acceptance and rising up to follow Harry. They headed towards the main entrance.

I let out a breath, my muscles finally relaxing even under the curious looks Neville and the other nearby lions were giving Tracey and me. It seemed the manipulation had worked, now I just had to wait and see what fruits it bore.

"Sylvia," said Tracey in a low voice. "Were you–"

And that, of course, was when all hell broke loose.

We heard a loud screech coming from the entrance, causing most heads across the entire Great Hall to turn to look at its origin. I saw Ron and Harry pause in their steps, doubting whether to approach the large wooden doors.

Then the ghostly figure emerged through the doors as if they weren't there, floating a couple of feet above the ground. It rushed straight into the Great Hall, flying over the students and the tables and ignoring the two Gryffindors in his path. I realized the screech was coming from him, and it took me a moment to identify him as Peeves, even despite his ridiculous clothing.

Because Peeves never entered the Great Hall, not during dinner and not with all the Professors present.

"Ruuuun!" he screamed, "Run! Acromantulas! Acromantulas in Hogwarts!"

Then he pirouetted in mid-air and shot upwards, disappearing once more through the enchanted ceiling.

There was a beat of stunned silence at his announcement, before the uproar started. Shouts and voices and noises of cutlery clattering and benches dragging across the floor as dozens of students all stood up in a hurry; Professor McGonagall's orders getting lost in the cacophony.

"Prefects!" boomed Dumbledore's voice; he was doing something with his wand pressed against his throat. "Prefects, gather your students! Make sure everyone is here! Severus, Minerva, come–"

I was close enough to the entrance myself that I heard clearly how Harry said "Hermione! We need to find her!" and rushed out of the Great Hall, pushing the doors open. Ron's face was completely white, but in the end he gritted his teeth and followed in Harry's wake.

"Shit," I muttered, unsure. Because on one hand: 'Yay, Golden Trio, here we come!' but on the other hand, this wasn't a troll, it was something new: Acromantulas.

Were they more dangerous than a troll? I wasn't sure. I guessed it would depend on how many of them they would encounter: Perhaps they'd win against one acromantula. But against five? Or ten?

I had told myself I wouldn't be a hero.

That nobody could demand that of me.

But I had a strange sense of deja vu... a vague impression of something horrible hurling towards us at full speed. Something foreboding, that made the hairs in my arms stand on end. It was as if the future wasn't... certain... anymore. As if nothing was guaranteed all of a sudden. And I could see the image in my head, almost: Hermione surrounded by two of those spiders, having somehow ended up separated from the boys. Hermione, being dragged away towards the Forbidden Forest, wrapped inside a giant silk cocoon.

And then myself, alone at our Potions table. With nobody to tell me —in a bossy tone, of course— how to check for magical balance in a brewing potion, or why I should crush the ingredients with the left side of the knife rather than the right.

Alone, and in a twisted world. A broken version of the story, of the future I remembered, hopelessly ruined.

"Shit!" I repeated, letting out a tired sigh, before dashing towards the entrance myself. It seemed like the plan was for the Prefects to gather everyone together at the far side of the Great Hall and put some order there, so I had only brief instants to escape the room before the chaos cleared enough that it would become impossible to slip by.

"Wait!" shouted Tracey behind me as I pushed open the Great Hall's doors again. "What are you doing?!"

At least the corridor outside seemed clear. I turned towards her; she looked bewildered, but still decided to follow me into the rest of the castle, apparently.

"No, you stay here!" I ordered her. I wasn't planning to put even more people into danger. "I will follow those two and make sure they don't die, double back here if we run into trouble. Go tell a prefect, quick! Or better yet: a teacher!"

She gave me a confused look, a mix of relief and exasperation; then bit her lip as if she was about to say something more. But in the end she just nodded and rushed towards the rest of the students.

I crossed the door and let it shut close behind me, muting the racket from the Great Hall. I ran towards the nearest corner, behind which I'd seen a couple of dark robes disappear a mere few seconds ago. My quick steps echoed on the stone walls, no doubt attracting the attention of whatever creatures hid in the dark crevices.

I extracted my wand and held to it as if it was a lifeline, the only solid thing I could find within reach.

Chapter Text

I followed the two Gryffindor boys along the corridors, and was still a good few yards away when they went through the bathroom's door. In their rush they never noticed me behind them, and so I doubted for a moment whether to join them in the bathroom, or to wait outside. In the end I opted for the latter, and decided I would act as a lookout, hidden from view behind one of the suits of armour.

It was the safest choice for the timeline, all things considered, and for me. This was meant to be Ron, Harry and Hermione's bonding moment after all, the forging of their friendship; so it was best if I didn't intervene, didn't meddle into that. Let them have their own little emotional scene without a Slytherin in there to make them wary, to force them into keeping their walls up, so to speak.

And if an acromantula did appear, I'd wait and see whether or not they could deal with it on their own before intervening. Hopefully they'd be able to, and so I'd be free to slip by unnoticed and go for the forbidden corridor instead. Because I was very aware that all of this was just Quirrell's distraction to get to the stone, and with the changes from the version I remembered from my fore-memories, I couldn't be certain he wouldn't succeed this time around.

The wait was tense, continuously looking to one side of the corridor then the other, sweat making my wand hand sticky. I almost let out an audible breath of relief when I saw the three of them emerge out of the bathroom. Hermione's eyes were red and puffy, but she looked glad to see the boys had found her.

And they simply... stood there, the absolute idiots! Chatting in front of the bathroom door with not a care in the world. I was about to emerge out of my hiding place to berate them out of sheer indignation when Hermione paused and emitted a broken cry. Ron and Harry turned to follow her gaze. I did the same.

There was an acromantula on the ceiling, right above me.

I shouted and dashed out of the way and towards the middle of the corridor, right as the monstrous arachnid jumped and impacted the very same spot I'd been hiding in with a loud thud, the suit of armour collapsing to the floor in a shower of rolling metal pieces. The creature screeched and lunged at me again. It was way, way bigger than I remembered from the movie —or perhaps it was my small body that made the creature appear as a massive beast, almost as tall as I was.

I rose my wand desperately towards it and shouted "Protego!"

I'd been trying to learn the shield charm for a while now, practising it now and then when I could find some free time away from everyone else. It was difficult, probably the hardest spell I'd tried to tackle so far, and it didn't help that I felt on the verge of panic right now. So I was quite surprised when a semi-transparent barrier emerged out of my wand, separating me from the acromantula. I only had gotten it to do that once before.

And maybe it was because of that very surprise that my focus failed when the monster swiped one of its many legs at me, its bladed tip simply piercing through the barrier as if it was nothing but tissue paper. I managed to dodge at the last second, but the leg caught the end of my robes, and I heard my clothes ripping as I retreated back and towards the boys and the frizzy haired girl.

"Sarramond?" she asked me, her voice breaking. "You also came to–?"

"Not now!" I shouted, harshly pushing her back to keep our distance with the creature advancing on us.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" said Harry. I saw the breast plate of the armour suit rise in the air and shoot towards the acromantula. It simply bounded off its carapace, the monster not even noticing.

Yeah, that wasn't going to cut it this time around.

Hmm... cut it.

I slashed my wand diagonally in the air as I shouted "Diffindo!" and pushed as much magic and intention into the spell as I dared. Then I repeated the motion once more, trying my best to aim at the spider as I slashed one, two, three more times. "Diffindo! Diffindo!"

I saw faint pale lines appear on the exoskeleton of its legs where my severing charm had hit, criss-crossing one another; some of them deep enough that drops of dark ichor seeped from the wounds.

But it didn't seem to discourage the acromantula, which simply kept moving towards us with exactly the same agility, as if the wounds were only superficial. And judging by the screech and how its mouth pincers moved, I guessed I'd only managed to anger it further.

"Shit! What the hell is it made of?!" I exclaimed in frustration, right as Ron shouted "RUN!" and Harry grabbed my free arm, all but dragging me and Hermione into a run.

We rushed along the corridor, and I gave up all pretence of precision and control, aiming with my wand at pretty much every painting and suit of armour that lined its walls and shooting panicky wild magic into them. There was no invocation, just a vague wand motion that resembled that of a levitating spell and sheer magical force; but it did the trick and paintings jumped out of the walls, and suits of armour collapsed on our wake. Ron noticed what I was doing and quickly imitated me, adding to the chaos. All that we could do to distract the predator after us for even the briefest of instants.

And if all the ruckus and noises helped bring the teachers' attention to us sooner, all the better.

Then Ron suddenly stopped in his tracks, causing us to run into him and nearly fall to the floor. I was about to shout something at him when I realized just why he'd stopped. A second acromantula was crawling at the end of the hallway, pretty much blocking our way back towards the Great Hall.

Shit.

"Here!" said Harry, moving towards a nearby door. It turned out to be locked, though. I moved to cast the unlocking charm, but Hermione was faster: "Alohomora!"

We scrambled through the door and into a classroom, and I had the time to take a quick glance around while Potter closed the door after us: I didn't recognize the room, and judging by the diagrams on the walls full of complex arithmantic symbols, I guessed this was one of the older years classrooms. But more importantly: there was no other door, no other exit.

Except for the three large windows opposite us, which opened to the cliff side of the castle, offering a great view of the lake. A lethal one, if we tried to escape that way.

"You wouldn't... happen to have any... brooms with you?" I asked, panting.

"Brooms?" asked Ron, unbelieving. "Are you mental? Where would we have any brooms?"

I turned to face him, my arms crossed. "Well, everybody says your brother Percy has one up his arse, no? So I figured maybe–"

"You shut up about my family! And why are you here anyway? Why were you stalking us?"

"Is it really the right time for this?" Harry scolded us.

"Sorry, Harry," said Ron, shaking his head.

Harry turned to look at me, and I realized he wanted me to say something too; oh God. I sighed and spoke a short "No."

"No," he said. "And the door isn't going to keep them out for long," he added, after one of the acromantulas crashed against it with a bang.

"We are trapped!" said Hermione.

I looked around the room, searching for something –anything!– that could be used as a weapon. But it was simply yet another classroom, with nothing but the usual furniture of chairs and desks. No giant swords or clubs or any sort of sharp ends in sight.

"That desk," said Harry, walking towards the teacher's desk, on top the short dais. "How much do you think it weights?"

I saw his point. The piece of furniture was an old-fashioned Victorian monster of a desk, made out of thick dark mahogany wood and with silver finishings.

"Too much," replied Hermione. "I don't think any of us can levitate that thing."

"Maybe together? We can keep it over the door, and when they get through–"

"We drop it on their heads!" said Ron. "Brilliant!"

It was a plan, and there didn't seem to be anything else we could use here, so we quickly set to it. Or they set to it without waiting for my opinion, and I simply joined them. We surrounded the desk, and chanted together 'Wingardium Leviosa!' while aiming all our wands at it. Slowly, clumsily, it began to float.

Harry directed us: "Move a little to the left, Hermione. Push it forward now, Ron..." It was slow going, our different forces causing it to want to spin and list in mid-air; and the continuous banging coming from the door didn't help either. But after a moment of panic when the desk seemed to lose lift for a second and almost crashed into the ground, we managed to place it right above the entrance and hold it in place.

Just in time, because a moment later the door exploded inwards, finally breaking under the impact of one of the acromantulas. The monster squeezed itself through the now clear entrance.

"Now! Drop it!"

The desk plunged on top of the spider, crashing into it with a sickening crunch even as its joints failed and broke apart. The acromantula's legs twitched for a few seconds under all the pieces of broken furniture, then they went still.

"Yes!" Ron exclaimed. "Take that, you bloody–"

"Watch out! The other one!"

The other one, as it were, was entering the room now, crawling over the corpse of its crushed companion. Not much camaraderie between fellow acromantulas, I guessed.

Harry and Ron started levitating random crap and pelting the creature with it: chairs and inkwells and books from the nearby shelves; the spider just shrugging it off. It jumped at Hermione, who was doing nothing but shrieking in alarm.

"Protego!" I cast once more, right before it could impact. This time I knew I couldn't fail. I couldn't afford to lose focus; so I kept my mind empty of everything except my intention, the idea of a solid wall: thick and made out of layers of reinforced concrete, as tall and strong as that Hoover dam in America.

The acromantula crashed into the barrier, its sharp legs scrabbling at my shield, trying to find purchase, probing for a weak spot. I could feel the pressure, the monster's force pushing my wand, my entire arm and upper body back. I narrowed my eyes and threw even more magic into the spell to meet its force, strengthening the shield further. The spider moved a few steps back, then lunged once more, hitting the invisible wall at full speed. This time I felt my feet sliding back on the polished floor.

More worryingly, I could also feel my stamina leaving me, my body getting tired. It's not that I had a certain reserve of magic that I was running out of, but simply that my physical body was getting exhausted. Professor Flitwick had explained it in one of his classes: magic was essentially endless, he'd told us, as wide and deep as the ocean. But even then, moving large buckets of water around was always tiring.

Next to me, Harry was casting severing charm after severing charm, but he had no better luck with those than I'd had before. And as the creature moved back once more to take impulse, I realized my shield wouldn't hold another one of those charges. So I grabbed Hermione's robes and pulled her back, rolling along with her on the floor as we barely dodged the attack, the acromantula landing a couple of feet away. We jumped to our feet and ran towards the opposite corner of the room as the creature turned quickly to search for its prey.

Harry levitated a piece of wood from the destroyed desk and launched it at the creature, trying to call its attention away from us. But it was ineffective, and its many eyes locked on us once more. The Boy Who Lived was shaken and panting, his face a mix of frustration and fear.

I wrecked my brain, trying to think of all those jinxes and hexes I'd been learning and practising all these weeks. Not because I'd expected to fight acromantulas, mind you, but just in case one of my housemates —or someone from another house— had a go at me. Defensive spells, offensive spells... what good were all those hours spent reading books if I couldn't put it to use when it actually mattered?

So I remembered one of the so-called 'spell chains' in the duelling book I'd been following, a set of spells meant to limit your opponent's movements, to push him around. Spell chains were a duellists technique, a set of predetermined spells you could practice together and train to cast them at the fastest rate possible, invoking one after another without delay; even going so far as to link the wand movements of each one into the next for faster casting.

No time like the present to put it into practice, I guessed. I aimed my wand at the creature and started casting, while the others tried the best to distract it.

"Locomotor Mortis! Flipendo! Depulso! Depulso! Locomotor Wibbly!" the five spells hit one right after the other, the acromantula falling to the ground and being pushed back slightly before it simply climbed back upright. I didn't waste time trying to gauge how effective my spells were, or which one of them I was mangling —because I knew I was mangling at least one of them, if not two, judging by the limited effects. I simply kept waving my wand and casting, trying to overwhelm the creature with rapid fire, and pushing more raw magic to compensate for my lack of finesse.

"Flipendo! Depulso! Depulso! Locomotor–!"

It wasn't enough. Of course it wasn't. I started trying to cast another shield, but I knew I was too exhausted for it to work. And the acromantula simply ignored my weak hits and jumped straight towards Ron, who let out a blood curling scream as he fell to the ground, covering his face with his arms.

"Impedimenta," said one calm voice from the entrance, and the spider simply stopped in mid air, still moving forwards, but as if through molasses.

I turned to see Professor Duskhaven entering the room, her every movement precise. She gingerly stepped over the debris of the desk and the other arachnid's corpse, taking her time, then pointed her wand at the living creature once more, and said with careful enunciation: "Incendio".

A monstrous torrent of flames emerged out of her wand and impacted the floating acromantula, its entire body igniting and rapidly combusting among shrieks. The smell and heat were overpowering, so much so that we all had to cover our noses and walk as far away from the eight-legged shaped ball of fire as possible, within the limited confines of the room.

Duskhaven looked casual as she maintained the spell even after the spider stopped making noises. She was unperturbed, not even strained at the massive amounts of magic she was pushing through the air, more than all of our previous attacks combined. When she finally stopped, there was nothing left of the spider but some black ashes that fell down and spread across the floor.

She then continued her display of magical excellence by casting a Patronus charm, invoking some sort of phantasmal bobcat. She said to the apparition: "I have found them, we are in the Ancient Runes classroom."

The bobcat nodded and bounced away, disappearing fast into the hallway outside. Only then did she turn to look at us: "Are you injured?" she asked in a neutral tone.

I looked at my thorn robe. I didn't even know if... with all the adrenaline through my veins I wouldn't have noticed it, if I was. But it looked like I was shaken around but otherwise intact, as were the Gryffindors.

She waited for us to confirm we were okay before saying "Good. I take it that you understand you should be dead by now, had I not intervened."

We replied with silence and downcast gazes. She waited for a few seconds, but before she could continue with whatever it was she was going to say, another voice interrupted her.

"Merlin!" exclaimed McGonagall, crossing the door and looking apoplectic at the devastated classroom, and then straight at us. I heard Ron's gulp as she advanced on us, scarier than any acromantula could ever dream to be. "What on Earth were you thinking of?!"

"I– uhm..." started Harry. Behind the older witch, I noticed a third figure entering the room.

Dumbledore. Oh, shit.

"Well? Mr. Potter?" McGonagall's voice lashed.

I was about to interrupt and explain the whole situation when Hermione said, in a low voice: "It was my fault, they were looking for me."

Oh right. I remembered it now: she didn't want to tell the truth, because that would mean admitting to the teachers that Harry and Ron had... well, bullied her, however lightly. So now, because she was grateful, she began to spin a lie to protect them. I grinned at Ron's astonished face.

"–you believe you could defeat an acromantula on your own? I thought better of you, Miss Granger!"

I let out a relieved sigh as McGonagall started berating her, the three Gryffindors looking ashamed. And thus the Golden Trio is born. One more bullet dodged.

Except maybe there was one other bullet coming for me tonight, because Dumbledore was looking at me funny. I was standing a little to the side, separated from the three Gryffindors and doing my best at remaining inconspicuous. I tried to avert my gaze, but to no avail.

"I must say I'm curious," he started, once McGonagall finally calmed down after removing a handful of points from the house of the lions. "I can see quite clearly the reasons why Miss Granger's housemates felt compelled to come to her aid. But you, Miss Sarramond, you belong to a different house altogether. So what drew you into this? Are you perhaps another friend of hers?"

"She's not," clarified Ron, ever so helpful.

And I frowned. Because what was Dumbledore trying to get at, exactly? That I was a Slytherin, therefore I must have had an ulterior motive? That having good intentions was a perfectly valid justification for Harry and Ron, but not for me? Because how could a Slytherin possibly do something good for its own sake, right?

I almost let out a bitter laugh. Because this was exactly how Ron thought, wasn't it? What he'd accused me of when I tried to warn them about the duel. And here we have the mighty Dumbledore following on the footsteps of the prejudiced eleven year old.

And the rub of it was... he was correct. I had ulterior motives. Loads of them, just not even in the neighbourhood of the ones he was probably imagining.

I opted to tell a partial version of the truth and hope for the best. After all, I wasn't wearing my sunglasses on account of it being at night, and I suspected he was experienced and observant enough to pick on subtle clues. If I tried to sell him the lie that I was Hermione's friend, I doubted he'd buy it.

"We were talking when Peeves entered into the Great Hall, and then they ran off to find Granger," I confessed, waving my hand at the boys, "which was stupid. So I instead told Tracey to warn a teacher and then followed after them, because I suspected they would only get themselves killed on their own. I figured I could make a difference since I'm much better at magic than they are. Uhm... defensive magic, I mean," I amended, noticing Hermione's betrayed glare.

Professor Duskhaven intervened then; she said: "While you do show a certain aptitude to the subject, Miss Sarramond, you shouldn't allow that to get to your head. You certainly lack the expertise to tackle a fully grown acromantula on your own, and it's only by luck that you all are still alive."

Dumbledore nodded gravely at that, his eyes still examining me with an inquisitive expression; but then he had one of those strange mood shifts of his and clasped his hands with a clap, saying: "Ah, but lending aid to fellow students in a time of need is a noble act, especially when it's in opposition to house allegiances. Acts we should strive to celebrate, let us say with... five points to Gryffindor, and another five to Slytherin!"

"But Albus–!" started McGonagall, unbelieving. They looked at each other for a beat, having some sort of silent conversation; then the witch sighed and shook her head. Duskhaven observed all of this with an indifferent look.

The Professors talked among themselves for a couple of minutes after that, leaving us to our own devices once they'd verified we were in fact unhurt. From what I could gather of their whispers, there'd been another three acromantulas out there that the Headmaster had already dealt with.

"Severus," Dumbledore said, turning towards the door where Snape had just manifested. "Is everything in order?"

They walked together a few steps away, Snape limping slightly —which caused Harry to shoot him a suspicious look. Snape replied in a low voice that I strained to listen: "...first door was open... guardian stopped the... still undisturbed..."

The guardian? Did he mean Fluffy, the three-headed dog? So Voldemort had made an attempt on the stone after all, perhaps through that house-elf of Quirrell again. And I guessed he must have failed, judging by how calm the two wizards were.

"Very well," said Dumbledore, returning to us. "Now that the immediate danger has passed, I think we've had our fill of excitement for one evening. Severus, Minerva, might you escort your respective students to their common rooms? And dear Xenia, would you be so kind as to assist me in restoring order to this chamber?" he asked, waving his hand at the general mayhem we had caused.

We departed then, with me following a silent and possibly bitten Snape down towards the dungeons. At some point he must have noticed the state of my robes because he asked me: "Are you hurt?"

"What? Oh, that... no, it didn't hit me."

Snape nodded and resumed limping down the staircase. Was he even supposed to be bitten at this stage? I thought not, so I couldn't help but ask: "What about you? You look hurt, uhm... sir."

He side-eyed me and said through his teeth: "That's not your concern, girl. Instead, you might think on your own actions. While such... foolhardy behaviour is almost a given from the Gryffindors, one would think you'd have the sense not to plunge head first into danger."

Oh, did that mean he cared about me?

"I asked the hat to sort me into Gryffindor, you know," I confessed with a shrug. I was aiming for nonchalant, but couldn't help the rest to come out sounding bitter instead: "It would have saved me some headaches."

"Regarding... your lineage, I presume."

"My lack of one, yes. So you know?"

"I am the head of our house, Sarramond. Obviously, I am aware of the various... matters within the common room."

"Then why don't you do anything?" I asked, my voice laced with indignation. "Tell Selwyn and the rest of them to cut it already with the racism?"

He paused to turn at me, looming overhead: "For the same reason you've refrained from asking for my help, I suspect. Slytherin fosters a distinct... self-reliance. Should I openly aid you, it would let all your housemates know that you're incapable of standing on your own feet. Such a mark on your reputation could haunt you for many more years than Mr. Selwyn."

Yeah, sure, I thought. That, and because helping the Muggleborn would go against the pretended image of sympathy towards the Death Eaters' cause that he worked so hard to project, wouldn't it?

I felt... conflicted about Snape. For someone who was supposed to be one of the good guys, he seemed to enjoy the trappings of the bad evil wizard a bit too much for comfort. As a Professor, he was intensively mediocre and inconsistent. He could explain stuff when he wanted to, teach it well enough to make you understand the reasoning behind, say... how an unmatched number of clockwise and counter-clockwise stirrings in a particular potion could affect its magical balance.

The thing is, he almost never wanted to. Teaching didn't seem to be even in the neighbourhood of Snape's interests, and it showed. Most of the time his explanations only came in after one of us students had made a mistake, messed up their potion assignment simply by virtue of being unaware of some obscure aspect of its brewing that Snape had refused to clarify ahead of time. And then he didn't just explain the mistake, he also berated us: dunderheads and fools and half-wits. It was clear to me the only reason he was a teacher was because Dumbledore wanted to keep his spy close at hand.

And then there were his other failings: like how he was a creep still obsessed with Potter's mother —and I had met people like that in my fore-memories, people who were unable to move on after rejection, who felt entitled to someone's love and attention and resorted to stalking and destructive behaviour when they invariably failed to receive it.

Snape chose to be a Death Eater after all, joined Voldemort's side of his own volition. And he didn't betray him out of some realization of the wrongness of his cause. No, it was only out of selfishness. It was only when Voldemort threatened someone he personally cared about that he turned turncoat.

Odd, then, that I still felt a certain kinship with the big bat, despite knowing all that. Maybe because he was the outsider, the other among Dumbledore's staff; and I couldn't help but identifying with that, being an outsider myself too, one who didn't fully belong in my house, or even in Hogwarts. Or because of how well he embodied that moral greyness, that no-man's land that I felt myself drawn to.

"Right," I said at last. "Maybe I'd rather take that mark to my reputation than a Killing Curse to the face. Because I'm not that sure Selwyn knows not to cross that line."

"I doubt such a thing will occur," he sentenced, which was an outright lie if I ever heard one. "But, if you find yourself in true danger, you can turn to me. Just be mindful of the... repercussions."

I nodded, but I had my doubts. This was Snape, after all, the man who had pretty much dedicated his entire life to becoming a spy among the side of the dark. Would he risk a crack in his ironclad cover for the sake of the random orphan girl? Or would he simply choose to look away, if Selwyn tried something? I couldn't help but remember a scene from the movies: the Muggle Studies teacher floating above a table during that meeting at the Malfoy Manor, asking for his help. A help that he never provided.

Would my death be just one more atrocity he was willing to ignore? Just the cost of doing business for him?

That was the thing with Snape, I guessed. For all his capabilities he wasn't someone I could depend on, not really.

He left me at the entrance to the Slytherin common room, the wall opening up when he spoke the password and pushed me inside. Then he turned away without a word and disappeared from sight as the entrance closed once more behind me.

It was only then that I realised how expertly he had diverted my attention away from his own injury and what had caused it. Hats off to him, I guessed.

I entered the common room as I always did: my gaze low and walking purposefully towards the first year girls' dorm, aiming at crossing the danger zone as fast as possible and spend as little time in the luxurious lobby as humanly possible, doing my best to keep under everyone else's radar.

This time it didn't work, though. Maybe because most of the Slytherin students had congregated there, talking among themselves about the night's unique events. Maybe because of my messy appearance, tired and with my robes torn, my hair even more dishevelled than usual. But the moment their eyes landed on me, conversations stopped across the room and I received a dozen curious stares.

It was Tracey who first addressed me. She walked fast up to me and said: "That was stupid! Are you okay?"

I nodded to both statements, slowing down but not stopping; she must have realised this was not my favourite place in the castle to spend leisure time at, because she went silent after that, shadowing me towards the dorm.

Except that we were then intercepted by Prefect Farley, who planted herself right into my path and forced us to stop: "Oh, so you're still alive?" she asked.

I gave her a curt nod.

She looked down at me arms akimbo, her voice deceptively chipper as she said: "Oh well, I guess that's it then, right? But next time, please do follow mine and the professors' instructions, would you, you nobhead? I really don't want to be remembered as the Prefect who lost a firstie to a bloody acromantula. It would be a real stain to my reputation, you see."

"I'm fine," I grumbled, because while I respected Gemma Farley for her help so far, I really didn't appreciate being publicly humiliated in front of the entire house.

She took hold of a fistful of my damaged robes, aiming her wand at me. "Yes, I can see that. Reparo!"

The robes fixed themselves under my gaze. "I can do that too," I grumbled, refusing to thank her. She twisted her mouth.

"Can you not get killed, as well?" she asked.

I shrugged. "I have a good track record: eleven years without getting killed even once."

"Let's make it three more years, then," she deadpanned. "Once I leave Hogwarts you are free to go hunt as many five-X beasts as you wish. But not until then."

Right. If I made it that far, that was; which this wasn't helping me with. At last she took a step to the side, leaving me to resume my walk of shame followed by Tracey; but we didn't get further than a couple of yards before Pansy Parkinson's voice interrupted us.

"I was sure she was dead," she spoke, as if talking to Bulstrode, Malfoy, and the rest of their little group of twats, but loud enough that I would hear her. "You see, being a mudblood and all; so I decided to help myself to some of her things before they were thrown away. Look Draco, I got her diary."

"Oh, you did? Let's see what's in it, then."

I stopped in my tracks to turn and look at them. Parkinson was seated on one of the leather couches, opening a notebook she held in her hands: a notebook with little orchid flowers drawn on its purple covers. One that I knew pretty well, given that it was supposed to me at the bottom of my trunk. It was my notebook of thoughts about the future, that I still had to protect with some sort of enchantment, some day.

"Spoilers," she read aloud to general sniggering, the absolute witch. "The Secret Strategies of Sylvia Sarramond, Sagacious Snarker of Sublime Style. Merlin, she's such a baby," she scoffed.

What can I say. In my defence, I was seven when I'd started writing it down.

I felt my body tense up, the noise of my blood pumping in my ears. My wand found its way to my hand almost without my notice. But I tried to keep my cool: it wouldn't do to attack a pure-blood in the middle of the Slytherin common room.

"Buy all the Apples from the Amazon that you can afford, but never be a Yahoo," she read, confused. I hoped the little code I'd used when writing my thoughts down would prove too much for her smooth brain, but she was determined to find something embarrassing in there. She went a few pages ahead.

"Oh, what's this? Did she write a story for little children too? Of course she did. Let's see... Little Tom split his Riddle into seven pieces: the first he put into a ring–"

No.

"DEPULSO!" I shouted, the spell flying straight at her.

I had tried to aim more or less at the notebook, try to push it out of her hands. But focus and intention were key to magic, and the rush of panic combined with the adrenaline of the night made it so that my aim failed, and I pushed much more magic than intended. The banishing charm made the book fly out of her hands, sure enough, but it also pushed Parkinson hard against the back of the couch, with enough force for the ornate piece of furniture to tilt back. Draco managed to jump out of the way, but his sudden absence left the couch without a counterweight, causing both Pansy and Millicent Bulstrode to come crashing to the floor.

I ignored the sudden chaos and the gasps and chuckles among the onlookers, moving forward even as Parkinson scrambled back to her feet. I crouched and picked up my notebook with my left hand, the wand in my right never straying far from her.

"You– you can't–!" she babbled, digging in a pocket to produce her own wand. It was as if the mere idea of me using magic against her had never even occurred to her. "You will regret–!"

"Do you think I'm afraid of you?" I taunted her in a cold voice. "Pancy, I just fought and killed an acromantula tonight."

Sure, I hadn't killed it on my own, but she didn't have to know that. And I saw her face go pale when my words registered, words what were no doubt also strengthened by my overall messy appearance, by the tear in my robes that Farley had just mended. I heard whispers starting among some of the older students at my declaration.

"Now, now," drawled Selwyn, who chose this moment to approach us, towering over us first years with a lazy self-assured smile. "We are not animals here, are we? We don't simply attack each other like Muggles in a tavern."

I paused for a moment, looking at him, then eyeing Parkinson. I was a mix of furious and still sort of scared —because the amount of damage Parkinson could have caused, just by reading aloud some of the sentences in that notebook, could easily have been catastrophic— but I wasn't so off my rocker that I would risk openly defying Selwyn.

And yet, I wanted to shut Parkinson's mouth. I wanted to hit her, for daring to touch my things, for all the little insults she sent my way daily, for having been a pain in my arse ever since my first day at the castle. And perhaps she wasn't Selwyn, she wasn't the Sorting Hat, she wasn't my fore-knowledge, one of those surprisingly resistant acromantulas, or any of the many other forces acting to ruin Hogwarts for me. She was a nuisance at best, and not even the stronger one.

But she was the one I could beat.

"You're right," I admitted to the psychopath next to us, then turned to search for Daphne Greengrass and met her surprised eyes; because I'd need the support of another pure-blood for this: "But still, I've been insulted and stolen from, so I want to challenge her to a duel. Isn't that my right?"

For once, Daphne looked out of place: for the briefest moment I could glimpse the eleven years old girl she was behind the princess mask that she liked to wear. It was in how she looked bewildered and confused, her eyes jumping from me to Selwyn and then Parkinson, unsure as to how to react. I guessed her parents hadn't exactly instructed her in the proper protocol to follow when the Muggleborn in your dorm challenged your pure-blood housemate to a duel; not that I blamed them. And then, a moment later, her mask fell back into place, almost with an audible snap; and she spoke aloud in a calm tone: "a witch has the right to issue a challenge when insulted, yes."

I glanced at Selwyn, but he looked amused at this new development, and like he wouldn't mind seeing some more violence between the two of us. For once, we were in agreement.

"Right," I snapped at Parkinson. "You, me, duel, right now!"

I walked to the centre of the common room without waiting for a response, and adopted the customary combative position I'd read about on the Duelling Primer: my right side turned towards my opponent, left foot angled sideways, my wand aimed at the sky instead of at her because we hadn't bowed yet.

"Prefect Farley," I said, "can you be the Arbiter? And you are my second, Tracey; not that you'll need to do anything, of course."

"Ahm..." replied Tracey.

"Well, Pancy, what are you waiting for?!" I said.

Around me, the other Slytherin students were moving back to clear a circle. I took that —and their hungry, hyena-like expressions— to be a sort of tacit approval of my challenge, even though I was stretching the duelling rules to the breaking point by choosing 'immediately' as both time and location. You were supposed to issue a challenge hours, even days in advance.

"A... duel?" asked Parkinson, unbelieving. "That is... barbaric! It's not done anymore! Duels aren't–"

"Formal customs must be followed," interrupted Farley, who was shaking her head slightly but apparently accepting her role as Arbiter. She sighed and said: "You have been issued a challenge, Parkinson."

"By... a mudblood?!"

"If I'm a mudblood you won't have any problems putting me back in my place, no?" I taunted her. "No matter that I'm top of our class in Defence."

She looked bewildered around the common room, glancing at older students here and there as she searched for an exit, but none of them offered her any. They were a bloodthirsty bunch, the Slytherins. And a self-interested one too, because I knew none of them would offer her a lifeline unless there was something to gain, not when a Greengrass had tacitly approved of my challenge and neither Farley nor Selwyn seemed to mind it. And Parkinson's own allegiances lied with Malfoy and Bulstrode, who didn't seem like the strongest allies you could hope for, given that both of them were now making themselves scarce so as to not be called as her second.

"I... I don't have anything to prove to the likes of you!" shouted Parkinson at last, before retreating towards the dorms.

Wait, what? She couldn't just... do that, could she? Just walk away?

It seems she could, because Prefect Farley announced: "Sarramond wins the duel by forfeit. Now, enough of this: time to go to bed, you lot!"

I scoffed, relaxing my posture as Tracey passed by my side without a word. She probably hadn't liked me volunteering her as my second, I guessed.

This... this didn't feel like winning. My heart was still hard at work pumping blood; and while I felt drained from all the spell-casting I'd done before, my magic still was pretty much alive in my veins, my wand hungry for more.

At least my diary notebook was safe, and intact. This had been a mistake on my part, and also a waking call: I'd need to protect it better going forward, if I was to keep it. Perhaps I should ask Hermione if she knew any tips for that; I half-remembered she'd performed some sort of protective spells at some point in the story.

And as I looked at the other students around me, I noticed I wasn't the only one feeling let down at the anticlimactic resolution. There was scoffing and sniggering; but for once, those weren't aimed at me, but at Parkinson. I could even see some of them glancing at me in passing, as if their appreciation of the little orphan mudblood had shifted ever so slightly, hopefully for the better.

That, it felt nice; I wasn't gonna lie.

Chapter Text

The consequences for my rash actions during Hallowe'en started arriving as soon as I opened my eyes the morning of the following day, because I felt impossibly drained and wanting nothing but to go back to sleep. It seemed all my reckless discharging of magic all over the place was catching up with me.

I laid there on my bed as my housemates rose and began their morning routines —loudly opening and closing their trunks and talking and making other unwelcome noises— my eyes half open and my body feeling disjointed, each limb weighting twice as much as it usually did. Eventually I resigned myself to the reality of a new day, and with a deep groan I sat on the bed, blinking like an owl at the clarity of the light coming from the magical sconces.

It took me much longer to get ready for the day than usual, even if I skipped brushing my hair entirely; my every movement lethargic due to the sudden scarcity of shits to give I found myself with. And by the time I was finally done and as ready as I was capable of being, all the other girls were long gone.

All except for Daphne Greengrass, that is. The heiress stood in the dorm as a contrast to me, her eyes wide awake and her blond hair immaculately styled —which mine would be too, of course, if I also had a bloody enchanted hairbrush.

It was clear she wanted to talk to me away from the others' ears, so I acknowledged her with an interrogative grunt; which was the most complex vocalisation I currently felt capable of.

"Sarramond," she said, "I find you agreeable, and a good addition to the Slytherin house."

Oh, hell no.

I slumped back onto my bed, sitting down, took a deep breath, and then asked: "But?"

"But I'm not happy with how you used me yesterday," she continued, in a stern tone; I guessed this would be how Daphne's own mother sounded when she was scolding her or something. "It wasn't respectful of you to put me on the spot in front of everybody else."

I sighed, not sure of what to say. This was very much not the right time for such a discussion, it feeling like my brain was on critical life support. It took me a few moments to put it into gear, but in the end I managed to piece together a more or less coherent sentence: "I... Parkinson stole my stuff, I deserved... had the right to duel her; but I needed someone with more... otherwise Selwyn... ah... you know."

Daphne sat primly on my bed next to me, her hands resting atop her knees, her back ramrod straight and her robes not even crumpling with the motion the way mine had. She said: "That's not the problem. I would have backed your challenge anyway, but you should have asked me first in private."

"Uhm? You would have?"

"Yes. Parkinson acted against my wishes, so it wasn't the challenge itself that I minded, just the way you went about it."

"Your wishes?"

She turned her eyes towards my trunk. "I told all the girls not to touch your bed, or your belongings."

Wait, what? "You did that?!"

"Is it that surprising? It's as you said the first night: I don't want for sudden noises waking me up at night, or for any of you to turn our dormitory into a battleground. I wish to relax in here without having to worry about jinxes flying off and hitting me by accident. I made myself very clear to her that the dormitory should be a neutral place, so I'm very cross at Parkinson for not respecting that."

I gave her a puzzled look. "But Parkinson is also a pure-blood? I mean, I'm sure the Greengrasses have more... clout or whatever, but that doesn't make you a Prefect, no? It's not like when Farley told them not to bully me in public."

She returned my look with a curious expression of her own. "Sometimes I forget that you weren't raised in the magical world; you seem to know much about many of the spells, creatures, enchantments, and some of our customs... but then you say things like that and I remember there are many things that you simply don't know about. They just aren't always what I'd expect them to be."

"I read a lot, but still have gaps in my knowledge, sure." I shrugged, rolling my eyes. "You know, don't really need to rub it in that I'm the ignorant mud–"

She tutted. "We don't say that word in polite company."

Really? The pure-blood was censuring me for using that word?

"Well I'm reclaiming it," I snapped back, with maybe a bit too much bite. "But yeah, I don't know why Parkinson would have to obey your wishes; if not because some families are better than others, like Malfoy says."

"It's quite simple, really: the Greengrasses don't have more clout than the Parkinsons," she explained. "Both our families are similarly considered. But I myself have a higher status than Pansy because I am my family's heiress, and she is not hers."

I nodded, opening my mouth to interrupt, but she wasn't done: "It's not that she has to obey all my wishes, mind you. But it was an old tradition at Hogwarts that the students with the highest... social status were responsible of ensuring a peaceful living in their dormitories, help their housemates, solve conflicts, that sort of thing. This was long before Prefects existed, of course, and I believe our house is the only one to keep with this tradition in some form."

"Yeah, Slytherins do like their traditions," I commented.

"Our traditions. Yours too. You are a Slytherin."

I paused for a beat, eyeing her. She seemed to be going out of her way to make me feel... well, included, in her own way. And I appreciated it, of course, but I also had to wonder what her angle was.

Still, if she wanted to act friendly, I would certainly accept any offers made my way. I said with a grin: "So who would win in a fight, a Prefect or a... whatever you are?"

"I believe Selwyn and Prefect Farley are working together at answering that very question."

I whipped my head to stare at her. Did Daphne just make a joke? Yeah, she was sporting a delicate smile of her own. Oh wow, the princess was indeed capable of humour!

"But in fact," she continued, "someone in my position doesn't have any true authority, just the respect of their housemates. That is why it's important that you don't give everyone else the impression that you can simply... make use of me like that. It makes–"

"It makes you look weak."

She nodded. "Yes."

I shrugged, looking at my hands. There were little cuts on my fingers from the day before, but I couldn't remember when I got them.

I said: "I was furious, you know, and also very tired and... I don't know. She just made me so f–... so bloody angry that I had to do something right then. But I'm sorry I used you; I'll try to keep that in mind."

"Thank you. Maybe try not to rush ahead so blindly, too; it's not something that Slytherin values, and other people might use it against you if they realise you are easy to anger."

I looked at Daphne, at her perfect posture, the way she spoke. She'd probably been training for this since she was an infant, since she could stand on her own feet. Parents and tutors morphing her into the perfect little damsel, into the best approximation of a child politician I'd ever met.

"I'm realising," I said absent-mindedly, "that I can't for the life of me imagine how your childhood has been like so far. As a pure-blood heiress, I mean."

If she was surprised at my comment, she didn't show it. She just said: "I also feel the same for your own life. A Muggle orphanage... that sounds so... sordid."

"Yeah. There was this time when they served us spinaches for dinner. I still get nightmares about it," I said, pantomiming a shudder.

She let out a polite chuckle and stood up. "Speaking of, it's time to think of breakfast."

I moved to follow her, but she paused and said, her voice a little less self-assured: "It might be better if you wait here for three of four minutes before leaving."

I paused at that, my eyebrows rising. She bit her lower lip in a self-conscious gesture that I was sure her tutors had probably tried and failed to train her out of. A gesture that made her look vaguely guilty.

Ah.

I made an assenting noise and let my body fall backwards fully, laying down on my bed. "Sure," I said. "Don't worry about it."

She nodded and left the dorm on her own, closing the door after her.

Of course.

Of course she didn't want any of our housemates to see us walk into the Great Hall together. As much as she was making me an offer, I was still toxic, and she valued her reputation. So all this joking and... well, friendly overtures between us would have to remain private. Like it was some dirty secret of hers.

Because I was still someone she'd be ashamed to be seen next to. She might not like the sound of the word, but in her eyes I had no doubt I still was pretty much a mudblood.

In the end it was the promise of a croissant what got me up again and into the Great Hall. That and the fact today we didn't have any classes during the morning's first period, so I wouldn't need to worry about falling asleep at Transfiguration or something.

I was met with some staring and whispers when I arrived for breakfast, but they only came from the Slytherin table; most of the other students were too busy gossiping about Harry Potter instead. The moment I sat down, Draco said: "You didn't tell us you were with Potter! What were you doing together?"

I sighed, grabbed a cup filled with black tea, and then replied: "Why do you care that much, Malfoy; jealous I'll steal his attentions?"

He gave me a narrow look, but I did get some laughs out of Zabini and a couple of nearby second years that were eavesdropping on us. Malfoy mumbled something disparaging, but I ignored him in favour of focusing on my own breakfast when the rest of it appeared in front of me. Plixiette had come through for me, in the end, and the croissant was another of her masterworks: with a perfect golden shine, a dazzling smooth but also crunching texture... I could feel my drained energy come back with each new bite.

I took notice of the Gryffindor table as I ate. It seemed like Hermione had been accepted as part of the wider group, sitting next to Ron and Harry and confidently talking to them. And when they left a few minutes later, they did so together. So I let out a relieved breath; at least the Trio was a thing now, no matter what happened with Quirrell and the rest of the first book's plot. Which meant I could take a rest from worrying about them, focus back on my own personal stuff for a while.

Many other students were leaving too, in fact, not just the Gryffindors. I had arrived late, and pretty soon it was just me, Tracey, and a couple other stragglers at our table; and Tracey was only nibbling on some of the leftover Hallowe'en sweets while clearly waiting for me.

"I owe you an apology, you know," I told her, taking the last bite out of my croissant. "For yesterday."

"Oh?"

"Greengrass told me I was... hmm... a bit forceful on how I went about calling for that duel," I admitted. "I shouldn't have assumed you'd be my second without asking you first."

She paused for a moment, then said: "Thanks. It was all... so fast. But I don't get it. Why would you do it?"

"The duel? Well, Parkinson had–"

"No, not the duel. But running off after Potter and Weasley like that? That was stupid."

Oh, that. I shrugged. "I figured they'd get hurt without some extra help, and I also wanted to see Granger safe."

She shook her head slowly. "But why do you care about them? Is it because it's Harry Potter?"

I let out a laugh, because she sounded just like Dumbledore the day before. "Why is it so hard to believe I just did something good for its own sake? Didn't I tell you I asked the hat–"

"To sort you into Gryffindor, yes," she said crossing her arms. "And of course it put you into Slytherin; where else would you be?!"

I blinked. "Did you get hit in the noggin or something? I was raised by Muggles, probably a Muggleborn myself, remember? In what world does that fit in with the pure-blood house?"

"I don't mean about your bloody... blood!" she countered. "Just that you are always... machinating something, aren't you? Nothing you do is ever straightforward. It's always a trade or a scheme or some angle that you're working. Like with the kitchens yesterday: I thought you just wanted to show them to me and get ourselves some food ahead of the feast, but of course not: you only wanted to interrogate the house-elves!"

I stood silent for a beat. It seemed I had underestimated Tracey's observation skills. Note to self: just because she didn't comment on something, that didn't mean she hadn't noticed.

I winked at her. "Fair. But I can work more than one scheme at the same time, you know, so yeah... it was also about showing the kitchens to you."

"And the thing with the Gryffindors?"

"Well... Hermione is my Potions partner, you know."

"Please, you can get a new partner!" she snapped back. "And I was at that stupid book club too, so I know you two aren't friends. Try again."

I sighed, frustrated. I couldn't simply reveal the whole reasons for my acts the day before, no matter how out of character they seemed to her. Surprisingly, it was easier to come up with a suitable explanation that Dumbledore would believe than one for Tracey Davis. She just knew me that much better.

In the end, I had to resort to some honesty. Not all of it, of course. Sanitized honesty, if you will:

"Fine. Yeah, you're right; it was about Potter too. Same thing with the Read-Ahead Club, which is not stupid at all by the way. I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not very popular in Slytherin–" she scoffed, "–so I'm trying to reach out to other people outside our own house, make acquittances and such; people who can help me now and then.

"In my defence, I didn't really expect to actually run into any acromantulas. But at least now the Boy Who Lived will see me in a positive light. So that's worth something, no?"

She shook her head. "Not if you are dead! It still was very stupid, you should have gone to tell a Professor with me instead."

I... didn't disagree on that. Nothing like a close encounter with giant murderous spiders to bring to the fore your own mortality. I was now very aware of the risks I was truly facing; but despite that, having survived those monsters also made me feel like there was nothing the Wizarding World could throw at me I couldn't deal with.

And which was insane, to be clear. Because I hadn't so much 'survived the monsters' as 'been rescued from them'. And I wondered if this was merely caused by the relief I felt somehow twisting into a false sense of security; or if perhaps it was some deeper thing. Some sort of unintended consequence of Hogwarts itself, of receiving an education in the Wizarding World.

Because this was my life now, apparently, the life of someone who could bend the laws of reality with magic and who existed in a world of fantasy with monsters and creatures of legend, evil wizards and all the rest... and well, at what point do you start believing yourself untouchable, develop a certain sense of invincibility? There were only so many loops around the Training Grounds you could make atop a broom, so many things you could make fly through the air with a flick of your wrist before it all started messing up with your perception of risk. Which perhaps had been the true reason behind my acts the day before, all along.

Was this why magical society was so... well, off their rocker, so to speak? I could see how it would be even worse had you not known anything but all this... craziness. How it would seem normal, feed an appetite for the bombastic, for the daring. Up until you went against something that outclassed you entirely, of course.

Then you just died.

There was a part of me that didn't want to care for that sort of hair-splitting, though; and so I was in a good mood when Tracey and I left to the lake, to spend the sunny morning free period lazing around. We used the excuse of practising our banishing charms to throw flat stones into the water with our wands, competing to get the highest number of bounces.

We were still there when Susan Bones found us, approaching me to deliver what I immediately realized would be bad news —just from her stance: hands clasped together over a crumpled piece of parchment and gaze slightly down. She said: "I'm really sorry; I tried owling my aunt Amelia, but she says she can't just disclose the obliviation records... she says 'willy-nilly'?... to anyone who asks. She also wrote the word 'nepotism'... two or three times."

I sighed and muttered: "God save us from the lawful good people. Thanks anyway, Bones; it was worth a try."

She nodded and started walking away, but stopped to look back at the parchment and added: "Oh, my aunt also says there are... hmm... proper ways to learn this? Something to do with an official inquiry made by an attorney, but that's as much as it says here. I think she was a bit... angry when she wrote this."

I thanked her again. It was an option, at least, but one that would take time and knowledge. The first item in the list of bullet points being: 'how to find a wizarding attorney in the first place'. As always, I felt the familiar bite of those ropes that had been constraining me for years: not being an adult anymore meant I couldn't simply walk into a lawyer's office and hire someone. No, my guardian would have to do it. And being a ward of the state, my guardian was probably none other than the Giraffe herself.

Which was a Muggle and unaware of the existence of magic, so that was that. It was so unfair, and it made feel so disadvantaged that I wondered if there would be some sort of provisions for people like me, people who were trapped between the two worlds, in a sense. Some sort of wizarding guardian I could maybe ask to be assigned to me.

But maybe that would be for the worse, if I got assigned someone like Mrs. Coverdale: someone who would feel entitled to own my life, to direct what I could and could not do. Better to have at least some leeway than none, even if it came at the cost of certain rights. I mean, for all I knew I could end up being Umbridge's ward or something equally terrifying.

"Hmm... none of your parents happen to be an attorney, right Tracey?" I asked.

"No. Depulso! But maybe they know of one? I could owl them."

"I don't think I can pay for it... at least not yet. And it would take them time to go through the Ministry's bureaucracy anyway... also... it's probably not going to be enough on its own. Just lead me to yet another question."

"Do you want me to owl them or not? Depulso!... That's seven again!"

"Hmm... you know what? Fine, owl them, but just to test the waters... Depulso!... Bugger! How do you do that?"

"You're putting too much force. Try giving it a little upward swish..."

All in all it could've been a good day, despite the news about the Ministry. I'd managed to navigate two pretty thorny conversations with style and walk away not the worse for wear, which was a pretty solid achievement in my books. Getting in contact with an attorney could also help, if Tracey's parents could simply ask around without invoking the wrath of the wizarding bureaucracy on me. It wouldn't come in time to save me from Selwyn, but I could at least start to get a feel for what an official inquiry would cost, and the hazards I'd need to navigate.

So yeah, not a bad day. Except that Parkinson had to ruin it in the end.

Apparently she was a tad sharper than I'd given her credit for, because she pretty much turned my previous night's display against me. It started that very day, when we entered the Great Hall for dinner and I overheard her muttering something to Bulstrode about a '... violent mudblood thug...' Bulstrode's not so subtle glances my way made it obvious who exactly they were talking about.

I ignored it then, but it was merely the herald of what was to come, because over the following days the both of them launched a campaign of light harassment designed to egg me on relentlessly. The concept was simple: I was an uncivilized brute who couldn't control herself and would easily resort to violence. And to prove it, they tried to provoke me into reacting. It was all petty shit, Elliot-and-Miles type of stuff like bumping my books off the table during Charms, hiding my matchboxes away in Transfiguration, or dripping pumpkin juice all over my tartiflette.

It took them a week to succeed, until one of them shot me a stinging jinx from the back while we were walking towards Herbology. It was a weak one, sure, but still strong enough to produce a red welt all over my left forearm, itching like crazy. So I pivoted on the spot, and didn't have to look for long to find the culprit: Bulstrode was trying to hide her wand from sight while sniggering to Crabbe.

It might've been because I was already tired of all the stupid bullying, or perhaps because of the looming threat that was Herbology, the most frustrating class in the entire schedule, but I was already miffed well enough that I simply aimed my own wand back at her and intoned: "Locomotor Mortis!"

Her legs bounded together, and she tilted forwards like an unbalanced plank. And because her hands had been otherwise occupied with hiding her wand, she simply face-planted into the floor with a loud 'SPLAT!' that attracted the attention of everyone around us. Including the Ravenclaws we shared the class with, who all erupted into wild laughter.

I mean, it was a lovely sound. The way it rebounded across the corridor... just... lovely.

I enjoyed the outcome for some hours, thinking me victorious. But Prefect Farley seemed to be of a different opinion, because she grabbed me by the scruff of my robes the moment I entered the common room, later that day, and scolded me in front of everyone else: five minutes of berating about house unity and not showing our disagreements in public. I argued back that Bulstrode had started it, but to no avail. Apparently it didn't matter who started what, only what students in the other houses would see.

After that my reputation as the 'thug' became entrenched and well established, reminding me of the kind of stuff that had landed me at the Residence. And it was a prickly one to fight, because no matter how strong or apt at magic I was, it wasn't my abilities that they were putting into question, but my very character. My belonging into polite society. And my typical approach of responding in kind, with copious amount of escalating simply... backfired here. It didn't matter if you had the strongest hammer when there were no nails to hit.

Fine, then. Petty shit it was. If that's how Parkinson and Bulstrode wanted to play it, I would gladly step onto that stage. And I'd bring lorryloads of petty shit with me. So much petty shit that by the time the dust settled they'd have to crown me the undisputed Queen of Pettyshitland; in a parade with trombones and bloody jugglers.

I went to the Weasley twins for supplies —some of them being the very same stuff we'd sold them before, and that they returned to me at a higher price, traitorous boogers that they were— and dove into my revenge with gusto, bringing back and updating my old classic tactics from my early foster days.

I coated the lenses of their telescopes in an eye irritant. I used the cutting charm on their scarves. I learnt how to cast the knockback jinx with a mere whisper, and I used it liberally to bump any and all objects around them to the floor, make them look like they were some clumsy fools. I convinced the kitchen elves that Parkinson loved her food spicy. 'No, no, real spicy, like coated in chili powder. Yes, yes, I'm sure she'll love it.' Some days I levitated their inkwells and flipped them over their heads, other days I replaced their contents with invisible ink. I was savage, my density of pranks through the roof. I sacrificed some of my studying and reading time in the all-out assault, with the hope that they'd tire soon of living in a state of perpetual anxiety, always waiting for the next attack; that they'd be forced to negotiate a cease-fire.

It all came to a head one day in Potions. I was enjoying that class more than ever on account of Hermione being more positive towards me since the episode with the acromantulas —Ron apparently still mistrusted me, but that was okay, as thankfully I didn't have to spend any minute of my time with him.

But having this sort of... friendly relationship, along with her presence at the Read-Ahead Club, was exactly what I'd aimed for all this time. The attack on Hallowe'en had given me hope that, even if some of the specifics had changed, the main line of events still held true. Voldemort wanted the stone, and he'd most likely try to get it when Dumbledore left by the end of the year.

So now, I could relax and focus on my own stuff; let the plot follow through while just keeping an eye on the Gryffindors through Hermione. And if needed, our improved relationship gave me enough access that I could easily put some book on Alchemy or Nicolas Flamel in her path, if they hadn't figured it out by the time Quirrellmort would make his move.

We were deep into brewing our hair-rising potion, me distracted in slicing the rat tails for a more even diffusion, when Parkinson just happened to walk by our table on her way back from the ingredients' shelves. I didn't see her do it, but I clearly heard the telltale 'plop!' of something falling into our cauldron; the solution inside promptly losing its even green moss tone in favour of turning into an inky, lumpy soup.

"Oh, no, no," said Hermione, flipping one way and the other through the class coursebook. "We can still fix it! Do you think she put in something acidic? It would have to be, wouldn't it?"

She started grabbing more ingredients, pouring leech juice and fly wings into the cauldron in a desperate race against time. But no matter how valiant her efforts, I knew a lost cause when I saw one.

I instead started working on our revenge. Snape was distracted looming over Neville and Seamus Finnigan, his back facing me; so I produced my wand out of one pocket and one of my last remaining stink pellets out of another. I whispered 'Wingardium Leviosa' and levitated the little pellet towards the shadowed ceiling of the classroom. Then, I slowly floated it until it was right above Parkinson and Malfoy's boiling cauldron, keeping an eye out for anyone who could see me doing it. Fortunately, Hermione was too focused to notice.

Then, I simply cancelled the spell, quickly putting my wand back into its pocket and my gaze back to our own cauldron.

I heard Malfoy mutter a 'What...?' followed by what I could only describe as the sound of a giant toad endlessly belching and throwing up, a mix of deep gurgles and hissing and thick liquid sloshing on its own. Everyone in the class halted what they were doing and turned their heads to see the two pure-bloods jump back just as a column of dark smoke —as wide as the cauldron's mouth— poured out of it, rising upwards to pool under the ceiling.

Then, some sort of malformed tentacles dripping in a dark thick substance rose out of its lip. They flailed around in wild spasms, crashing against the furniture and launching ingredients and vials through the air; one of them hitting Parkinson's body with a wet slap that dropped her to the floor. Meanwhile Draco crawled on all fours, hiding under Zabini's table as the tentacles proceeded to drop down and lift the cauldron itself as if they were legs, turning the whole thing into some sort of unholy, nightmarish parody of a hermit crab.

"Wicked," I muttered. Hermione's jaw was dropped open.

Snape didn't seem to share my enthusiasm, because he started to shout for us to "Stand back! Move over there! You too, Potter, you dimwit!" as he whipped out his wand and approached the cauldron, which was now using its three tentacles to climb up the wall towards one of the open windows above, used for ventilation.

It was like a scene out of one of the movies: Snape waving his wand in the air, his robes billowing dramatically among all our yelling and racket. He didn't even mutter an incantation, but the tentacles nevertheless lost their grip on the bricks of the wall, the cauldron dropping back to the floor with a clang and crawling to hide under a table.

He didn't let it get away, severing the tentacles with what I recognised as some sort of modified cutting charm, the severed parts turning instantly back into a liquid and splashing on the flagstones. A third spell caused the cauldron itself to contract into a ball of metal the size of a fist, which then simply disappeared with a flash, taking the... entity, whatever it was with it. Another flick cleaned the spilled puddles, a twirl created a wind that pushed the condensed fumes out of the room through the open window, and a final swish repaired the damaged table and put all the furniture back into order.

For a few seconds, there was a deafening silence. Then, he slowly turned to face us all, his gaze burning with the intensity of a newborn star. It was the angriest I'd ever seen him.

I never knew if it was because of the furious glare Parkinson —her robes caked in the black substance— sent my way, or because of the grin splitting my face from ear to ear that I couldn't hide in time, but Snape strode straight up to me like an arrow, wand still in hand.

He snarled: "Detention, Sarramond."

Chapter Text

Snape set my detention for the afternoon of the next Saturday, the very same day that the first Quidditch match of the season was meant to take place: Gryffindor versus Slytherin. I figured he wanted me to miss whatever celebrations took place in the common room after what everyone in my house was certain would be an easy victory.

Joke was on him though, I happened to know the Gryffindors would win that match thanks to the ace up their sleeve that McGonagall's bending of the rules would grant them. And even if that weren't the case in this brand new timeline, I wasn't planning on taking part in anything at all that happened in our common room. I wasn't that suicidal.

The days leading up to it I felt uncharacteristically morose, in fact. Perhaps because of the changing weather, a deep cold having taken command of the castle —the winter cloak and my robes' hood helped, but they still left too much of my body exposed to the icy world to my liking. Or perhaps because it heralded the arrival of winter break, which pretty much everyone but me was looking forward to.

The Friday before the weekend of my detention we had Defence Against the Dark Arts, where we kept practising the boring Verdimillious charm and its different colour variations. I'd been having trouble with that one, oddly enough: I could cast the sparks with ease, but I couldn't keep them going for more than a few seconds; I was only getting some pretty but quite short bursts. I knew enough fundamentals of magic theory at this point that it was easy to diagnose the cause: a lack of focus. But it was hard to concentrate on the spells when I could feel the pressure mounting with every day that passed, every hour we got closer to my deadline.

I was quickly running out of time, and I didn't see much of an exit anymore. The Ministry angle would simply take too long: Tracey had indeed owled her parents, who said they'd rather meet me in person and discuss the matter with me —she hadn't told them about Selwyn's threats, of course, so they didn't seem in a hurry. They offered to meet over the Holidays, but in a bout of optimism I'd decided I would stay at Hogwarts rather than spending those days at the Residence. There were... a couple of reasons for that: one of them was that it would be time I could use to keep practising spells and reading the books in the Library, both of which I wouldn't have access to back in the Muggle world. The other one was that opening a Ministerial inquiry wouldn't help much in the little time I had left; if I didn't have a satisfying answer for Selwyn come winter break, it would already be too late.

So now I depended entirely on Theodore Nott coming through for me. I hadn't interacted with him ever since the Hallowe'en Feast, and I was still anxiously awaiting his response; with the hope that he wouldn't have forgotten about it, or worse, simply lied to me, to get me out of his hair.

If worse came to worst, I figured I still had the Snape option, asking him for help and taking whatever repercussions came along with my chin up. And then... then there was the nuclear option too: telling Dumbledore and hoping he'd figure out some way to get me out of the predicament —maybe by switching me to a different house. Which perhaps he'd actually do, if I told him what I knew about what the future held.

So it was a waiting game. And in the meantime I went to class, studied, and pretty much kept to my routine. Parkinson and Bulstrode were starting to falter in their bullying campaign, the cauldron event seemingly leaving a strong impression in them of the lengths I was willing to go —because none of my housemates except for Tracey, and somehow Zabini, realised it had been pretty much a happy accident on my part— and in return I let up on my own reprisals. Which also saved me from spending the last of my diminishing Galleons in stupid prank items.

So yeah, with all of that in my mind of course my results with the Verdimillious spell at class were inconsistent; but it still was odd for me, so I wasn't too surprised when after the class ended and we were packing our things Professor Duskhaven said: "Miss Sarramond. A moment of your time, please."

I nodded to Tracey, signalling her to go ahead, and approached the older witch.

"I know, I know," I said. "Sorry, I just have too much stuff in my head, with the detention tomorrow, and winter break coming and all that."

She tilted her head and said: "If that's the case, why do you insist in making it more difficult for yourself?"

"Uh?"

She produced her wand and demonstrated the spell, casting a burst of red sparks. "This is the wand movement required. But you're adding a backward swish at the end, like this. Why is that?"

"Oh," I said, suddenly feeling self-conscious at being caught as something of a tryhard. "It's a tip I read in a duelling book. It modifies the spells to make them easier to link into a chain, to cast them faster."

She nodded once. "Yes, that was what I was fearing. Tell me, are you reading those books out of a desire to someday become a duellist, or merely to improve your defensive capabilities?"

I frowned. "Those... are the same thing, no? If I'm good at duelling, I'll be good at defence too."

"And therein lies your mistake, Miss Sarramond: duelling is a sport."

That... didn't really track with my experience at Hogwarts so far, the books I'd read, or even what my fore-memories told me of duelling in the Wizarding World.

"I don't know," I challenged her. "I figured they were related. Like when they say Professor Flitwick is a great duellist, doesn't that mean he's good at fighting if needed too? Or with my Head of House? I doubt Professor Snape takes it as a sport."

"Yes, the confusion is not helped by many people using the word 'duel' when they actually mean 'skirmish'. But make no mistake, the books you're probably reading are meant for those trying to participate in duelling championships. And unlike actual fights, tournaments have clear norms and regulations. In those, the opponents always start casting at the same time, and so being able to cast faster is a clear advantage. This is why many so-called duelling books put such a focus on it, and why they developed the chaining technique."

"But isn't being able to cast fast always important, anyway?"

"I'd have figured after your experience with the acromantulas you would know by now that the properly chosen, well invoked spell is worth a dozen rushed ones. Speed has its value, yes, but never at the cost of flexibility, or shoddy wandwork."

I shrugged. "Well, the circumstances–"

"Exactly. The circumstances are always unpredictable, unlike in a tournament duel. Duelling experts can get away with those rigid chains of spells precisely because they know they'll never have to face dangerous beasts when using them, or more than one simultaneous enemy. They can practise their Hinde-Cobris openings with the certainty that they'll never be countered with a Killing Curse.

"But in a real fight, Miss Sarramond, you'll never have such guarantees; which is why flexibility should be a priority, as should be identifying the nature of the threat and the most effective counter. If you're facing an acromantula, perhaps don't use a chain of spells designed to hamper a wizard's mobility. Use fire instead. An acromantula has four times as many legs as a wizard, but its exoskeleton limits how quickly it can cool its body down, making them susceptible to the very same Fire-Making Charm you were taught in Herbology."

I blinked. "Uhm... right. So is there any book I could read, for... you know, actual fighting techniques? I read 'The Definitive Self-Defence', but it's just a list of spells."

She conjured a piece of parchment and a quill, and noted down a few names. "Try any of these. Sadly, the books with the word 'duelling' in their title are always more popular, so you aren't the first student led astray by their appeal. But these ones should help you widen your breadth. In particular, 'A Treatise on Defensive Magic' by Oleander Rook is a required reading for any apprentice curse-breakers or Aurors in North America, although... it might be too dense for your age."

I nodded, accepting the list and looking at her curiously as we left the classroom. Was that how she saw me? As someone with the potential to be an Auror? A curse-breaker? I wasn't sure I wanted to be any of those things, to risk my life on a daily basis. I hadn't given much thought to future professions, in fact, still hoping I could cheat my way into unfathomable richness thanks to my fore-memories.

But it wouldn't be bad to at least have the training of one, in any case, with a war approaching and whatnot. So I pocketed the list, determined to work through it the next time I went into the library.

I had hoped to do that on Saturday, in fact, while the rest of the student body was busy at the Quidditch match. But Daphne Greengrass put a rainy end to my parade the moment I mentioned it to Tracey during breakfast.

"You're going to the match, both of you," she said, surprisingly forceful.

"I was always going to go," clarified Tracey. Unnecessarily, because she had procured herself one of those green Quidditch scarves, with the name of our house along the snake emblem both stamped on it.

"Good," she continued, focusing on me next. "It's a way of showing house unity and support for Slytherin. So everyone must be there."

I looked around for an exit, finding none, only agreement by my traitorous housemates. Even Zabini —who I figured also had better stuff to do than spend his morning watching some kids pirouetting in the air and throwing bludgers around— seemed to agree with the sentiment when my gaze met his. But then he slowly rose some sort of wizarding comic book over the lip of his robes' pocket, giving me a sly grin.

Ugh! I'd left my own books back in the dorm, assuming I'd go back to them later.

"And afterwards I have detention with Snape. This is a nightmare," I declared.

"Don't be so dramatic," said Daphne. "I'm sure the match will be fun."

"I'm not dramatic! This is the worst day of my whole life!"

With no recourse or escape I had no other option but to march along with the rest of my house towards the Quidditch pitch, and slowly we filled out the seats assigned to our house. The stands were high enough to be exposed to the cold breeze, although at least not as high as those in the towers meant mostly for professors, prefects and some of the parents. I tried to keep my heat by stomping on the wooden floor, all the while envying Tracey's scarf. The girl had taken a spot in the front bench and was also bouncing like me, but in nervous impatience. To my right side, I could heard Malfoy whining about Potter being allowed to play:

"It's simply not fair. McGonagall is playing favourites, simple as that! And it's always him, isn't it? Always Potter who gets all the special treatment..."

"She's a hypocrite," I said, in a rare show of agreement with the blonde heir. "She's always going on about following the rules, but then goes behind everyone's back to do this. I bet–"

"Who asked you?" spat Bulstrode.

"No... let her finish, Millicent," said Malfoy. "You bet what, Sarramond?"

"I bet they'll let him have his very own custom broom, better than those of the other players."

"He can't. First years aren't allowed to bring our own brooms to Hogwarts; if we were, I wouldn't be using that splintery old thing in our Flying class. But of course you didn't know that; you probably don't own a broom yourself."

"No," I corrected, waving my hand towards Potter and his very obviously different broom as the players finally strode into the pitch. "We aren't allowed our own brooms. But he is."

"It can't be!" shouted Malfoy. "This is outrageous! This match is rigged!"

He went like that for a few minutes, even after the match itself had started. Zabini sent me an annoyed glare for lighting his fuse, but I shrugged. Disparaging Potter was always an easy way to gain some points with Malfoy, and this time I was pretty sure it wouldn't be overheard by anyone in the other houses, or affect the future plot in any relevant ways. I was only pointing the obvious, after all. It also helped that I felt personally wronged by how evidently the older witch was playing favourites.

Not that Snape didn't do it too, but at least he never tried to claim any sort of higher ground.

Besides, at this point everyone in Slytherin were so used to his rants that we could easily tune him out. I did, paying more attention to the few first plays of the match, observing the two teams weave in and around the open space, shooting cannon balls at each other like madmen. But soon enough the novelty of it wore thin —thanks in no small part to the fact that I still didn't fully understand the rules of the game— and I found my eyes drifting towards the other stands, including the professors'. All of the teachers were there... all except for Quirrell, of course.

I narrowed my eyes, trying to see the fine details. This was a good moment to figure out whose side Xenia Duskhaven was in. If there was an attempt on Harry Potter's life, as there had been in the original story, I should be able to see if she was speaking an invocation or something.

But the match continued without incident and started to drag on. Unlike in the movies, this just... kept... going. It was as boring as I'd feared, but at least Tracey seemed to be enjoying herself, shouting arcane things like "Rising below you, Pucey!" and "That's a foul! He's cobbing!"

And she wasn't the only one. Most of my housemates' attention was wrapped in the match, in fact. Most, but not all; Theodore Nott chose that moment to move onto the empty space next to me, and said:

"There is a test."

"Uh? A test?"

"Yes," he whispered. "A blood test, to discover someone's... purity."

My head snapped to him. "They replied, your family? Do you have it with you?"

He nodded, and produced a closed envelope. I went to grab it, but he pulled it back from my reach. "Remember, you said you wouldn't pester me again, and that–"

"Yes, yes. Give me," I grabbed the envelope and opened it. The piece of parchment inside contained a list of ingredients, and instructions for something that resembled a potion or... not really, it actually was...

"A ritual?" I asked.

"Yes. Not so different from brewing a potion; you put the ingredients in their proper places along the runic pattern, and follow the incantation."

I rose my gaze to look at his eyes. "Thanks. I will keep my promise not to drag you into this, but I might need to tell Selwyn where the ritual came from."

"That's not what we agreed," he snapped.

I shrugged. "But how will he know it's a real ritual, and not something I just came up with? Without your family's name backing it up, it's useless."

He seemed to consider that for a moment, then gave me a nod. "Alright. But don't tell anyone else. This ritual is not... it's not something I'd want the Ministry to know about."

"What do you mean?" I asked, eyeing the parchment. "Is it dark magic?"

"No, not quite... just..." he sighed, "just look at the list of ingredients."

I did, scanning the words quickly. It wasn't a long list, and most of it resembled the kind of normal ingredients that we used in Potions. For a magical definition of 'normal' that is: doxy eggs and three types of bones and essence of searoot... things that I was pretty sure you'd be able to find at a Diagon Alley apothecary —or inside the Potions classroom's cupboard of ingredients, for that matter.

And then I saw it.

"Unicorn blood?! You've got to be kidding me!"

"Not so loud!" he grumbled, his eyes looking at the people around us, who were all entranced by some particularly rough spot of play or something, judging by all the sudden booing.

"But where am I going to find that? And isn't it illegal or something?"

"Yes! So keep it secret! Now you know why nobody does this test anymore. The blood is very expensive, but you can find it in Knockturn Alley, of course, if you know where to ask."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "And do you?"

Nott looked confused for a beat, then alarmed. "Don't even try! I'm not going to get the uni— you know what for you! That's your problem, I've already done more than enough!"

With that, he walked away and left me alone with the parchment. I took another glance at it, then sighed and put it folded into my pocket, my eyes going back to the players in the sky.

It was a complication, for sure, but I had a couple ideas of where to find unicorn blood thanks to my fore-memories. I wasn't even going to try with Knockturn Alley, though: I didn't know who to ask, and didn't have money to pay for it —stealing from a store that sold forbidden ingredients to probably dark wizards also sounded a tiny bit too risky even for me.

But I knew Snape had supplies other than those he made available during Potions class, so that was an option. And then... my eyes went to the tree canopy visible beyond the top of the pitch... well, then there was the Forbidden Forest.

So I wasn't feeling that peeved by the time the match concluded, with no attempts on Harry Potter's life and with the expected Gryffindor victory —the boy catching the Snitch with his mouth, just as in the plot I remembered, which prompted another tirade by Malfoy on how that wasn't a legal catch. Whatever, at least we got to finally return to the castle and its somewhat warmer temperature.

After lunch I went to serve my detention. I found the Potions classroom oddly calm: the tables empty and clear of ingredients for once, the stools neatly stored under them. I knocked on the door to the teacher's office, adjacent to the classroom, and entered once Snape replied with a neutral "Come in."

It was my first time in his office, and I found it surprisingly large —much more so than Filch's had been. There was a large central round table that Snape was using as a desk, with plenty of parchments and tomes spread on top of it, but that still barely covered but half of the large surface. He didn't even raise his gaze as I entered, and continued writing something down with his black quill.

I stood there, hands behind my back, patiently waiting for him to finish whatever he was doing and deign to acknowledge my presence. Meanwhile, I took a subreptitious look around the room. The walls were covered in all sorts of bottles and jars containing ingredients and finished potions, apparently sorted in a random order but that I suspected had some logic to it. But none of them looked like they contained illegal unicorn blood —which wasn't that surprising, I guessed, as it wasn't something you'd want to showcase to any and all visitors.

Two minutes later I shifted my weight, and let out a polite cough. He ignored me still.

There was also a fireplace by the side, currently out, and a short door like that of a large cupboard or larder embedded into the wall. Now that, that was promising.

Snape put his quill back into the inkwell, folded the parchment with precise motions and placed it into an envelope, then looked at me at last.

"What was it," he asked me, "that you put into Malfoy and Parkinson's cauldron, Miss Sarramond?"

His voice was calm, but I could sense a hint of threat underneath.

"Uhm... a stink pellet... sir."

"Tell me... do you know the alchemical composition of this... stink... pellet? Do you have any idea of its magical attributes; the processes that went into its creation, perhaps?"

"No."

"No. And, did you know exactly how far Mister Malfoy and Miss Parkinson were in their own brewing process? Did you know whether... say, they'd already put the billywig stings into their cauldron or not?"

I shook my head.

"Well?"

"No," I spat out, my eyes narrowing.

"So... you admit to putting an unknown magical substance into a brewing cauldron in an unknown stage, without having any idea of what type of reaction it would cause. Is this what you are... saying?"

I clenched my hands into fists. "Well, it was Parkinson who–"

"Who caused a cauldron to undergo a full runaway metamorphic reaction?" he said, in an icy tone.

I remained silent for a beat, observing him. I noticed there were no 'dunderheads' or 'half-wits' this time. This was the most furious I'd ever seen Snape, even accounting for the cauldron incident, and that gave me pause.

He fixated his eyes on me, and said in a scathing tone: "If you ever put your housemates in danger like this again, Miss Sarramond, that imbecile Selwyn will be the least of your problems. Is that... clear?"

I nodded.

"Is it?" he insisted.

"Like water."

He paused for a moment, grabbed his quill again, and pointed with it to the side of the room. "On the shelf to your right you'll find a jar of water beetles, some bottles and a potioneer knife. Separate the eyes, legs and wings and place each in their respective containers."

With that he pretty much went back to ignoring me. I walked up to the shelves, picked up the tools and the jar —which, to my dismay, was filled to the brim— and took a quick look around in case there was a place where to sit and work on the ingredients that I'd missed.

But no; there were no workbenches in his office. Only the same large central desk that Snape himself was using, which I guessed he expected me to sit at, since that was where the only other available chair was, and it was large enough to accommodate both of us. With a sigh, I sat down facing him, opened the jar and set to work.

Minutes went by, the only sounds in the office the soft scratching of Snape's quill against the parchment and the chopping of my own knife. And despite him acting like I wasn't there —his eyes never leaving the letters and exams and other stuff I didn't recognize— I didn't even for a minute entertain the idea that I might be able to step away from the table, to search for that unicorn blood I had no idea if he even possessed.

Eventually I had to ask: "Why am I doing this... sir? I mean, in class we always have to separate the parts ourselves, no?"

A couple of seconds passed, and I thought that maybe he was going to ignore my question, give me the cold shoulder like the overgrown sulky teenager he was, but then he answered: "They are not for class. Seeing as I had to take the time out of my schedule to replace the cauldron you damaged... the least you could do is help me with my other tasks."

"Separating beetle parts? What for? Is that something you–?"

"Focus... on your work."

I sighed, and remained silent for all of two minutes.

"Uhm... don't you have a Wizarding Wireless set? I bet with some music–"

He hit the table with the parchment in his hands, the sudden 'snap!' sound causing me to jump in my seat. "Silence! Pay more attention to what you're doing, you insufferable fool! Can't you see you're cutting those legs at different sizes?"

I bit my lip, nodded and went back to the stupid beetles, my fingertips now so greasy and slippery it was hard to know where one leg ended and the next started.

Time seemed to freeze to a standstill, minutes moving like molasses as I picked apart insect after insect. There was no clock in my line of sight, no window to tell time by. I wondered how Snape even knew when it was time to leave to class, or to go to the Great Hall for dinner; as I doubted the reclusive professor ever went anywhere else at all.

I mean, it was a Saturday, for God's sake. He should be at Hogsmeade or something, like sane people did. Not cooped in here doing... whatever it was he was doing.

But of course, maybe he had nobody to go to Hogsmeade with. And I could sympathise with that, at least, having suffered it myself during my foster years: the lack of meaningful social relationships —friends, they are called friends— turning into a focus on work instead. A refuge of sorts. So that you could pretend to yourself that it was your choice all along, that you kept reading those advanced school books from the year ahead because of your ambition, your superior discipline; and not because you'd rather waste away in your own room than be forced to watch as everyone else had their fun without you. It was terrible, being the odd one out, sitting in a corner while the other kids played together, never once looking at you.

Yeah, I could understand that.

But now I had friends, didn't I? One, at least, in the form of Tracey Davis. And seeing as there was no chance to get some free unicorn blood out of this detention, I'd rather it ended soon so that I could at least hang out with Tracey for the remainder of the day. So I ignored the brooding bat and focused on the damn beetles. And slowly but surely, the jar's contents started to go down. And maybe an eternity later, I placed the wings of the last of the insects in their respective bottle, and stretched out of the hunched over posture I'd unknowingly adopted for the last hour or so.

"I'm done!" I announced after a few seconds, when Snape didn't react.

He rose his gaze for a moment, then pointed towards the door in the corner. "Put the bottles in there," he ordered.

Yes! Yes-yes-yes!

"Sure!" I said, chipper, and walked up to the short door while trying to contain my enthusiasm, to look like I was merely happy the detention was over. There was a lock, but it was unlocked, and I could simply pull the door open. It led to a small walk-in cupboard, with shelves upon shelves taking up all three walls. There were rows of finished potions of all sorts, already bottled, and loads of ingredients —most the same sort of stuff we used in class, but some that looked more expensive, owing to how small their amounts were.

I took a look at the labels as I slotted my own containers into the few empty spaces I could find, and my shoulders sagged. There was a small silver box with some dusted unicorn horn, a few strands of unicorn hair in a glass vial, but no unicorn blood. In fact, everything looked annoyingly legal, for a former Death Eater.

Although perhaps...

I took a quick look over my shoulder, to double check I was out of Snape's direct line of sight, then pulled my wand out and whispered: "Revelio!"

There. Behind the leaves of peppermint. It was faint, hard to notice, but there was some sort of runes engraved into the wall. Some kind of enchantment. I walked closer to it and narrowed my eyes, trying to work it out... a double kaunan, and an othala with two accents I didn't recognise, one of them leading towards a trailing arithmantic circle of some sort. It was...

It was way above my current knowledge, that's what it was. I knew the runes and basic symbols because some of the equivalences in Transfiguration used them, but we hadn't really dove into arithmancy yet; most of McGonagall's explanations to do with that could be summed up as: 'you'll study it in future years, don't worry for now.'

It was probably some sort of secret compartment, I could guess, judging by the size of the circle. And because it made sense that Snape would want to keep some of his ingredients completely out of sight. But I wasn't going to open it anytime in the–

"Did you get lost, Sarramond?" asked Snape, right behind me.

I jerked, my heart skipping a beat, my wand almost jumping out of my hand. I quickly palmed it into my robe's wide sleeve as I turned around. The Potions Master was looming right over me, having walked up to the cupboard's door without me hearing even a single step.

How the bloody hell does he do that?

"No! Um... sorry, sir, I just..."

He grabbed my arm and pulled hard, physically dragging me out of the cupboard as his eyes scanned the shelves inside. I had to scramble not to lose my footing.

"Please," he drawled, "don't insult my intelligence."

I shut up and waited with my eyes low, adjusting my robes once Snape released his grasp on me at last. He closed the door, waved his wand over it, and I heard the sound of the lock latching closed.

I bit my lip as I observed him going through the process of securing his supplies. The thing was, perhaps I was overthinking this. Because he already knew about my situation within Slytherin, right? So maybe I could just... ask him? And while telling any other professor I needed to put my hands on something illegal was certainly not the best course of action —Duskhaven in particular— this was Snape we were talking about. Maybe his underdeveloped sense of morality could be on my side here for once.

I decided to take the risk, then: "I need unicorn blood," I deadpanned.

He paused for a beat, his eyes betraying nothing. Then, he let out a very faint sigh.

"And why exactly, pray tell, do you need a... non-tradeable substance?"

"There's a ritual," I said, nodding to myself. "It allows one to identify the amount of magical blood in a sample, to check if it's from a half-blood, a pure-blood... you know. So that's my plan for my situation: I will use the ritual to prove my own blood status. The only issue is that it uses unicorn blood as a... a 'standard for magical purity to compare against', or something like that... That's the only material I need help getting, the rest are just normal stuff."

Well, under a certain definition of normal, of course. That of people who thought nothing of drinking a beverage with spider juice in it.

Snape examined me in silence, for long enough to become uncomfortable. At last he said: "And you figured you could... steal it from me? What made you think I'd be in possession of illegal materials?"

I shrugged, was he playing with me? "Well, it's obvious, no?"

He quirked an eyebrow.

"I mean... you're the Slytherin Head of House. Somehow I doubt you got there by following all the rules, and that–"

"Careful... with that cheek, girl. You wouldn't want to spend more weekends in detention, would you?" he warned. Then, he walked slowly back towards his own seat, and picked up his quill again. He said: "To answer your question: No, I don't store unicorn blood in my supplies... among other reasons, because it is almost useless as a potion ingredient, as drinking it will only curse you. So will handling it without the proper care. I suggest you abandon this... harebrained plan of yours. Even if you were to find the blood and perform the ritual, it would be worse than useless."

"Useless? Why is that?"

He paused in his scribing to gaze at me as if I was an idiot. "Well. Should the ritual work, it would of course confirm you to be a Muggleborn."

I snorted. "Right. Of course."

I could have argued my case further, tell him about my findings with the police, but I figured it wouldn't do much to change his mind. So with that, I started walking away, dejected.

Because he was probably right, after all. It simply wouldn't make that much sense for me to be some sort of lost heir to some ancient magical lineage or something. An heir that just... what? Hadn't been there in the story, for whatever reason? It stretched believability, if I was being honest to myself.

And yet, I had hopes; and I still wanted to perform the ritual. For my own sake if not for Selwyn's.

I needed to know who I was. What I was.

Snape wasn't going to help in this front, though. If I wanted unicorn blood, I would need to get it myself. And seeing as it was illegal, and a single vial was probably worth more than all my possessions put together, I couldn't exactly go shopping.

That left the only other, more risky possibility.

"Where are you going?" Snape asked me when he saw me walking towards the office's main door.

I paused. Uh-oh.

"Going... out? Because... I'm done?"

"With the beetles, yes... but you still have to dice the dittany leaves."

What an absolute piece of...

I sighed, my spirits crashing into the ground. "Of... course, sir. Where are the leaves?"

In the end I spent my entire Saturday afternoon in Snape's bloody office, dissecting beetles and cutting plants, and with no unicorn blood to show for it. By the time he let me out it was already dark and so I simply marched towards the Great Hall for dinner, where I finally met with Tracey. She went to ask me how bad it'd been, saw my general look of misery, and made a sympathetic noise.

At least, small mercies, Plixiette gifted me with her interpretation of a Croque Madame, the egg on top of the sandwich extravaganza dripping some of its yolk over the side in the most appetizing way. I was starting to forget about the horrid day, lost among the usual sensations of the Great Hall during dinner —tasty French flavours, inane Slytherin politicking, and all the noise coming out of the Gryffindor table— when I noticed my housemates going suddenly tense, eyes looking past my shoulders. I turned to look and...

"Oh, here she is, George!" said Fred, apparently. "Our best client!"

"A true visionary, Fred! Reckon she might give us a run for our money with stunts like that."

"That cauldron. Genius! That's some Weasley-level mischief right there!"

I smirked, giving them both a subtle nod, then stood up to walk a couple of paces away from the Slytherin table. It wouldn't do me any favours to look too friendly with the pair of them.

"I'm honoured," I said, having to raise my voice above the whisper level I'd aimed for due to the escalating Gryffindor ruckus. Some days even Plixiette's cooking was almost not worth the headaches. "But... uhm, how did you find out?"

"Are you joking? It was everything everyone wanted to talk about in our common room!"

"Dean Thomas made a great re-enactment of Malfoy hiding under that table," said George, twisting his own face in a parody of fear.

"Brilliant, really! Only one question–"

"How did you do it?" they asked at once.

I flashed them a knowing grin: "Oh? A lady never tells!"

"Not even for five Galleons?" asked Fred, almost having to shout to be heard over the Great Hall's noise.

I pretended I hadn't heard him: "Sorry, so noisy! Did I hear ten Galleons?"

"Six Galleons and a bar of Frog Spawn Soap?" said George.

Hmm... six Galleons was on the low side. But a bar of the joke soap could be useful. The bathroom was not inside our dorm, so technically it wasn't part of Daphne's neutral zone.

"We know about the hair-raising potion," said Fred. "We're only missing the secret ingredient!"

"What about this?" I said. "You give me–"

But then the noise from the Gryffindor table built up even higher, and I realised someone was screaming in panic.

A sudden hush dropped on the Great Hall as everyone went silent and we all turned to look at the source of the scream. I couldn't see past the bodies of the many students all gathered around the table of the lions, but I felt a deep shiver when I noticed the place they were all crowding around: it was where the Golden Trio usually seated.

The shiver turned icy when I saw Dumbledore rush down from the High Table and parting the sea of students like an unstoppable Moses on a mission. People around me were all standing up to get a better view, so I took the next logical step and stood on top of the bench, stretching myself up all that my young, short body allowed.

I got a glimpse of an unconscious Harry Potter, his face pallid and blue. Hard to judge from this distance, but he didn't seem to be breathing.

"Severus," called Dumbledore in an urgent tone. He wasn't shouting, but we all heard him clearly in the eerie silence. "Severus, quickly, a bezoar!"

Chapter Text

Snape descended upon the Gryffindor table in a flutter of dark fabric, his face an inexpressive rictus. He crouched next to Dumbledore, muttered something to him, and together they started working on Potter's fallen form.

I had to climb down the bench at that point. The older men's wide attires blocked everything from sight... but also, seeing a possibly dying Harry Potter was like a physical punch to my chest; I suddenly felt unsteady on my feet.

We waited in a silence that was broken only by McGonagall, who at some point cast a silent spell, waving her wand to encompass the whole of the Great Hall. At her command all the food on the tables disappeared at once; every dish, every piece of half-eaten bread or cup of pumpkin juice simply vanishing into nothing.

It was telling, that nobody protested.

McGonagall then joined the two men, walking up to the Gryffindor table along with Professor Sprout, who had also descended from the raised dais. Together they helped contain a distraught Ron and Hermione, blocking them from interfering with the first aid efforts. Hagrid had also approached them, and now paced a few steps away, looking out of place and as if he couldn't decide whether he should try and lend some help, or simply let the more knowledgeable wizards work in peace. With all the eyes put on the centre of the unfolding drama I almost missed Professor Duskhaven standing up, wand in hand, and simply walking out of the Great Hall through the door closest to the professors' table.

We waited for what seemed like an eternity. Slowly, almost reluctantly, the deafening silence started to break; whispers and rumours making their way across the students as the ones who had seen it happen or were closest to the action informed the others of what was transpiring. 'It's Potter, he was poisoned, I think.' 'He was just talking and started coughing.' 'He was eating some nuts, I saw Dumbledore taking them away.'

The tension in the air was so high it felt like sparks of electricity —or more likely, accidental magic— would soon erupt between us. On the enchanted ceiling above us the sky was dark and gloomy, with the moon barely piercing through the cover of clouds, as if it too was holding its breath.

Eventually, an eternity later, both Snape and Dumbledore stood up again. Harry hovered between them, his body horizontal as if placed on an invisible stretcher. There were gasps when the rest of the students finally laid eyes on him. He didn't look blue anymore, now he just looked colourless, as if all the blood in his veins had vanished somehow.

He looked dead, in fact.

Both wizards walked towards the main doors, taking the boy alongside them; they were followed by a sombre Ron and a tear-streaked Hermione, who the other professors had proved wholly unable to restrain. I tried to examine Dumbledore's expression, try to see if it betrayed any clues as to the situation, but he looked only serious and determined. Snape's own poker face was, as expected, absolutely unreadable. The doors opened on their own to let the little group pass, and closed after them.

It was like someone had pierced the bubble, broken a Silencing Charm; the Great Hall suddenly exploding in noise as everyone in attendance started discussing at once the haunting scene we'd just witnessed, groups gathering to put forth theories and share information that might or might not be true, the other Slytherins around me included: It was belladona; no, it was obviously acromantula venom; no, Lee Jordan is saying he just choked on a nut...

It was McGonagall who put an end to it. She stood at the very same spot where Dumbledore had pronounced his little speech back on our first day, and said in a commanding tone: "Silence! Everyone, be silent, and return to your seats at once."

We all did, reluctantly; me sitting back next to Tracey, who was nervously drumming her fingers on the now empty table. Around us, my housemates wore grave expressions. I half expected Draco to make some disparaging comment, to celebrate Potter's misfortune somehow. But when I turned my head to look at him, the blonde heir just appeared scared. He met my eyes for a beat, then quickly averted his gaze.

This was madness.

But was it caused by me, somehow? I struggled to see how, other than by merely existing here. Not that it wouldn't be reason enough, though.

I suspected this was sort of like the situation with the acromantulas on Hallowe'en. That day the troll attack hadn't happened, but there had been an attack. One that, all things considered, had been worse than the troll had been in the original plot; with more potential to seriously injure any of us.

So was this something like that? The attempt on Harry's life that was supposed to have happened earlier in the day, during the Quidditch match, somehow morphing into this? Into something... worse?

Something more successful, perhaps?

But why? Was it simply Quirrell sticking to the same shape of a plan as in the original story? Was it his thinking in a similar way which led to similar results, even if the details varied? Or was there something more? Fate and destiny, perhaps. Were the very stars and planets guiding his hand? They did have an influence on us magical folk, according to what Professor Sinistra taught us in Astronomy, so I couldn't simply discount it as superstitious thinking.

It was an interesting angle of research, and something that I should definitely look into over the next days and weeks. I knew there were plenty of books in the library talking about prophecies, destiny, seers and fate and what not. I had never paid much attention to them, thinking them to be a bit too academical, and maybe a bit too full of shit —you only had to take a quick look at Professor Trelawney to come out with that impression— and so I always preferred to put my focus on the more... practical kind of stuff.

But perhaps I should branch out.

Or perhaps it didn't matter anymore, right? Because perhaps Harry was dead. And if so, my fore-knowledge would have lost most of its original value anyway.

Could that even happen? Wasn't he protected by his mother's sacrifice? Or did that only apply to certain situations? What about the prophecy? But of course, if this was Voldemort's doing, the prophecy would be satisfied, wouldn't it?

I didn't know, and there wasn't much to go on with that line of thinking; so I tried to analyse the professors instead, who were all gathered in a group of their own and discussing in intense whispers. I tried to learn more information from just observing their postures and gestures, but it was hard to tell anything other than they looked concerned. Which, yeah, you didn't need to be a bloody genius to figure that out.

It took about half an hour before we got an answer. The main doors opened once more, and a lone Dumbledore re-entered the hall under the weight of all our combined gazes. The Headmaster walked up to the High Table, and turned to address us all, his expression grave:

"My dear students, it has no doubt come to your attention that a grievous act was just attempted upon young Harry Potter. He was, I regret to say, been subjected to a poisoning. It is imperative not to downplay the severity of the situation, as it was indeed an attempt... on his very life."

I noticed the looks of alarm, the sudden tense bodies among the rest of the students; but I allowed myself to relax a notch at last. Because of course, Dumbledore wouldn't speak like this if Harry was dead.

And sure enough, he followed it with: "But thanks to the invaluable expertise of our Potions master," he pointed towards a frowning Snape, who was just now joining the room, "we managed to counteract the poison in time, ensuring Mister Potter's survival. He now recovers in the care of our Infirmary Wing, surrounded by the comfort of his friends.

"I have taken the liberty to personally inspect the food served to us this evening, and I assure you, every morsel is completely safe to eat. The poison was delivered via a bowl of nuts that most certainly should not have been present, and has been duly removed from the kitchens. So I implore you, please continue with your dinner without any fears or apprehensions."

With that, he clapped his hands causing our food to reappear back on the tables. Although most people eyed their own dishes with distrust at first, tentatively, bite by bite the Great Hall went back to a semblance of normality. But I noticed Dumbledore slipping out of the hall a couple of minutes later, once most people weren't paying attention to him anymore.

I was sure that my own food tasted the exact same —it had even preserved its warmth— but I couldn't help but finding it somehow... hollower. Potter being alive allayed my fears... somewhat; at least this train we were all riding hadn't completely derailed. But if things were... well, worse than they should, I had to wonder about what would happen by the end of year, when Harry was supposed to face Quirrell-slash-Voldemort in person.

And beyond Harry, how many of us were truly safe? Forget about Selwyn for a minute; could I be sure any longer that, as long as the timeline was kept in its proper shape, I would be safe from Voldemort himself until the war actually started? What about the other students? Would Quirrell make another attempt tomorrow, one that actually ended with, say, a dead Ron Weasley? Or worse: a dead Sylvia Sarramond?

I had to shiver at the prospect of what could happen next year if this pattern held, with a basilisk on the loose.

The rest of the Slytherins seemed not to share my worries, because Draco went back to his usual self. He said: "Did you see his face?"

To which a round of laughter followed, with Goyle making spluttering noises and scrunching his face in a mockery of someone suffocating —or maybe that was just how he ate now, I didn't pay much attention to Goyle most of the days, to be completely honest.

But I ignored their by now customary bashing of Potter, their banter unable to push aside the thoughts in my head for the remainder of the dinner. And I guessed that at least some of my housemates had thoughts of their own —judging by the furtive stares of Greengrass towards either the Gryffindor table or the teachers'— even if they were less specific. The question that was asked the most along the table that night was: who did it?

"He probably did it to himself, just to get everyone's attention," was Pansy's answer to that, as she simpered to Draco.

But I knew the truth, and the way Tracey looked at me and fidgeted uncomfortably told me that she probably suspected that I did. Or maybe she also knew the answer herself, if she still remembered our visit to the kitchens.

It was Snape who brought me out of my funk, of all people. We were finished with dinner and on our way to leave the Great Hall —slowly, almost with resignation, just in case something else happened or some other juicy piece of information was revealed— when he suddenly stepped in front of me.

"Sarramond," he spoke in a funerary tone, "the Headmaster wishes to speak with you."

Shit.

Snape escorted me in silence towards the most dangerous place in the entire castle. A place I considered more threatening than the Slytherin common room and its prejudiced teenagers, more deadly than even the Chamber of Secrets with its hungry basilisk: Dumbledore's office.

I walked with a mix of fear and resignation taking root in my bones, like a convict sent to the guillotine. This was a nightmare come true, a situation I had played in my imagination time and time again: the day Dumbledore would figure me out. The day I would get exposed, and control over my life would finally be wrenched out of my hands, never to return to me again.

So I walked in silence because I was too afraid to ask my Head of House what this all was about, why Dumbledore would call for me right after Potter was poisoned. Too afraid he would confirm my fears. And as long as I didn't know, didn't have that confirmation, I could pretend that I was still safe and everything would be okay in the end. So I walked in silence to keep that flickering flame of hope alive, if only for a few more minutes.

Snape walked in silence because he was Snape.

Too soon, way too fucking soon we were in front of the stone gargoyle guarding the door to the Headmaster's Office. While Snape spoke "Peppermint Toad" —in a tone of voice I believed those two words had never been spoken aloud before— and the statue moved to the side, I used the opportunity to produce my sunglasses out of the inner pocket of my robes and put them on.

Snape noticed, though. He grasped my shoulder hard with his hand like he had done back at his office, and hissed at me: "I'm warning you, girl, tonight is not the time for your irreverences."

I tried to shrug his hand away, but his grasp tightened further. So instead I clenched my jaw and looked at him in the eyes —something I would've never done if not for my sunglasses, of course— and I hissed back: "I will look my best in front of the Headmaster. I'm a girl, you know. We are shallow like that."

He didn't miss the irony and venom in my voice, and I could almost hear his teeth grinding against each other. But the door was open and waiting, so in the end he simply pushed me forward, the moving staircase taking me up and towards the office above, like an oddly-shaped escalator.

The circular room was empty of wizened wizards when I arrived, but full of gizmos and interesting sights. An entire wall was covered in dozens of portraits of the previous headmasters and headmistresses, some of which I recognised from seeing in other pictures around the castle. Most paid me no attention at all as I looked around: here was Fawkes, the colourful bird resting asleep atop his perch; there was the Sorting Hat, raising an eyebrow at my narrow look. Here was Gryffindor's sword on a shelf, there was the famous pensieve, now empty of water... and memories. I approached the vacant yet massive desk that presided the room with trepidation.

I paused for a moment, turning to look behind me to check if Snape had followed me here. But no, I was alone. What was this, then? Some sort of test? Knowing Dumbledore, I couldn't discard that. I eyed the portraits again with distrust. Well, if this was a little trap, if the Headmaster was trying to see if I'd be as brazen as to try and steal something, he was going to be sorely disappointed. I might be a thief, yes, but I was no fool.

So with nothing else to do, I simply approached one of the seats in front of the desk meant for the students. It seemed I was doing a lot of that today. But before I could sit down, one of the little instruments on top of the desk started spinning and emitting a soft puffing noise, its gears and little metal rings turning around. I observed it for a moment, getting closer to see if there was some sort of label or indication as of its nature.

I didn't get much time to examine it before the fireplace to the side erupted in green flames, Dumbledore stepping decisively out of it, wrapped in a thick scarlet robe. His sudden appearance caused me to jerk and take a step away from the little thing, as if scared he would think I was going to steal it or something. Immediately, I became angry at that thought, at the betraying nature of my instinctive reaction; I forced myself to move forward again, to turn my gaze back towards the spinning gizmo as I relaxed my stance, my hands inside my robe's pockets.

"Ah, I see you found my curiousometer," said Dumbledore, as if he hadn't planted it right there to begin with. He walked slowly around the desk and sat on the chair behind it with a tired huff. "A rather fascinating device, isn't it? It reacts to things or individuals it deems... intriguing, curious."

I followed his example and sat on one of the chairs, but kept my eyes on the contraption. "That it finds curious, or that you find curious?"

That seemed to take him by surprise, but he granted me a soft smile. "That is an excellent question, Miss Sarramond. What would you think is the case?"

I narrowed my eyes, trying to remember what I'd read on enchantments, all the while Dumbledore observed me in silence —he'd made no comment about my sunglasses, and I had to wonder if he'd even noticed them... probably yes. Anthony Goldstein had mentioned something before, about the book he was reading on enchantments. Magic worked on intention, and most enchantments took the intention of the wizard or witch doing the enchanting. But you could also enchant something so that it would take other people's intentions into account instead. That's pretty much how Tracey's Sneakoscope worked, after all. And speaking of...

"I think it reacts to what you find curious," I decided at last, waving my hand to encompass the whole room. "Otherwise it would be spinning all day, with everything else you have in here."

"One point to Slytherin! A very astute deduction, yes," he said genially. Then, he waited for a beat, his gaze straight on me as if piercing me to the core. "Now, tell me, Sylvia, do you perhaps have any inkling as to what I might find so curious about you?"

I shrugged, trying to look calm as I avoided his gaze. This was like the traffic police asking you the reason of why they'd just given you the stop. It could be any number of things, and I wasn't about to incriminate myself, so I went with the obvious with a hint of sarcasm added in for good measure: "Well, I am a Muggle-raised orphan, and sorted into Slytherin. That is rare, I've been told."

He nodded slowly, his elbows on the table, his hands grasped together as if in deep concentration as he observed me in silence.

"Indeed," he said at last. "It is uncommon, but not without precedent. In my earlier years, before I assumed the title of Headmaster, when I served as Hogwarts' Professor of Transfiguration, there was a young orphan boy. Much like yourself, he too was sorted into Slytherin, where he faced his share of tribulations at first..."

Oh no.

"... and similarly to you, he too was regarded as... unusually precocious by his minders..."

Oh God.

"... and he possessed a certain proclivity for bending rules on passion, to... misbehave, let's say..."

Oh fuck.

"Needless to say, these parallels do arouse a certain curiosity in me," he concluded.

"Oh," I said, pretending ignorance. "And... I guess things didn't go all that well for this fella, no?"

His face went sombre and his eyes seemed focused on me, but also eerily distant; almost as if he was watching something that wasn't there.

"No, they did not," he admitted. "However, and I find this crucially important, Sylvia: there are also differences between you two. You are an individual in your own right, and it is the choices you make during these formative years that will shape the person you will grow into. Always remember that."

He paused, waiting for an answer. I gulped and nodded.

He nodded back, but remained still and with his gaze lost into the depths of my soul, apparently. I wondered for a moment if eye contact was actually necessary for legilimency at all, or if Dumbledore had perfected it to such a degree that he was capable of extracting my every thought despite my sunglasses and evasive gaze, merely by looking in my general direction.

The moment seemed to stretch, until I finally couldn't take it any longer. I let out a soft cough and said: "Uhm... so, why did you call for me here... sir?"

That seemed to break the sudden tension, his intense mood suddenly lightening as if he had just returned to the present from wherever his mind had taken an excursion to.

"Ah, yes, indeed. Please do excuse an old man's diatribes, Miss Sarramond." He produced a bowl out of one of the drawers in his desk. "Ah... a sherbet lemon, if you'd like?"

"Sure, thanks," I said, grabbing one and popping it into my mouth. I didn't really want a sweet, I wanted to leave. But sweets were always a good consolation prize, I'd found out over my foster years.

"The reason I felt necessary to call for you," said Dumbledore, "is related to the grave incident that occurred at dinner, when Mister Potter was poisoned. Professor Duskhaven and I conducted a visit to the Hogwarts' house-elves to try and unravel the sequence of events leading to such an unfortunate event, and during our inquiries your name emerged. It appears you also paid a visit of your own to the house-elves quite recently, and... unless I'm mistaken, persuaded one of them that the dietary preferences of one of your housemates were... rather peculiar."

I went very rigid at that. "But that was a prank!" I protested, my hands clenched into fists at the injustice. "Are you seriously implying I poisoned Harry? You can't believe that!"

"Oh, no, no," he placated me. "Rest assured, we do not believe you were responsible for this deed, Miss Sarramond. Professor Snape analysed the remaining traces and ascertained it was a poison that only assumed its lethal form upon contact with a person's mouth, appearing completely inert otherwise. This is the reason why it eluded Hogwarts' protective enchantments. To be quite frank, concocting and handling such a substance is well beyond the capabilities of any first year student, yourself included.

"No, the actual reason for your presence here is tied to a different matter. During our inquiries, one of the house-elves mentioned that you had asked them about another elf, one that you had ran across within Hogwarts, but who is not a part of our regular staff."

I nodded at that, relaxing at last. So, this wasn't really about me at all.

"You mean Squeeble, Professor Quirrell's elf."

"Indeed. This is a matter of great importance, Sylvia: can you recall the specific time and place where you saw him? And what he was engaged in at the time?"

"Sure. I don't recall the exact date, but it was the day of our first Flying lesson," I explained. Now that I didn't feel like a suspect myself, didn't need to be so guarded, I found my words coming much easier. I even leant back on the chair a bit. "I saw him at night, by that gallery with the stained glass windows on the third floor. He was crying and looked hurt, but he disapparated before I could help him. He did mention his master had instructed him not to be seen, though."

The Headmaster nodded, then asked: "And what brought you to the third floor, at such late hour?"

I shrugged. "Couldn't sleep."

"Ah," he said, narrowing his eyes at me in an inquisitive fashion, but with a soft smile. "Now that you mention it, am I mistaken in recalling that this was the very same night that someone paid a most suspicious visit to the office of our caretaker, Mr. Filch?"

"Uhm... was it? Curious, that."

He raised his eyebrows. "Indeed. How curious."

Surprisingly, I was okay with him knowing it was me, or suspecting it at least. Because as far as these things went, it was a minor transgression at best. According to my fore-memories, it was the kind of thing that he'd always allowed Harry and the Golden Trio to get away with in the regular; probably the Weasley twins too. So I hoped his tolerance to mischief would at least extend somewhat past the house of the lions.

But if it didn't, it was also fine. One of the first criminal lessons the older kids at the Residence had taught me was that allowing the adults to find out a less important transgression was a good way to stop them from figuring out a bigger one. Most guardians just stopped digging after they found you guilty of something, whatever it was, assuming they'd already won and going straight for the punishing.

So yeah, I'd rather Dumbledore punish me for stealing from Filch and let me go in peace, rather than he keep digging into my secrets.

The Headmaster, however, wasn't so easily satisfied:

"Is there anything else you can tell me about the elf?" he asked. "Anything at all that stood out to you? Perhaps something else he said, or any other detail that caught your attention?"

My mind went immediately to the white key I'd found.

I shrugged. "No, just that it didn't look like his master, this Quirrell was treating him too well, if he was so scared about failing him."

I didn't even think about the misdirection, didn't consider its long-term benefits and consequences. It simply came to me as the most natural response, because... the key was mine now. And I just didn't want to give it away.

Call me selfish if you want, but I knew I wouldn't have an invisibility cloak waiting for me come Christmas. Neither McGonagall nor Snape were going to surprise me with a racing broom. The Marauder's Map was simply out of my reach. I would have no cool uncle like Sirius to talk to. And there were no moving pictures of my lost family in store for me.

So yeah, I decided to keep the bloody key. It's not like Squeeble was going to be using it anymore, in any case. There was no way it could have played a part on the attempt on Potter's life.

I didn't know if Dumbledore suspected anything, because he gave a soft, tired nod, commented something about treating house-elves with respect, then stood up. I imitated him and he escorted me towards the office's door. Fawkes gazed at me with bored eyes.

"Thank you for your assistance, Miss Sarramond. I must advise you, particularly in light of tonight's events, to remain in your dormitory during the night. And should you recall any further details, please don't hesitate to come and see me at once."

"Of course, sir. Good night."

I was allowed to finally, finally descend the stairs out of the office after that. I let out a deep sigh once in the corridor outside, resting my back against the cold stone wall for a minute, my eyes closed as I reviewed the interaction. I tried to see it from Dumbledore's eyes, tried to see if there was something I'd given away. Something other than the obvious, of course.

But no, I couldn't see anything that would seriously impact me. No reason for him to suspect I was an adult reincarnated into a newborn girl, with knowledge of the future.

No, he only thought I was the second coming of Tom Riddle.

I hit my head softly against the wall.

Which meant he would keep an eye on me, which yeah, bollocks to that. But it was certainly better than the alternative, at least in my books.

In any case, the close encounter —and what had happened to Harry— left me in a shaken mood over the next few days. It didn't help that I also lost my Plixiette privileges due to whatever new and stricter rules were given to the kitchen house-elves, and had to revert back to the same old boring British food that everyone else ate.

At least Harry Potter seemed to be doing well. He spent a couple of days stuck to the Infirmary, apparently, before reappearing on the Great Hall for breakfast amidst the applauses and cheering of his housemates. He looked a bit shakier but otherwise not worse for wear. I guessed my own looks were probably worse these days, in fact.

Because winter had finally arrived. Undeniably, with snow falling from the sky and covering the grounds in a white carpet, the bloody cold permeating every single corridor, hall and classroom in the castle. Why couldn't the founders use a different construction material other than... blocks of stone? Hadn't they heard of timber?

I was sensitive to cold in the best of times, and I found myself spending entire days wrapped in my winter cloak and Tracey's Quidditch scarf —she wasn't using it now that the match was over, and I wasn't above begging for it— and just feeling more and more fatalistic with every passing day. The initial frenzy and drive to find a way to get out of the Selwyn situation before winter break came was long gone by now, surrendering to the stubbornness of reality. It wasn't that simple, proving I wasn't a Muggleborn. The only promising avenue was Nott's ritual, and I simply had no way to acquire the cursed ingredient in time.

Which left me dead in the water, I guessed.

There was the option of trying to fake it, but I'd need to explain the ritual to Selwyn and he'd know I wasn't using unicorn blood, so yeah, not ideal. Coming up with a bullshit alternative ritual would risk Nott spilling the beans, and I didn't know how I could forge a Ministry letter certifying my origins either.

So I took refuge in the routine, then: the classes and the homework, the trading of barbs with Pansy and Bulstrode and the practising of spells with Tracey, and tried my best to ignore the precarious nature of my situation; as if by not thinking too much about it myself, perhaps Selwyn would simply forget about it.

And of course, should that happen, Parkinson would no doubt remind him.

It was only the arrival of Snape one morning to the Great Hall that pierced my bubble, because he carried a list with him and told us he'd be placing it in the common room, and to write our names if we were planning to spend our winter break at Hogwarts.

You know, winter break, which was just one week away.

So yeah, it was time to face reality.

That night the common room was buzzing in the nervous anticipation that teenagers and children universally have for any upcoming vacations, only coloured by the Slytherin filter: older students boasting about their impossibly expensive vacations to the Caribbean, that one dragon reserve in Sweden, or in the case of Lucian Bole, the ruins of Atlantis.

I ignored all of that in favour of focusing on my target, gathering my courage and all the determination I could find lying around. I was carrying my wand in one pocket, Nott's parchment in another, and little more; because there were no clever tricks to get around this, no Weasley joke product I could use here.

Still, I'd made sure to wait until Prefect Farley was also in the room, sitting relaxedly with her own friends around a tea table and sharing gossip. She didn't look at me even once, but I was pretty certain my odd presence in the common room didn't escape her notice.

That was my only shield, really, my only protection against Selwyn doing something... well, terminal.

So with that happy thought in mind I approached the young Death Eater. He sat in what I could only imagine as his throne: a large wing-back chair with elegant reddish leather upholstery, his court of prejudiced pure-bloods taking the less excessive seats by both his sides.

And as I closed the distance, one by one their eyes went to me. It was like a gazelle being surrounded by a pack of hyenas: their gazes were teasing and hungry for violence, their smiles sporting too many teeth.

Selwyn said: "Speak."

Like he was a king in the Middle Ages or something, the absolute arsehole. That, surprisingly, strengthened my resolve; because just who the fuck did this thug think he was, to lord over us like this?

So I clenched my fists, and started speaking: "I... I have been searching for my birth family, and what I've learnt all points to magic being involved. The Muggle police report of my being found is missing obvious information, which I believe could be caused by them having been obliviated..."

I summed up my theory: that of my father —or someone who knew him— being somehow... unwell of the head, should we say, and leaving me with the police before disapparating in front of them, which prompted the Ministry to intervene. And because it was during the war, they did just the bare-bones: obliviate the police and then head off to a pub or something, leaving me within the Muggle foster system.

"I know it isn't much," I concluded, "but I'll need time to go through the Ministry's bureaucracy and learn more."

There was a moment of silence after I stopped talking, and I noticed the hush that had fallen across the common room. A quick look over my shoulder told me that this little drama of Selwyn and me had just become the focal point of the night.

The teenager tusked, self-satisfied, as he rested a hand on top of his wand —that was placed on the chair's armrest and aiming in my general direction. "Pity. That doesn't seem like... quite enough, now does it?"

I nodded quickly. "I agree," I rushed out, "which is why I searched for another alternative."

With that I produced the ritual instructions and handed them to him. This was pretty much part of my play: start with the weakest evidence before moving to the more promising ritual; I hoped that the contrast would help him see this new option in a more positive light.

"Nott, uh?" he said, then looked across the room searching for the quiet boy. "Do you confirm the validity of this?" he asked him, holding the piece of parchment in his hand and waving it at him.

Theodore gave a curt nod.

"Well, this is better," said Selwyn, turning back to me. "When will you perform it? You don't have much time left."

"Uhm. Yes, that's the issue. If you look at the list of ingredients... I'm sure you'll see the problem."

"Ah..." he said, reading. Then he shrugged, a cruel sneer in his lips. "Too bad, then."

"No, hold on! I mean... I know of a way of acquiring the... that ingredient. I just need some more extra time. But!... but if I'm allowed this opportunity, I would of course return your... uhm... generosity. I can give you one entire vial of it, for you to keep as a... a tribute, a payment for my delay."

His eyes went back to the parchment, and I could make a guess as to what line he was reading again. He tried to feign disinterest, but I could see the greed glinting in his eyes. Because a vial full of unicorn blood... well, you didn't find that every day just lying around, did you?

He seemed to be aware of that, because he asked: "And do you have access to... this ingredient? Hard to believe."

I gave him a convinced nod. "Not yet," I said, "but I will. I can promise you that."

He tilted his head and asked the question I was dreading: "Well... how much time will that take?"

I took a deep breath. At least we'd gotten here, to the point where he was obviously interested in the deal. Now for the hardest pill to swallow.

"I'm not... sure, exactly," I replied, tilting a hand back and forth. "Possibly until spring, uhm... after the Easter Holidays, that is. Might be a bit longer, but still... well enough time before the end of the school year, in any case."

There was a beat of silence as a sardonic grin slowly bloomed across his face.

"After the Easter break. So by Beltane, then?" he repeated.

I wasn't sure when Beltane was, exactly, but I simply nodded. "More or less, yes."

"Ah, well," he said, shrugging as he leant back on his seat. "In that case, if it's only that long... Crucio!"

Chapter Text

There was a beat of stunned silence, in which I tried to reach for my wand —in my pocket, so impossibly far away, it seemed now— at the same time my body cringed on its own, anticipating the pain, maybe even trying to step away from Selwyn's line of sight.

But there was no time. It was like a slap to the face; just as shocking, just as unexpected. Except that rather than to my face, it was to my whole body. And rather than a slap, it was a spell that hit me like a freight train. I felt my legs go out from under me, at the same time an invisible force pushed me backwards. There was a moment of weightlessness, and then I hit the marble floor, unyielding and cold; the impact so strong that all the air left my lungs at once.

"SELWYN!"

That had been Farley's voice, a vague memory told me. But I was too busy to pay attention, too busy flailing on the floor as I tried my best to get my lungs back into working order, my whole back in pain.

"Oh, relax, Farley. She's fine. It was just a knock-back jinx."

The Prefect replied with something that I missed, because I finally managed to get my chest muscles to obey my orders again, inhaling a deep breath of precious air. Funny, how you never pay much attention to just how valuable air is until you find it outside your reach for whatever reason; and at that moment it becomes the top priority: the only one thing that matters in the entire universe. I heard myself groan.

"You didn't see any red flashes, did you?" Selwyn was saying. "But really, would it have been so bad, if I'd used the Cruciatus? It doesn't leave any lingering injuries if it's just for a handful of seconds."

I opened my eyes to discover I was laying flat on my back, staring at the arched ceiling. Slowly, I climbed to my knees, my head hurting —it must have hit the floor too when I went down.

"Do you want to get expelled? Or sent to Azkaban?!"

He chuckled. "As if you and your girlfriends don't try it on each other when you are behind closed doors. You know, I can hear the moa–"

"Not everyone here is a bloody maniac, Selwyn!"

Had he been fucking with my head? He'd said 'Crucio', yes, but the spell had taken long enough to hit me that it probably hadn't been the Unforgivable at all; just a separate spell he'd cast silently right after speaking.

A knock-back jinx? Yeah, possibly. It fit, except that I'd never experienced one quite this violent, quite this powerful. There had to have been a lot of magic pushed into the casting... and a lot of intention, too. Which said a lot about him, given our respective ages.

Odd, that I almost wished it had been the Cruciatus Curse, after all. A few moments of unbearable pain, yes, but after that all my problems would've been solved; or at least a single, big monster of a problem. With an Unforgivable thrown in the middle of the common room, I would've been able to go to Snape and have Selwyn removed at last. A knock-back jinx, if that's what it had been at all —because I had my doubts— wouldn't be quite enough.

I sat up, realising Selwyn wasn't looking at me anymore —his attention on the Prefect— and my hand went to the pocket with my wand in it almost as if it had a brain of its own. I had to focus and restrain the movement before I did something very, very stupid.

But the older girl came to my rescue, unwittingly, because she interrupted that particular train of thought by asking me: "Are you all right?"

I nodded, not feeling confident in my voice to speak aloud; wouldn't want to betray just how much it'd hurt, not in front of our entire house. But I didn't grab my wand. Instead I stood up on two wobbly legs, facing Selwyn by Farley's side —who still had her own wand out and aimed at the psychopath.

If he thought that I was going to cry or something... well, I wouldn't. I simply stood there, trying to appear relaxed; thinking of that statue, impervious to all he could do to me. But my clenched fists and gritted teeth betrayed the truth.

Selwyn's attention returned to me then, his head tilted to the side as if awaiting a reaction. I simply stood my ground, didn't say a word.

"We will wait until Beltane, then," he said to me eventually, ignoring a frustrated Prefect Farley. I could even notice how the boredom was returning to him, now that the confrontation was over, his interest on me diminishing by the second. He floated the ritual's parchment back to me and added in a lower voice: "But let's make it two vials, shall we?"

I snatched the paper from the air, gave him a stiff nod, and turned to leave; but he said: "Hold on... what was your name again?"

It took me a titanic effort to unstick my jaw enough to answer with a growling: "Sarramond."

"Ah yes... just remember this, Sarramond: If you fail again, it won't be a knock-back jinx next time. Do you understand me?"

I nodded once more, before being allowed to retreat.

But once the anger at being flung through the air like a rag-doll subsisted at last, and I felt like thinking rationally once more, I realised this had been a victory, all things considered. Because jinx or not, payment or not, I'd gotten exactly what I wanted: more time, a chance at doing the ritual later in the year. Time enough to work out how to cheat at it, if I eventually needed to.

Promising him some valuable payment had proved a useful way to redirect his... not anger, not exactly... more like his spite. And doing it in public had seen me lightly humiliated in front of everyone, yes, but not really that much; and I was sure it had protected me from something far worse, should I have approached him in private.

One point to me, I guessed.

I was happily relaxed the day after that, the sudden relief making it the most comfortable day at Hogwarts that I'd had in... weeks, possibly; beaming at everyone —even at McGonagall in Transfiguration, who seemed to suspect some kind of mischief on my part and didn't take her eyes off me during the entire lesson; something which only made my grin ampler.

Yeah, I'd won. My cunning had managed to outwit Selwyn... for the most part.

In retrospect, that very thought should have served me as a warning call; because Selwyn wasn't an idiot, and he probably was aware of how I had manipulated the situation in the first place by making sure Farley was there as my bodyguard of sorts. But the respite I felt —and the fact that we were just days away from winter break, and that I figured he would be away from Hogwarts before too long, with more than time enough to distract himself with something else over the vacations— meant I wasn't really expecting for the other shoe to drop just quite this soon.

I was returning from the Library after the last Read-Ahead club meeting of the year, which meant I was on my own as I descended the spiral staircase that lead to the dungeons corridors —I was carrying a couple of books on enchantments recommended by Hermione, and my plan was to leave them in my trunk and then meet up with Tracey to spend the hour before dinnertime doing... I didn't know what, doing something fun, I guessed. Something better than school work, at any rate. Some Professors —cough, Snape— had felt necessary to overload us with homework to keep us busy over winter break, but I wasn't feeling the urge to start working on it quite yet. There would be time for that, soon enough.

At any rate, I was distracted and foolishly confident I had dodged Selwyn's first deadline and its consequences, so I was utterly unprepared when a full body-bind curse hit my back as I traversed one of the narrow corridors in the dungeons, my muscles seizing as if on their own and my whole body becoming suddenly petrified. The books escaped my hands to hit the flagstone floor, loud as shots. I found myself leaning to the side like a plank, the wall itself preventing me from crashing all the way down to the floor.

I heard two sets of footsteps approaching from behind, but my eyes —the only part of my body I still had control over— fixated on the lone figure that had entered the corridor ahead of me, advancing with a wand in his hand.

I had a moment of hope, in which I thought it could be... I don't know, another Prefect, maybe; someone else who would rescue me. But then he passed in front of a lit scone and I recognised him as Burke. Burke, who had been sitting by Selwyn's right, the day before.

Yeah, I doubted he was here to help me.

I tried to fight the paralysis, tried to inch my fingers towards the pocket with my wand in it. I wasn't sure if my arm was moving at all, but it didn't matter in the end. Because soon enough another spell hit me, and my whole body began floating in mid-air, upside down. My own robes hung down to cover my face, and I felt and hear the contents of my pockets falling to the floor; including my wand.

"Oh... what's this here?" said a voice I didn't recognise; but it sounded older. Not Burke or Selwyn, but another of the teenage Slytherins, was my guess.

I didn't see it, but somehow I had the absolute certainty that one of them was holding my wand. I tried to protest, but no sound left me; tried to move, but to no avail. I tried to cast the counter-curse silently and wandlessly —it was possible, I knew that, you just had to focus your magic, to twist and manipulate the shape of it just so. But if one of those things alone was already beyond my skills as a first year —even one who practised ahead— the two combined proved impossible.

I noticed my body being moved, sort of like a hovering balloon. It wasn't far enough, but I guessed we weren't any longer in the middle of the corridor leading to the Slytherin common room. Possibly they'd taken me to just around the corner, or into an unused room or something; the dungeons of Hogwarts felt like a maze at times.

But we would be out of sight, in any case; which made the prospects of a daring rescuer finding me all the less likely.

"I was hoping this would be a little harder," said a second voice. "It feels underwhelming."

"She's just a stupid firstie," said the first voice. "She thinks she's better than she really is because bloody Parkinson was scared to duel her that one time."

"We'll have to show everyone the truth, then," remarked Burke, in a tone that sent shivers down my spine. "That she's nothing but an insect..."

"Are you thinking...?"

"Exactly. Entomorphis!"

I felt the spell, whatever it was, hit me; but I wasn't sure of its effects. Except that there was a strange pressure on the top of my head, growing stronger by the moment before stabilizing in a sensation of annoying contact.

With that, however, they seemed satisfied; and so they left. With my wand.

Shit! Shit!

I tried to scream, to move, but nothing... I couldn't even sigh in resignation.

The spell holding me upside down lasted for what I guessed were twenty minutes, give or take, because out of a sudden I crashed into the floor. It hurt like crazy, landing head-first into it, my whole body weight resting for a terrifying moment in my neck; but it had the welcome effect of uncovering my face again.

I saw the corridor's wall in front of me; except that my vision felt... segmented, split into a myriad of little hexagons, each somehow showing a slightly different mirrored view of the same wall. Like... like a bug's eyes.

Like an insect.

I started to panic, then; tried to move again, fought with all my might... all to get a single index finger to wiggle. I wondered if this was just the lingering effect of the bind, or if maybe I had received some sort of spinal damage when crashing into the floor. Was I paralysed for real? And if so: did Wizarding medicine have a remedy for that?

It probably took near a full hour before I got my answer, time in which I could hear people walk past in the distance, none seeing or noticing me at all. But eventually the binding spell lifted enough that I finally could push through it, breaking the curse at last. I looked down at my own body, the strange perspective filling me with dizzying vertigo at the sudden movement of my head; but other than that, my body looked intact.

Well, that... and the feelers that had grown out of my forehead, like two oversized antennas.

What the fuck.

That wasn't... that worrying, though. Well, it was worrying; but I was more worried at the absence of my wand. That, that was terrifying. That left me feeling utterly defenceless, powerless like I'd never felt in years.

Odd, that I hadn't had any magic wand until relatively recently, and yet I already felt like a part of my very body was missing the moment it was taken away from me.

But I had an inkling about where it could be, what they could've done with it, because I'd heard a very particular noise a couple of minutes after they'd left. One that had left me with a panicked heart beating like crazy when I heard it, and that now had me scared of what I would find. But I needed to know; so I went to climb to my feet–

—and I promptly collapsed down, back to the floor.

What the hell?

I tried it once more, with little to show for it. I was able to move my legs and arms just fine, but there was something that limited their range of movement; and it seemed like standing up somehow eluded me, like keeping my balance —something that I'd been doing for years— out of a sudden was beyond my reach.

A couple more frustrated tries afterwards, and I had the sinking realisation that if I wanted to walk at all, it would have to be on all fours.

I silently cursed my older housemates again, and started advancing forward: hand, leg, hand... it was slow —human bodies weren't made for this— and a tiring work, combined with the disorienting perspective of my segmented vision and the odd, confusing tactile sense coming from my feelers. But eventually I crept back to the main corridor, and advanced to the nearest intersection, where I turned right and approached a closed door. I opened it with some difficulty and found myself in an empty bathroom.

I was glad that my crawling form was too low to see myself reflected in the mirrors above the sinks; I didn't really want to see what I currently looked like. Instead I moved straight to the stalls, the apprehension in my chest growing with every step I took, the tiled floor cold to my hands' touch. I pushed open the first door and advanced up to the toilet's rim, edging to look above its lip: nothing.

I backed off, and moved to the next stall: again, nothing. I was starting to panic when the third one finally yielded results:

My wand was inside the toilet's bowl, stuck in its drain. Apparently they'd tried and failed to flush it down the pipe, then abandoned it there.

I closed my eyes in disgust, reached with my left hand into the toilet and extracted my wand, which was dripping in smelly waste water. I aimed it at myself and tried to cast the general counter-spell, but when I attempted to speak the invocation —'Finite'— I only managed to make a buzzing noise, in the rough approximation of the word.

I closed my eyes again, counted to ten, then tried once more with a silent casting; but I wasn't experienced enough with that either. And whatever this insect thing was, the magic was solid enough that it wouldn't budge at my half-focused attempts at dispelling it.

Fine. Just... fine. I'd need to go search for help, then. Wonderful.

I would have tried to clean my wand in the sink, but that required standing up, which was also outside the range of my current capabilities; so instead I simply placed it into my pocket, dirty and all.

I considered my options, but in the end I headed towards the Slytherin common room. Mostly because it was the closest and I didn't think I could make it to the Infirmary Wing like this without falling to exhaustion somewhere along the way. Besides, Tracey would be there, at least.

Of course, the other Slytherins would be there too. But if someone had to see me like this... well, I'd rather it be them than the students from the other houses. At least that way the rumour mill would be self-contained to the snakes, rather than spreading the tale of my humiliation across the entire school.

It was a hard process, getting to our common room —crawling down the remaining stairs was particularly intimidating: afraid I'd lose my footing with every tentative step, with my head lower than the rest of my body— and when I reached the camouflaged entry, I realised the folly in my plan: because there was just no way I could speak aloud the password.

I tried anyway, only managing to make some buzzing noises that the wall ignored. I paced —well, crawled— around it, looking for some other way to invoke the door that maybe I'd missed before, a switch or something. But after a few fruitless minutes I surrendered and decided to simply sit down and wait for one of my housemates to appear. The hope was that by staying quiet and out of the way, they wouldn't look at me too closely to realise just how fucked up I was.

My wish, though, wasn't granted:

"What in Morgana's name...?"

Because I guessed it was too much to ask for, the feelers and whatever my eyes currently looked like working together to betray me. I didn't even need to turn my head to see Terence Higgs looking down at me from my side, with curious surprise —even a hint of a smile— written in his face; benefits of my brand new bug senses, I guessed.

It was bloody humiliating, sure; but I also let a relieved breath out, because I knew Higgs was not in the hate-all-the-mudbloods camp. So I buzzed annoyed and gestured in the general direction of the wall.

"Do you want to...? Oh, I see! Legacy!"

The door opened, and I crawled into the common room right after the older boy. My aim was to try and be stealthy about it, somehow get Tracey's attention from the distance or something, try not to be noticed otherwise and using Higg's own arrival as cover. But of course it failed spectacularly, because the moment I set foot —well, hand— in the large lobby, Prefect Farley was quick to call everyone's attention to me:

"What in all the hells happened to you this time?!"

And sure enough, everyone in the room turned to look at me... and exploded into laughter.

Even the Prefect herself seemed to find my predicament funny, judging by her poorly disguised amusement as she approached me wand in hand to cast a 'Finite' on me. I felt the vice grip constraining my muscles relax at last, and was finally able to stand on my own two feet. But my vision still seemed fragmented.

"Uhm... stronger than it looked..." she muttered. "Care to explain what–"

"Shut the fuck up!" I buzzed at her, my distorted voice loud enough to be heard across the room, causing more chuckles to emerge.

I regretted my outburst immediately, realising it was just my anger, my frayed nerves speaking out; that she wasn't responsible, that she was the very one person helping me. But still, I couldn't take the words back now that I'd spoken them, and they'd been clear enough for her to understand them, buzz or not. I saw Farley's expression harden.

"Well," she said in a cold tone. "I don't know the specific counter-spell to... this, but it might wear down on its own over the night. Or you could go to the Infirmary; your choice."

She turned away to go back to her group, and I was left there... exposed, my feelers shuddering in anger on their own.

I eyed Selwyn's satisfied stance, the way he whispered something to Burke by his side while the two of them looked at me, and the suicidal thought from the day before re-emerged.

It would've been so lovely. I knew the incantation, of course —who didn't?— and I'd seen the wand movement inscribed in Potter's forehead. And as for intention... well, let's just say intention wouldn't have been a problem. Not after this. Not after Selwyn's patronising smile to me when he saw me staring at them; not after seeing the looks some of my other housemates were giving me. I didn't know which were worse: those who looked at me scornful —like the second year Carrow twins, or Parkinson and her punchable face, who looked like all her dreams had come true— seeing only a mudblood, an insect put in her place... or those who looked at me with something resembling pity.

No, scratch that. Pity. Pity was worse.

So I retreated fast, taking hold of whatever tatters of dignity I could find and walking towards the girls' bathroom. I very intentionally didn't look towards Tracey, didn't want to know what her own expression would be. I couldn't afford to break down here, in the middle of the common room.

Not that I had any reputation left to salvage, at any rate.

The bathroom's mirror showed me an aberration: a monster with two enormous, black segmented eyes like those of a mantis dominating its face; two arching feelers emerging out of the top of its forehead. I pretended to ignore it all while I washed and rinsed my wand in water, time and time again, then washing my hands two, three times. When that was done, I didn't give any time to my thoughts to catch up with me, instead rushing to our dorm and all but falling onto my bed. I was coherent enough to take a moment to close the four-poster's curtains; then I finally... finally allowed myself to fall apart.

Odd, that I... didn't. I was half expecting a breakdown, but there was nothing, not even a sob or a tear... or a buzz. It was like... it was all stuck inside me and it just wouldn't come out. So I simply stood there, hugging my pillow and still dressed in my now dirty robes, not making a noise. Pretending that I didn't exist, maybe, that I was merely another ghost.

At some point —maybe one, two hours later, because I'd missed dinner entirely— I heard noise outside, some of the other girls entering the room, opening their trunks. I heard whispered conversations I couldn't parse. In response I simply grabbed my wand, holding to it with the absolute resolve that, should any of them try to open my curtains, try to drag me out of my refuge, I would cast the nastiest curse I could remember straight to their faces. If they wanted my wand, this time they'd need to kill me first to get it.

But none of them tried to bother me, and eventually their noises ceased, and the dorm's lights went off as they all went to bed.

The worst of it was that I knew I was overreacting. Despite this, despite everything, I had still succeeded with my plan yesterday. It had worked out just as expected. And this... well, this was just...

It wasn't that bad, all things considered, now that Farley had cleared the worst of it. Not nearly as bad as a Cruciatus would have been, right? This was nothing, nothing at all like that. Like what I knew Hermione would suffer at Bellatrix's hands.

What I would allow her to suffer.

Hell, wasn't Malfoy of all people turned into a ferret or something at some point in the story? And this was the Wizarding World, after all... transfiguring people into weird things against their will was par for the course, it seemed like. Not that big a deal.

So why all this? Why couldn't I just... relax?

It was that sense of... vulnerability, I guessed. The humiliation of everyone seeing me like this. My wand, stolen from me. It had filled me with a sort of anger I'd never experienced before, not flashy and hot like with Mrs. Coverdale; but cold and deep, taking root somewhere under my skin and wrapping itself around my heart like a thorny vine.

Even though I was on my bed, I never went to bed, not really. The idea of changing into my pyjamas seemed as unsurmountable as that of climbing the Mount Everest. Instead I simply... waited there, my strange eyes open wide —because my eyelids seemed to have vanished— and my mind a whirlwind of unconnected thoughts, all of them flying loops around a single image: that of my wand inside the toilet bowl.

In the end I slept, if in fits and starts; a restless night punctuated by feverish dreams of buzzing noises, fragmented hexagonal images of wizards standing in a circle and chanting some mantra, talking snakes and clouds in the shape of skulls. And me in the middle of it all, trying to weave the wisps of half-remembered dreams all together under the strange impression that they were meaningful, somehow; that they held the secret to the future, some key that I was missing.

But in the end I was unsuccessful, and morning found me feeling only exhausted and frustrated.

I waited for all the girls to leave before I finally emerged from my four-poster hideout to go back to the bathroom to re-examine the damage. And I did let out a relieved breath when I was greeted with my normal looks, the last vestiges of insect-me having indeed finally dissipated over the night.

Not that I didn't look like shit warmed over, though. A half-arsed attempt to salvage somewhat the situation left me as decent as I could probably expect to: my robes were all wrinkled, my hair even more dishevelled than usual, my eyes sporting dark circles underneath from the lack of rest. But it was good enough to brave Hogwarts one more day, I guessed.

Except that when I found myself face to face with the Great Hall's doors I considered skipping breakfast altogether, or at least eating it at the kitchen with the house-elves. I was about to turn tail and run when I thought of the image that doing so would send to my housemates: that of the broken girl, someone weak and crumbling under a gush of wind.

So I put on a mask instead, like Daphne did. I didn't even try to be my usual self: I couldn't find an iota of snark that morning, my reserves utterly drained; but at least I could pretend to be someone who was... whole, someone who was strong enough to simply take things in stride, whatever they were. Yes, I imagined that other version of myself would say, hit me with your spells, with your humiliating curses; ambush me, laugh at me. Throw my body like a rag-doll or twist it into a parody of itself. And I will still be here tomorrow, and the day after.

Because you can't defeat me.

So with that mantra in my head, and my features schooled I entered the Great Hall and walked up to my usual seat next to Tracey. I ignored the looks, the muttered words, the malicious grins.

I'm the statue. They can't defeat me.

I ignored Burke too, the way his eyes flickered towards me for a moment, then returned to Selwyn who was talking to him.

Nobody. Not even them.

And I knew it, that ignoring bullies was useless. That just resisting was not enough, in the long run. But that was all I had energy for, that morning. It would need to do.

The first years were discussing something when I sat down, but they all hushed down at my arrival.

Me, I realised. They were discussing me. My absence, probably.

I didn't say anything, though, didn't acknowledge Parkinson's pleased expression, her mentions of there being flies in the Great Hall this morning, nor Tracey's concerned one. Instead I simply grabbed a pitcher of apple juice and a dish of toast, and went through the motions of breakfast. The taste of it felt... duller than usual, maybe; even accounting for how Plixiette's culinary prowess had pretty much ruined normal Hogwarts' breakfasts for me forevermore.

But I could do this, I could bite, swallow, drink. I could still function. My mask held fast to my face; and pretty soon my other housemates grew bored of staring at me expecting who knew what —a fit of hysterics or something, was my guess— and they returned to the normal morning conversations: homework, vacations, stupid shit the Gryffindors did... the works.

My success at breakfast carried me for the rest of the day, even if I defaulted to monosyllables when replying to Tracey. It was a day packed full with long and meditative silences —which replaced my usual banter— and an almost obsessive deliberateness to every motion, every step I took, every word I uttered. All in the hopes of looking... not normal... only strong.

And the next two, three days it became easier, somehow. My sleep was still brittle, with entire hours where I simply laid awake on my bed; but at least the mask was settling down, as it were, adjusting as if on its own to iron out the kinks —the biting of my lip when in the presence of our older housemates, the subtle jerk whenever someone cast a spell in my general direction that I wasn't expecting. I was handling it well, I thought, and by the start of winter break maybe the mask would have fused entirely...

Maybe... I wouldn't have had to pretend anymore; and I could instead simply be that unbreakable Sylvia.

Chapter Text

Tracey disagreed on the handling it well angle, it seemed, because with every passing day she grew ever more confrontational, ever more direct in her attempts to... talk about it. My hope was that by not encouraging her, by returning to a sense of normality —if only in our actions— she would eventually let it go. Winter break was right there —barely half a week ahead— and perhaps by the time she returned to Hogwarts in January she would have forgotten about it.

Perhaps everybody would have.

But when she floated the last minute idea of staying here herself, I knew I had to give her something.

"Aren't you going to tell anyone?" she asked while we were walking back from Herbology; she'd been asking around the topic for the last couple of days, tentatively edging her way in, but this was her most brazen question yet.

"About this?" I said, showing her the new cut in my index finger, courtesy of a Whisper Thistle. "I should, those plants are a bloody pest. We could ask Snape to burn them all, Greenhouse and Professor Sprout included."

"Not that! You know that I mean."

"I know," I said, trying to leave it at that.

"So?" she asked again after a beat, because Tracey was eleven, and heaven knew how bloody persistent those can be.

"Just let it go already, Tracey!" I snapped back.

She jerked at my harsh tone and went silent, her eyes downcast. It was like I'd just kicked a puppy.

I sighed, shook my head and said: "Sorry. No, I won't... maybe I should, but I worry what they could do next, if I did."

Because Selwyn had been playing with me that day in the common room, but I couldn't discount an actual Cruciatus or something like that hitting me in the back next time they ambushed me in the corridors, if I provoked him. At least it seemed turning me into an insect had left them satisfied for the time being. And I didn't want to poke the sleeping basilisk, so to speak.

"Do you still have any... hmm... lingering effects?" she asked.

"No. It wasn't that bad a spell, all things considered. It's just the..."

I shook my head again and muttered a weak "never-mind," but now that she'd found a crack in my walls she wasn't willing to let it go.

"Just the what?" she asked.

I paused, my hands clenched in my pockets, and took a quick look around. We were already on a narrow dead-end where the second floor corridor ended in a small reading nook, and safe enough from prying ears.

"The... humiliation," I managed to grind out.

And that was all I could say about it without trembling, without my mask coming undone. Because that was the issue, really: how Selwyn and his followers had stolen all agency from me, my very body betraying me, becoming useless and distorted. How all my practising spells, reading Duskhaven's book for Aurors, all my preparation had meant absolutely nothing in the face of that simplest of ambushes. Just a spell to the back and I was paralysed. A spell to the back, and I was no more than a human log, falling to the floor.

And the knowledge that it could happen again, that they could still do anything to me, anything they wished, and all my plans would mean nothing. That despite all my focus, my almost obsession on being independent, on being able to decide over my whole life... at the end of the day it was Selwyn and his court of worshippers who held such power over me.

I didn't know if Tracey understood all that, but at least she understood something of it, because she gave me some breathing room and tried her best to take my mind off it by sharing stories of her previous Christmas with her family: like when her grandfather —a Muggle, apparently— forgot that you were supposed to throw a pinch of powder into the fireplace when using the Floo, and had instead stepped onto the actual flames and caused his trousers to catch fire.

I welcomed the distraction for what it was, and I shared some of my own stories, telling her of when this kid at the Residence decided to remove all the ornamental balls from the Christmas tree and hide them in unsuspecting places; or the 'steal all the socks' game Astrid, a couple of the other youngest kids and I liked to play. I remained the undisputed champion at that.

But overall, my mood was still thunderous when winter break finally arrived and she left to spend it with her family. She wasn't the only one to leave, in fact, and soon I found myself completely alone in our shared dorm, the only first year Slytherin to remain at Hogwarts.

Very few other people remained in our house: only some of the fifth-years —who were so focused on preparing for their O.W.L.s that they didn't pay me an iota of attention, thankfully— and the odd straggler here and there. Selwyn, most importantly, also left.

Which suited me just fine, and for the first time I was allowed to simply... exist in our common room. To sit on a comfortable seat with a book on my knees and my gaze lost into the depths of the Black Lake, watching as the underwater weeds danced in its soft currents, catching a glimpse of a darting fish now and then.

That soon became my favourite activity, in fact. And while I was very aware that starting into water wasn't the most productive use of my time, there was something addictively melancholic about it. The cold didn't help, making me want to remain hidden and warm under my bedspread. Which I might have, if not for bodily needs. Staying at the common room was a compromise of sorts.

But soon I finally tired of whiling my time away in the dungeons, and so I wrapped myself in my winter cloak and went to the grounds outside, walking loops around the lake like I'd done in my very first days at the castle, and listening to the soft crunch, crunch noises my steps made on the newly fallen snow. It was cold as all hell, but by that time I was starting to feel as if the stones were suffocating me, and I simply needed to be... outdoors. Common room fever, I guessed we could call it.

Or maybe it was something else, some deeper need within me. Because on Christmas Eve I found myself on the seventh floor, in front of a tapestry depicting some dancing trolls. And after verifying the coast was clear, I paced angrily back and forth, all the while thinking: 'I need a room where I can let loose', 'I need a room where I can let loose'...

The door manifested itself, and I quickly crossed it to find myself in a large chamber. There were some of those dummies we'd used sometimes in Defence class, and a few pieces of old furniture barely holding together: chairs with uneven legs, tables with wide gaps on their surface... The results of too many botched mending charms, was my guess.

It would do.

I whipped out my wand, pointed at the nearest coffee table, and shouted at the top of my lungs: 'Depulso!'

The table shot into the air, tumbling end on end, and crashed against the room's wall with a loud boom, in an explosion of splintered pieces of rotten wood that flew all over the place.

Good. But not enough.

I followed it with all of my growing offensive repertoire: making a chair float as I put cut after cut into its surface with the severing charm, then launching it at full speed to the face of one of the dummies. I threw shit around, I set shit on fire. And yet...

Not enough.

So eventually I aimed at one of the dummies —already on fire— and slashed with my wand as I spoke: "Sectumsempra!"

I had read the notes on the curse —I had copied them to my own diary, then returned Snape's Potions book back to the classroom's bookshelves, leaving it ready for Potter to find in five years or so, assuming nothing else changed— but I had never attempted to cast it. As such I half expected it to fail, it being my first try.

But instead a deep gorge appeared on the dummy's charred surface. It was soon followed by another long, curved gash, the wood creaking in agony; and a twisted groove as I played with the wand: waving it this and that way, imagining it was Burke's flesh I was carving —or maybe Selwyn's— and not a stupid person-shaped piece of wood. The cuts were deep and wide enough that I knew they'd be lethal, if that were a real person.

But as it wasn't a real person, the dummy simply stood there and took the abuse without complaint, the idiot. I tried a couple more jinxes and hexes on it, but eventually I grew tired and bored of the exercise. In the end I was left panting in magical exhaustion, and surrounded by splintered wood and pieces of broken furniture that was well beyond the capacity of any mending charm I knew to put back together. And while I had expected to feel... somehow lighter... it still wasn't enough. There was still that unresolved clog of emotions within me.

Of course, if I really wanted to get rid of it, there was always the option of repeating this performance in the Slytherin common room.

Or, to be more accurate: trying out Sectumsempra in the actual people who had wronged me, and not just some mannequins. If there was something I should thank them for, it was showing me just how effective a sudden and unexpected spell to your back could be. And I guessed even a seventh year wouldn't be immune to such an attack.

So yeah, I could do that. I could bide my time and wait until winter break was over, trying out the spell in this room time after time, day after day until I had it perfected. Then I would stalk them, learn their movements to figure out when and where I could find one of them alone. I would focus on Burke, probably. I knew Selwyn was behind that attack on me —I wasn't so naive to pretend otherwise— but it had been Burke who carried it out —which meant it was his face the one I saw in my bad dreams— and he seemed like he'd be the easier target.

And I would be there, then, stepping out of the shadows to say...

"Sectumsempra!"

A fragment of sliced wood fell off the mannequin.

The problem would come afterwards, of course. Because I knew half my entire house would band together against me, against the mudblood who had dared to attack one of their precious pure-bloods with a dark curse. How long would I survive for, then, if I escalated like that?

I liked to think I was good at magic, but I wasn't seventh-year good. And that was the problem here, really: those teenagers weren't just physically bigger than me; they also knew more spells, had more practice with their own wands. Plus they were Slytherins, so they probably knew their own little dark spells of their own. The kind of spells which effects don't fade away overnight.

I wouldn't give myself even twenty-four hours.

The only way to do something like that and survive to live another day would be to frame it as a tit for tat, a reckoning for past offences. Which meant Selwyn was already out, because I hadn't actually seen him when I was attacked, and I had no definite proof that he'd been the mastermind.

What about Burke: could I win a duel against him?

It wouldn't be anything like with Parkinson. Tracey had since explained to me that the reason Pansy hadn't got that much backlash for running away from our duel was that I was a presumed Muggleborn. And sure, a witch had the right to issue a challenge when insulted, but Muggleborns barely qualified as witches and wizards in the eyes of many of my housemates. Which wasn't to say she hadn't received any flak over it —because it had been so evident to everyone that she'd just been too scared to fight— but it would have been much worse for her had it been, say, Perks issuing the challenge and not me.

Burke, though, he wouldn't run. He'd just wipe the floor with me.

Telling someone, then? Well, with the distorted way the Wizarding World treated its kids, I wouldn't expect much more than a slap to the wrist. Even less, given that Snape was our Head of House; and if pushed, he'd need to side with the Death Eaters' camp rather than the Muggleborn, if only to protect his cover. That would only succeed at provoking them into bullying me further; and a lack of punishment would also risk them going even further.

So it was back again to shooting a spell to Burke's back. And if I wanted to do that without kicking the vipers' nest, so to speak, I would need some ally. Someone that would be willing to vouch for me and had enough gravitas to prevent people like Flint, or say, the Carrow Twins from joining the party.

That someone was Daphne, of course. But she'd been clear enough —in her own way— that she wasn't willing to go that far. At least, as long as I was the... what had Tracey called it? Presumed Muggleborn?

So it all circled back to my lack of status and the ritual, like a bloody ouroboros or some shit. But if I could complete that —even if that meant I had to cheat— and become non-toxic enough for Greengrass to publicly associate with... Well, then it was open season on Burke, I guessed. And I had some machinations in mind to deal with Selwyn too.

Still, I'd need to wait for quite some time yet. And what would that be like, in the meantime? Would I need to keep fending off attack after attack? Had this been a one-off, or just the opening salvo of what would come next?

I sighed; too many unknowns, I'd need to wait and see. Which was fucking infuriating, and I was tempted to ask the room for more furniture.

But given that I was in the Room of Requirement, I could perhaps tick another checkbox out of my to-do list instead. So I closed my eyes and said "I need a room with things I can gift to other people, and that are... you know, not cursed."

I was welcomed with the sight of endless stacks of assorted items, piles on top of piles as far as I could glimpse. A version of the Room of Hidden Things, possibly.

Not being sure if the room had truly respected the 'not cursed' part of my requirement, I was especially careful as I shopped around for my Christmas gifts, and limited myself only to those things that looked... safe-ish. Books, mostly. Also because many of the other items looked too worn and used to pass muster as a Christmas gift anyway.

But the selection of books in this room differed greatly from that of the Library, with a much deeper focus on fictional stories, comics, and of course trashy romance novels —of which there were plenty. There were also quite a few books of Muggle origins, possibly brought over by other Muggleborn students across the years, which I figured would make great choices as gifts —given that most people I knew here had been raised in the magical world and so wouldn't be too familiar with them.

So I ended up with a few of them that later that day I ran through one of the house-elves to verify were indeed safe before going to the owlery to deliver. To the only actual friend I had —Tracey— I sent a copy of Stevenson's 'Treasure Island', simply because it was my favourite and a classic and about pirates, which always was a plus —let's just say that if I ever reincarnated again, I wouldn't mind being a pirate queen. I wouldn't mind that one bit.

And while I didn't know pure-blood etiquette, I figured that sending a gift to Daphne Greengrass would probably be expected of me, she being the highest status housemate in my same dorm and all that. So I gifted her the copy of 'Bridge to Terabithia' that I found next to a broken flute.

And... that was it, really, wasn't it? I couldn't be expected to send gifts to anyone else. But still, I figured giving books to the members of my Read-Ahead Club was also fair game, even if I doubted any of them would be sending any presents my way. To Hermione went the 'Compendium of Fairy Tales, Fables and Children's Stories' —it contained such classics as 'Little Red Riding Hood' or 'Jack and the Beanstalk', only these were their magical counterparts. I guessed Hermione would have a field day cataloguing all the little differences between these and the Muggle versions of the same tales.

I was less thorough with the others, though, choosing mostly based on how intact or not the books looked: 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory' went to Anthony Goldstein, 'The Hobbit' to Michael Corner, and 'Matilda' to Susan Bones.

Finally, to Astrid at the Residence I sent a handful of Every Flavour Beans that I'd bought from a Ravenclaw, along with a note warning her of what to expect. Yes, I was sending magical food to a Muggle. No, it didn't worry me too much that we'd be caught infringing the Statute of Secrecy. As far as Astrid would know, they were just some odd sweets from Scotland, that's all; and if she suspected anything I could always say they came from the continent or something. I doubted magic of all things would enter her mind. And if it did, well... I'd already warned her on the importance of keeping mum on the nature of my schooling.

So I went to sleep that day back on that empty dorm, the vacant beds making it somehow more imposing. I missed... their company, the other girls'. Odd, that I'd rather have Parkinson in here than sleep on my own, alone in the large circular room. I guessed it was the Christmas' spirits, infecting me or something.

Or maybe it was this new fear of mine rearing its head once more, the same one that hit me whenever I found myself alone in a narrow corridor.

But when I woke up after yet another restless night punctuated by the occasional wand-in-toilet dream, there were three packages on my trunk, next to my bed.

One, the only one I'd half-expected, was from Tracey. It contained a set of thick wool gloves along with a scarf, all in a matching deep blue and with subtle stamped snowflakes —not animated, sadly, but that was fine. The included parchment note was in my friend's handwriting and said: 'Now you won't have to steal my scarf anymore. Happy Yule!'

The second package was from Daphne Greengrass, and it contained a robe brooch, like the ones some of our older housemates liked to wear to signify their wealthy status, only this one was smaller and more elegant and less... flaunty. It was in the shape of a slender silver snake, and the girl's note explained that she had purchased identical ones for each one of us girls at our dorm.

It was nice, and I could read between the lines as for what she was really saying with it: that I was one of them, that I too was included in the group. I only wished the group didn't have to include Parkinson and Bulstrode too.

The third package didn't have a sender's note. It was just a thin book titled 'The Other Healing', by one Celestina Dervish, and I could tell by the worn corners that it had already seen some use. I figured the mysterious gift-giver was another member of my school of solving your Christmas needs without spending a single Galleon.

I opened it to the inside cover and read: 'A great number of tomes have been written on the topic of fixing the damages caused by offensive magic, but not everything a healer does is mending wounds and growing bones back. Sometimes it's our minds that need care, not our bodies. In this book, St. Mungo's renowned Celestina Dervish shares a plethora of meditations, rituals and other techniques to soothe–'

I promptly closed it again with a snap and banished it to the depths of my trunk. And if my hands trembled while pinning the brooch to my robes, there was nobody there to comment on it.

Christmas was a strange day, all things considered. I'd never found the Holidays to be a happy time for me, not even before I was seven and I became cognizant of all I had lost. Perhaps because the festivities at the foster homes I'd been in had always seemed as poor imitations of the real thing, matching the looks and noises but never the spirit of it. Like the fake smile you put on for the camera, only there for the brief moment of taking the picture.

Then at the Residence, it seemed like the staff didn't even care. Or maybe they knew better, they were aware that these weren't exactly the happiest days for most of the... problematic kids in there. Too many bad memories for some, too many good memories now turned bittersweet for others. In the end I wouldn't be surprised if it turned out they had decided to walk the Holidays as if on eggshells, doing the bare minimum of gestures that they could get away with —a tree, yes, and a more elaborate dinner, and a couple presents per kid that mostly were new pieces of clothing to replace the ones we'd outgrown already. There was no expectations of anything else, and no attempts at imposing a festive mood that most in the building weren't feeling anyway.

Which I appreciated, to be fair. Five points to the Giraffe, I guessed. If you can't give love to the kids, at least don't rub it in their faces.

But Hogwarts did rub it. Exceedingly. With its Christmas feast and its dozens upon dozens of platters, its fully decorated Great Hall —complete with illusionary snow falling on us— a Dumbledore dressed in festive robes that put my animated faeries to shame, students pulling on crackers that went 'boom' and disgorged all manner of magical items and effects across the tables, and even one of my older housemates greeting me with a 'Happy Yule!' that for once didn't sound malicious or backhanded.

It was too much, and it made me feel out of place. An intruder.

So I defaulted to my new normal, and went through the motions. I ate roast turkey, and drank butterbeer, and pulled a cracker that gave me a toy salamander —I managed to catch it by the tail before it scampered away— and pretended to ignore the Headmaster's occasional gazes my way —did he know something? Or was he simply keeping an eye on the new Tom Riddle?— and made the appropriate sounds at the appropriate times when listening to Terence Higgs' tale about that one time his aunt had invited his entire family to celebrate Yule, but when the day came she had completely forgotten about it, and had to improvise food for more than a dozen people, which somehow resulted in a couple of them ending the day at St. Mungo's.

I ended my own day back at my solitary dorm, climbing in bed with my belly full, but only to toss around still under that strange malaise; and also because I knew that somewhere above me Harry would be going on a night stroll to find a very particular mirror.

One that I wouldn't mind taking my own look at.

But I had to bid my time. I didn't want to interfere in Harry's discovery of his parents; that seemed important, plot-wise. Except that I couldn't wait for too long either, since the mirror would only be there for two or three nights at most, if my fore-memories didn't fail me.

I decided to make my visit the day after Christmas, the 26th. And so I spent that afternoon casing the joint, so to speak; taking a long walk along the corridors near the Library, taking good note of the closed doors that could possibly lead to unused classrooms. I didn't try to enter during the day, though; the castle was much quieter during the winter break, true, but that didn't mean it was empty. And I pretty much didn't want to call any unwanted attention towards me or the mirror ahead of time. Especially because I heavily suspected that the mirror's surprisingly unguarded presence during the few nights right after Harry Potter had received his invisibility cloak wasn't exactly a coincidence. And if I was interfering into a Dumbledore plot, I better tread carefully.

But that night I was ready: equipped with my wand, a couple of my last remaining prank items —mostly in case I ran into Filch again— and with a destination in mind. I opted to leave the dungeons as soon as possible, taking advantage of the lack of students to slip out unnoticed. The plan was simple: get there, take a quick look, and leave well before Harry arrived.

Of course, since I didn't happen to be the lucky inheritor of an invisibility cloak, getting to the classroom unnoticed was easier said than done. I took advantage of all my experience sneaking around and... well... thieving... to move smoothly and yet without a sound, making sure to keep my balance low, always stepping with my little toes first then rolling the feet down like Colin at the Residence had taught me —ninja walking, he'd called it. I had to stop at times, make sure there were no other noises, that nobody was getting nearer. And it took time to check door after door, a quiet 'Alohomora' here and there to open my way through.

But eventually I found it. The classroom's door was unlocked, and after a quick check to verify I was indeed the first to arrive, I slipped inside and softly closed the door again behind me.

The Mirror of Erised stood proud, golden and menacing in the middle of the room, contrasting with the dusty desks and chairs and glinting under the light of my wand. I double checked once more that I was alone, then approached the imposing mirror with some trepidation.

This, of course, was stupid.

It was stepping right into the plot, standing right in the middle of Harry and Dumbledore's path for no real gain at all. There was no angle, no advantage I would get here, no danger I was foolhardy enough to think I could prevent. This wouldn't help me get Selwyn out of my hair, or give me a clue as to Quirrell's next move.

No. This was just for me. Because this, this was my chance to see my family for what could very possibly be the last time ever.

So I looked into the mirror. After all, this world owed me at least this.

The reflection that met my eyes was that of a young woman in her late twenties: Sophie, the old me, with her golden hair styled into a messy bob —trendy, yet casual— and sporting some sunglasses that I knew extremely well. She wore some fashionable robes that looked like they belonged on the cover of that 'Chic-Witch' magazine some of the teenage girls at Hogwarts liked, and held her wand —my wand— with a nonchalant, almost je-ne-sais-quoi self-assurance.

It was the perfect meld: the me that I'd been before, but also a witch, but also better than I'd ever been before or now. That girl would never be left crawling on the floor like a bug. Nobody would ever steal her wand and try flushing it down the toilet; no, that girl was above any of that.

Only she was a lie, of course.

But my eyes were drawn by the other figures next to her: my parents, just as I remembered them; starting to get old, yes, but still with many years ahead —many years to share with them that I'd been just robbed out of. And my younger brother, who winked at me when our eyes met and gave me his easy smile, the only Christmas present I really, truly wished for.

Then, right there; that was when I finally fell apart. Reality catching up with me, like the Coyote when he looks down to realise there had been no ground under his feet all along, and only then starts falling down.

That was when the tears came at last, when I sat down on the frigid stone floor among quiet sobs, my muscles suddenly failing me, my breathing coming in pained gasps as I slowly rocked back and forth.

I had always tried to avoid self-pity, never liking it when I found it in others. Despite everything, I knew my rebirth, or whatever it was, was nothing sort of miraculous. I was unfairly ahead of my peers —both at the Muggle schools, and in many subjects here— thanks to my unnatural knowledge. And knowing what the future held made for what could very well become an easy life filled with riches and pleasures beyond belief, if I cared to play my cards right.

Even being here, at Hogwarts, with magic at my fingertips and the ability to say 'no, thank you' to the laws of physics felt like the cherry on top of the cake of impossibly good fortune. I was aware many people would kill for the chance of taking my place.

But glancing back at the mirror stripped all those... those trappings away. All the fashion in the world and the most powerful magic spells seemed empty in comparison to what the girl in the mirror had: the one thing I couldn't ever have myself.

She had a family.

And yes, my family existed here too, in this strange universe. And perhaps one day I'd choose to go visit them. But I doubted it would work out. Because to them, Sylvia would always be a stranger at best, someone with memories from a life none of them had yet lived. Some creepy girl who knew all about them, but who none of them would recognise as their blood. Even their ages wouldn't match with my new birthdate.

And that was if they accepted me. Because perhaps... perhaps they wouldn't. Perhaps it would be better not to visit them, then; rather live with the unknown than risk meeting them and being rejected. Having them think me a freak.

That, I knew it would destroy me. And I even felt an ugly pang of envy directed at Harry Potter of all people, because even when he was an orphan himself, at least he had never known his parents. Which sounded horrible, of course, but then it also meant he didn't have to miss the actual people, just the idea of them. He didn't have to miss my mum's 'Poule au Pot' or her 'Tarte Tatin' —and of course, why the fuck else would I've been so bloody obsessed over Plixiette's food?— and he didn't have to miss the aviator glasses my father gifted me on graduating from university —the ones the witch in the mirror was wearing— and feel that subtle pang of grief every time I wore the ones I had nicked, that poor replacement. And still I always chose to wear them, because the alternative was worse.

He had no memories of them. But me, I had years worth of memories that were now tainted, corrupted with pain. And yet at some level I knew I was also a hypocrite, because I would never have traded our positions if I'd had the chance.

It felt like the mirror was laying me bare, peeling my skin away, and I hated it for that. But at the same time I couldn't stop looking at the image it was presenting back to me. Like running your tongue over and over again over the same toothache, the pain becoming... somehow addicting, familiar.

It was a soft noise behind me that broke me out of my trance. I turned to look with a sudden sense of panic, wand high and tears streaking down my cheeks; but there was nothing, and the door was still closed. I cleaned my face on the sleeve of my robes and climbed back to my feet, my whole body stiff and cold.

'Revelio', I cast. Still nothing.

But I had lost too much time here already, and it was time to go. Harry Potter would be on his way here by now, possibly along with Ron Weasley, and I pretty much had no intention of meeting either of them in this state. So with a quick, last glance at the mirror, I departed the room and made the way back to the dungeons, only having to stop and hide one time to avoid Filch on patrol.

That night, though, when I finally hit my bed... I did sleep better.

Chapter Text

Somehow it got easier, after that day, the knot of tension relaxing and leaving me be. And so I could focus once more on my plans, on my tasks; and I went back to my books and spell practising —I was learning to cast the Full Body-bind curse now, the same spell they'd used on me— and also to finishing up all the winter break homework, because both McGonagall and Snape seemed to be of the opinion that idle hands needed to be savagely stomped on, or something along those lines.

But a couple of days later, something odd happened. I had found a nice reading nook on one of the second floor corridors —a seat under one of those tall windows that let in the morning sun, and that allowed me to bask in its glorious warmth like the cold-blooded reptile I was starting to suspect I was under my skin— and was going through 'A Beginner's Guide to Protective Enchantments', determined at last to learn how to secure my trunk's contents and prevent any repeats of that incident with Parkinson at Hallowe'en.

It was also a nice break from the Slytherin common room, if I was being honest. The underwater chamber was nice and soothing, yes, and I liked that I could enjoy it freely for a couple of weeks at least; but it could also become quite the gloomy and melancholic place; and when you were already in a low mood, it was too easy to get caught in the trap of sitting there and simply watching the water-filtered light cast reflections on its polished marble floor for hours and hours on end.

Besides, that book on mental healing had recommended doing shit like this, purposefully getting away from your usual haunts; so there I was, trying to parse out how the circles directed the flow of magic in an enchantment, and how the accents were key to keeping its balance so that it wouldn't simply peter out —or worse, lose cohesion, which could result in the magic acting up in unpredictable ways— when none other than Harry Potter approached me out of the blue.

"Hi... uhm... want to play chess?" he asked, uncharacteristically shy. He was carrying a wizarding chess set under one of his arms. It was one of those cheap ones that came in crackers and the like, nothing like the one in the Slytherin common room —the board on that one was three hundred years old, apparently, and probably worth more than all the possessions I'd had in my previous life combined. I hadn't tried to even approach it, too scared of suddenly tripping on my own feet and scratching it by accident or something.

But Harry approaching me like this was... unexpected, and I narrowed my eyes as I examined the boy in front of me, trying to figure out his angle. He had never approached me before, not during the normal school days, nor during the first half of our winter break; so what gives?

He fidgeted under my intense gaze. "Ah... if you don't like it..."

"No, it's fine," I said at last, retracting my extended legs over the seat and allowing him some space to sit down and place the board. "I haven't played chess for a while, though, so go easy on me."

I knew the rules —from my fore-memories: my grandfather liked the game and took it upon himself to teach me how to play. But I wasn't a particularly good player, and my last match dated all the way back to my foster days. There had been a chess set at the Residence, but it was missing a rook and a handful of pawns, so most kids simply ignored it in favour of other, less brainy sort of games.

"Don't worry," Harry said, laying out the pieces and speaking with more certainty now that I hadn't rebuked his offer. "I just learnt the rules myself. But it's nice playing someone other than Ron; he always trounces me."

"So, you're playing people from the other houses then?" I asked, trying to eke some information out of the boy.

He nodded with a bit too much enthusiasm for it to be natural. "Yes, exactly!"

Gryffindors were shit at lying, I was starting to realise, as he avoided my gaze and made the first move of the match. Except for Dumbledore, apparently —which I considered an honorary Slytherin anyway, because his level of cunning was simply off the charts.

I didn't call Harry on it, though, instead trying to think of what could have changed for the boy to suddenly become... friendly, to me. There were my acts at Hallowe'en, of course, but those were water under the bridge by now. I had noticed the Trio becoming less hostile towards me afterwards, Hermione especially. But I just didn't interact with the boys often enough for it to become anything significant, and they hadn't made any overtures towards me ever since. I guessed in their eyes I was simply someone from the Slytherin house that at least didn't completely suck, a counterpoint to Malfoy perhaps, but little more than that.

So why this now?

Well, I had an inkling. And I didn't like where that train of thought was leading me. Because the only recent interaction that came to mind with the potential of having changed how he saw me was... if he'd seen me there. With the mirror.

Which was as discomfiting a thought as there could be, my private moment invaded by a... a voyeur; even if I was willing to grant him that he hadn't done it on purpose. If it had even happened, because I would have noticed the door opening, wouldn't have I? And I had cast that Revelio charm at the end that showed the room was still empty. But was that enough to trump the Cloak of Invisibility? I didn't know.

I tried to tell myself that everything was okay, though, that he hadn't seen me in front of the mirror —nobody had. No, this was simply a delayed reaction to my olive branch at Hallowe'en, Harry just taking the opportunity to return the favour now that he could approach me without the rest of my house interfering. Maybe he had even realised I was the only first year Slytherin staying here and he assumed I would be feeling lonely —which was true, by the by.

Right. No, nothing to do with the bloody mirror.

But the thought of it was enough to make my focus wander off the chessboard, which resulted on a string of blunders and missed opportunities.

"How is this possible?" I muttered when his knight finally captured my queen, shaking my head.

"I told you we were leaving our centre open," grumbled my only surviving bishop.

"And you left me hanging all the way here!" exclaimed that annoying pawn on the right flank.

"Shush, you! We all know you are a lost cause at this point. Now let me think..."

I bit my lip, trying to put my mind into the game at last, as I considered my options —which ranged from the bad to the dismayingly horrible. At least Harry seemed to be enjoying himself, because the little twerp looked positively enthused at the unfolding events.

Four minutes or so of thinking later my position still hadn't magically improved, so I decided to make the only movement I figured could threaten Harry's entrenched troops: I grabbed one of my centre pawns and moved it forward, only to be met with the combined groans of all my surviving pieces on the board.

"The rook, girl! The rook!" protested my king.

But it was too late. The rook in question moved forward now, and Harry announced: "Checkmate!"

"Ugh."

"Wow, you are really, really rubbish at this," he commented, as my king threw away his crown in frustration and walked off the board.

"Oh, am I?" I narrowed my eyes and pantomimed cracking my knuckles. "Set up that board again, Potter; because you're going to regret your words."

We ended up playing a further two other matches, of which I at least won one. And by the end of it Harry looked again somewhat out of place, as he stored all the protesting pieces back in the box one by one.

At last he said: "So... uhm... Hermione told me you were an orphan?"

I nodded.

"I'm... an orphan too," he clarified.

I rose my eyebrows in mock surprise. "No! Really?"

"Right, I forget everybody already knows that," he shook his head. "It's... do you remember your family?"

I paused, eyeing him. This was a surprisingly tricky question, because while I did remember my family from my previous life, I didn't remember who my parents here had been. And if I recalled our conversation back on the train, Hermione knew that. So did Tracey, and possibly a number of my other housemates. So to say yes now would go against that, and he might discover the contradiction later. But if I said no... and he had been there... then he'd have to wonder why the mirror affected me so much.

It seemed my delay did the answering for me, because Harry said: "Sorry. It's... it's fine if you don't want to talk about that."

And that seemed like a perfectly valid excuse for me, but instead I went with the truth for once. Because for some insane reason I didn't feel like I should lie now. Not about this. The crazy notion that if I said I didn't remember them, it would somehow become true. So I said: "Yes, I remember them. But I haven't told anyone."

He went silent at that, nodding softly.

"What about you?" I asked, trying to judo the conversation around. I'd rather he talked about himself than dig into my past. "Do you remember... you know who?"

His hand went to his forehead in a reflective gesture, that he tried to camouflage by repositioning his glasses instead.

He shook his head. Then, a beat later: "So... do you live with any family of your parents, or...?"

What was this? Was he just trying to be friendly, or was there something more going on here that I was missing? Why all this sudden questioning?

"No. I spent some time at foster homes; that's when... they put you with some random family, but without them adopting you, sort of," I clarified at his look of confusion. "But now I'm at a group home, with other kids who are either orphans or... well, whose parents weren't fit."

"Weren't fit how?"

I shrugged. "Well, some cases because they drank too much, and couldn't really take care of even themselves. Others were just... abusive."

But I noticed I'd made a mistake in there, because the moment I said the word 'abusive' he went suddenly stiff.

He tried to pass it off by asking me about how life at the Residence was like, and I felt more comfortable with that topic, speaking vaguely about daily routines and shared rooms and such rather than getting into the specifics of my own past, my own life. He listened enraptured and eventually he asked: "And... hmm... how do you end, in a place like that?"

Shit.

That was my moment to tense up, because I suddenly realised that while the Residence was merely... okay-ish in my mind, to him —who would be forced to spend his next Summer with the Dursleys— it would probably sound like heaven on Earth.

Or maybe not heaven —because that was what Hogwarts itself was— but at least much more acceptable. At least a place where he could be... safe and treated well, if not loved.

But at the same time, accidentally getting Harry Potter interested in changing his Summer accommodations sounded like the kind of plot altering event that could come charged with all kind of unexpected side effects.

And yet... this was actually Dumbledore's problem, not mine, wasn't it? It was the old wizard who had put Harry in that hellhole, so he could deal with the consequences of it. I doubted much would change: Dumbledore wouldn't allow Harry to be outside the magical protection granted by his blood relatives in any case; so if Harry confronted him about it, I figured the most likely result would be Dumbledore simply making a visit in person to coerce the Dursleys into treating the boy better.

It wouldn't be that big a change, in the great scheme of things. Not as large as, say... not having Quirrell as a professor, or the recent attempt at poisoning the boy in front of me.

And it could make Harry's life a tad less... horrid. So I said: "It's the state that puts you in there, if they get wind that your current guardians aren't fit. In my case it was because I set fire to my last foster home. Accidentally, of course."

He nodded, as if cataloguing the information for later use. "That is... uhm, thanks. You're not as bad as Ron says, you know."

I smirked. "Not afraid I'm going to corrupt you, uh?"

"Not really. And... well," he lowered his tone. "The Sorting Hat offered to put me in Slytherin too, so... I guess if everyone who ends up there is evil, that would also make me evil myself, right?"

I shrugged. "There are more prats in my house than in the others, I'll admit to that. But no, I don't think just getting sorted into Slytherin makes you evil, just as getting sorted into Gryffindor doesn't mean you're already a hero, you know. Although in your case... well, you did defeat that one dark wizard, no?"

He fidgeted once more, as if being reminded of his celebrity status had suddenly crushed his self-confidence. He would need to work on that, I guessed. "Yes... well, thanks for playing," he said.

"Sure. See you around, Potter."

He nodded and walked away with a nod. And I remained there, puzzled at the weird interaction.

I wondered if he'd try to approach me again in the future, if he'd be seeing me as a new friend or something. But in the end the days passed and the match didn't repeat itself; it didn't lead to a close friendship with the Boy Who Lived either.

And yet this was still a complete success in my plan of getting in the Golden Trio's good graces. An accidental one, perhaps, but I liked to think I'd done a good job at seeding the ground ahead of time.

Shame I was going to have to ruin it, though.

But not yet. For the time being things simply... went back to normal. Including my routine, because soon enough the winter break was over, and the rest of my housemates returned, putting an abrupt end to my enjoyment of the Slytherin common room.

But also putting an end to my solitary walks and silent study sessions, now that Tracey was here too. And I appreciated the Great Hall table being full again with people —realizing I'd actually grown somewhat fond of Draco Malfoy's diatribes was quite the shock— and the return to our classes.

Tracey and I also resumed our tradition of flying around the grounds in borrowed brooms —it was still cold, but her gloves and scarf helped in fighting the freezing bite, and I was also slowly getting better at handling my broomstick— and she regaled me with how her winter break had been, and how Diagon Alley had looked lovely under all its Christmas decorations.

I told her of the feast at the Great Hall, and of Dumbledore's robes and the other professors loosening up; but I kept silent about my interaction with Potter... or about the whole deal with the mirror. That felt... oddly personal, in a way I didn't feel ready to share.

Not that she didn't notice that something had changed, though; because my demeanour was back to a semblance of its usual self. And because —as she said— I was starting to scheme again.

Which was true. I'd convinced her to extend our flying lessons to pass over the edge of the Forbidden Forest. It was essentially for scouting purposes, with the vague hope that maybe, just maybe one day I'd be able to see a dead or injured unicorn from the air, swoop in and collect some blood before anyone else noticed.

It was a vane hope, of course, as the forest's dense canopy meant reconnaissance from above was a moot point. The only way to find an injured creature would be to get into the thick of it; on foot.

That left Harry's future detention. Assuming the future hadn't changed too much, that is. But if Hagrid was still meant to have this dragon in his hut, and both Harry and Draco Malfoy were punished over being stupid about it, that should still result in Harry witnessing the wholesome feeding habits of one hungry Quirrell.

The plan was easy, then: I had to get myself some detention alongside them.

It started with gathering intel, for which my Self-Writing Quill proved invaluable. I simply kept an eye on Hagrid and waited for one day when he was distracted —walking towards the Forbidden Forest, Fang in tow— and used my broom to fly to his hut's roof. There I placed the quill and a long piece of parchment next to the open chimney, where I hoped it could still listen to any talking that happened inside. A Sticking Charm to keep the parchment in place, and a well placed Impervious Charm to make sure that it wouldn't be affected by rain or snow; which wasn't a trivial task, as the Impervious also made it so its surface repelled the Quill's own ink. After some unsuccessful trial and error on my own, I'd ended up asking Professor Flitwick how to go about it —covering my tracks with some codswallop about having accidentally spilled some tea on my homework and wanting to prevent repeats.

It was a bit unnecessary, though, as he already thought me some sort of prodigy at charms —thanks in no small part to my drive to learn every single spell I recognised from the Harry Potter books, as soon as humanly possible. In the end he congratulated me for my curiosity, gave a couple of points to Slytherin for good measure, and taught me the modified invocation. And so over the following weeks I simply made periodic visits to collect the notes it wrote and replace the parchment.

My twelfth birthday arrived one day in February, the way it always did: suddenly and without fanfare. It was a date I pretty much stopped celebrating since that horrible time when I turned seven, and for much the same reasons as Christmas: it reminded me too much of what I'd lost; it felt as much an anniversary of the death of the previous me as it did of my birth here.

Birthdays weren't a big deal at the Residence either —let's be frank, nothing was ever a big deal there— but they still involved cake, which I enjoyed when it was some other kid's turn.

And... well, yeah. Mine, too. It was a good consolation prize for being forcefully reminded of my odd nature, if anything.

But I wasn't expecting anything special at Hogwarts, given that I hadn't told anyone about my birthdate. And sure enough, the day passed like any other. Up until Tracey and I went to the abandoned classroom to practise spells before bed, and a two tier cake with twelve candles was waiting for me on top of one of the dusty tables.

"What the hell?"

"Happy Birthday!" shouted Tracey, shooting sparks out of her wand.

I approached the desert. Judging by its over the top look it was probably elf-made; which meant Tracey —because who else?— had gone to the kitchens behind my back or something. But still...

"How did you know?" I asked her after I'd blown out the candles and she was cutting the both of us some generous pieces of cake. "The date, I mean."

"It was in that piano book of yours," she replied easily. To which she meant the one back from my foster days, with the sheet music for my early piano lessons, and that was still inside my trunk.

I'd brought it to Hogwarts in a bout of optimism, because I thought there might just be a grand piano in the Ravenclaw common room, and so it would be a good chance to boast a bit about my skills and what not. At least so that all that time I spent learning Beethoven's Ode to Joy and Vivaldi's Spring would get some valuable use at last.

But of course the Sorting Hat ruined that particular plan, because while there was indeed a piano in the Slytherin common room —a mahogany beast that I suspected was secretly alive and ready to bite off the fingers of anyone who dared approach, like a mimic or something— I couldn't exactly show off by playing Muggle songs, of all things. I'd only lent the book to Tracey when she'd shown some interest in my past, asked for any Muggle items and such.

Which I was realising just now was probably her fishing for info.

"Sneaky," I said, with some honest appreciation.

She shrugged. "Must be rubbing off on me."

I had to share some of my plotting with her after that, because yeah... she wasn't an idiot and she knew I had a plan to deal with the whole Selwyn situation, and we were at this point were it was either letting her in or killing our growing friendship in its crib. I'd already told her about the unicorn blood after... well, after all that happened with Selwyn and Burke. And sure, Nott would have preferred for me to keep that specific part of his ritual secret, but I trusted her not to go telling everyone I was hunting for forbidden substances.

So as we ate the cake I simply told her how I'd overheard over the winter break that there had been some attacks on the unicorns living in the Forbidden Forest —and sure, that wasn't true, but we weren't at the point were I could tell her the full story of my rebirth and the fictional nature of her entire existence, so yeah, baby steps. But I explained how if I could find out where one of those had occurred from Hagrid, I could get the blood I needed. Which was as close enough to the truth as I could reasonably get, while still preventing her from suspecting any unnatural origins to my knowledge.

The Read-Ahead Club was also a nifty tool to keep an eye on the Trio's comings and goings, thanks to Hermione:

"Oh? Is that a new book?" I asked her one day as she joined our usual table at the Library. "The works of Nicolas Flamel? Who's that?"

"Ahm... it's nothing," she replied, promptly placing the offending tome at the bottom of her pile. "I was just doing some reading on famous alchemists. What about your attempts at enchantments?"

I shrugged, smiling internally, because at least I could relax on that particular front, reassured that the plot was on its track. "I got it to work at last. I've put a protective charm on my trunk's latch that will cast both the Furnunculus and Jelly-Fingers Curses at whoever tries to open it with nefarious intentions."

"Two curses? Isn't that... excessive?"

I shrugged. "The book said to use the Jelly-Fingers Curse because you can't steal anything if you can't use your fingers to grab stuff with them. But I figured adding the Furnunculus too would be more effective at teaching the lesson that I'm not someone you want to steal from, no? A little pain goes a long way, I've learnt."

The rest of the table looked at me with wary expressions.

"It's a Slytherin thing," I clarified.

"Right. Maybe you should be careful with those curses," muttered Susan Bones. "You don't want to end up meeting my aunt in person."

Joke was on her, because I had actually given Snape's Sectumsempra curse serious consideration, now that I knew I could cast it. But casting a spell yourself and turning it into a protective enchantment were different things altogether, and that one was complex enough to require the more advanced charms that what my book covered, if I wanted to weave it into my trunk's protections. Besides, I didn't really want to murder Pansy Parkinson; just for her to learn to leave my stuff alone.

And so the weeks went by, and at class I learnt new spells and magic theory, and I fought with new breeds of plants at Herbology, and Professor Duskhaven gave me subtle nods of encouragement as my defensive spellwork improved —focusing on accuracy, versatility and impact, as her book instructed, rather than mere speed. And ever so slowly the weather grew warmer, until one day I entirely forgot the scarf Tracey had gifted me inside my trunk, but I ended up not needing it anyway, and in the valley surrounding the castle blades of grass emerged again out of the melting snow.

I started to worry when we reached Easter break without mentions of any dragons on part of Hagrid —by this time I'd so perfected the flying down to his hut's roof that I could do it fast and silently enough without the need for a distraction. The only caveat was that enormous dog of his, Fang, who somehow smelled me once and started barking, causing me to almost drop the Quill down Hagrid's chimney.

Most of the content in the parchments were so far useless —him talking to Fang; or more like he talking to himself, because the dog always remained silent. A couple of visits by Sprout, and one by Dumbledore in which Hagrid mentioned that 'those centaurs are at it again'; but that was about it.

I was starting to worry by then, figuring out I'd need to make an excursion into the forest entirely on my own to find myself a unicorn. Beltane was the first of May, and it was merely two weeks away at that point. But my stroke of good luck came as soon as the classes resumed. One day I picked up the parchment, my eyes skimming on it when I read:

'Alright there, Norbert, yeh little rascal' said the giant to the mysterious egg in his hut, 'I've been readin' up, all about dragon rearing, and I got everythin' ready for yeh: a nice warm fire, plenty of food...' The monstrous human let out a terrifying laugh. 'I reckon yeh'll be up an' flyin' before too long!'

I shot back to the castle, heart beating fast, but not before replacing the parchment as I always did. Now I would have to be more careful about this not to jinx it, so to speak. The timing of it was critically important, as was Malfoy's participation.

At least that aspect seemed to be taking care of itself. Something had happened at the last Quidditch match —which I hadn't attended, because it wasn't Slytherin playing and so I didn't have to, thank-you-very-much— that had caused Draco to become even more obsessively focused on the three plucky Gryffindors, shadowing them everywhere they went.

I had planned to shadow him in turn, use that as my chance to weave myself into his plot, but it turned out to be unnecessary; because he simply announced his discoveries to all of us one dinner at the Great Hall:

"A dragon?" repeated Zabini, his tone unbelieving. "Are you sure about that?"

"Yes, I'm telling you! That oaf Hagrid is raising a dragon in his hovel, and Potter and his friends know all about it!"

"Mate, it can't be," said third year Cassius Warrington, who was sitting a couple seats away from him. "Hagrid's hut is made out of wood, and with a straw roof. If he had a dragon inside it, it would already be nothing but a pile of ashes."

"You probably saw an Ashwinder," added Greengrass. "I heard Professor Kettleburn is having the fourth years practice with them. They can be very–"

"It wasn't an Ashwinder, it was a dragon! You will all see it too, once I catch them in the act. I will have both Potter and Hagrid expelled!" sentenced Malfoy before leaving the table in a huff.

It was easy, then, to take advantage of the opportunity. I caught up with him later that same day, when he was with Goyle and Crabbe on their way back to the dungeons. I was alone myself, which still made me uneasy when in the dungeons, but Tracey was spending more and more time in the common room these days —dealing with the growing mountains of homework the professors liked to torture us with every day.

I was resting my back on the stone wall, pretty much blocking the narrow passageway. The boys all stopped to look at me —Goyle with a furrowed brow, Malfoy with impatience. Crabbe just... was there, his expression vacant.

"Get out of the way, Sarramond. I don't have time for your little games," said Malfoy.

"Oh? No time for this handy transcript I have here, where Hagrid admits he's actually keeping a dragon?" I replied easily, tempting him with the piece of parchment.

His eyebrows shot up and he moved to take the paper off my hand. I allowed him to grab it.

"Well, would you look at this?... It seems even you can learn how to grow a proper house conscience."

"Not so fast, Malfoy. I want something in return."

He shrugged, tucking the parchment into a pocket and giving me a shit-eating grin. "Why should I give you anything? After all, you just volunteered the proof I needed."

I rolled my eyes. "That's not proof, Malfoy! If you show that to a professor they'll just think you wrote it yourself!"

The idiot crossed his arms, his nose up high in the air. "Well, of course! I didn't mean that; that's obvious! But what are you offering me then?"

Oh my God, did I really have to paint him a picture?

"You're planning to catch them with the dragon and expose them to a professor, right? Right. And I have a way of spying on them, you see. So the plan is easy: I help you catch them, and we both share the glory!"

He seemed unconvinced: "I thought you and that Granger girl were friends. So why do you want to help me do this now?"

I shrugged "I'm opportunistic, you should already know that. You see... it could help me, getting some recognition in our house. I don't mind Granger, but Beltane is approaching fast, you know... and that's... much more important to me."

I felt like shit, using my situation with Selwyn as leverage to convince him. But it had a veneer of truth to it, since that was ultimately the reason I was doing all this for, albeit in a roundabout way. It worked well enough, though, because he had been there to witness the effects of Burke's curse. And he looked a bit sheepish and uncomfortable at the reminder.

"Yes... well, yes, we could do that. Keep me informed of their movements, and I'll tell you what our next step is," he ordered me, before resuming his walk to the Slytherin dungeons, escorted by his two thugs.

I closed my eyes and shook my head at the little prat's retreating back.

I had to swallow my pride during the following days too, as he acted as a complete pompous arse, pretending to order me around and evaluating my usefulness when I reported to him on what the Trio were up to. Not that he didn't know already, as he still stalked them himself, probably not trusting me to be up to the task. Which sure, made me want to slap the Malfoy-ness out of the boy, but it was a safety net of sorts, one that ensured I wouldn't miss a fundamental clue and derail the whole thing.

Not that I did, though, because soon enough I hit gold when checking on the Quill's parchment, ignoring the strange growl-like noises emanating out of Hagrid's cabin:

'–can't wait any longer, Hagrid!' exclaimed the boy in glasses. 'Ron's brother Charlie asked us to bring him to the Astronomy tower this Saturday at midnight.' The swot girl next to him nodded and added: 'It's the best for Norbert, you'll see.'

"Jackpot!"

"Hey! Yeh there, lass, what're yeh doin' up there?"

I cringed at the sound of Hagrid's voice, turning on my broom to find the top of his bearded head rising over the lip of the thatched rood.

"Uhm... sorry, have you seen a quaffle here? We seem to have lost one," I explained, waving in the general direction of Tracey —who was patiently waiting for me to be done atop her own broom, some thirty feet above us.

"A quaffle? No, no, haven't seen one. But yeh better head off now, quick, before he smells... ahem, I mean... before... Hold on, ain't yeh a first year? Where'd yeh get that broom, eh?"

"Okay bye!" I shouted, raising fast in the air, both parchment and quill grabbed tight and pressed against the broomstick. I hadn't had enough time to restock and reset the spying contraption like usual, but then again I already had everything I needed. Now it was just a matter of waiting until the day came, and sticking to Malfoy like Professor Trelawney to her sherry, allowing him to set the pace.

Which was easier said than done, because he met the news I brought with a condescending "I guess you're not completely useless, then," but immediately attempted to weasel out of the deal once he realised he had all he wanted from me.

A quick shrug and a veiled thread —"I sure hope nobody will warn Potter that you know about the meeting's date"— did the trick there, though. And come Saturday I found myself leaving the common room by his side, late enough that everybody else had already gone to bed.

"Follow me, Sarramond; I know the quickest way to the Astronomy tower," he said as he made for the Grand Staircase —which sure, it was probably fast if you were lucky with the stairs; but it also tended to be patrolled by prefects on duty and was hard to find hiding places in, making it possibly the worst option if you were skulking around at night.

To say nothing of Peeves, who was currently hard at work putting some sort of sticking substance on the banisters above us, and who Draco had at least noticed. He froze and all but pushed me down the stairs in his rush not to be discovered by the poltergeist.

"There is another staircase we can use next to the Defence classroom," he said, as if I was new to the castle myself. "Let's go there instead. It's a longer walk, but we won't risk that ghostly pest noticing us."

The entire detour cost us a good ten minutes, and I had to restrain myself not to throttle the pure-blood heir to death when he simply... ambled along the corridors as if he owned the place; with not a thought put to stealth, his steps echoing in the stone floors, the bright light coming from his wand illuminating the walls as we marched.

No wonder he was caught —if my foggy memories from the book I'd read back when I'd been a child in my previous life weren't lying. And I knew that was exactly what I needed to happen, the whole purpose of being by his side; and that I couldn't afford the consequences of taking charge here, to correct him and teach him to be silent, to step just so, to keep away of the lit scones you cretin... but it still offended the thief inside me.

He was at least smart enough to kill the light with a muttered 'Nox' as we approached our destination, and we waited in utter darkness behind a corner by the foot of the Astronomy tower's stairs.

I said: "For future reference... you can lower the intensity of the wand-lighting charm with a down swish. It helps in keeping your eyes adapted to the darkness and so that you don't end... you know, like we are now: blind as bats."

"Shut up! I think I saw something move, over there."

"I can't see where you're pointing at, Malfoy. And herein lies the prob—"

"Shh!"

I narrowed my eyes, trying to see whatever it was the twat had seen, but it was all a wall of deep black in front of me. Hmm... did he perhaps have better eyesight than me? I figured it could be the case. Wouldn't he end up as a Seeker in the Slytherin Quidditch team after all? Sure, he would buy his way in, but I guessed there might be a reason he took the Seeker role rather than, say, that of a Beater.

What, something resembling talent? In Draco Malfoy? It grated, having to recognise it.

Not that it served us well here, because not a minute later a door opened right beside us and I was blinded by a light to my face. I blinked like an owl, trying to see something in the approaching shape.

"What are you two doing out of your beds?" the sudden apparition shrieked, like it was a banshee or something.

"Ah, good night, Professor McGonagall," I replied. "We were just–" but she simply took hold of my clothes and dragged me fully into the light. I tried to shrug her off, but her grasp was an ironclad vice. I gritted my teeth, because I was starting to get tired of adults manhandling me. Treating me as if I was nothing but a small child.

And sure, I was one, I guessed; but it still ruffled my feathers.

"I don't want to hear another word of your lies, Miss Sarramond," she replied. "And you too, Mr. Malfoy! Come here at once!"

"But Professor," he said. "We were trying to stop Harry Potter from bringing a dragon into the castle!"

That seemed like the worst possible thing to say, because her grasp on me turned even more vicious. "Nothing but liars, the both of you! You should be ashamed! Detention, and twenty points from Slytherin for each of you. We shall see what your Head of House has to say about all of this. Now follow me!"

Twenty each?! I sighed. Our older year housemates were going to kill us come morning. Or well, they were going to kill me, and look disapprovingly at Malfoy.

We followed her all the way down to the dungeons, both of us remaining silent not to trigger the older witch into cursing us or removing even more points or something. I wasn't really surprised when we walked straight to the random wall where the entrance to our common room was hidden —of course she would know where it was, she was Dumbledore's second in command after all. But then she stopped and said to us: "Well? Go on, say the password."

"Prestige," muttered Malfoy, his brow furrowed and his arms crossed. He didn't look like he enjoyed revealing the password to a Gryffindor, but he'd probably guessed the alternative —McGonagall actually waking Snape up at midnight and on a weekend— would be much, much... much worse to us.

"This is your fault," he said to me once we were on our own, crossing a deserted common room towards the stairs leading up to the dormitories. "You were too noisy and got us caught. I should never have agreed for you to follow me!"

"Yeah, because I'm sure waking up all the portraits in the second floor's corridor had nothing to do with it. Good night, Malfoy."

It was only the mysterious and massive loss of points on the Gryffindor clock that saved us from a summary execution, when the rest of the house found out what had happened early next morning. Snape, too, was surprisingly understanding when we ended up at his office after breakfast. He didn't spend any energies berating us or telling us how wrong wandering out at night was. No, he simply looked at us with bored disdain as he consulted his schedule to assign us our detention, as if it was the fact that we had been caught that we should be ashamed for, more than anything else.

After a couple of minutes in which I feared the worst —no unicorn blood, and what was arguably worse: another entire afternoon spent cutting up beetles and plants into small pieces in solemn silence— his schedule turned to be mercifully busy during the week to handle our detention personally, so he handed us off to Filch.

Yeah, it was a total success, in the end. A lot of work, but it had paid off: I had managed to position myself in just the right time and place to obtain the forbidden substance.

Well, almost —I thought a couple of days later as the night of our detention came and Malfoy and I went to the Entrance Hall to meet with the grouchy Hogwarts' caretaker— because I still needed to do the deed.

So it was with a mix of optimism and nervousness that I joined the little group. There was Filch, who looked to be enjoying our predicament immensely; Hermione, who didn't even look my way and had also skipped the last meeting of the Read-Ahead Club; Neville Longbottom for some reason; and Harry Potter. The saviour of Wizarding Britain sent me a thunderous look as Malfoy and I entered the hall, one loaded with such betrayal and contempt that it gave me real pause.

It was reinforced a few minutes later, as Filch led us outside, when he approached and muttered to me in an angry tone "Ron was right," before rapidly walking away and towards his housemates.

Chapter Text

We followed Filch out of the castle and towards Hagrid's hut in a tense silence, the Gryffindors a few steps ahead of me and a frowning Malfoy —who was stepping hard on the ground, probably trying to make some noise to broadcast his displeasure; but the dirt made the resulting soft thumps somewhat weak and underwhelming.

Hagrid met us by his front door, carrying an oversized lantern that bathed his strong facial features in an eerie light, making him look even more terrifying than usual.

"About time," he said to Filch when he saw us approaching, "yeh're late with 'm, yeh are. All right there, Harry, Hermione?"

Filch retreated back to the castle, not without some parting words "I'll be back at dawn, for what's left of them." Which was clearly an attempt at scaring us, and a successful one at that, judging by Longbottom's and Malfoy's suddenly worried expressions.

Hagrid towered above us, examining each one of us. His eyes fixated on me.

"Wait, aren't yeh that girl I found on top my roof with a broom?"

Both Harry and Hermione turned their disappointed gazes at me.

"She was probably spying on you, Hagrid," said Hermione, the traitor. "She was with Malfoy, trying to stop us from helping Norbert."

"Is that right, eh?"

I gave a shrug. "Not really; I simply wanted to see a dragon for real. I'm Muggle-raised, you see, have never seen one before."

It was a half-arsed attempt at gaining some sympathy from either the Gryffindors or the giant, make me sound more relatable than the stuck-up Slytherin cliché that Malfoy was. But judging by the condemnation in their eyes, I fully missed the shot.

"Well, yeh might be in for a sight of another magical beast tonight," Hagrid said, turning to face the forest and pointing at a few droplets of silvery liquid that caught the light of his lantern. "There's a unicorn in there, been hurt, see that blood? We're going to find the poor thing and try to help it. Yeh know, there was another one, died earlier this week, sad to say, but this time we might get there in time. We'll be splittin' into two groups, one with me and one with ol' Fang, and follow the trail where it forks."

Draco eyed the enormous hound and quickly said: "I want to go with Fang."

Now, this was the moment of truth I'd been waiting for. I knew it was Fang's group who found the unicorn. I said: "Me too," taking one step closer to him.

"All right, but mind yeh, he's a coward," said Hagrid, probably enjoying Malfoy's squirmy looks a bit too much. "Neville, yeh go with them too, I don't fancy these two wanderin' off alone. Harry and Hermione, yeh're with me. Now, yeh've got the Vermillious charm down, right? If yeh find the unicorn, send up green sparks into the air to let the other group know. And if yeh happen into any trouble, red sparks..."

"Green good, red bad," I muttered, "sounds easy enough."

The giant frowned at me for a moment, as if trying to discern whether I was making fun of him or not. But in truth I was simply anxious to get started already. Because I knew what would happen —what was supposed to happen— and that the solution to the particular thorn I'd been dealing with ever since my first day was finally at hand. If only I could reach out and seize it.

If only I survived the upcoming encounter with Quirrellmort.

Nothing much I could do about the risk, though, as calling Hagrid's attention to it would also prevent me from acquiring the precious unicorn blood. So I'd need to be careful... and patient —wait for my chance, then take it.

Being patient was the issue here, as I'd never been that good at it, truth be told. A nervous, finicky kind of energy had settled in my heart —which was beating fast, my whole body tense— and it demanded me to move, to walk, to do something —anything!— already; that we were wasting time here, that my chance, my escape out of the unfortunate position the Sorting Hat had put me in might slip through my fingers unless I acted decisively.

But I managed to contain myself enough not to accidentally tip Hagrid off; bouncing up and down in place and fidgeting with my wand, yes, but those could be passed as being nervous about the Forbidden Forest itself. And I was hardly the only one so affected —Neville next to me looked at the foreboding woods like a mouse would the Hogwarts' owlery.

We set off soon enough, crossing the threshold that separated the Hogwarts' grounds from the forest; and it only took a couple turns to feel like we were a world away already: advancing through a labyrinth of beech and oak, lush branches tangled in deep knots, criss-crossing over our heads to block the sight of the night sky —the canopy covering the woods at times like a solid roof.

The darkness surrounded us, like a physical substance waiting just outside the edge of our light charms. A pure, suffocating black ink that made my hair stand on end.

I thought I'd understood what the Forbidden Forest was like —from my before memories if anything, and from the odd comments now and then from both teachers and older housemates— but I'd been wrong all along.

This wasn't just a place that contained an assortment of random, dangerous beasts. No, this was a primeval forest. Something that had came out of some distant past —when the world was still young and the deep woods held mysteries and horrors beyond imagination— and somehow managed to survive all the way up to the present day. Its twisted branches seeming to hint at figures and shapes that never fully materialized, that lurked just out of sight; as if attracted by the light of our wands, by the noise of our soft steps.

Shit, I was psyching myself out, wasn't I?

I wasn't the only one, at least; though we all reacted to our surroundings in different ways. I forged ahead with determination, my wand high and shining bright as if to push the darkness away, urged by the thought that if we just moved fast enough, we'd simply outpace whatever vague threats existed around us. Neville, hunched and jumpy, snapped his head this and that way whenever the figures —no, branches, they are just branches— moved in the distance.

And Draco... well...

"... bugbears too... and trolls, of course. My father told me he once saw a forest troll when returning from Hogsmeade; it must have been part of a colony lurking around here. Those brutes carry clubs larger than you, Longbottom; could squash you like a bug."

"T—trolls?" asked Neville.

"Yes. But no worries, we've got you, don't we? If we encounter any of them, you'd make the perfect troll bait. Give the two of us a chance to escape."

"I- I'm not going to be troll bait, Malfoy!"

"Oh, don't be so sensitive! I'm merely considering our options for survival. You should be honoured to be of some use for once..."

I said, "Shh! You keep talking this loud and it won't be just the trolls after us; it will also be the werewolves, acromantulas, boggarts, lethifolds..." I stopped talking when I realised Longbottom was slowing down further with each word, "uhm... nevermind, just joking."

I sighed, shaking my head and focusing on following Fang, who had paused a few steps ahead to wait for us. Was it harsh of me, to wish Neville wasn't here with us? His jumpiness made him slow, his steps hesitant, and he provided the blonde arsehole with a big target to focus on —which also made him slow down in turn; at one point I'd even had to stop Draco from hiding in the bushes just to startle Longbottom, which I was sure would have made us lose even more long minutes just dilly-dallying around.

Not that Neville was in the wrong for being scared, though. Child endangerment was a commonplace occurrence in the story I remembered, and back then I'd only found it to be somewhat quirky; if I cared to analyse it at all —because it was an adventure story, after all, and a certain degree of danger was pretty much implied in those!

It hit different when you were the one actually facing the danger. And while I was quickly learning that a lack of care for physical injuries was somewhat endemic to the Wizarding population, I had a growing suspicion that this, right now, wasn't supposed to happen. Because bloody hell was this a bad idea. Sure, both McGonagall and Snape were probably aware that Hagrid would take us into the Forbidden Forest for our detention, but I doubted they would have approved of him splitting us into two separate groups, sending the three of us first year students on our own, with our only protection that of Fang. In fact, I'd hazard McGonagall in particular would blow a gasket if she knew.

Snape too, maybe, because of Draco if anything. Risking the Malfoy heir while he was ostensibly under his watch would not endear him much to all the other Death Eaters, I supposed.

That was, I realised, something I could probably lord over Hagrid if push came to shove, if he somehow figured out my true plans for tonight.

Except that I really, really didn't know how he would react to that, and wasn't looking forward to finding out. Hagrid was supposed to be honourable to a fault, after all, so he might very well decide to own up and face the music, tell Dumbledore everything that happened tonight. Which yeah, that would suck for me.

It went back to my mixed feelings on the giant: he was friendly, but not to Slytherins —not that Slytherins were friendly back to him, all things considered. And I couldn't help but find him a bit too... simple-minded for my liking, which in turn made me feel like a giant arsehole for judging him so. But then he went and put the whole of us into risk like this, which pretty much vindicated my opinion! Except that this also meant I was free of any adult supervision, free to enact my plans, which...

Ugh, yeah, mixed feelings about the giant man.

My feelings about Fang weren't nearly so complicated, though. The black hound was a blessing in disguise, trotting a few steps ahead of us. And it was immediately apparent to me why it'd been Draco and Harry who found the unicorn in the original timeline: Hagrid had instructed us to keep an eye open for the traces of blood and follow those; but Fang had just taken a sniff at one of the silvery stains, then marched ahead as if with a destination already in his canine mind. From time to time he'd stop and lower its snout to the ground, make some loud inhaling noises, then correct his direction slightly when he resumed the hunt. The three of us students were just along for the ride.

So I wasn't really surprised when we reached a clearing —the trees finally opening up to let the moon shine over us— with our target splayed at its centre. The animal was clearly dead, but its fallen body seemed to reflect the moonlight like a mirror; or maybe it had a light of its own, a glow of sorts that was still to die out.

We all paused there, observing the sight in reverent silence. It was... entrancing, a perfect mixture of beauty and melancholy; something that I wished some artist could turn into a picture, to be preserved forever as a painting in one of the castle's corridors.

I was the first one to shake the surprise off; I had stuff to do, after all, and it was now or never. My left hand went to my robes' pocket and caressed the handful of small, empty glass vials I'd pilfered from the Potions classroom earlier in the week.

Yeah, now or never. I took a cautious step forward.

That seemed to startle the boys into paying attention once more. We entered the clearing, and Neville started to raise his wand —no doubt to cast the Vermillious spell, but I rested my hand on his arm to arrest the motion.

"What–?"

"Wait," I muttered, my eyes fixated on the clearing's edge, where the trees surrounded us like a wall of shadows.

Yeah, I was trying to gain me some more time —to do what I had to do— and maybe come up with an excuse to distract the boys out of paying attention to the fallen beast for a couple of minutes. But that didn't mean the risk wasn't real, or that we were alone in here.

It seemed to do the trick, though, as both Neville and Draco focused their gazes on the distant point, eyes narrowed and walking ahead, their backs to me. Meanwhile I took a tentative step towards the unicorn. Its body sported large gashes along its exposed flank, rivulets of mercurial blood spilling from them onto a pool on the ground. Slowly, I extracted the first vial out of my pocket and crouched down next to the creature.

"There's something there," whispered Draco.

"Y- you're trying to scare me again, aren't you? Well it won't work, you can- DEMENTOR!" shouted Neville, running away after Fang, who was already fast on its legs and exiting the clearing.

I snapped my head back to see the figure emerge out of the treeline, a cloaked dark shape that burst into the clearing at full speed.

Shit! Not yet!

But Draco too was starting to leg it, and I wasn't keen on being left alone with the aberration —assuming that was Quirrell, as it indeed looked remarkably like a Dementor— so I jumped back to my feet and ran away too.

Neville and Fang were heading back towards the same way we'd came from —the boy's wand shooting red sparks into the sky, he himself screaming at the top of his lungs. I, instead, chose to head in a slightly different direction, leaving the clearing through a narrow opening in the dense thicket surrounding a group of tall, slender birch trees.

Draco paused for a moment as I splintered off, then decided to follow me rather than Longbottom.

Well, shit.

I didn't have time to deal with this complication, but I didn't have a choice either. So I grabbed his arm and pulled hard, dragging him along to hide with me behind the underbrush; we both fell to the ground when his foot got caught in a root, but I was quick to put a hand on his mouth and cover his "ufgh!" noise.

We remained there for a couple of tense beats, he looking back at me with wide eyes; me keeping watch through the blanket of dark leaves that hid us from the main trail.

And sure enough, the apparition chased after Neville and Fang, rushing ahead of us and following the path of least resistance.

I waited a few more seconds, then started to relax. I stood up, removing my hand from Draco's mouth —who now looked annoyed back at me, as he too stood up and shook the pine needles off his robes. As if my saving of his life hadn't been up to his rich standards or something.

He was about to say something, but I extended a finger in an angry shushing gesture as I doubled back towards the clearing; he was already here and making it so I couldn't do this in secret, but I wasn't going to allow him to make some noise that would attract Quirrell back to us. And I needed to act fast, because I didn't know how long he'd chase after Neville and Fang.

Not that I was too worried about them, in any case. Hopefully Hagrid would have seen the red sparks and would already be on his way; and if not him, well... there were centaurs around here too, weren't there?

But that meant my time was even more limited that it seemed, so I rushed ahead back towards the unicorn, producing the vial again as I kneeled by its side.

And then, as I approached the lip of the glass container to the wound, I paused.

"Sorry, girl," I muttered, not really sure how I knew she was a girl; "but I really need your help."

Of course the unicorn didn't say anything, but I felt just a tad better about what I was about to do; which I wasn't fooling myself about: I was about to profane her corpse, wasn't I?

And yeah, it might have been just an animal —that's what I'd told myself back at our Hogwarts dorm, that this was just extracting valuable ingredients out of a fallen beast, not that different from the stuff we used in our Potions class. But then again, unicorns were special. She... felt different, too. And there was a reason their blood was cursed, after all.

The same reason the ritual required unicorn blood, probably; that the instructions considered it the purest magical substance.

I sighed, nodded to myself, and gently placed the lip of the vial against the gash. A stream of silvery blood began filling it.

Quick, too, because after just a moment the vial was already full. I plugged it closed, let it fall into the depths of my pockets, then extracted the next empty container, repeating the process.

Draco observed all this with confused fascination: "Sarramond? What... what are you doing?"

"Not all of us come from intergenerational wealth, Malfoy." I pouched the second vial, extracted a third. "I'm just... uhm... getting some seed funding for my future clever investments."

"What?"

This one was slower to fill up, I had to stick my right hand into the unicorn's wound, press down to make the blood flow out again. I said, "do you know how much this blood is worth?"

He didn't look like he thought much about what things were worth, truth be told. Back on my previous life, I'd always thought not caring about money was the greatest luxury rich people enjoyed, even more than the yachts and private planes. Simply that lack of... stress, that lack of concern. The marvellous ability to put it out of your mind for good. If you wanted some sunglasses, you just bought them, no more consideration than whether or not they fit your face.

"You are doing this for... some Galleons?"

Looking back at Malfoy now, at how he struggled to even understand by someone would take a risk for some money —that he would no doubt find a pittance— I could see I wasn't mistaken.

"No. I'm doing this for a lot of Galleons."

Not that I was telling the truth, of course. I was doing this for the ritual, to save my own hide, and not just for some Galleons —that was merely my harried cover story, since Nott had warned me not to tell anyone else about the ritual's particular requirements— but the fourth vial I'd just begun filling wasn't strictly needed for it... or to pay my debt to Selwyn, either.

So yeah, there was a little truth to my cover story. And what if I wanted to make use of this for my own goals too? This was an opportunity, and I wasn't about to let it go to waste. I struggled to close the fourth vial —my fingers now slippery from being covered in blood.

Draco looked around, eyeing the treeline with apprehension. "How much longer is this going to take?"

"It would be much faster if you helped me rather than just stand there, you know." But the look of disgust on his face told me he wasn't about to lend me a hand.

I doubted it was the morality of it he was worried about, or the curse... just that it was manual labour.

And speaking of the curse, I wasn't really that worried about it. The information I'd found on the Library was clear that unicorn blood would curse those who consumed it, which I wasn't doing here. There might have been a little doubt about whether using it in a ritual counted as 'consuming' it, but it should be safe to handle otherwise. Which tripped up my Muggle brain time and time again: in the Muggle world substances either were toxic or not, no matter what your intentions were when handling them. But with magic, it too often boiled down to exactly that.

I produced a fifth vial.

This one I really struggled to fill. I had to press down hard on the animal's side with both my hands, pushing with all my weight for a splutter of blood to flow out of the deep cut, then rush to catch it with the glass receptacle before it would petter out again. It was exhausting, and more blood ended up on my sleeves than inside the vial. I was about to put the plug when the little thing slipped my fingers, splashing blood all over the front of my robe.

"Bloody hell!"

"That's revolting," muttered Draco.

"Shut up! You're revolting!" I snapped back, starting to feel tired and frustrated by now. I cleaned the vial's surface on my robes —they were already ruined— and pressed it once more against the wound, filling it again. This time I was more careful plugging it close.

Okay, that was two vials for Selwyn, two for the ritual —which was more than needed, but I really wanted to do a test on my own before I had to perform it in the common room in public— and another one I could sell at Knockturn Alley when I visited during Summer.

I extracted a sixth vial.

"How many more do you have?!"

"Eight total," I said, unplugging the cork. I stuck the receptacle deep into the gash, but it wasn't filling. The blood wasn't flowing anymore; I sighed, moving to the top of the creature to start pumping again. Slowly, the vial filled up.

"You better finish up; they're coming back," said Draco. And sure enough, I could hear voices coming closer.

I shook my head, but there wasn't time for more. I stood up, backing from the fallen unicorn and storing the empty, seventh container. So, six vials in the end. Good enough.

What wasn't that good was the state of my ruined robes, caked in silvery unicorn blood and with leaves and dirt stuck all over them.

"Hmm... you wouldn't happen to know the Cleaning Charm, do you?" I asked.

"Why would I? That's servant stuff."

"Right. Forget I asked." I aimed my wand at my own body, did the movement in reverse and said, "Aguamenti!"

The stream of water hit me on the chest, soaking me entirely. It felt like I was taking a shower still dressed —because I pretty much was— but I gritted my teeth as I carefully waved my wand over all the stains I could see, washing the worst of the blood away with a deluge of cold water.

By the time Hagrid, Fang and the three Gryffindors entered the clearing —accompanied by a centaur, tall and imposing— I was left more or less clean, but also shivering in cold and looking like something of a wet rat, droplets of water falling off my hair, my clothes heavy and drenched.

Hagrid let out a relieved sigh when his eyes landed on the both of us. "Ah, there they are! Blimey, they had me worried for a moment. Yer... alright, aren't yeh?" His eyebrows rose when he took in my sorry state. "What happened to yeh?"

"I tripped on a root and fell into a stream," I replied. I didn't know if there was a stream around this clearing, but I'd seen one a few minutes away, so I hoped the lie would fly.

But they weren't paying that much attention to me, anyway, because the centaur stepped forth and towards the fallen unicorn, followed by Hermione, Harry and a nervous Neville —who looked around as if worried Quirrell was about to surprise us once more.

"I told you," said the centaur in a deceptively deep voice, "Mars was unusually bright tonight."

"Oh, poor lil' thing," said Hagrid, shaking his head and sniffling a bit. "Too late again, we are."

"What happened with the Dementor?" asked Neville.

Hagrid shook his head: "There ain't no Dementors in this forest, I tell yeh. Yeh must've seen somethin' else."

"I know what I saw!" protested the boy.

"Well, yeh are confused an' scared but–"

"Many different shadows lurk under the trees," said the centaur, silencing both of them into confusion.

"Ah... right y'are, Ronan. Best be getting' these back to the castle, before the lass catches herself a chill. Take care out here in the forest, eh?"

With that, we started our long way back, my shoes squishing annoyingly with every step, my jaw —my whole body— shaking like a leaf in the frigid coldness brought by every gust of wind.

I gently pushed Fang's snout away from my pocket when he approached me. Inside it, six full vials clinked against each other.

It took us a full hour to get back; and while I escaped my icy clothes as soon as I reached the Slytherin bathroom, it was already too late. I wasn't feeling cold by then, just numb, which I knew should have worried me; and sure enough, by the time morning rolled in I was coughing and sneezing my way through the castle.

"This is ridiculous," protested Tracey when a sneezing fit caused me to spill stains of ink all over my History of Magic homework, "why don't you just go to Madam Pomfrey?"

"I doh't like botiods. Dey make me wadt to vomit."

"Nobody likes potions, Sylvia. But would you rather be sick like this for an entire week, or more?"

I sighed, too tired to complain. "Ahh, fine. I'll go after ludch."

She paused for a moment, then whispered: "Was it worth it, at least?"

"Yesh... yesh, it was. I'm shtarting to see de light at de end of de tuddel."

"The what?"

"Nebbermind," I groaned. "Bud yeah, it's good."

She seemed satisfied with that, but didn't forget about my promise and come lunch I was summarily banished to the Infirmary Wing, where a concerned Madam Pomfrey gave me one of her bottled crimes against nature, all the while she harrumphed about me not visiting her earlier. The small mercy was that by that point I'd lost all sense of smell and taste, so drinking it wasn't as bad as I'd feared.

And it did put a stop to my fever before it could grow into something worse, so by afternoon I ended up feeling quite tired, yes, but not nearly as sick anymore. And with my mind free to wander, and my schedule free thanks to Madam Pomfrey's generosity —"you can skip the last period today; just go to your common room and get some rest... and let me rest, too"— I started to wonder about the ritual once more.

Because with the unicorn blood in my pocket —well, in my trunk, if we were going to be specific— and the other more usual ingredients that I'd had slowly acquired over the last few Potions classes, right now I already had all I needed to perform the ritual.

And so, I could finally get my answer.

So yeah, I did go to the Slytherin common room, but only to leave immediately afterwards with a certain vial well hidden in my robe's pocket, and to march straight on towards the Room of Requirement —which welcomed me with a fitting décor for a somewhat darkish ritual: long, deep purple velvet curtains draped over the walls of stone, dozens of lit candles placed around a central empty area, a piece of chalk to draw runes with, a handful of golden plates and bowls to hold ingredients... and a single, silver knife resting on a short lectern.

Not bad, Room, not bad.

I extracted Nott's parchment and placed it on the lectern, reading once more the instructions I'd already pretty much memorized by this point. Specially the little fragment about hot to interpret the results:

'Should the ritual be brought to a satisfactory culmination, the essence sanguine of the subject will migrate in hue to mirror the nature of their true lineage:

- Radiant in Gold, for those of pure-blood, the noblest of all.

- Blue as the Azure Sky, for those of half-blood, bearers of mixed heritages.

- Brown as the Earth beneath our feet, for those of mud-blood, the unrefined stock.

- Green as the Whispering Woods for Goblins, Elves and other beasts born of the arcane womb.

- And were the essence to remain devoid of change, it would signify it belongs to a Muggle, untouched by the majesty of magic.'

What irked me the most was that —when digging a little deeper into the process— it was obvious those particular colours were not the only option. They weren't a consequence of the magical processes and ingredients used, the way Potions themselves took their hue. No, these had been pretty much chosen arbitrarily by whoever prejudiced wizard had designed this ritual.

Which meant that someone had specifically chosen brown to represent Muggleborns and gold for pure-bloods. Go figure.

But I could ignore that, the annoyance it caused me, now that I was so close to my answer. I followed the instructions in the piece of paper with a careful, perfectionist focus —yes, I was tired, but this was my bloody origins we were talking about here, so I pushed all thoughts of bed and relaxation out of my mind too, and welcomed the nervous, anxious energy that soon invaded me.

First I used the chalk to draw a handful of circles and lines according to the diagram, helping myself with a piece of cord so that the lines went straight and the circles were perfectly, roundishly round. It was a trick explained in that one book about rituals Anthony Goldstein had recommended me: 'Of The Most Old Liturgy'.

I had passed my interest as idle curiosity about the origins of magic —apparently, before wizards had invented wands, most magic done was of the ritualistic kind— and so the book I got from him was more historic treatise than practical guide, but it did mention some things to watch out for —such as the presence of other enchantments inside the magic circle, which could result in accidents— and a few other tips and techniques here and there that would now come useful.

And so I poured water in a cup and placed it at the southern edge of the outer circle —using a compass the Room was kind enough to provide— put a fistful of dirt in a bowl by the eastern side, and one of the candles to the north. The western edge I left empty.

It was the book, in fact, which instructed the symbolic elements to be placed as the first step; Nott's parchment only mentioned it in passing —probably because it was so basic that anyone doing this ritual under normal conditions would have already known about this.

But with that done, I positioned the actual ingredients at their proper locations according to the enormous diagram drawn on the floor: the bones on each of the secondary accents, the doxy eggs and the plants mixed together, burnt and then spread between the two symmetric sigils...

The unicorn blood was the last step —well, second to last, there was my blood to add too— and I was particularly careful with that one. Because yeah, cursed blood. And sure, yesterday I hadn't been using the blood. But now, now I pretty much was.

So yeah, careful sounded about right. I extracted the vial, placed it over the golden bowl, and uncorked it. Then I slowly poured half its contents —which should be enough, according to the instructions— making sure not even a single drop ended outside the container, and with special care it wouldn't touch my skin.

Then I grabbed the knife, its edge sharp as a piece of glass.

This was the part I hated; I put my index finger over the bowl of unicorn blood, took a deep breath, and pressed the tip of the blade against my own skin with the faintest force possible. A prick of pain, and then a scarlet droplet emerged quickly, followed by another. One by one, drops of my blood fell into the receptacle beneath.

Four or five of them were enough, according to the parchment, so it didn't take that much effort. I licked the wound clean and covered it with a gauze I was sure Madame Pomfrey would never miss, then placed both hands on the proper positions along the edge of the inner circle.

"Dignita sanguinis!" I invoked, pushing my magic into the ritual. This felt different than using a wand, less... precise, perhaps. Less in control. It almost felt like it was the circle itself shuffling the magic around, and not really me. Hell... perhaps it was. I wasn't that knowledgeable in magical theory. I read ahead, sure; but I was still a first year, after all.

And yeah, I wasn't procrastinating at all.

I bit my lip, and inch by inch I rose my head to look over the lip of the bowl, to see what colour the mix had turned into.

"Oh."

Chapter Text

I stood up, eyed the result for some seconds, double checked what it meant in the parchment —as if I didn't know it already— and stood still for a few more beats.

Then, I started pacing, left and right across the room like a caged animal; all the while I thought furiously, considering options, considering... everything. From time to time, I went and looked back into the bowl, just in case the results had changed on their own or something stupid like that.

I stopped after what must have been five minutes, maybe ten of fruitless walking around; and slowly went back to the centre of the ritual circle, considering the other ingredients around me, considering the very lines of chalk drawn on the stone floor.

I needed to be sure, though. I needed confirmation.

So with that thought in mind I cleared the room and disposed of everything —emptying the contents of the receptacles in a well-placed rubbish container by the room's entrance that I hadn't noticed until then, cleaning the floor with a jet of water that I then dried with some flames. The sample of my blood —now mixed with that of the unicorn— I put into an empty potion vial that I found in the cabinet by the corner; it just wouldn't be the brightest idea to leave traces of my blood lying around, Room of Requirement or not.

It took me about half an hour to return the room to its original state; and sure, I guessed I could have saved myself the trouble by simply getting the room to reset itself, but I sort of appreciated the busywork: it was oddly meditative. Just like pacing, it allowed me the time to think of the repercussions, but it also had the benefit of being a more productive use of my time.

There was, of course, the possibility that Nott had been playing me for a fool all this time. What guarantee did I have that the ritual was something real, after all, and not something he'd come up with on the spot; or that he hadn't manipulated the instructions in some twisted way?

Well, I doubted he had created the thing himself —not to stroke my own ego, but if this thing was too complex for me to fully understand the underlying magical theory, it was also too complex for him to design from scratch. And modifying it seemed... not impossible, but like it would take way too long to alter it in a way that it didn't break apart completely.

Would he do that just to mess with me? If I'd been Nott and trying to pull a fast one on myself, I'd have chosen something that implied a little less work on my part. But maybe that was precisely what he'd thought, and so he had purposefully gone for the big thing, to throw me off the scent.

Still, it was a matter of probability. It would've been much, much easier for him to simply leave me out to dry by sending me on a wild goose chase or taking longer to produce his family's reply, or just forgetting about the whole thing. It's not that I could have really done that much harm to him, anyway; I'd been mostly bluffing that day in the Great Hall, and if he was smart enough to alter a blood ritual, he certainly would've been smart enough to realise that.

So I was tentatively willing to accept the ritual itself was probably accurate; which meant the results I'd gotten also were. Probably.

But I had to be sure.

So I went back to the parchment, retracing my steps as I performed the whole thing once more from the top; double checking every step with the instructions and taking care of following them as accurately and precisely as if Snape himself were in the room with me. Drawing the circles, measuring them again and again to be double —not, triple sure! Then placing more ingredients; and finally, pouring the rest of my vial of unicorn blood.

Another quick cut with the silver knife —this one in my other hand, just in case the blood in the left side of my body was different from that in the right side, I guessed— and I spoke the invocation again:

"Dignita sanguinis!"

I crawled forward, and sure enough, the colour was still the same as before. Because of course it was.

So not a fluke, then. I had my answer at last.

And yeah, this answer wouldn't fly. Which meant I'd have to trick Selwyn, after all. Well, trick him and everybody else, too.

So over the next few days —and mostly, the nights, tossing and turning around in my bed— I meditated over the exact way I could manipulate the ritual into spitting out the result I wanted. There were many tricks you could do, of course, ranging from using different ingredients to altering the runes to casting this or that spell to interfere and redirect the magic. But none of those seemed like something I could learn to do reliably in the time I had —and more importantly, they would have required extensive trial and error, which meant more servings of unicorn blood. Which wasn't ideal.

And it might leave me vulnerable to Selwyn double-checking the process, or even worse: having someone else perform the steps, rather than giving me free reign. In the end, the easiest way to fake the results was to use someone else's blood.

Pouring my blood into the bowl was a step I would always have to do myself —or at least, I dearly hoped so, because Selwyn or his colleagues using a knife on me was terrifying enough to make me want to vomit— and so it was a susceptible step to being fucked with.

The idea was simple, then: I would procure myself someone else's blood, palm it in a vial, then drop its contentsinto the bowl, using my own hand and the knife to cover the swap.

Yeah, not difficult at all.

But it was a plan, desperate or not, and so I started practising my sleight of hand skills in earnest, finding time here and there between classes, when I went to the bathroom, when I was supposed to be working on my Herbology remedial exercises and so on. My old piano skills helped, but in the end I was forced to admit I was no illusionist, and so I had to resort to magic: a Disillusionment Charm cast on the hidden vial itself, so that it would take on the colour of my own skin and robes and be harder to notice, even upon close inspection; and a Sticking Charm to have it stay in place more easily.

The other issue, of course, was getting my hands on a blood sample.

I could've asked Tracey for it. She was a half-blood, which seemed like the perfect result: being outed as a pure-blood would mean having lots of people suddenly gaining a lot of interest in who exactly I was, and where I came from —which sure, would help me get some answers on that particular front, but I didn't want to draw the attention of certain families among my housemates, if that made any sense. The Malfoys suddenly adopting me would make me want to run to the hills.

And getting a Muggleborn's blood wouldn't do either, of course; that was just stupid.

So yeah, I wanted to be a half-blood; a second class in Slytherin for sure, but not abused or treated too badly at all, judging by Tracey and Perk's acceptance; and I felt like that would also open me some doors with the other houses —the Golden Trio in particular— once things took a turn for the worse in the future. Make me look more sympathetic to the cause of the Light.

It was as simple as asking for it, really; I knew Tracey would lend me a hand with this. With her help there was even the Polyjuice option —convince her to pretend to be me, do the whole thing in my stead— that didn't require the risky sleigh of hand. Although I doubted I'd have time to brew the concoction in time.

Odd, then, that I didn't want to ask her. In fact, I didn't want to tell anyone about the true result of Nott's ritual; and I didn't want anyone to know I would cheat when performing it for Selwyn. Not even Tracey.

This seemed... too personal, and too deep a secret. I realised with some surprise that I'd already lumped it in with the full truth about my past, my memories, my rebirth... It felt one and the same. And while I trusted Tracey to keep her mouth close in regards to my blood status, this was something that would have wider implications. Something that would persist for... years, really.

I didn't want to trade Selwyn's Damocles' sword for Tracey's. Didn't want to give her a tool that could utterly destroy me in a few years, if she so chose. Who knew how our relationship could evolve, really?

No, I would not ask her for her blood.

Which meant, of course, that I'd need to steal someone else's.

I evaluated my options one day during breakfast. We were already close to Beltane by then, and I'd been getting some looks here and there over the last days, some reflecting something akin to concern —Farley's— and others nothing but savage, anticipating the ruin that certainly was heading my way. I ignored them all as I munched on my piece of toast and let my eyes wander across the Great Hall, half listening to Tracey's explanation of Muggle flying machines to the pure-bloods:

"Yes, they are called airy-planes; they are hollow inside, and the Muggles fly all the time in them."

"That's rubbish," replied Bulstrode. "How can they fly with no magic?"

"Well, they have big wings made of iron that they flap up and down very fast, like a bird does, and..."

There was Perks, of course —who had realised Tracey's knowledge of aeronautics was a bit lacking, but was keeping her mouth shut in a show of solidarity— which would be the easiest to procure given that we shared a dorm and all; but I'd rather not steal a blood sample from someone in my own house. That seemed awfully risky, given that I'd need to do the performance in front of them in the first place. I didn't want my target to be able to put two and two together.

Tracey too was out. If I didn't want to ask her for her blood, I certainly wouldn't steal it. That seemed all kinds of wrong, and like the kind of betrayal no friendship would ever survive.

So, who else? The thing was, I didn't know the blood status of that many people outside of my own house —it was a thing in Slytherin, yes, but I never cared that much about it to keep track of who was related to what family and whatnot.

Hmm... Harry Potter was a half-blood, wasn't he?

Yeah... better not, though. I was sure that would backfire in a hundred different ways.

So who else? Who did I know was a half-blood, then?

My eyes wandered to the Hufflepuff table.

It took me four days of careful stalking, and a judicious application of the Self-Writing Quill —placed on top of the bookshelf next to my target's favourite table in the Library— to slowly learn their movements, untangle their schedule, and work out a plan. Tracey would have noticed my suspicious behaviour right away, but I was lucky enough that her Sneakoscope started spinning faster than ever over the same days —five points if you can figure out why— and so she was distracted herself watching over Parkinson and Bulstrode's own comings and goings.

The problem with the Hufflepuffs was that they moved in flocks, like zebras, going from one class to the next always as a group; so I couldn't simply jump one of them on their way to class or something, as their friends would be there ready to thwart me. But things were more relaxed during the weekends, when most students kept to their own schedules: some went to the Library, others preferred the open expanse of the lake now that it was warm again, the older students flew on their brooms, while others gathered to play this or that game, whittling away their time.

Wayne Hopkins, it seemed, liked to eat a mid-morning lunch —a sandwich, apparently— by the garden that overlooked the Whomping Willow, watching it move about as he waited for his best friend —a second year and a substitute Seeker in the Hufflepuff Quidditch team— to get done with her flying exercises.

Whatever. It would do; it was the perfect chance. Not many people chose that particular side of the Hogwarts Grounds, and so it was easy to stalk after him and remain out of sight until he was relaxed enough, sitting on a stone bench against the short rampart that led back to the castle, his back to me.

I took a deep breath, and turned to look around; there were a couple of older students in the distance, but they seemed to be too distracted exploring each other's mouths to care. So with that, I pulled the Slytherin Quidditch scarf I'd found lying around after the match with Ravenclaw —that we won, of course— and used it to cover the lower part of my face, raising the hood of my robes to hide my hair. All in all, only my eyes were exposed.

Yeah, I didn't plan for him to see me at all, but it still paid to be careful.

I took out my wand, and approached the sitting boy from his back: one, two, three quick steps. He must have heard me, because he started to turn his head.

"Petrificus Totalus!" I cast, trying my best at lowering my voice. The spell hit him straight on, his full body becoming rigid as if from a spasm. He rolled off the bench, the half-eaten sandwich escaping his hand and falling to the ground.

Okay, okay.

Another quick look around —still safe— and I rushed towards the fallen boy. I approached from his blind angle, crouched next to him —my wand still aiming at his body, ready to react in case he was feigning— then grasped his robes and pulled his own hood over the top of his face, covering his eyes.

There were two reasons for that: one, I didn't want him to see anything of me, not my stature, the look of my wand... anything at all that he could use to later identify me.

But the second and most important one was that I didn't want him to know the reason for the attack; what I was about to do.

I paused for a moment, gathering my courage. Then, slowly, I made my hand into a fist and pulled my arm back.

Shit...

I bit my lip, closed my eyes for a second, and then threw a punch at his covered face, aiming roughly at where I judged his nose to be. My hand collided with force, Hopkins' nose feeling somewhat squishy underneath his hood.

I shook my head, then lifted his hood a little and... no blood.

Shit...

Okay... I just needed to hit him harder, that's all.

I bit my lip. I was going to go to hell for this, wasn't I?

I pulled my hand back again, took two deep breaths, and threw another punch. This time I fully let go, trying my best to channel my nervousness, the bile rising in my throat into the motion. My fist hit his paralysed face, this time with a crunchy noise. Fuck!

But it worked. A trail of fresh blood sneaked out of his right nostril. I quickly grabbed an empty vial from my pocket, and with trembling fingers collected as much of it as I could. Then, I took another quick look around, and stood up.

I took a step away, then hesitated for a moment, observing Hopkins' fallen form on the grassy ground. I approached him again, crouched, took his sandwich and placed it back on the bench.

Yeah, sure; that made me a saint now, didn't it?

I scrambled away, taking off the scarf as I went, as if it had suddenly become something odious and foul-smelling, and retreated quickly towards the castle. All the while I was looking around in search of accusing witnesses, but found none —other than a movement by the third window above us, but that proved to be nothing that either a bird or a too active imagination.

Funny, that a part of me almost wanted to get caught, wanted me to get my comeuppance. But it wouldn't help, staying around and feeling like shit until someone else noticed and went after me. That wouldn't make my attack any less... well, any less. It would only serve to make it be useless, to ruin my whole plan.

And I had already paid the price —or Hopkins had, at any rate— so it would be absurd to let it go to waste, right?

Right.

I went straight to the Room of Requirement after that, climbing the stairs two steps at a time. Not because there was something I needed to do, some little clever part of my plot. No... I just needed...

A place to hide. A place to hide. A place to hide...

It was a room I remembered, vaguely, from the books in my fore-memories. With a cot to sleep in, a table, a desk, a bed table. Almost like a little hotel room of sorts. The room was large enough to suit more people, should the need arise, but the furniture in it was only for me; all of it tucked in one corner, creating a little safe space.

I collapsed onto the bed, holding my head, and remained there for way too long; as if that full body-bind curse had it me instead of Hopkins. There were no thoughts in my head, for once... the realness of the situation had managed to displace them.

Because I hadn't expected that, when I'd been planning this little escapade. In my mind it had all been too... abstract, I guess. I couldn't have imagined how it felt like when I hit him, that spongy...

No, stop.

I produced the vial and examined it, the red liquid pooled at its bottom. It wasn't much, but it was enough, and the little container was enchanted to keep it from drying out. For a little while, at least. Which meant I needed to act soon. As in, today.

I let out a deep sigh, then curled on the bed, feeling like shit. And also, feeling like I didn't have the right to feel like shit, after what I'd just done.

It was an odd afternoon, that I spent in there, emerging only to go to the Great Hall for dinner. I told Tracey some lie about having been trying out new spells when she asked me where I'd been, but I was more focused on everyone's reactions as I walked up to the Slytherin table.

I couldn't look directly at Hopkins or it'd be too obvious, but the Hufflepuff table sported some long faces. I half expected them to rise as a group and come confront me —or worse, any of the professors, Dumbledore maybe, to expose me for the thug I was to everyone else in attendance.

But none of those things happened.

No, it was a normal dinner, for the most part —salmon and salad, which I had trouble swallowing due to my... well... my all of it. The professors looked relaxed, there was noise coming from the Gryffindor table as usual —and Malfoy's monologuing mouth, for that matter— and nobody paid me much attention.

Nobody but Tracey Davis, that is, who was growing increasingly suspicious, judging by her narrowed eyes. Which wasn't ideal, either, because I knew she was smart enough to connect the dots, when given a chance. So I pre-empted it by giving her a good, solid explanation for my looking like a nervous wreck:

"I'm doing it tonight."

"Uh...?"

"The ritual. I tried it before. I'll do it tonight, in the common room."

She paused in her munching to regard me fully. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Blaise Zabini lean it a bit closer, but we were speaking too low for his eavesdropping. "And, do you already know what...? You know?"

"Half-blood."

That seemed to make her day... or well, her evening; because a huge smile bloomed across her face. "Oh Sylvia, that's... that's wonderful!"

"Shh..."

"Sorry. Of course, you probably were hoping for pure-blood," she reasoned, lowering her voice again as she nodded to herself, "but trust me, everything will be good now! Nobody will have it in for you for being a half-blood, not really; it's not nearly the same thing as–"

"I know."

"No need to be nervous, you'll see!"

I nodded; and I could understand why she'd be so delighted. It was exactly what she probably had been hoping for all along. Because now that I was about to be known as a half-blood, that would put me in the same tier as hers, status-wise, which vindicated her decision to befriend me all those months ago.

And sure, you could argue that me turning out to be a secret pure-blood would have made her look even more like a bloody genius in front of everyone —the only among our housemates to have realised it, swooping in to be the first one to claim a spot by my side— and so she should have been hoping for that instead. But there was also the emotional aspect of it: she probably just didn't want me to overshadow her like that.

No, this was perfect for her. And for Greengrass too, who would now be able to claim me as one of her protegees, so to speak.

I knew all that; it was the reason I'd chosen this path to begin with, after all.

But I still had to do the sleigh of hand, manage to trick Selwyn and... well, everyone else. And the margin of error was razor thin.

So yeah, I was fucking tense when we eventually left for the dungeons, and I descended the spiral staircase with uncharacteristically slow, uncertain steps. Dreading what was coming, trying my best to make the short trip last for as long as it could, to delay the inevitable.

It didn't help me much, because much sooner than I wished for we were already entering into the imposing Slytherin common room; my housemates hanging around, the fireplace casting a warm light over the decorated walls, the tall windows stopping us all from being crushed to death by a million tons of cold water.

And right under them, Selwyn's court: the psychopath sitting in his throne as usual, Burke and Flint in the sidelines, discussing about something political with a copy of The Prophet spread open between them. They weren't paying me any attention —they hadn't, not since before winter break— and so I had to fight the urge to hide in my dorm as usual. They didn't know I planned to do this today, so it's not like they would fault me for it if I didn't.

I could delay. I could spent another afternoon trying out the critical move, the play with the vial.

Sure, and tomorrow I'd find myself in the same position, and the day after that too. All the while Hopkins' sample slowly dried out.

I closed my eyes. No, this had to end today.

I discovered, in fact, that I was too tired of this game. Too tired of being the Slytherin outcast, the presumed victim. Sure, I didn't expect them to welcome me with open arms even if I didn't fudge this thing up —and if Parkinson even tried to be friendly after tonight, I was going to punch her in the nose too, and not feel even the littlest bit guilty about it.

No, it was simply about removing the stone weighting me down. Not being on friendly terms with them, but on equal terms. Being allowed to hit back without half the entire house somehow feeling like they had to put me in my place.

Which was stupid, because a half-blood was still lower than a pure-blood —which Selwyn or Parkinson were. But what I've learned since the beginning of the year was that most Wizarding families of renown, even those among the Sacred Twenty-Eight, tended to include half-bloods in some capacity or another. It was either that or going full-on into inbreeding; and you could ask the Blacks as to the results of that particular strategy —Oh wait, you couldn't; my point exactly.

As such, half-bloods tended to crop up in the periphery of the central bloodlines: an aunt here, a cousin once removed there. And that meant most of my housemates had grown up alongside half-bloods, people they liked and respected. There was a level of acceptance through familiarity there, one that just didn't exist in what respected to Muggleborns.

One I was decided to lay claim to.

So I nodded to myself, and then walked to my dorm; not to hide this time, but to retrieve the utensils I'd need for the ritual. And with those in hand, I went back to the common room, and approached the giant arsehole.

I guess the last time I did something like this was still fresh enough in the Slytherin collective memory, because I felt conversations petering out as people turned to watch, as Prefect Farley's head tilted observing us, her posture tense as if ready to intervene.

"I'm ready," I said to Selwyn, not waiting for him to address me first this time. "I can do the ritual to prove my blood status, right now."

His eyebrows rose, barely. He was about to say something when I forged ahead, extracting two vials of unicorn blood and presenting them to him: "Here's the uni–"

"Ah, yes; the payment," he interrupted me. Then, in a lowered voice he added: "There's no need to announce what it is to everyone, is there?"

I nodded, and pretended to ignore Malfoy's sudden gasp from the sidelines.

Selwyn gave a lazy nod to Marcus Flint, who quickly rose to his feet and took the vials from my hands, delivering them to Selwyn. The older boy examined them for a moment.

"Adequate," he declared at last. "Very well, follow me. Let's head somewhere more private."

Now that, that wouldn't work.

I closed my fists, swallowed with a dry mouth, and said: "I'd rather do it here."

A dangerous flash of annoyance went through his face, there one moment and gone the next.

Because of course, he had to know the only reason why I was willing to do this in public —to do it at all— was that I already knew the results would be favourable to me; that I'd already tried it out beforehand. That he'd lost.

But by the same token, he wasn't the only one to arrive at the same conclusion. From behind me, Farley said: "Yeah, let's do it here. Why not? I'm curious to see how this little drama ends."

She was looking at Selwyn with a haughty air. And I realized that this was risky, doing the ritual publicly, in a different way altogether than simply ruining the sleigh of hand. Because it meant Selwyn was about to lose his little contest with Farley in front of everyone; and he had to know that already, which probably angered him well beyond what he was showing to us.

But there wasn't much that he could do about it without losing even more face, so he magnanimously waved his hand at me to continue, as if this had been his idea all along.

Okay. Okay, focus. Time for the ritual. Time to do this.

I walked back with a stiff gait to the nearby table where I had placed the different bowls and plates, and got started drawing the main chalk circle, positioning the handful of ingredients here and there.

My hands were trembling slightly as I traced the lines of the sigils, and I forced myself to relax. I wouldn't be able to perform the little trick if I was all rigid, so I tried my best to not think about that most critical step; to steady my heartbeat and loosen my body's muscles by focusing instead on the motions, the precise adjustments needed to get the circle just perfect. Trying to pretend I was still in the Room of Requirement, all alone, and not under the combined scrutiny of my entire house. Trying to pretend I couldn't hear the murmurs and comments from the spectators that were starting to crowd around the ritual circle.

Eventually the circle was done, and the ingredients placed. Slowly I poured the last one —the unicorn blood— into the bowl. Only a handful of people —Selwyn, Nott, Tracey, Malfoy maybe— knew exactly what substance I was using. So I tried not to call attention to it —it was still a forbidden, cursed liquid after all— but I wasn't entirely successful. Somebody asked: "Is that–?"

"Shh!" hissed Burke, ending the rumours before they could get started.

I tried to take advantage of the distraction, though. Now. Do it now. Smoothly I pulled out the knife the Room of Requirement had gifted me with my right hand, and using it as a cover, I poured the contents of the vial stuck to the inside of my left sleeve into the bowl.

The last drop of Hopkins' blood sample had just fallen into the container when Selwyn sprung out of his seat with the intensity of a panther, grabbing my left arm with his hand and wrenching it away, twisting it with such force that I was brought to my knees in front of him.

A myriad thoughts went through my head, but I still had the presence of mind to let go of the now empty vial, which fell back into the dark depths of my sleeve, secured in place by the Sticking Charm. Selwyn's face was only a palm away from mine, his eyes narrowed as he examined my left hand, and the knife I still held in the right one.

My heart beat like a drum, but I tried to even my breathing, and to keep his own hands —his wand, most particularly— in sight. If he'd figured out that I was cheating, it wasn't going to be pretty. But I could still survive it if I was the one to shoot the first spell —Sectumsempra, obviously. Then, use the confusion as cover to run out of the common room, go straight to... hell, I didn't know. Snape? Dumbledore?

When nothing happened after a beat, I rose my gaze to see he was looking at my own hand, where a single drop of scarlet blood was emerging out of the cut I'd just made in my fingertip —because of course I'd made an actual cut, even if I wasn't using my own blood. Another similar drop was still stuck to the knife's edge, which I rose slowly to show it to him.

He sneered and released my arm with more force than necessary, standing back up. "Continue," he grumbled.

I could have floated up to the ceiling from the sudden relief, when he walked back to his throne. But it was short lived, because I had this sudden, catastrophic thought: 'What if Hopkins isn't a half-blood?'

After all, I hadn't been able to try out the blood sample —too little blood for a trial run. So I only had his brother's word for it. And sure, he probably didn't have a reason to lie... right? There was no reason why someone would want to pass as a half-blood despite not being one, no? No reason at all.

None.

But we'd come this far already, and there was no way back at this point. I guessed we were all going to figure it out together. I placed my hands down and spoke:

"Dignita sanguinis!"

And the blood changed colour.

There was a moment of silence in the common room, while I breathed in and out, in and out again, my eyes stuck to the bowl.

"Well?" asked one of the spectators after a few seconds of waiting.

Nobody answered, because I couldn't just reply myself —I needed someone with more weight to confirm it— so I produced Nott's parchment and handed it back to its namesake boy.

Nott gazed at it, confused for a moment, then he looked into the bowl.

"Blue... uhm... half-blood," he muttered. Not loud enough for everyone in the common room to hear, though enough that Farley picked it up.

"Half-blood!" she announced to all the gathered students, her voice quite loud and with a hint of triumph.

Tracey was the first to clap, and the Prefect eagerly joined her, followed by some of the girls from her own clique, then a few other students which I guessed were half-blood themselves. More importantly, I saw Daphne Greengrass joining the scattered applause with a polite clapping of her own.

Others weren't so enthused, though at least they seemed ready to accept this was the conclusion of it. I noticed some Sickles changing hands here and there, but didn't see much hostility directed at me for a change. Well, except for Parkinson —who probably had a lemon stuck in her throat or something— and Selwyn. Selwyn, who was eerily silent.

Which gave me pause, of course. But the Prefect didn't seem as intimidated, because she simply shot him a challenging look.

The older boy tried to salvage his loss, nodding at me: "Good. Very good. This means that Slytherin's honour is still intact, as it should be. Half-bloods are of course... acceptable, as long as they understand their place. Our house remains clean!" he announced to our gathered housemates, as if these results were just what he'd hoped to see all along.

His words seemed to do the trick, though, even despite the undercurrent of spite in them. Because if even the most recalcitrant blood purist in our house was willing to welcome me officially, then there was no reason for the others not to do the same. Trying to outcompete Selwyn in terms of prejudice was a losing proposition, and they all had to know that already.

But in fact, I suspected they didn't actually need much convincing —looking at Draco's face, for example, who seemed willing to accept this new development with gusto. Because in the prejudiced mind, if I had been sorted into Slytherin and was good at magic, then of course I couldn't be a Muggleborn, could I? Because otherwise it would mean Muggleborns are just people as valid as any other, as capable as any other, right? And that just couldn't be true, right?

Right?

And so as the minutes went on and people started to disperse again I heard the mumbled comments here and there: the "of course, I'd always suspected it," by Higgs, or the "yeah, not really a surprise" by a third year girl whose name I didn't know.

Funny, how the same stupid racism that had been the bane of my existence for the last months now came to my rescue.

Tracey came to hug me, all beaming smiles and encouraging words. I nodded —still somewhat shell-shocked and walking as if in a cloud— and talked to her a little, but all the while my eyes darted around the common room; looking for the threat, the thing I'd missed. Because it just couldn't be this easy, could it?

But there was none, apparently, or none other than what I already knew. The rest of the students weren't paying me much attention anymore, it seemed. For good or for bad.

Yeah, my status as an outcast might have been lifted at last, but that didn't mean everybody would now scramble to befriend me. The cliques were already well established, this deep into the year. So thank God for Tracey, really. At least she was happy enough to hang out by my side.

I excused myself a short while later to go to the bathroom, though. Not because I had to, mind you, but because I simply felt too exposed with the empty vial still inside my sleeve, brushing my skin with every movement.

The girls' bathroom was wide, its walls covered in elegant, dark green tiles. It was empty when I entered, just as I was hoping for. Wasting no time, I quickly unstuck the vial out of my sleeve and approached the central sink —large and with golden trimmings— opened the tap, and started cleaning it.

"I would have gone for pure-blood, myself."

Fuck!

My whole body jerked, the vial escaping my wet hands and rolling down across the surface of the sink with a clink-clink noise. I glared at the figure behind me through the mirror.

"Disillusioned in the girls' bathroom? Really, Zabini?"

He shrugged. "I was curious to see how you did it. And what you were up to."

I showed him the little glass container. "Just cleaning this up. The secret ingredient I used for the ritual, I don't want any traces of it mixing with my potions."

Come on. I'm giving you a bait. Bite it. Bite!

He said: "Do you know how I know?"

"How you know what?"

"Oh, you know."

I shook my head, refusing to play; but that didn't dissuade him.

"It was Davis," he said.

"What about her?"

He flashed me a grin: "She was right. There was nothing to be nervous about, because you already knew the result, didn't you? So why would you be nervous?"

"Well, I was worried about how Selwyn would react to the news, for one."

"Ah. Of course."

"Right."

"Sure."

He rested his weight on the closed door. I eyed him for another beat.

He said: "So... whose was it? The blood. Not Davis, I don't think."

"Piss off."

He barked a laugh, then left the bathroom with a lazy wave.

I stood there for a couple of minutes, the water running, before I produced the next vial —the one that genuinely had contained the unicorn blood— and started cleaning it. I wasn't too worried about Zabini, to be truthful; or perhaps I was too tired, too wrung out to care about yet another crisis this soon. But I just didn't think he'd be telling anyone about his suspicions.

Not that it would be too wise to do so, though: it would all but amount to declaring himself to be smarter than Selwyn —by announcing the older boy had been fooled where Zabini himself hadn't. I didn't think Selwyn would appreciate that, and I hoped Blaise was cunning enough to realise. Besides, it's not like he had any proof. The last vestiges of any evidence had just gone down the drain.

Well, not the last.

I paused for a moment to cast a quick Revelio charm to double-check there were no other peeping toms hiding in the bathroom's corners, then extracted yet another vial. The one that contained my actual blood: the colour-altered mix; the result of the ritual that I'd done in the Requirement Room, the one that had given me the true answer.

I uncorked it too, poured it into the sink, and watched the liquid go down the drain. It was dark green, resembling moss.

I then rose my eyes to the mirror, meeting the gaze of the strange creature with tangly hair and impossible memories.

Just what the fuck kind of monster was I?

Chapter Text

Two days later we were at breakfast —a bright, sunny morning in the Great Hall— when Adrian Pucey, our third year housemate, informed us that Slytherin and Hufflepuff were now at war.

"They're saying someone in our house attacked one of their first years," he explained, eyeing Crabbe and Goyle. "Seems like Peeves saw it all. Not enough to tell who, only that it was a Slytherin."

"That bloody ghost?" replied Malfoy. "Please, he would spin any tale just to stir up trouble! I don't know how they believe him at all..."

I remained silent while Draco protested the injustice of it all, which had the unintended —but very welcome— effect of convincing everyone in hearing range that either he or one of his two gorillas were behind it all. But I also tried not to look too disinterested, either: Zabini was quick enough that he would put two and two together if given a chance, and I didn't even want to turn my gaze towards him lest that would give the truth away. He already knew too much for my liking.

Not for the first time, I wished the Sorting Hat would die a painful death; devoured by moths, hopefully. Because it was stressful as hell, being in Slytherin.

"Right you are," said Pucey. "If you ask me, they shouldn't trust his word. But whatever the case, they do, and they are aiming to have a go at us. So keep your eyes open, will you lot? Stick together, don't walk the corridors on your own... that sort of thing."

We all turned our heads to look at the Hufflepuff table at that, which pretty much radiated hostility —the students, not the table. A wall of burrowed frowns and cold stares, all of them aimed at us. And now that I thought about it, the Gryffindors didn't look too happy to see us either.

Oh yeah, because Hopkins' brother was a Gryffindor, wasn't he? Right, right. One stone, two birds. Awesome work, Sylvia; simply beautiful.

My first year housemates seemed slightly worried at the sight. Which was funny in a sense, because the Slytherins had a way of always considering themselves superior to the Hufflepuffs, which they took as the softest house of them all. But in truth every house had the potential to be dangerous if provoked, and the badgers were not an exception. So to see my housemates now worried at whatever revenge they were plotting over there seemed like karmic retribution.

Except that, you know, I was a Slytherin too.

I took a bite out of my soggy toast —too much jam, too little Plixiette— while I pondered about the risks. But there was nothing to it, really. In the end I simply had to shrug it off. I was already living on borrowed time, so to speak, with Selwyn's inevitable revenge against me still pending, and by this point I was pretty accustomed to keeping an eye out for sudden threats, shadows that weren't shadows and that kind of stuff. It's not paranoia if they're really out to get you, right? So I'd just... keep doing the same thing I'd been doing so far, but even more so.

Besides, it's not like the houses ever went to actual war, really, with soldiers and battlefronts and all the rest. Not as such. It was just Hogwarts' jargon for when the tempers ran too heated. It would pass in a week or two, was my guess.

But the others didn't seem to take this new state of things with as much nonchalance —and shall we say, resigned elegance— as me, and for the rest of the day the Slytherin first years went everywhere together and as a squad —one that, somehow, I ended up at the front of time and time again; not so much because I'd decided to walk ahead myself, but because being the best in our Defence class didn't come without its downsides, it seemed.

The Hufflepuffs opted to bide their time, in the end, and the day went by without surprises. Which was a good strategy on their part, because by the next day our excess of caution was already starting to vanish, and our solid group became much more gaseous as people drifted forth and back, focused in their conversations, books and whatever.

I was heading towards Potions with Tracey, followed shortly by Malfoy, Greengrass and Goyle —Draco telling us of his planned travels for Summer, which was already nearing— when I saw the movement behind the stone statue of some old wizard reading a parchment.

"Protego!" I shouted instinctively, my wand all but leaping into my hand with the practised motion. Just in time, thankfully, because whatever jinx they'd just shot our way crashed right into the impregnable bubble of my shield, in a shower of colourful sparks of magic.

My heart beat fast, still trying to come to grips with the sudden attack —who was it? The Hufflepuffs? The Gryffindors? Selwyn? Shit... Quirrell? No, it had to be the Hufflepuffs, right?— but I was glad to see Tracey also had her own wand out and was stepping by my side, her face focused.

Except that, if I were the one to plan an ambush, I would make sure to put...

"Tracey, behind us!" I shouted.

"Yes!"

She turned, but it was already too late. I heard the zap of a spell, and the flump of a body falling to the floor right behind me. I was tempted to turn and look myself, see who in our group had just been hit, but the enemy ahead kept sending bolts of magic at me that I was still parrying with my shield, my arm jerking back hard with each hit, my muscles starting to protest.

"What–? Goyle!" said Draco, answering that particular question for me.

"We're too exposed here!" said Tracey. To me, probably, because judging from the lack of sounds, my guess was that both Malfoy and Greengrass still had their wands safely tucked inside their pockets, and were standing idle in the middle of the firefight like two mannequins from the Room of Requirement.

And she was right, Tracey: we were caught flat-footed, right in the middle of a wide corridor, while our enemies covered behind the statues and corners at both ends. They had us in full sight, and yet I didn't even know how many of them there were. The only thing I could see of them was a single hand aiming a wand at me, and shooting spell after spell.

Which was yet another problem: I couldn't go in the offensive as long as I needed to keep the shield alive.

"Right!" I said. "Run to that door to the left, everyone! I'll keep the shield and cover you. Then you give me cover fire."

I had enough rapport with Tracey from several months of practising spells that I trusted her to listen and do as told. She all but grabbed both pure-bloods by their robes, and dragged them all towards the door. I heard a quick 'Alohomora', and then she said: "It's just one of Filch's closets, Sylvia! We can't hide in here!"

"Shit! Cover me!" I shouted, with a hint of nervousness in my voice. With them gone, my shield was getting pelted from both sides now, and I could see cracks and fracture lines emerging on its surface.

She leaned out of the door enough to send a couple of stinging jinxes forth and back, and I took the chance to drop the shield and rush to the door myself, crouching down as much as I could, as if I was in a war movie or something. And, with bolts of light buzzing right over my head and crashing into the walls, it wasn't too far from the truth.

I joined the others inside the closet, which was barely a narrow hole in the wall with enough space for some buckets and mops and a couple of old dusty paintings leaning on their side. One of them was of an ugly woman who looked at us with a rictus of annoyance —or perhaps it was a splotch of damaged paint, I wasn't sure. It was barely room enough to fit all of us, but with a little pressure I managed to get inside.

"This is a dead-end!" protested Draco, scrunched up against the closet's inner wall. At last he had remembered he was a wizard and was now wielding his wand. "Don't tell me you've gotten us trapped in a cupboard, Sarramond!"

"Uhm."

"And what about Goyle? He's still out there!"

Shit, I'd forgotten about him! I turned to look at the corridor outside; Goyle was laying flat on the floor, right smack in the middle of the corridor. Or at least, who I thought was probably Goyle, because I could only see his feet poking out the end of his robes.

"... he'll be all right," I said.

The rain of spells had ceased, at least; but I didn't believe even for a second that it would be safe to come out. They were probably still huddling out there, waiting for us to poke our heads.

"Do you... have a plan?" asked Greengrass, her face pallid.

"Uhm."

"Oh, this is great! Just great! Wait until my father hears–"

"Shut up, Malfoy! Let me think!"

We were certainly in a bad spot. Yes, they couldn't throw anything at us while we were squirrelled away in here, but there were still any number of things they could do to force us out and shoot us down one by one. A simple stink pellet in here and we'd probably have no choice but to try and escape if we wanted to be able to breathe.

And speaking of stink pellets: I ran a quick inventory of the contents of my pockets.

"Bloody hell. I'm all out of Peruvian darkness powder." I looked at Tracy. "Do you still have any?"

She shook her head, and I gazed at the heir and heiress: "What about you?"

"Peruvian... powder? What is that?" asked Daphne.

Draco replied: "It's one of those Weasley joke things, isn't it? Why would we have it?"

He was wrong; it was Zonko's that sold those. The Weasleys had simply cornered the market within Hogwarts. But since I wasn't Hermione, I didn't feel the need to explain the inner workings of the school's black market on forbidden magical products at quite this precise moment.

"Well, because it would be bloody useful right about now," I answered, trying to think of an alternative. Sectumsempra was there, of course; but I wasn't willing to cross that line quite yet, not for something stupid like this. "Do any of you know the Smokescreen charm, then?"

It was a stupid question, because of course they didn't, it being taught at third year. But sometimes the kids raised in the Wizarding World had learnt the odd weird spell here and there from their parents or something. Hadn't Malfoy known 'Serpensortia' in the books? That one certainly wasn't in our schoolbooks, and was probably more of a my-father-is-a-raging-Slytherin-fanatic kind of situation.

"We could make some noise?" suggested Tracey. "A teacher or prefect will have to hear us at some point and come see what the ruckus is."

Hmm... maybe. But it would take some time, depending a lot on pure chance; and I didn't think we'd last that long hiding here. And that was, if they didn't think to cast a silencing charm on us or something.

"No time. I think we have to rush them," I said with a sigh.

Daphne asked: "What do you mean?"

"We jump out and charge full speed towards the one to the left; at least I think it's only one of them there. I will cast a shield charm, and the rest of you just drown the twat in as many jinxes as you can."

Both Greengrass and Malfoy looked positively livid at me. Tracey, though, seemed to be considering the idea. She asked: "Won't that leave our backs exposed to the others?"

And she was right, damn. I bit my lip and thought some more.

"Change of plan, then: one of us is going to have to stay behind, shoot at the other side to cover the rest of us while we charge," I answered.

"I can do that," said Draco, somewhat relieved.

"Good. Then, after we win, we cover you while you come meet us, and then we all run away. That's a plan, then."

"What about Goyle? Will we leave him behind?" asked Draco.

Shit, I knew I was forgetting about something.

"Hmm... do you know how to cast 'Levicorpus'?"

"No. Do you?"

"Not yet. So you'll have to carry him yourself, then, over your shoulder or something."

"W– what? Have your lost your mind, Sarramond?!"

"It's either that or leaving him behind!" said Tracey.

"Your choice, really," I confirmed, crossing my arms and staring him down. He looked haughty at me for a moment, then at the body outside, guilt crossing his face. It was obvious what his choice would be.

"Good, that's settled, then," I said. "Let's do this. Tracey, Greengrass, stay close to me so that the shield can cover both of you. Malfoy, you shoot to the right the moment we start running, got it? Good... three, two, one, NOW! Protego!"

I didn't wait to see if they followed me —couldn't wait, really, or I'd had left both of them defenceless if it turned out they had indeed followed me— so I just rushed out of the cupboard, wand in front and charged along the corridor. My shield was immediately pelted by a barrage of spells coming from the soon to be unconscious idiot in front, a barrage that was quickly answered by flying bolts of magic coming from right behind me, forcing the enemy to hide again.

So, they had charged along with me, the two girls. And since I was still running forward and not snoring on the floor like Goyle, I guessed Draco had come through too and was keeping the other attackers busy. Otherwise this was going to end very quickly for us.

We turned the corner as a group to see a second year Hufflepuff facing us. A boy on the short side who had already retreated a few steps away and was waiting for us, because he shot some kind of nasty hex aimed right at my face; it crashed on the shield, dispelling it, but at least it didn't connect with me.

And not a moment later, a 'Petrificus Totalus' from Tracey and a 'Depulso' from Greengrass put a swift and somewhat violent end to his threat.

"Quick!" said Tracey. "We have to help Malfoy!"

"Do we, really?" I muttered, but I duly followed her, leaning around the corner to throw a few stinging jinxes —which weren't too effective in a real skirmish, but I only wanted to give some cover to the blond prat, and they didn't require as much focus and mental energy as actual duelling spells did.

It did the trick good enough, and Draco ran out of the cupboard to join the rest of us; leaving Goyle's body all alone in the middle of the corridor, as I expected. In his face I could see the doubt and guilt fighting against his self-preservation instinct.

And the moment the cowardice won, because he turned and ordered: "Very well. Let's... find a Prefect now, yes!"

And with that, he left the three of us girls behind as he headed fast towards the staircase visible at the other end of the corridor. We looked at each other for a few moments of doubt, when we considered whether to stay and defend Goyle or follow him... and then... we followed him.

Because of course we did. We weren't Gryffindors, after all, with their sense of honour and rightness. Goyle's ally and superior in the all important status hierarchy was Malfoy, so he was the one who was supposed to defend him. And so if he abandoned his charge, none of us were expected to step up.

Which wasn't to say we couldn't —and that would have been a brilliant move, if any of us had wanted to snatch one of Malfoy's allies from right under his nose. But one: that required defeating the other two or possibly three attackers; and two: it was Goyle, so not exactly prime material. Malfoy could keep him.

We found a Ravenclaw Prefect boy a couple of floors down, and Malfoy returned with him to the place of the ambush, the rest of us heading down to Potions. The skirmish had been, all things considered, a definitive victory for me —escaping unscathed— but it still left a bad taste in my mouth: the Shield charm was all well and good, but I felt a bit lacking on the offence department.

There was my bread and butter —spells such as 'Depulso' or the full body-bind curse— but those required line of sight. And Duskhaven's book had explicitly warned against the over-reliance on spells that all shared a similar limitation. It was better to keep a more varied arsenal so that you could reply to many different situations.

I also lacked a middle ground, something that I could use when a simple 'Depulso' wasn't quite enough, but that wasn't the lethal dark magic powerhouse that 'Sectumsempra' was. I had my eyes set on the Disarming charm —Potter had made good use of that one, according to my fore-memories— and the Stunning charm; though that last one was a little beyond my current level.

It was a bit too much, to be quite frank, despite my being a genius and precocious bright thing: learning spells still took its good time, and I also had to learn the ones required for class. For example, Professor McGonagall had us learning a colour change charm now, which I guessed was fine and probably useful, but it was quite tricky to match the exact hues from the work sheets; and she had warned us it would be in our exams. Plus I also had to do all my homework.

At least I wouldn't need to spend anymore time practising sleigh of hand, so there was that.

Our Potions class was tense that day, even more than usual with the Gryffindors and Slytherins in the same room. Apparently the lions had heard about Hopkins' attack through the school grapevine, and now looked at us like we were all collectively guilty.

Hermione was predictably cold. She'd missed all other sessions of the Read-Ahead Club after our detention with Hagrid, and I guessed this new thing would only make her even more hostile towards me. Which I guessed I deserved this time, but still, she didn't know it had been me, so it was all prejudice. She might have been right, but for the wrong reasons!

We were supposed to have another club meeting later that same day, in fact; but I wasn't feeling like making another attempt at building bridges, so I didn't even mention it during class, focusing on the brewing and taking notes of the process in my book instead. I doubted any tries at convincing her I wasn't a devil incarnate would work, anyhow, with her now having Weasley and Potter as friends and so not being so desperate to be included by other students. It was time to acknowledge that it was all in ruins, my plan of befriending the Trio; and it was all Selwyn's fault.

And in case I had any doubt, that afternoon I really discovered the depths to which my designs had been utterly washed aside by the recent events. Because when I went to the Library for the meeting, our usual table was empty.

Which wasn't all that surprising —Hermione had been the one to arrive first most of the times— but it did seem a little worrying, in an uncertain sort of way. I paced a little, eyeing the bookstacks that surrounded me. I knew I was sort of exposed just waiting there on my own, but my wand was in my hand, and I doubted anybody would be so out of their mind and suicidal enough to stir up trouble smack in the middle of Madam Pince's hunting grounds.

Minutes passed, and nobody arrived. I wasn't expecting for Bones —she was a Hufflepuff after all— but the absence of the Ravenclaws did hurt a little. Eventually I tired of it, picked a book at random out of the bookstacks surrounding us, checked the chairs were clean of surprises and sat down at last.

But I was too wired up to read, it seemed. So I simply stared at its cover without paying attention at the words written on it. It took maybe five more minutes of silent meditation for Michael Corner to appear, on his own. He looked at me with a nervous expression, and I just had to sigh.

"Just spit it out," I said.

"Yeah, sorry... with all the... you know. We heard Bones wasn't going to come, and also without Granger... well..."

"Right. I get it."

He fidgeted in place. "It was a good idea, really... but..."

"Sure. Don't worry."

"Yes. So... I'll... see you around?"

"Yeah, see you."

He walked away, looking almost lighter with every step that took him away from our table.

My table, now, I guessed. I hit the book on it with my forehead and groaned.

Goodbye, Read-Ahead Club; you were too good for this cruel, hateful world.

I opened the book almost out of spite —so that the trip to the Library wouldn't feel like a complete waste— and began reading; but here too I was betrayed: it turned out to be a compendium of magical plants and herbs from the coastal regions of South America, with detailed diagrams of their stamens, buds and roots.

I snapped it close after just five paragraphs. And to think that some random witch had gone through a Hogwarts education, through a mentorship afterwards, all to spend... what? One to five bloody years of their life writing this? Of all the things you could do with magic at your fingertips, and you chose writing books about plants?

Ugh. Magic was wasted on some people.

I decided to leave, then. I was too unfocused to work on my homework, and I wasn't really feeling safe on my own. In fact, I had counted with the Ravenclaws' presence to shield me against attacks —from either the house of the badgers, or the psychopaths in mine— and their betrayal meant I had to make the whole way down to the dungeons on my own, tense and with my wand ready to start shooting spells at a moment's notice.

But I wasn't attacked, and I entered the Slytherin common room to discover that most of my house —at least, the lower years— had decided to take refuge here as well. Perhaps they'd taken a look to Goyle's face —completely swollen out of proportion, his eyes barely two pinpricks in a mountain of flesh— and decided not to risk it.

I took a few tentative steps, as if admiring the art and decorations, letting the soft indistinct conversations wash over me. And when nobody turned to give me the stink eye, I started to relax at last.

Funny, that the common room was now among the safest places in Hogwarts for me to be at, now that my status problem was fixed. Because Selwyn and Burke couldn't really act against me publicly, not here; and there was a welcomed lack of badgers around these parts.

I looked around to see if Tracey Davis was here, and found her sitting on a couch right next to Perks, and across from Daphne Greengrass. Between them there was a little tea table covered in magazines, with some cutlery and a steaming teapot.

Greengrass rose her gaze to look at me and said aloud —loud enough that everyone in the common room would hear it— "Would you care to join us, Sarramond?"

Which made my eyebrows migrate well into my forehead, and I was frozen by a moment of sudden and confused uncertainty before Tracey leant over to grab my arm, and all but dragged me into the empty seat next to her.

She nodded at me —Daphne— and resumed her conversation, as if my presence among them was an everyday occurrence. They kept talking about mundane topics: the upcoming exams and Professor Sprout's lack of control over her house, in particular. Myself, I was feeling a bit speechless, a bit out of place. Not sure if this was Greengrass just being gracious to me —perhaps as a way of thanking me for saving her hide earlier, or of apologising for how she hadn't wanted to be seen next to me all these months— or if there was a deeper meaning. Was she making a public statement? Claiming me as part of her circle?

Oh, there were circles. That was one of the things I'd learnt about Slytherin: they weren't cliques, no sir; they were called circles.

Perks leaned to grab a delicate porcelain cup from the table —black and with gold trimmings that I somehow doubted were merely yellow paint— and Daphne snapped straight out of the sudden.

"Oh, please forgive me," she said to me, reaching for an empty cup and placing it next to my side of the table. "Where are my manners! Please, serve yourself a cup of tea; it's an All-Brews Teapot."

"A what?"

"A gift from my mother, for Yule. You simply need to touch the teapot with your wand and speak the name of the brew you prefer. Like this: Ceylon," she demonstrated, refilling her own cup before handing me the teacup.

I produced my wand, placing the tip against the smooth porcelain.

"Uhm... any kind of brew?"

She looked at me with sudden worry: "Within reason."

Oh. Okay.

I nodded and thought for a beat, then spoke: "Jardin Bleu," and started pouring. The fruit-flavoured smell was overpowering, making me salivate.

"I'll have to try that one next," said Perks, eyeing my cup with visible envy.

"It's probably just another one of her French abominations," commented Tracey, without malice. "But this time is even worse: tea is a British invention, you see. There's no need to innovate on what is already perfectly good."

"I find your lack of taste disturbing," I mumbled, sipping on my cup as I folded my legs under my body, in an as un-lady-like posture as the chair allowed.

The three girls all looked at me oddly, none of them catching the reference.

"Oh God; remind me to drag all of you into the cinema as soon as I get the chance. You are so in need of a pop culture crash course."

Daphne looked uncomfortable, and Perks eyed me like it was me who was being unreasonably uncultured here.

"Just a Muggle thing," I shrugged. "Nevermind. So, how does the teapot work? Is it enchanted? A transfiguration charm? Some sort of potion thing?"

Tracey groaned and said: "Please don't, I'm begging you. We were just done reviewing for the Potions exam. You'll get Daphne started again, and I simply can't take any more 'Laws of Essential Diffusion' or 'Theorems of Swirling'."

"...or Multi-ingredient Physics," said Perks.

"...or Fluid Stabilization," said Tracey, smiling.

"Polymorphic Heating!" replied Perks.

"Synergic–!"

"You should be thankful that at least I like Professor Snape's class," interrupted Daphne. "Sylvia: it's enchanted, but it's not a transfiguration charm; it uses a special sort of tea leaves that can adapt their flavour. Similar to a potion, yes, but the formula is secret. The only shop that sells them is Bristlecone's Brewed Blessings, in Horizont Alley."

"Hmm... that sounds like the perfect business plan," I mused aloud. "They could even give out those teapots for free, then charge for the leaves as much as they wish for; because once you get a teapot, you become a captive customer, if you have to go to them for–"

"Sylvia has a mind for business," said Tracey. "She's always talking about how her inversions will make her rich."

"Investments."

"Right, investments! In the Muggle Stock Change."

"Exchange. But it is a good plan, the teapot. It's the same thing that Muggles do with printers."

"What's a printer?" asked Perks.

Oh God.

"It's a... a machine that prints words into pieces of paper," I explained. "So that they don't need to write them down themselves by hand."

"So like your Self-Writing Quill?" asked Tracey.

I tilted my hand. "Hmm... yeah, sort of. But the key point is, they use a special ink. So what they do is they sell you the printer itself very cheap, but then the ink is through the roof. The Muggles even have this joke that printer ink is more expensive that unico– uhm... I mean, it's very expensive."

"It must be so odd, doing things without magic," commented Daphne idly. "I read the book that you gifted me for Yule, 'Bridge to Terabithia' and it made me quite curious about the Muggle way of life; but I must admit it was difficult at times to understand what they were referring to. I know what a car is, of course, but when they used words like 'phone' or 'television' I was a little lost."

"Oh, I know those!" said Tracey. "A phone is like a Floo, but you can only hear people and not see them or walk through. And a television is also like a Floo, but you can only see and hear people you don't know, and the other people don't hear or see you."

Both Perks and Greengrass looked confused at Tracey, then at me.

I shrugged and said: "Hey, do you have a list of words you didn't understand? We could work through them together if you are curious. Did you like the book, at least?"

Daphne's face adopted a haunted expression. "I did. But it was... hmm..."

"Traumatizing?"

"Wait, you knew?!"

I gave her a guilty shrug. "But it's a good book, no?"

She nodded at that. And if it taught the pure-blood magical princess that Muggles were people too, and helped her empathise with them... well, there was nothing wrong with her crying a little over a fictional girl, now was it?

The conversation veered after that to the nearing Summer break, and what the girls' plans were for those. Which again exposed me as the odd one out, given that my plan could be summed up as simply 'staying put at the Residence', rather than travelling anywhere exotic or visiting family like the others. But at least they humoured me asking questions about how orphan Muggle life was like, if only out of pure morbid fascination.

And it felt good, being accepted by the group of girls at last, the four of us wearing our identical silver robe brooches. It felt good, not being the outcast anymore —even despite what I'd had to do to poor Wayne Hopkins— and being able to think about mundane things, things other than what Selwyn and Burke would be planning to do, what would happen with Quirrell, or what the fuck was wrong with my blood.

I was discerning enough to realise that Tracey wasn't new to this, though. She looked too comfortable, too at ease for that. Which meant that she probably had been sitting at the heiress' table for months by now —this was probably what she did while I was at the Read-Ahead Club meetings, I guessed. And that realisation, it explained a couple of things to me: such as her subtle influence being the most likely reason that Daphne Greengrass was willing to be friendly to me in the first place. Tracey had been stacking the deck in my favour all this time.

Hmm... I'd need to figure out a better gift for her, next time around. Her birthday was in June, I remembered.

The arrival of Prefect Farley put my thoughts back on my still unsolved problems, and I excused myself to rush and intercept her before she could join her own friends.

"Prefect Farley!" I said, beaming at her.

She looked down at me and crosses her arms, asking in a tired tone: "What is it now, Sarramond? Please make it quick; this was a complicated day already, having to deal with the Hufflepuffs and all."

"Right. Uhm. So, just a quick question: what would be the consequences if a student was found with, say... a Class A non-tradeable material in their possession? Would they be expelled?"

She tilted her head, frowning at me: "Asking for anybody in particular? Yourself, maybe?"

"Just humour me, please?"

She let out a deep sigh. "Well... I'm not entirely sure. It would go beyond breaking a school rule: it is a crime, you know. So the Ministry would be involved, and... whoever this is would be arrested and questioned at the very least. After that, they might be suspended from Hogwarts until there is a disciplinary hearing; but that really depends on how forgiving the Headmaster feels that day. So if it's a Gryffindor, probably just some detention."

"And if it's a blood prejudiced Slytherin, with nebulous sympathies to former Death Eaters?"

She paused at that. "What are you implying here, Sarramond?"

I shot her a predatory grin, wiggling my eyebrows. "Say, Farley... would you like to get rid of Selwyn once and for all?"

Chapter Text

My plan took a couple of days to come into fruition. I was at the common room after dinner, working through the 'History of Magic' book and exchanging notes with Tracey for our upcoming exam, when the door opened and Professor Snape entered in angry, foreboding silence. He regarded all of us there —most of the students in our house— as if we were nothing but a bunch of squatters he'd just discovered inside his property.

It took a few seconds for his presence to become noticed by all —a hush of silence radiating out from the room's entrance, conversations dying abruptly as people turned to look at the cause. There was a certain unease; not surprising, given that Snape never deigned to visit the common room in person. He preferred instead to communicate mostly via the prefects, who routinely went to his office and then relayed his instructions to us —as if they were teenager Moses-es descending from the mountain to share the Ten Commandments with the rest of the flock.

So everyone waited with tense anticipation for him to speak, all the while I had a sinking feeling: because I'd explicitly told Farley two days ago not to go to our Head of House with Selwyn's matter. My fear was that Snape might very well opt to use this as an opportunity to reinforce his image as a friend of the Death Eaters —by protecting Selwyn and earning some brownie points from the other blood purists in the process. But I could hardly explain that to the Prefect, so I'd had to dress my reluctance in vague words about him having 'that sort' of reputation and such, encouraging her to tell either Dumbledore, or maybe Duskhaven —since even if she turned out to be in cahoots with Quirrell, she had at least presented a public image of despising the Dark Arts, so she'd have to follow through if only to preserve it.

It wasn't that surprising that Farley hadn't listened to those suggestions, though. She was meant to tell our Head of House, after all; and jumping over his head to go straight to the Headmaster, or to this year's Defence professor could have landed her in hot water of her own —which, with how vindictive Snape was, might very well have resulted in her losing the Prefect position come next year.

So, yeah, not surprising; just annoying. But now Snape was here, and the Slytherins waited in silence for a few more beats, until he decided the tension was high enough that he could start speaking at last. He said: "Word has reached my ears that some of you are harbouring certain... forbidden items. Things that don't belong in Hogwarts..."

He droned for a little longer, but my eyes went to the new movement by the common room's entrance, where a tall figure lingered.

Dumbledore, waiting patiently for Snape to stop threatening us.

Uh.

So, had Farley listened to me? Had she gone to Dumbledore instead? No... that didn't track. The Headmaster's presence was starting to get noticed now, with more eyes going from Snape to him —to the growing annoyance of our Head of House— and the older girl looked as surprised to see him there as everyone else.

Snape then. He must have told the older wizard. Which meant he was playing this straight, hopefully... but why? I doubted both he and Dumbledore valued Selwyn getting arrested so highly in their hierarchy of priorities; certainly not higher than reinforcing Snape's dubious reputation. Not to look a gifted Supreme Mugwump in the mouth, as his presence here pretty much ensured due process would be followed, and so dispelled the risk of Farley's warning falling through the cracks—one of the main risks in my plan. But I still preferred it when things were predictable.

Hmm... could it be related to the unicorn attacks? Both professors had to have known about them, from Hagrid at least. And so if Farley had told them about what it was exactly that Selwyn had in his possession... but no... I had told Snape about wanting the blood for my ritual. So he should have been able to put two and two together, and already suspect that the older boy only had the forbidden substance because of me.

So what gives?

Perhaps I was reading too much into this. Perhaps it was as simple as them using the opportunity to taint Selwyn's public reputation now that he was about to leave Hogwarts and enter the real world for good.

Or maybe... maybe they had suspicions of their own about the boy. It wouldn't be that surprising, right? A teenager Death Eater sympathiser? After what happened with Harry Potter and his poisoning earlier in the year? After the attacks against unicorns in the Forbidden Forest? After the thing with the acromantulas on Hallowe'en? Worth getting to the bottom of, at the very least. Check if he was connected to any of those. The forbidden substances angle could be simply a convenient excuse.

"Seventh year students," said Snape at last, after a subtle cough from the Headmaster. "Follow us to your dormitories. The rest of you will wait here."

He marched ahead towards the stairs, not pausing to see if he was followed. There was a momentary pause, where none of the teenagers moved and I wondered if they would dare defy his orders, but the Headmaster's presence proved to be too imposing. At Dumbledore's silent stare, Selwyn stood up with a clenched jaw and marched after Snape, followed soon after by the rest of his dorm mates.

And then the whole common room exploded in conversations. There were people gossiping, and people whispering. And there were a couple of urgent attempts from other students to get to their own dorms —'uh, I have forgotten my homework,' and 'a... book in my trunk, I need it for the exam'— which were swiftly stopped by the Prefects.

I tried my best at looking nonchalant, not to show everyone a guilty smile, not to even look in Farley's general direction. But inside I felt like jumping on top of the table and starting to dance and cackle. Mess with the best, lose like the rest, Selwyn!

There was only a tiny speck of doubt —as the minutes passed and nobody returned— that the older boy might've been sharp enough not to put the unicorn blood inside his own trunk. But I doubted it; from what I knew of Selwyn, he seemed like the kind of person who would want to have its illegal stuff where nobody else might accidentally find it —and what better place than your own trunk for that?

Or more like, I desperately hoped that it wasn't the case.

It took almost half an hour —at which point I was about to start gnawing my nails— for them to emerge out of the stairs: a furious Selwyn followed by an impassive Snape. I couldn't see any little vials in Snape's hands, but still... Selwyn's stance looked resigned, and Snape prompted him to march towards the common room's entrance, which was enough to clue me in what must have happened. I let out a relieved sigh.

It was a short lived one, because as Selwyn passed by Farley's side, he shot her a look of pure, raw hatred. One that caused a new hush of silence, as we all waited to see if he'd try to do something stupid like casting a killing curse; because he totally looked like he wanted to. I was about to congratulate myself on my clever idea having worked: the little misdirection of going through the Prefect rather than being the snitch myself. But before I could do so the boy also burrowed his frown at me, making me tense for a beat.

And then Dumbledore descended the stairs, a hint of weariness in his eyes and posture, and carrying... something... wrapped in cloth. Some kind of object, one that immediately attracted every gaze in the common room, because it oozed ruin and corruption. Like a putrid smell, except that I felt it through this odd, new magic sense of mine. Something dark, something evil.

I stared after it with eyes wide open. This hadn't been in my plan, not at all. Just what the hell did Selwyn keep inside his trunk?

None of the older men felt necessary to give any explanations to us. They simply retreated back towards the common room's entrance escorting the little psychopath between the two of them. And good riddance.

But as Dumbledore and Selwyn were already leaving, Snape lingered behind.

Slowly but unstoppable, almost like an avalanche, he turned back to face us. His eyes scanned the gathered crowd of students, until they fell on... me.

Shit.

He said. "First year... female students. Follow me."

Oh, come on!

I stood up with a little sigh, and together with the rest of the girls we walked towards the stairs. Snape wasn't waiting for us, though, he simply charged ahead and led the way at a rushed pace. We entered our own dorm to find he was pretty much ignoring everyone else's trunks, and had placed himself squarely in front of mine. His wand was already out and he was waving it in proximity of the trunk's lock.

"Open it," he ordered me the moment I step foot into the room. Then, turning to the other girls: "The rest of you, wait outside."

I had to get uncomfortably close to him to unlatch the trunk, but he never even took a step back to give me some more space. What, did he think I was going to try and hide my remaining unicorn blood vials from right under his enormous nose?

Joke was on him, because I had already done so. I'd put them into the Room of Requirement after I concocted this little plan —because of course I did, in case something exactly like this happened. It was risky leaving the vials hanging around somewhere else, but to my knowledge I was the only one in the castle who knew about that room —other than the elves, perhaps?— so I was fairly confident it would be there when I returned for it.

I had to crouch and dodge out of the way of Snape's arm the moment the top of the box swivelled open, because he immediately cast a spell: "Accio unicorn blood."

Nothing happened, which seemed to frustrate him immensely, judging by the looks he was giving my trunk.

"Accio vials."

A couple of glass containers floated out, and he caught them in mid-air to examine them. They were empty.

He then turned and aimed his wand at me. I took a reflexive step back, but he simply repeated the incantation, aiming at my pockets.

Nothing happened. Although I was lucky he didn't think to say 'Accio mysterious key', because I had the one that Squeeble had lost earlier in the year hanging off the necklace I was wearing under my robes.

"Do you think yourself smart?" he asked me, all but spitting the words out at me. "What do you believe will happen, when the Ministry's Aurors question Mr. Selwyn on the provenance of the materials we found?"

I shrugged and said: "What materials? That thing the Headmaster was carrying away? I don't even know what it was."

"Don't play stupid! The materials for your ritual!"

"So... a ritual that is a secret of the Nott family? Selwyn won't throw them under the bus by speaking about it, not if he wants to remain in their circle."

Which I guessed he'd pretty much need to, right now, if he wanted help with his newfound legal problems. And in fact, I was quite sure nobody in the common room would risk angering the Notts. 'Ritual, what ritual? Oh no, Mister Auror; we were just playing a game of charades!'

I wasn't an idiot —or at least, I liked to think I wasn't. It was indeed a risky plan; but it also played on the Slytherins'... dispositions, so to speak. Plus, hopefully the Aurors would be distracted by whatever that other thing had been.

Snape wasn't as convinced, though: "He merely needs to speak about you."

"A Muggle-raised orphan getting unicorn blood? How?" I challenged him, my arms crossed. "Everybody knows I don't have that sort of money! And the only unicorns around here are in the Forbidden Forest; which certainly Hogwarts would never let first years to enter without any sort of adult supervision, no?"

I guess that might have been a tad too smug of me for him to bear, because he turned again to my trunk to cast a spell I didn't know, but that caused all of my belongings to parade out one after another. I tried my best not to pay any special attention to the notebook with purple covers, but he didn't seem particularly interested in my books and school paraphernalia —not even the Self-Writing Quill, which danced in mid-air as if trying to note down a scathing chronicle of the events. Instead Snape just splayed everything all over my bed, not caring one bit about all my clothes getting wrinkled in the process. He even smirked at my silent indignation, like the bloody, bitter git he was.

Then he grabbed a yellowish, creamy bar of soap and asked me: "What is this?"

"Soap."

"What kind of soap?"

"... Frog Spawn Soap."

He tutted. "A prank item, then; which you very well know are not allowed in the school. Twenty points from Slytherin!... I see that you continue determined to be a hindrance to our house, Miss Sarramond."

"Twenty?! But..."

"Thirty! Do you want another detention, you idiot girl?! Perhaps you are in need of it, if you believe you can flout all of the rules without consequences!"

When I didn't say anything, he simply turned on his feet and left our dorm, taking the stupid soap bar with him and not even bothering to go through the other girls' trunks —all of whom let out matching sighs of relief as he passed by their side without even a glance.

My sigh was more one of annoyance at having to repack everything back into the trunk, but in truth I was also relieved that the Professor's search hadn't turned anything else too incriminating. Although I had to wonder what the hell all this had been for. Of course he already must have known the blood had come from me, but didn't he realise that by only inspecting my belongings and nobody else's he was pretty much singling me out as the snitch who had told on Selwyn?

Not that the others wouldn't be able to reach that same conclusion on their own. But still, it was confirmation on his part.

And perhaps that might have been the intention: making himself look like he was angry on Selwyn's behalf, reinforcing his image as the stereotypical Death Eater. Or maybe not, and it was simple spitefulness for spitefulness' sake. With him, you never knew.

Although I suspected he didn't like me all that much, all things considered.

I went back to the common room a few minutes later, which by that point had exploded once more into wild gossiping. Apparently I hadn't been the only one to notice the... icky feeling that emanated out of whatever that thing of Selwyn had been, and everyone seemed to have their own idea of just what the mysterious object was: 'a Hexbound Tome, I think,' was one of the Carrow twin's theory. 'No, clearly a Nethering.' 'It was certainly a Nightshade Box,' said that one fourth year boy.

It was worrying, the amount of collective knowledge the Slytherin house had on dark, cursed items. But at least I didn't hear anyone speaking of Horcruxes. Which I guessed it couldn't have been, as from what I recalled of my fore-memories Horcruxes weren't supposed to visibly reek of malice like that. They were subtler and more... subversive, you could say?

I myself was more focused on the reactions of Selwyn's own court of worshippers, and mainly that of his mate Burke —who, if my predictions came true, had just graduated to 'Top Racist' in the building. Really, he should be thanking me for the promotion.

He didn't look to be in a thankful mood, though. There had been confusion at first among their little group, when Snape and Dumbledore had made their appearance; but by now Burke seemed to have retreated into a deep, foreboding kind of brooding. Hunched down in his seat —Selwyn's throne remained empty, at least for the time being— and with his gaze put on his own wand, that he twirled in his fingers.

Probably planning who to move against or something. Because it was clear that this had been an attack on them, and so it merited a response.

Which would put me straight into his sights, of course; if not for Farley. The Prefect was standing up, talking relaxedly to a variety of people as she fluttered here and there across the common room like a social butterfly, making herself into a bigger threat. A bigger target.

"What's she doing?" asked Perks when she saw me looking at the teenage girl.

It was Daphne who replied —we weren't around the tea table now, but still seated close enough to each other that it was clear to all that we belonged to her circle, and we could hear each other's comments. She said: "Mingling. She is gathering support."

"Support? For what?"

Daphne was prevented from replying by one of Farley's own girls, in fact, who chose that moment to approach our little group. The heiress stood up to follow her, retreating a few steps away to have a hushed conversation.

"For taking over the common room, of course," I replied instead. Because without Selwyn, the balance of power had shifted in the Prefect's favour, and she was probably keen to fix this new situation in place before Burke and the others had time to react.

And if that's what she wanted —to be the undisputed Queen of the Snakes— she could count with my vote. Firstly, because she'd helped me survive; but mostly because she obviously was the better choice —not that it was a particularly high bar to clear: you only needed not to be a raging arsehole. Plus her... proactivity would act as a lightning rod of sorts, hopefully redirecting any and all anger from the blood purists camp onto her person, as they'd see her as the bigger menace. Hopefully they'd even think that it had been her using me all along to strike at Selwyn, rather than the opposite. So yeah, better her than me.

"Well, doesn't matter to us, does it? Greengrass has always been neutral," said Perks to us, eyeing the blonde heiress still in her conversation.

"Right," I muttered. But I wasn't so sure about it, about that supposed neutrality. Sure, Greengrass had never wanted to be seen too close to me while my blood status was in dispute; but she also had discreetly helped me during that time. And then she had jumped at the chance to claim me for her circle the moment I became non-toxic. Or... well, less toxically lethal.

And sure, I might have been a half-blood now —not really, but let's just don't think about that, okay?— but my feud with Parkinson and the treatment by Selwyn meant my public image was by now firmly entrenched in the more... progressive side of Slytherin, you could say. And so by welcoming me, Greengrass had taken a pretty visible step towards that same side.

So yeah, that didn't scream "neutrality" to me. But she was still guarded about going all in into Farley's camp. So I wasn't too surprised when Daphne returned to announce us that she —and by extension, us too— would only back the Prefect if directly challenged, but would not make any moves in her favour otherwise.

Tracey, though, was surprised: "If Farley wants to take over, she probably will win now. So shouldn't we support her then?"

"Yeah; what's the downside?" I pitched in, feeling a little curious myself. Supporting the side you already knew was to win always seemed like a clever move.

Daphne looked oddly discomfited for a moment, before answering: "My family. Everybody knows we're neutral."

Ah.

"And the world outside is not the common room," I added, nodding to myself.

"No, it isn't."

Tracey and Perks seemed like they hadn't caught on yet, but I didn't want to keep poking at a sore spot, so I let the matter lie. Because really, it wasn't something I hadn't noticed before: that the youngest Slytherin pure-bloods weren't actually child politicians —although some, like Greengrass, had certainly been trained into acting exactly like one. But no, the reality was more complex: the common room and in-house politicking just didn't happen in a vacuum.

Rather, it happened through all those owls flying around: the ones delivering letters every morning as we ate our breakfast, and then taking the students' replies back to the wider world. Meaning, the kids were in constant contact with their families, sending letters back and forth. And so the parents of the more politically minded families —Lucius Malfoy in Draco's case, the Greengrasses in Daphne's— told them what to do. Who to befriend. Who to support. Who to snub.

And yeah, Farley might have won her battle against Selwyn here in our common room, but that didn't really mean much in the wider world outside the walls of Hogwarts —which was sometimes too easy to forget it existed at all, at least for me. The old families still had their priorities, their ties. And so the Greengrasses might very well prefer to protect their neutral reputation, rather than risk angering the Selwyns or the Carrows or whoever just to get in with the Farleys. From what I knew, 'Farley' wasn't a surname you'd find in the Sacred Twenty-Eight list, after all.

But of course, just because their families said something, it didn't mean the kids always did as told. I quite suspected Lucius Malfoy never told Draco to go and pick a fight with the Boy Who Lived, of all people. Which begged the question: why had Daphne invited me to her circle, then? Had she been following her family's suggestions, or had it been her own idea?

I preferred to think it had been the latter; that it was my enchanting personality that had won her over.

But I wasn't going to get an answer to that particular question that night, because all that sudden burst of politicking and moving of chess pieces by Prefect Farley had left Daphne acting more guarded than usual. So I returned to my notes on History of Magic, andthen Transfiguration —working through the remaining equations in the exercise set— and tried to relax and put those thoughts —and those of Aurors arriving to interrogate me— out of my mind for the time being.

Plus, I actually needed to work on this stuff. McGonagall had given us this homework in preparation for the exam —which loomed closer every day— and it was one of my least favourite aspects of her subject. While I was pretty good at the practical side of Transfiguration, there was a whole lot of theory to go along with it; and Transfiguration was particularly tricky because it wasn't just about learning a handful of specific spells —such as the ones we used in Charms or Defence— but rather their underlying rules.

So while I could easily repeat any of the transformations we'd already practised at class —say, turn a match into a needle, or a stone into a sponge— the exam would certainly feature a new type of object we hadn't used before at class. It would require doing the maths first, to figure out the elemental decomposition and the precise incantation and wand movements to perform as a result of those.

Long gone were the days where I could cheat at school thanks to my fore-knowledge providing me with the answers. And in fact, my Muggle brain didn't serve me as well for that sort of Wizarding logic either —which is to say: no logic at all. Although Greengrass would disagree there, seeing as she was pretty good at navigating those exercises.

It was a good thing that she was helping me with them, now that we were part of the same circle and such. I in turn helped the other girls with Charms and Defence —and it wasn't that complicated to figure out the causes of their botched spells and charms, given that I had already noticed how almost no one put as much focus and work into perfecting the exact wand movements as I did.

Like say, how when Perks did her tight loops she actually moved her whole arm slightly in a circular pattern —which was how you did wide loops; but for tight loops you were supposed to keep the arm steady and rotate only your wrist.

It was something that Flitwick tried to correct every now and then, but that by now he took as something of a losing battle. Because in the end there was a limit to how many hours you could have your students practising nothing but the basic wand motions —there were many Leviosa variations to teach, after all. And so as long as your spells worked more or less as intended, you could pass his class even if your casting wasn't as perfect or efficient as it should be.

That didn't work so well in Defence, though, when the quality of your casting could literally save or doom you, but then again most people without lighting scars in their foreheads didn't find themselves in life-and-death situations in the regular, did they? Which I guessed explained why not everybody in Wizarding Britain was cut out to be an Auror. The whole 'being able to keep your mind focused while deadly spells fly overhead' was probably another factor to that, too.

But it was easy for me to see where the other girls' wandwork had turned lazy after months of schooling, and a little extra focus on those simple motions always resulted in visible gains that made Greengrass and Perks quickly realise I was a useful addition to their group in the practical side of things too.

And yeah, all this schoolwork was exactly what I had expected my life would be like, back when I was at the Residence and in those strange days right after Dumbledore's visit: learning and perfecting my domain of magic, all the while socializing and making friends, and maybe subtly helping them to be better prepared for when the war started. So it was a good thing that I could finally get to experience this whole side of Hogwarts —rather than, you know, running around hunting unicorns and dodging Death Eaters— even if it was only now, so close already to the year's end.

But in the end, all those months of tribulations had resulted in a victory. I had won, and Selwyn was gone.

Selwyn was gone.

Gone for good, probably, hopefully... after having being found with whatever that dark thing was. Not that I'd expected him to end in Azkaban or anything like that, but with so little of the year —his last year at the school— remaining I doubted his newfound legal issues would be resolved in time for him to return. Which meant there was a fair chance I'd never see him again. Fingers crossed.

So yeah, it was a victory. Anticlimactic? Perhaps; but that was what Slytherin victories were supposed to look like, I guessed? Let the Gryffindors have their heroic feats and public accolades; our house was more of the opinion that if you were fighting someone, the best move was to stab them in the back with as much prejudice as humanly possible.

It wasn't a clean victory, though, because I was certainly implicated in the whole ritual and unicorn blood matter; but there were no definitive proof against me, so even if the Aurors came pay me a visit I should be able to navigate that to safety. Plus, I was a Muggle-raised first-year: if push came to shove I could always claim I didn't know what I was doing, and that Selwyn had pressured me into it. In a way, it was even true.

Whatever. In the end, it meant I was finally —finally— allowed to relax a bit, to simply breath out and be one more student in our house, only having to deal with the low-grade, low-stakes politicking twelve years old like me were meant to engage in. Which in my case meant mostly Parkinson and Bulstrode and their stupid, infantile shenanigans.

It also meant Draco Malfoy, who approached me as we entered the Training Grounds for our Flying class the following morning, the grass lit in a warm, bright late Spring sun. He said: "Sarramond. I wrote to my father about you. I just received his letter this morning."

"Uhm... okay?"

"My father says that now that your status is clean, it's only appropriate I welcome you to our house... so, consider this your formal welcome to Slytherin."

"Welcome me?! Malfoy, I have been in Slytherin for months now; the year is almost over already!"

He shrugged. "It's not my fault that you took so long to prove your blood. But you are allowed to sit with us now, at the Great Hall or at the common room, if you wish."

And by 'us' he meant Goyle, Crabbe, Bulstrode and Parkinson —who was overhearing our conversation and looking certainly queasy at the shape of the things coming out of the heir's mouth. But yeah, not the most engaging company that you could hope for.

"Thanks Malfoy," I replied politely, trying not to sound too sardonic. The boy was giving what I suspected was a heartfelt try for once, after all, albeit in his own particular style. "But I believe I'll keep sitting with Greengrass and her circle. They accepted me first, you see."

He nodded at that, as if he'd already expected it but still had to go through the motions his father had outlined for him in his letter or something. He said: "That's well enough. But now that you are a Slytherin, there are certain expectations of you."

Now that I'm a Slytherin? Scratch the heartfelt thing, I suddenly wanted to punch that snobby nose of his. He certainly deserved it more than Hopkins had. I replied with an icy: "Oh?"

"Yes; now you must act as befits a member of our noble house," he explained, not noticing or caring about my growing scowl. "You can't associate with the likes of Granger anymore, for example. She is a Mud– a Muggleborn, rather. It wouldn't be proper for someone of a higher standing —even a mere half-blood like yourself— to fraternize with her any longer."

I was about to reply that he need not worry, now that my relationship with Hermione was dead and buried, but at his mention of her my eyes drifted towards the group of Gryffindors now spreading around the Grounds; and I paused.

"Uhm... they aren't here," I mumbled, realising the Golden Trio was entirely missing.

Draco turned to follow my gaze. "Carrying out another of their stupid pranks, most likely," he said with distaste. "The great Potter, always with some childish foolishness or another. He is..."

But I wasn't listening, because all I could hear was my own heartbeat in my ears, at the sudden realisation of what I'd done.

Inadvertently, yes; but I'd just derailed the bloody plot.

In retrospect, it should have been obvious. I'd thought I still had a few days —maybe one or two weeks— before the final confrontation between Harry and Quirrell was meant to take place. I knew it happened after the exams, so I'd relaxed on that front. Dealing with my own matters regarding the ritual and Selwyn had occupied most of my focus, the rest of it going now into my homework and exam preparations.

But of course, Quirrell only made his attempt when he did it in the book because that was when Dumbledore had left Hogwarts for London. He had been waiting all along for the right time to strike.

And by having Selwyn get arrested —probably, but that's what everyone believed— that meant Dumbledore would most likely be forced off to London today, to deal with the sudden influx of legal work that I'd so carelessly placed on top of his desk. Something that hadn't happened in the original timeline.

So it was my fault: I'd sent Dumbledore away from the castle. And in so doing, I'd both precipitated Quirrell's own attack, and the Trio's response to it.

Which... should be fine, right? Harry was protected by his blood magic, after all. So why would the specific date matter at all?

Except that I couldn't get rid of that notion of things being askew —that dry mouth, that foreboding sense of premonition. Because during the entire year, time and time again, all the key events on what had to do with the main characters' trials and tribulations... they all had somehow turned out worse than expected: from the acromantulas in Hallowe'en to that one poisoning attempt on the boy.

And out of the sudden I had this bad, bad feeling about today. An image of a smiling Quirrell holding a red stone as he towered over an unconscious Harry Potter flashing across my mind.

I started heading back towards the castle's entrance then, ignoring Draco's indignant surprise with a muttered, half-arsed apology while I mentally went through my options. I paused right after I left the Training Grounds, though, to consider them fully.

I could go to a teacher. That would be the wisest thing to do, of course. I wasn't protected by a sacrifice out of love myself, which meant I had little to no real chance of facing Lord fucking Voldemort and make it out alive to tell the tale. But did I have time to do that? And if so, which one?

McGonagall? Hadn't the Golden Trio gone to her in the first place, just to be snubbed away? Or had that happened only in the movies? In any case, I wasn't that sure she'd believe me, if they had failed to convince her. She already considered me a liar, and what excuse could I give when she asked me how I knew what I did?

No, wait. In the book, they had petrified Neville, right? But Neville had been there on the Grounds just now. And they had petrified Neville because... what was it? I racked my head, trying to remember the plot of the stupid book... right, it was at night! This was supposed to happen at night, not in the middle of the day! So maybe I was overreacting, and this was just a perfectly normal absence on the Trio's part.

No, you stupid girl, I told myself. It happened at night because somebody would have missed Professor Quirrell during the bloody day! But Quirrell was not a professor anymore, which meant he was free to act whenever he wished. As in, right now.

Shit.

Fine, fine. What about telling Snape?

He would listen, I was sure of that. But he'd be forced to move openly against Voldemort if he went to protect Potter, which could risk destroying his cover, wouldn't it? Hmm...

Duskhaven, then? But could I really trust her?

"You are doing it again, aren't you?!" said an accusing voice from right behind me.

I jerked and turned to face its source. Tracey was staring me down with her arms crossed, not looking very happy.

I said: "Doing–?"

"The same thing from Hallowe'en! You're going to go after Potter and get into danger again, for whatever crazy and stupid reason!"

I looked at her with eyes wide open for a beat, not sure how to respond: "Uhm–"

"Don't try to lie to me," she pre-empted me. "Just tell me why."

"I think they're in danger?" I admitted, rushing a quick explanation out: "Has to do with the thing about that elf, Squeeble, remember? I think his master is trying to steal whatever it is Dumbledore has in the forbidden corridor, and the Gold– I mean, the Gryffindors are going to face him. But I fear they're probably going to get hurt if they do. Like really hurt."

Tracey blinked at the onslaught of words, then sighed. "What?... how do you know–?"

"No time, Tracey! We have to do something! Warn a teacher, of course. But which one?"

"What do you mean, 'which one'? Professor Snape, of course!" she declared, then she simply marched ahead, not even waiting for me.

I remained standing for a beat, blinking at this ferocious side of her. Then I shook my head and followed her into the Entrance Hall and towards the stairs leading down to the dungeons.

Which was when we ran straight into Burke and Flint.

Chapter Text

The older boys were climbing the very same spiralling staircase that we were descending when we ran into each other. There was a momentary pause, before a cruel sneer blossomed in Burke's face.

"You bloody snitch," he said, extracting his wand in a sleek motion that was promptly imitated by Flint and the both of us girls. "That prefect slag isn't going to save you now!"

"Protego!" I cast, the shield popping just in place to intercept Burke's opening salvo, some sort of nasty hex that pushed my arm back with a savage force, almost causing me to fall down and lose my wand.

"You think that a shield is going to help?! Ignis Globus!"

I readied my wand for another attack to my protective bubble, but instead his spell flew to the side and towards the nearest wall sconce, its flame elongating and growing in size and heat in front of our very eyes. A heat that increased and increased, and that my shield was doing nothing to keep at bay. I was starting to feel the warmth in my skin, as if I was standing next to an open furnace.

Shit.

"Back!" I shouted to Tracey. "Run back, now!"

We rushed to climb the stairs, my wand aimed backwards to keep the shield between us and our enemies. For whatever good that could do, as the skin on my face was already bursting with pearls of sweat. We hadn't advanced for more than five or six steps when I heard the 'whoosh' over our heads, and I pushed Tracey all the way to the side. Right over us, a ball of magic crashed into the wall and bathed us in a rain of burning pebbles, our robes catching fire.

But with no time to stop running, not knowing nearly enough spells to make an effective stand, I simply grabbed the girl's arm again to resume our flight. Tracey recovered quickly enough, though, and she cast: "Aguamenti!" drenching the both of us in a spray of water that sizzled on contact with the little fires, putting them down.

The boys launched a couple other hexes after us, but the very shape of the spiral staircase worked on our favour now, shielding us from their line of sight. I aimed my wand at the puddle of water resulting from Tracey's spell and intoned a quick "Glacius!" to freeze it down. A little trap to delay our pursuers, but not one that I would put my hopes on.

"Forget about Snape!" I said to Tracey the moment we emerged out of the staircase and into the entrance hall of the castle.

"Duskhaven?"

I considered it, but not for too long, because we simply couldn't remain still right where we were. Instead we rushed across the wide corridors and towards the Grand Staircase —not really following any plan, but simply because it was there. I could hear the rushed steps and panting of the two boys still chasing after us.

Duskhaven? Where would she be? Unlike Snape, who you could all but guarantee would always be either at his office in the dungeons, or his classroom in the dungeons that was next to his office anyway, the Defence Professor seemed to have a wider range of movement, strolling across the Hogwarts Grounds when she wasn't at class. And both the Defence classroom and her office were quite far away from our current position.

Just a handful of minutes ago these very corridors and halls would have been teeming with students going this and that way, but we were all supposed to be in class by now, as were the professors. So there was nobody around to intervene, nobody around to save us.

Oh, fuck this! We had no time for all this bollocks, and I was coming up with a crazy idea to kill two birds with one stone. So I headed towards the closest flight of stairs that went upwards.

"This way!" I shouted, right after a sick, yellowish magical projectile impacted the wall next to my side. I returned the older boys' present with a couple jinxes of my own, just to give us some needed cover, not even bothering to turn and lose any time actually aiming my wand at them.

The Grand Staircase seemed to be reading my mind, or at least in a helpful disposition, because the moment we stepped foot on it, it started to rotate away from its landing; leaving the boys stranded behind.

Or at least, it would have if Burke hadn't rushed ahead and jumped across the increasing gap to land a few steps below us. Flint, thankfully, seemed more cautious. He simply walked up to the edge of the precipice and started pelting us with spells. But at least he remained below, and soon enough he had to stop casting not to hit own companion by mistake.

We continued climbing the moving stairs —by now I was starting to get a stitch on my side— and Tracey shot an Impediment jinx aimed at Burke. But the older boy didn't even cast a Shield charm, he simply intercepted Tracey's magic in the air with his own wand, redirecting it away with a sharp motion to the side.

Cool. I needed to learn how to do that.

Not right now, though. Right now it was time to keep running. We exited the stairs and advanced along a poorly lit corridor.

Tracey was panting next to me, but she gathered her breath enough to ask: "Is this–?"

"The forbidden... corridor... yes!".

And ahead of us, one of the doors was ajar. I sprinted towards it and crossed the threshold, pushing the door with my shoulder to open it fully. Then I stopped in my tracks.

Tracey entered the room right after me: "Why did you–? WHAT THE HELL?!"

Which yeah, it was the proper reaction to coming face to face with a three headed monster dog taller than the both of us combined. A dog that promptly started growling at us, restrained only by the metal chain that kept in in place. Tracey and I both back-pedalled quickly to the nearest corner of the room, just barely out of range of the chained beast.

Tracey was shouting panicky things, while I spent some moments examining the room: I noticed the fallen harp by the opposite side of the giant monster, and the open trapdoor near the centre. But with Fluffy so active and excited there was just no way to get there without being intercepted first by one of its heads.

That was when Burke joined us, charging into the room wand-first, then pretty much falling backwards as Fluffy turned to bark at the new arrival.

And I saw my chance; it was now or nothing. I took aim with my wand.

Burke noticed what I was about to do one moment before I did. His scared eyes met mine for a beat, he started to say: "Wait–!"

"Sectumsempra!"

The good thing about Snape's little dark spell is that it could cut more things than flesh. Perhaps not so precisely or efficiently as a simple cutting charm, true, but it was also more powerful. Powerful enough to penetrate through materials that the first year spells we were taught just... weren't. Things such as metal.

The chain holding Fluffy back snapped with a bang and a cloud of dust, as the tension was suddenly released and the chain shot back into the wall. The monster itself simply leaped forward, almost with no visible effort, and landed on top of Burke —who let out a scream before disappearing from sight under its mass.

"Come on!" I shouted at Tracey, who was witnessing the scene with eyes like saucers. "Down there!"

I all but pushed her head-first through the trapdoor, then went down myself. But I stopped right there, with only my upper body sticking out, and turned to see what the three-headed dog was doing with my enemy. I could still hear Burke's screams under all that mass of fur and muscle, and they didn't sound too pained.

I bit my lip. If he was screaming, he was alive, right?

Shit... I didn't like the boy, but that didn't mean I wanted to be responsible for him losing a limb, or getting munched into smithereens or something. So I aimed my wand at the monster's rump and shot a simple stinging jinx. The creature yelped and turned around to face me with a speed that was entirely out of place when considering its oversized dimensions, but I simply let go and fell down fully into the trapdoor before it could reach me.

There. Hopefully that would give bloody Burke a chance to escape alive and with all his limbs, if he wasn't an utter moron.

The vines holding me were writhing under my weight —and that of Tracey, who was tossing around next to me and getting even more tangled in them with every passing second. I remembered this plant well; not only from the books in my fore-memories, but because earlier in the year we had been working with it in our Herbology class, and my sample had managed to grab, twist and rip the piece of parchment with all my notes from the entire afternoon. I hadn't been able to take my revenge then, under Sprout's eyes, but now...

"Incendio!"

The flames coming out of my wand made the creepy vines retract quickly, almost as if in pain, and we were both finally released onto the solid, cold stone of a passageway.

I climbed to my feet, then lend a hand to help Tracey up too. But she was still shell-shocked, muttering "What was that? What in Merlin's name was THAT?"

"Devil's Snare, of course."

She swatted me on the shoulder with an annoyed huff. "Not the plant. The beast!"

"Oh, that!" I said, raising my wand and casting a quick wand-lighting charm to light the way ahead. "When I was spying on Hagrid he mentioned he was keeping a dog called 'Fluffy' inside the castle. I think that was it."

"This is... this is crazy!" she said as we entered the room with all the little flying keys. And on witnessing the metallic flocks cruising through the air of the tall chamber she shook her head in disbelief: "All of this is crazy! Why is this even here?"

"You want the Gryffindor answer, or the Slytherin answer?" I asked her, as I ignored the flocks and marched straight towards the closed door at the other side of the room.

"What...?"

"Well, the Gryffindor answer, according to Potter and his friends is that the Headmaster has something valuable that he wanted to protect in Hogwarts, and so he set up some defences and trials to hide it beneath. Such as Fluffy up there, or that Devil's Snare. Alohomora!"

I pulled at the door, but it didn't move. Well, it was worth a try. And I wasn't feeling like trying to chase the golden key atop a broomstick. I had certainly improved in my flying —in no small part thanks to the girl next to me— but I was no Harry Potter. And neither was Tracey. Hmm... I wondered if...

"What's the Slytherin answer, then?" she asked me, her arms crossed as she eyed the flying keys. "Or should I rather say, Sylvia's answer?"

"Oh, that this is a honeypot. Dumbledore knows someone is trying to steal from him —Professor Quirrell, apparently— and so he sets up this scheme to try to delay him and catch him in the act. It wouldn't surprise me if the whatchamacallit isn't even here to begin with."

And yeah, I knew Harry was supposed to be able to extract the Philosopher's Stone out of the mirror. But what certainty was there that it was the actual stone, and not just a mere decoy? If Dumbledore really wanted to keep the Stone well protected, the safest place in Hogwarts was one of the pockets in his own robes.

Could Dumbledore also have designed this trial with Potter in mind, as a way to judge the boy's resourcefulness and abilities? Maybe. I wouldn't put it past the old wizard, but I certainly doubted he'd planned for Harry to go face to face against Voldemort's spectre, and to be himself out of the castle when it all went down. So yeah, the risk was probably real.

I examined the door's keyhole, and then tugged at my necklace, extracting Squeeble's white key and moving to insert it into the door. It couldn't be this easy, could it?

"The sizes don't match," commented Tracey, who was following my motions with curiosity.

She was right, but just as its tip approached the keyhole, the key started to morph under my fingers. I felt its metal surface stretching, shifting, becoming larger. Two, three teeth of different lengths appeared near its tip.

I paused for a moment, observing the strange transfiguration in surprised fascination. Then, I inserted the key into the lock —it fit perfectly— and turned it.

The door unlocked and opened.

"Wicked," I muttered, recovering my key, which promptly morphed back into its usual shape.

We crossed the threshold and entered the chessboard room, which looked like a small battle had taken place inside it, chipped pebbles and fragments of the stone statues littering the place. On the good side, though, it didn't look like the board was anywhere ready for another match —something which I had been fearing, as I wasn't that good at chess myself, and I didn't know if Tracey even knew the rules in the first place.

But with that danger clear we could simply move on, one more trial successfully overcome. I felt my confidence building.

"So we're really doing this?" asked Tracey. "No looking for Professor Snape anymore; we're just going to... barge ahead?"

Right, not ideal. I sighed. "Not much choice now, no? How much time do you reckon we have?"

"How does that matter?! You can't really expect to defeat a Professor, Sylvia; specially one that has gone dark. We barely escaped Burke!"

I wiggled my hand back and forth. "A spell to the back is a spell to the back, you know. I could use that same spell from before, it's certainly powerful enough to do the job. And we have the element of surprise this time; if he's focusing on the Gryffindors he won't–"

"Stop there!" shouted a voice from behind us. "Hands away from your wands! Or I'll bloody well hex you!"

I turned in place slowly, raising both my hands with open palms facing forwards. "Weasley?"

Ron Weasley looked like he'd just survived an entire building collapsing on top of his head. Both his robes and hair were white from all the dust and plaster they were caked in, and he was favouring his right leg. But his wand was aimed at us nevertheless.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded. "Are you helping Snape?"

"Snape?" asked Tracey, sounding relieved. "Is he here?"

"Of course! We know he's the one planning to steal the Stone!"

"Snape? Are you serious?" I protested. Because I pretty much imagined that with all the differences from the original timeline, they wouldn't be stuck in that particular pet theory of them this time around. "Please, Snape was the one to actually save Potter's life when he was poisoned, remember that? You only think he's the thief because you're prejudiced against Slytherins!"

And maybe because the human bat was an arsehole to any Gryffindors his eyes fell on when in the Potions classroom. And when outside the classroom too, to be quite honest. But still, I was under the impression that saving Potter's bloody life would help dispel some of the Trio's mistrust of the man.

Ron scoffed. "Yes; because he couldn't have planted the poison in the first place, couldn't he? Dumbledore told Harry only someone with great knowledge of cursed materials could trick the school's protective charms; someone like Snape! He only saved Harry so he could get to play the hero in front of the Headmaster and gain his trust! And now he's told you to come here and help him, hasn't he? Well, I won't let you!"

"That–" I paused for a moment, shaking my head in disbelief. "You know what? I can see how that would actually make sense, somehow, from your perspective."

Ron's scowl went deeper, as if trying to discern whether or not I was mocking him.

"But it's not Snape!" said Tracey. "We know it's Professor Quirrell! Sylvia found his house-elf earlier this year. And it was most likely the elf behind the poisoning too, right?"

"Right," I confirmed.

"Professor who? What elf?"

"A former professor who's now joined the evil wizards' club," I clarified quickly. "Look Weasley, you're missing pieces of the puzzle. You can confirm the name with Dumbledore or your brothers later, but if we don't help Potter right now he's going to have to face– wait; is that Hermione?!"

My eyes landed on the uneven lump of dusty clothes in the background that I'd taken at first to be nothing but discarded fabric. I started walking towards her, ignoring Ron's wand that was aimed at me.

"Stay put!" he shouted.

"What happened?" I demanded.

"The... chess match. We had to make a sacrifice, to let Harry pass to the next room. But she's fine, just knocked out."

"Just knocked out?! Weasley, getting hit in the noggin is no bloody joke! How long has she been like this?"

"Er– a little over ten minutes?" he said, lowering his wand at last. "But there's no need to worry, Professor Duskhaven cast a charm to keep her safe."

"Duskhaven... is here?"

"Yes," he said, nodding towards the closest door. "She came through a little after Harry had left for the next room; she said she'd noticed that Hogwarts' enchantments had been broken and had come to investigate. She helped Hermione and then went after Harry. So that way he won't be alone when he has to face Snape... or... that Quirrell bloke. Whoever it is! He won't be alone, he'll have a professor by his side."

Red alarms. Red alarms blaring through my head.

"And do you trust her?" I asked him in a cold, even voice.

That seemed to take him by surprise. "She's the Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts!"

"So?"

"Well, if she were evil, she would–"

"Act more like Snape? Because no way she's evil if she seems to hate the Dark Arts, no? There's just no way she could've been pretending all along. Whatever; you stay here, Weasley. I'll check on Potter regardless," I declared, moving ahead. "You stay here too, Tracey!"

She narrowed her eyes at me and said: "I'm going with you."

"Wait!" shouted Ron. "I'll go with you too!"

"And leave Granger alone?"

His gaze fell on the fallen girl, then back on the door, looking torn apart. "Er— she can stay here!" he said, gesturing at Tracey.

"I won't!"

I considered the option for a beat. Leaving Tracey behind would keep her the safest, so that was a plus. But a quick look at the girl's furrowed brow told me she probably wouldn't take being forced to stay here that very well.

"No, Tracey is coming with me," I admitted, to the girl's relieved nod. "You're going to have to trust us this one time, Weasley; that, or risk leaving Granger on her own."

With that, I marched towards the next door and opened it without waiting for his decision, followed promptly by Tracey.

This room was supposed to contain the trial by the Defence teacher. So, no trolls because our teacher wasn't Quirrell anymore. Instead the square room was completely empty, without any other door to continue through. The only things of note were the large symbols drawn on each wall, carved into the stones.

"They're diagrams of hand movements!" said Tracey. "Look, that one is for the Fire-Making charm, and the one over there with the kaunan rune is for the Windy spell."

"Hmm... do you think she means us to cast the spells?"

"Only one way to figure it out. Incen–!"

"Wait!" I shouted, stopping her arm from completing the movement. She looked at me annoyed, but stopped her casting.

"Too easy," I explained, my eyes roving across the walls in search of anything else I'd missed. "It's Duskhaven, no? A former curse-breaker, so... Revelio!"

New diagrams appeared on top of each of the symbols on the walls, outlined in the spell's red glow.

"Bugger! A trap?" asked Tracey.

"Uh-huh. Look, they are for different spells altogether. That right there is a yellow Vermillious, and the one to the other side is a modified Levitation Charm. I say we cast only these new ones."

She nodded, and we took turns casting the charms one after the other. Right after we finished, a door manifested in the wall opposite the one we'd entered through.

"What do you think would have happened if we'd cast the ones in the visible diagrams?" asked Tracey as we moved to the next room.

I shrugged. "Nothing good, it's my guess. Now, let's see... Potions. This is Snape's room."

We approached the central table, Tracey jumping a bit when the flames sprung out, blocking us inside the room. I picked up the parchment and started reading.

Right. I'd forgotten about this.

"A puzzle," I whined. "I really hate these things."

"It's not so bad," she said, taking the parchment out of my hands. "So, the ones at the ends aren't it. But they're different..."

"And the second from each side are the same... and that can't be the one that kills you, because it's the smallest."

"Do you think it's really lethal?"

I snorted. "It's Snape's room."

"Right. So... better to be sure..."

Five minutes later, we were still considering our options.

"Left of the nettle wine...?" I muttered. "Has to be this one, then."

"Is that really nettle wine? The one over the right end has to be nettle wine for sure, though, and it looks different."

I scratched my head. "Or maybe that's the one to go back. Also, they can be the same thing and look different! Remember that last line in the parchment."

"But if that one's nettle wine, then there would only be two killing potions and not three. It can't be, Sylvia!"

"Ugh! Bloody Snape! Fine, which one do you think it is?"

She paused for a moment, considering, then pointed to one of the bottles. "That one, I believe."

I grabbed it, uncorked it, and approached it to my lips; all under Tracey's looks of alarm.

I asked her: "You... don't happen to have a bezoar, do you?"

She shook her head. I sighed, wished for Ron to actually be here, if only to act as a guinea pig, then shrugged and took a sip.

"Well, I'm not dying... so far." I drunk the rest of it quickly, then approached the flames protecting the door to the next room. I placed my hand next to them, but I couldn't feel any heat; so taking a deep breath, I plunged my hand through.

"Good guess, Tracey! Now you should take the one to go back."

She frowned: "And stay there with Weasley?"

I shrugged. "Maybe this room will reset, so you can enter it again and follow me? But... Tracey, it might be dangerous, if Duskhaven is... you know. I'd rather you stay–"

"Shut up and move on!" she said, pushing me wholly into the flames. "I'll be with you in a minute!"

I nodded and crossed the threshold. Not really much time left to hash this out, with all the minutes we'd already consumed figuring out Snape's stupid little puzzle.

The door opened to a dark descending corridor that led to the final chamber, from which distant light emerged. I advanced in silence, half crouched and my wand grasped tight in my hand. I could hear voices ahead, but they weren't clear enough to distinguish the words.

Just as I was nearing the edge of the light, a shadow on the corridor's wall seemed to move. I looked at it, and found myself face to face with Professor Duskhaven —whose figure was somehow blurry and with the consistency of a human-shaped cloud of mist. She lost her impassive demeanour for a brief instant on seeing me, her eyes opening wide. Then she quickly rose a finger to her mouth in a shushing gesture, before casting a spell on me. I panicked for a moment, noticing my whole body had become transparent.

Oh, okay. It was just a disillusionment charm.

The woman then turned back to pay attention to what was happening in the room ahead. I heard a whispering, raspy voice say: "...once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body

of my own..."

Shit. That... that was Voldemort, wasn't it? That was Lord Voldemort's bloody voice. Voldemort, right there... just a mere steps away from us.

I felt a deep chill go through my spine. Like so often since Dumbledore had suddenly intruded into my life, I realised once more that these things that I'd read about were real. Because it was so easy to be nonchalant and sardonic at the villain of a children's story when that's all he was, when he was just a... a meme from my fore-memories.

But the voice travelling through the corridor was something else entirely, and there was nothing childish about it. It was eerie and wrong in some primal, fundamental way I couldn't put my finger on, but that brought to my memory that dark thing that Selwyn had been hiding. And when —despite my instincts telling me to run away— I leant forward a little to get a better idea of what was going on, I saw Harry Potter hovering in mid-air right in front of the Mirror of Erised, locked into some sort of paralysing spell that I didn't remember from either the book or the movie.

Standing in front of him, a tall man was facing away. And the back of his head sported a sort of distorted face, moving and speaking in a display of body horror that I might have found sort of funny in my past life, but that now only filled me with a revolting, deep sense of wrongness and unease.

Duskhaven —who I was by now realising might not have been exaggerating her hatred of the Dark Arts after all— chose that moment to act. She step forward wand in hand, her body gaining solidity once more, and said "Expelliarmus!" with a careful, even enunciation; causing Quirrell's own wand to shoot away from his hand.

There was a surprised "What?" coming from Quirrell as he span around to look with his own face at the interloper, followed by the hideous voice saying: "Use the elf!"

"Yes, Master! Squeeble, take her away!"

It took only a second after that. Duskhaven was starting to cast another spell, but the house-elf apparated right next to her, grabbed her hand, and they both disapparated with a loud 'pop,' leaving only the witch's wand behind, which fell and clattered across the floor.

I waited in tension for a few moments —my heart beating fast— but thankfully it seemed I hadn't been noticed myself, as Squeeble didn't reappear to go after me, and in the chamber Voldemort was once again talking to Harry after having recovered his wand: "Don't be a fool. Give me the Stone and join me, or you'll face the same end as your parents..."

Well, this was just great. Whatever had happened down there before I arrived it didn't look like things were in the right track, with the hero child being imprisoned by some sort of magic shit. And I certainly didn't like my own chances of facing the man himself on my own, even without taking the house-elf into account.

I heard a step behind me, and turned to see it was Tracey Davis, moving silently and with her eyes wide open at the eerie spectacle in front of us. I signalled her to stay put and be silent, which took me a couple of tries thanks to the spell camouflaging me.

Right. Not good. But here was an idea...

I extended my wand forwards, and aimed it not at Quirrell, but at Harry.

"What are you doing?" breathed Tracey.

"Finite!" I cast.

It was a gamble, but it worked: the force holding Harry in position suddenly vanished as my Counter-Spell hit, and the boy dropped to the floor. He at least didn't waste time being surprised, and launched himself into the corridor leading towards us. I said "Run! Head back, quick!" to Tracey, and moved to follow my own suggestion. Behind me, I heard Voldemort's voice scream: "SEIZE HIM!"

There was a scuffle, and the sound of bodies hitting the floor followed by a blood-curling scream. I turned to look and saw a kneeling Quirrell, looking horrified as his own hands started to evaporate in mid-air, all the while Voldemort's face barked orders at him. Quirrell, shaken, tried to grasp Harry again; but it took all of three seconds for the boy to realise what was happening, and learn to use his newly discovered power to lethal effectiveness.

"Shit..." I muttered. I'd seen it in the movie... but somehow this was worse. Quirrell actually tried to stand up and walk away, prioritising his own survival over Voldemort's insane orders at last; but by that point large portions of his head were already missing, exposing his brain underneath, and he just stumbled around as a newborn foal before collapsing down into ashes.

"Merlin," muttered Tracey, her eyes glued to the nightmare-inducing picture in front of us.

There was a moment of silence, Harry having past out after defeating the abomination who used to be a professor, when a howling cry made the both of us girls jerk.

"Noooo! Master!" The house-elf walked up to the pile of ashes and kneeled down next to it. "My master! Squeeble has failed you, master! Squeeble is so sorry!"

I took a step forwards —evading Tracey's grasp— and said: "Uhm... Squeeble, right?"

The creature didn't seem to notice my presence. He had stuck both hands into the ashes, crying incoherently.

"Squeeble? Hey?"

He looked up at me at last, but didn't say much. Large teardrops were falling down his eyes.

"Um– where did you take Professor Duskhaven, Squeeble? Where did you take the witch?"

He shook his head in sorrow. "Far! Ma– Master... master wanted her gone. Squeeble took her far. Squeeble took her to the sea."

"To the... sea? Right. And could you, perhaps, take her back?"

"N–no! Squeeble shouldn't! Squeeble doesn't want to be a bad elf!"

I sighed and aimed my wand at the creature. "Listen now, you little shit–"

But Tracey held my arm down. She crouched next to the elf, sounding calm and relaxed and like we had all the time in the world. Like Duskhaven wouldn't be fighting not to drown or something.

"But see, Squeeble," she said, all reasonable, "you already did what your master asked of you, didn't you? And–"

"Nooo! Master is gone, so sorry!"

"And now that he isn't here anymore... perhaps you should rescue Professor Duskhaven. You know it's the right thing to do."

"Squeeble is sorry! Master, please!"

I said: "You know... Professor Duskhaven is a very experienced witch. Perhaps she knows of some magic that could help your master."

That seemed to break his tantrum. He turned towards me with hope written across his face. "Do... does the girl think that in truth? Could the professor help Squeeble's Master?"

"Yes!" I lied. "But you must rescue her first, quickly! Bring her here now, before it's too late!"

He nodded and said: "Yes! Squeeble can do that! Squeeble will help his master!"

It only took him a second to disapparate and apparate once more, carrying Duskhaven's unconscious body, her robes dripping in salt water. She didn't appear to be breathing.

Oh, shit.

"Quick, Squeeble!" said Tracey. "Bring them both to the Infirmary Wing! Perhaps they can help them there!"

The elf nodded once more, looking bewildered but also hopeful. With another crack both him, the older witch, and about half of Quirrells' remains disappeared from sight.

"What about Potter?" asked Tracey after we'd had a moment of silence to gather our bearings back again. "Is he... you know?"

Oh, right. Potter, who I'd forgotten about. I crawled towards him and rested a hand on his body. "He's breathing, at least."

Then, I noticed a certain red pebble-like object resting on the floor next to him, having just escaped his pocket when the boy had fallen down. Curious, I picked it up and stood up, casting a Lumos charm to examine it better.

Of course, that's how Dumbledore found me when he entered the corridor barely a few moments later: standing over the fallen body of Harry Potter, with my wand in one hand and the Philosopher's Stone in the other.

Chapter Text

The afternoon sun bathed Dumbledore's office and the many gizmos and portraits within in an amber, warm light. A light that reflected off the ruby red Philosopher's Stone left almost carelessly on the surface of the Headmaster's desk —as if it was nothing more valuable than a curious paperweight. Next to it was my white key —or rather, Squeeble's key— and a now empty plate of sandwiches that had served as our lunch for today.

I stretched forwards to grab a handful of sherbet lemons out of the bowl near the desk's edge. I offered them to both Ron to my left —who shook his head, almost offended at my transgression— and to Tracey to my right —who took one of them off my hand. I popped another into my own mouth, banishing the rest into my pocket for later. I then sighed, stretched, and pushed my sunglasses back up my nose once more.

The three of us had just finished relaying our respective tales of what had transpired in the forbidden corridor and the trial rooms below it, and now Dumbledore was kneeling down in front of his fireplace; with his head inside the green flames as he talked to someone else about the events of the day, it sounded like.

My version had benefited from a few half-truths: admitting to some of the very things that I figured the Headmaster already knew anyway, while bending the truth around them as much as I dared: yes, I had spied on the Gryffindors —Ron had shot me an angry stare at that. Yes, I knew about Fluffy from Hagrid —thanks to my Self-Writing Quill— and about the Philosopher's Stone because I'd seen Hermione's book on Nicolas Flamel. And since I had read that article about the Gringotts break-in before boarding the train, and I knew about Quirrell and his house-elf thanks to my nightly escapade, I'd been able to put all the pieces of the puzzle together.

I guessed I should've been more worried, scared that the web of lies I'd woven to protect myself from Dumbledore's inquisitive gaze could be about to collapse. Odd then, that where I had before been terrorized at the mere thought of being in this office, right now it felt... safe. Or safe-ish, at least. As if nothing really wrong could ever happen here. No Selwyns or Burkes or three headed dogs, no abominations with two faces.

Funny, how witnessing the true horror that was Voldemort —even as little more than a revenant, a shadow of its true self— could put things into perspective. Or maybe I was simply tired, and sort of reeling from what I'd seen down there. But to be quite frank, it had helped me to straighten out my priorities; as in, which threat should I consider the most dangerous, and which ones were... just a tad less so.

And yeah, seeing his ghastly demise had been... well... horrifying. More than I had expected, from what I had pictured from my fore-memories. It was that same notion once again, how things hit differently once you actually were on this side of the movie screen, of the book page. Once you were no longer safe, no longer untouchable; the story no longer a simple work of fiction you could put behind and forget as you went back to your normal, everyday life.

Now this was my life, a life that included dark, murderous twisted wizards. And all I could worry about right now was whether Voldemort had gotten a glimpse of my face or not during those confusing last moments. Compared to that, even the vague threat that Dumbledore represented seemed... almost welcome, in a way. Familiar.

I knew it could be a trap, though, that feeling of relief; and that Dumbledore was in truth still as dangerous to my own future and freedom as ever, even if he didn't mean it. Which is why I'd put on my sunglasses the moment we'd entered his office, and why I was convincing myself to get my head back into the game, to focus on navigating these next, critical moments with caution.

Because I knew exactly who of the three of us had attracted his suspicions the most, of course. Something that was vindicated a few minutes later, when his Floo call ended and he sat back on his chair across the desk with a tired groan.

"Ah, great news indeed! Madam Pomfrey has informed me that both Harry Potter and Miss Granger have regained consciousness and are recovering well from their respective ordeals. A recovery for which, I must add, we owe a considerable debt of gratitude to the three of you," he said graciously. "Mister Weasley, I assume that you are quite eager to return to your housemates once again, so you are certainly excused to leave for the Infirmary Wing. You as well, Miss Davis; your insights have been most useful, and I believe you have already told us all that was necessary for the moment..."

I didn't even move a muscle, already knowing what the next words out of his mouth would be. And I wasn't disappointed:

"However Miss Sarramond, I would request you remain here for a few additional moments, if it's not too much of an imposition."

I nodded, resigned. I couldn't exactly say no, could I? Weasley didn't need much more encouragement, he jumped off his chair and rushed towards the office's entrance at a quick pace. Tracey, though, paused mid-movement, as if her legs wanted to take her back to the Slytherin common room but her eyes were still glued to me. She said: "Er– I can wait."

I shook my head. "No need, but thanks. And... uhm, sorry for dragging you into all of this."

She shrugged, then followed in Ron's footsteps; leaving me alone with the Headmaster —who had observed our little interplay with the keen attention of a bird of prey.

"You command her trust," he commented out-loud the moment she'd descended the stairs back to the corridor outside. "Such fidelity, I must say, is somewhat of a rarity among the ranks of your house."

I frowned. That was a lot to read out of a couple of spoken words. I said: "You mean, just because she wanted to wait for me to be done here?"

"No, Miss Sarramond. It's because she did not hesitate to follow you into danger."

I shrugged. "We're friends," I said simply, refusing to elaborate. Because really, that was the truth of it, wasn't it? That our relationship wasn't just... transactional, like it had been at the beginning, like it still was in some sense with Greengrass. Not anymore.

And what did Dumbledore mean with it? I guess it was still the same old suspicion: that I was gathering followers, like Tom Riddle had once done. Loyalty could be good and jolly well celebrated in the case of Potter, of course; but God forbid a snake ever have friends willing to follow her into hell.

It rankled, the double standard. So instead of justifying myself further, I decided to divert his attention.

"How's Professor Duskhaven, by the way?"

His eyes rested on me for a beat before he leant back on his chair. "Ah, poor Xenia. To have braved the fury and cold of the North Sea's waters without the aid of a wand —even if but for the span of a few minutes— is indeed a formidable feat, particularly for one who is no longer in the prime of her youth. Her ordeal has left her indeed injured, both physically and in spirit, but so far she recovers well at St. Mungo's. I dare say, however, that she might have had her fill of this little island of ours for a lifetime.

"But the essential thing is that she survived, thanks in no small part to your intervention. And while offering false hopes to the house-elf may, perhaps... not align perfectly with the highest ethical standards, the end result was undeniably effective. So I must thank you for the service you have performed to our school, not only today, but yesterday as well; as it is my understanding we have you to thank for bringing Mr. Selwyn's transgressions to our attention."

I nodded, but couldn't suppress a smirk: "I guess Snape wasn't lying, when he said he was aware of everything that happened in our common room. What was that... thing, though? The Dark object?"

"Professor Snape, if you would," corrected Dumbledore; but not unkindly. "As for the object in question, it is sufficient to say that it was something that should have never entered our castle, and that we will rest more soundly now that it has been removed from the premises. However, there is a matter of some concern that Professor Snape brought to my attention, regarding the... likely provenance of certain other materials found in Mr. Selwyn's possession."

Yeah, I'd counted on him knowing, so no real reason to lie now. "I'd have liked not to do any of that," I admitted. "To simply focus on my studying and going to class, but I didn't really have a choice."

"On the contrary, Miss Sarramond. I firmly believe that, when we truly look for it, we often find that there's always a choice." He paused for a beat after that, eyeing me over his half moon glasses until I nodded in acquiescence.

"Very well, let us regard this as a lesson to learn wisdom from, then," he added; then he showed me a faint smile as he said: "And speaking of Professor Snape... in light of Professor Duskhaven's indisposition, it will fall to him to impart the remaining classes of Defence Against the Dark Arts, as well as overseeing the nearing evaluations. I deemed it best that you and your housemates be... forewarned, as it were."

I would have snorted —and I was pretty sure that reaction was exactly what Dumbledore was after— if not because a sudden thought about the possible ramifications of that particular change to the timeline made my heart skip a beat. I camouflaged my reaction the best I could by raising my eyebrows and asking: "Oh? Will he teach it next year too? I heard from the older students that he'd always wanted the position."

Dumbledore's smile never vanished, but still I could see how immediately he became subtly guarded, as if reluctant to share specifics. "Oh, we shall see, we shall see... The task of filling that particular position is always a challenging one. Would you believe it, if I were to tell you that I even considered appointing Professor Quirrell to teach it this year? I believe we can all consider ourselves lucky such a plan never came to fruition."

I could see the misdirection for what it was, but I decided to bite nevertheless. Because it was a juicy one, given that it was something I'd been wondering for ever since the day I first arrived to the castle.

"Oh? Why didn't you hire him, then? Did you... uhm... suspect anything already?"

His expression turned mournful, his gaze following the sun, the way its rays glistened on the lake's surface. I waited patiently for a few moments as an uncomfortable silence settled around the old wizard. But when I was starting to suspect he wouldn't share the answer with me, he let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh and said:

"That he was concealing Lord Voldemort within himself? No, no, I didn't see it at the time. And I dare say, it is entirely possible that such a truth might have eluded me even should I have decided to employ him. I fear to think of what could have happened then... But no, Miss Sarramond, my decision to do without Professor Quirrell stemmed from a different concern altogether: His approach to the Dark Arts was, should we say, one driven most by an academic curiosity rather than practical wisdom. And perhaps it was this very curiosity that ultimately lead to his downfall. However, this year, with the presence of some... unique students, such as Mr. Potter, I felt it was imperative to select a teacher who would be certain to convey the dangers associated with the Dark Arts from the very outset."

Yeah, and that was a lie; or a half-lie at least. Because in the original plot both Potter and Quirrell had been there, and Dumbledore hadn't felt the need to hire someone else. It was only when you added me into the mix that it suddenly became oh-so-very-important to inoculate us against having too much curiosity about dark magic.

"Students like Potter... or myself," I said, my voice harsher. "Because I remind you too much of that one student you had in the past, no?"

His eyes fixated on mine, his expression pensive.

"Yes," he admitted at last, with a soft nod. "That as well. I wished to... avoid repeating the same mistakes from the past."

So was that it, really? The reason why the plot had shifted so early... just because, I'd been invited to Hogwarts?

And then, what? Had he taken a look at me and pegged me as the next Riddle? It didn't track, not really. It wasn't until the Sorting Ceremony that I'd been put into Slytherin, and by that point he'd already made his decision not to hire Quirrell. So why? Was he really that paranoid of every kid raised in a Muggle orphanage?

No. He had to have known something already, seen something else. Something about me. But when? The only possibility that came to mind was during our first meeting, but I couldn't remember any–

Oh, right. The bloody Giraffe!

Yeah, that made more sense. Because what would have it looked like, from his perspective? What did she tell him about me —maybe under a spell to loosen her tongue, who knew?— when he'd first arrived at the Residence? That I was gifted and precocious, certainly; but also a freak. That I displayed challenging and violent behaviour. That my morals were maybe too flexible; that I had taken too much of a liking to help myself to things that didn't belong to me.

And hadn't Riddle stolen stuff from the kids at his orphanage? Yeah, I could see how Dumbledore's alarms might have been ringing, at least a little bit. And then the stupid hat went and sorted me into Slytherin, pretty much confirming his suspicions.

It was starting to annoy me, having to live under that comparison in his eyes. Even more so when most of what I did —the reason behind my sorting, for starters— was just to prevent the bloody dark wizard from winning without even trying, now that the plot was out of whack —and it was Dumbledore's own suspicions themselves that had caused that particular wrinkle to appear. I would have been just another happy Ravenclaw, learning magic without bothering anyone, if not for him.

You know what? Fuck this. Cards on the table it is.

I met his eyes —from behind my sunglasses, of course, because I might have been tired and annoyed, but not quite insane yet— took a deep breath and said: "I'm not him, you know. I'm not Lord Voldemort."

He straightened out in his chair, his eyebrows rising. Then, he smiled and said: "Ah, you figured it out."

I shrugged. Not that it was that hard, specially when you had read the Harry Potter books and already knew the backstory of poor orphan Tom Riddle.

"There must have been some reason the hat offered to sort me into Ravenclaw at first," I said with a certain swagger I couldn't hide from my voice.

That seemed to take him aback, even more so than me figuring out who the mysterious other Slytherin orphan had been.

"Oh, is that so?"

I was about to reply when I noticed the Headmaster wasn't looking at me. Instead I followed his gaze to one of the shelves to my left. On it, the Sorting Hat twisted to stare down at us, looking annoyed at having just been woken up —as much as a hat could look annoyed, that is.

"Yes," it confirmed. "But I stand by my decision to sort her into Slytherin. She wanted more power than Ravenclaw could grant her."

"P– power?" I stuttered, because this was just what Dumbledore needed to hear, wasn't it? After this he'd be liable to just send me to Azkaban already and be done with it. "I never wanted power, you st–! I didn't want to be more powerful or important than other people!"

"No, not more important or famous," the hat corrected, "but you wanted to be influential, girl; you wanted to shape the future to your own will. That is a type of power too, the one you wished for. An ambition better served by Slytherin."

I bit my lip, shooting daggers with my eyes at the traitorous piece of rotten cloth; because yeah... I wanted to change the future, but not to get personally powerful! —I had other plans in motion for that— No, the only reason I'd wanted to have influence over the timeline was to ensure a tyrant didn't raise to power, and also to save some of the people who would die if nothing changed. And in what world was that even in the neighbourhood of a thirst for power?

But of course, I couldn't just explain that to Dumbledore, because the next question out of his mouth would be just why I was so worried about the future. It would give the entire game away! So instead I was pretty much forced to shut up and cross my arms, looking at the ancient hat with a sour expression.

"I don't want personal power," I clarified after a few seconds of furious thinking. "So what's the problem if I wanted to improve things, to fix some of the issues I saw? God knows the blood prejudice thing in the Wizarding world is in need of some fixing."

"It is not a sin to harbour ambition, no," said the Headmaster at last, examining me. "In my youth, I too was brimming with it, and with the belief that I could nearly single-handedly bring about change to the world. However, we must remain ever vigilant of what sacrifices we are willing to make in pursuit of those ambitions... and whom we might... unwittingly or not, sacrifice along the way.

"I do not believe you to be like Lord Voldemort, Sylvia; but I do recognise that you stand at a precipice. It is a risk not unlike the one that he himself faced at your own age. Magic, in all its wonders, can also be dangerously seductive to those students that are the most adept, that throw themselves too freely into the depths of some of its more arcane aspects, too certain of their own abilities. In Voldemort, such risk became a grim reality. It is my hope, and my duty, to ensure that the same fate does not befall you."

I paused at that, considering. Because I had an inkling of what he meant: that I'd been practising spells not meant for my age —like the Shield Charm, yes, but also Snape's little curse— and that was something most other students simply didn't do. Which fair, I could see how too little guidance in something as wild and full of dire consequences as magic, something that allowed you to pretty much play God could be... risky, at the very least.

"You mean, like Duskhaven said? The risks of dark magic."

He nodded. "Yes, indeed. The Dark Arts possess a certain allure, a temptation, if you will. This allure seems to particularly resonate with two kinds of students, who, interestingly, align quite closely with two of the houses in our school. Firstly, there are those who seek to understand magic fully, to unravel its mysteries and map its intricacies —a pursuit often favoured by our Ravenclaws, much like Professor Quirrell. But there are also those who wish to harness magic's power, to be influential and make a mark, to... fix what they perceive is wrong in the world around them."

"... Slytherins," I said in a sombre tone.

"Indeed. But rest assured, Sylvia; there is no dishonour in being sorted into your house. Always recall that Merlin himself was a Slytherin, and his contributions greatly succeeded at improving our world for the better! Your house affiliation is certainly not a stain upon your character, despite the misgivings that you might encounter from students in the other houses —lingering wounds from our recent Wizarding War that, regrettably, haven't had sufficient time to fully heal. Yet I'd be remiss if I didn't caution you about the risks that you, in particular, might face, so that you can remain vigilant and aware of them.

"But that's enough sombre warnings for today!" he said in a chipper tone. "Please, do feel free to rejoin your companions. Ah, just one more matter before you go: while I'm sure that the news of Professor Quirrell's betrayal will very soon spread to the rest of the student body, I must ask of you to keep Lord Voldemort's involvement in this matter confidential, at least for the time being."

"Not that many people would believe it anyway."

"Very true," he admitted, clapping his hands. "Well, I'm sure you have plenty of studying to do for your upcoming exams!"

"Ugh, thanks for the reminder," I groaned. But I stood up quickly and started walking towards the stairs, eager to leave his office before he changed his mind.

"I believe you are forgetting something, Miss Sarramond."

I turned to look at him, and he waved his hand at the two magical objects on the desk.

"The key?" I asked. Because the other option was the Philosopher's Stone, and somehow I doubted he was offering that one to me.

"Indeed. A Skeleton Key: it should be capable of opening most locks, except for those protected by strong magic. Goblin-made, if I'm not mistaken. Not many of these exist. It was very fortuitous that you had it in your possession, for without it you might have arrived too late to help your fellow students. As such, I'm inclined to believe that it would be... prudent for it to remain with you. I do trust, however, that you will use it as wisely in the future as you did today."

What was this, a bribe? Some underhanded way of putting himself into my good graces? As in, 'here, you can have this shiny magical key if you don't go full Voldemort on us.'

Whatever. I'd take it.

I grabbed the key and turned it in my fingers, examining it closer to my eyes. Then I turned to Dumbledore and said: "Goblin-made, uh? So... do you think it would work in Gringotts?"

I waited until the words registered and the look in his face turned alarmed. Then I smirked and said: "Just joking! I already have other, better plans to get filthy rich, you know."

He let out a laugh, then muttered: "Somehow, I have no doubt about that."

And... I liked it. This. The banter, and letting Dumbledore see more of my true self. Not everything, of course; not nearly all of it. Just a sliver, a peek; just this part of me that was irreverent to rules and adults alike, yes, and cunning, for sure; but that didn't go too far, didn't cross that line in the sand. A part of me that schemed for personal gain, but that wouldn't stoop so low as to... say, assault a random Hufflepuff first year who hadn't done anything at all to me.

So yeah, not all of me. But it was at least a part of me that I no longer had to hide in his presence; which meant it was easier to be in his neighbourhood, too. To exist in Hogwarts.

The following days were also easier than the past weeks had been. I returned to the Slytherin common room to discover that, just as the Headmaster had predicted, word about what happened had already spread to most of the school —it tends to happen, when the celebrity boy gets attacked by an old professor turned dark wizard, and one of our teachers gets sent to St. Mungo's. And while Voldemort's role in the whole thing was never made public knowledge, mine was; thanks to Tracey, probably, and maybe the Weasley twins too. I was sure those two were a large part of Hogwart's rumour mill being as efficient as it was, with their Marauder's Map and such.

So my housemates knew that I had survived Burke's attack —while the teenage boy himself still sported some scratches and had had his arm broken by Fluffy— and that along with Tracey we'd helped stop Quirrell, earning a healthy amount of points for Slytherin in the process —one that had put us solidly in front of the Gryffindors, our eternal enemies. That, combined to my acceptance into the circle of the heiress of such a reputable family as the Greengrass were, it made me the closest thing to safe and respected that I'd ever been at our house.

Not untouchable, mind you. No one in Slytherin was that, except for the lucky few such as Malfoy. But if someone wanted to move against me now, they'd need to do it very carefully lest they attract the ire of both my immediate allies, and some of the other housemates who were finally starting to recognise me as a net positive to our house.

Burke and Flint seemed to have bigger fish to fry at the moment, too, dealing with prefect Farley's soon to be successful attempt at becoming the ruler of the common room, so I doubted they'd risk having another go at me before the year ended —unless I served them an opportunity on a golden plate, something which I had no intention to do. And as for Parkinson and Bulstrode: they were pretty much incapable of the level of subtlety required there, and I doubted they'd want to face Greengrass' open ire either.

So yeah, safe at last, with no more worries about bullying, psychopath teenagers, or what the Trio were doing —only Hermione, who acted incredibly strange towards me in our shared Potions classes following the events of the forbidden corridor: she'd look at me as if she was about to ask some important question that troubled her deeply, then she would look away when I turned to face her, then back at me, and finally say something mundane such as: 'do we already have enough silverweed, or do you think we need more?'

Well, whatever. If she wanted something, she'd say it eventually. But for me, now it was only a matter of passing my exams.

Joy.

It took me back to my days as Sophie, now that I was learning things that I couldn't simply rely on my fore-knowledge to know already. And while I was more disciplined at studying and quick to learn the concepts than most people my age, it still made me nervous when I got to stand in front of McGonagall's serious face, transfiguring a spoon into a quill under her intense gaze. And while my quill's feathers were suitably fluffy, and I demonstrated it worked by writing on the parchment with it, I still left feeling uneasy at her curt nod of dismissal.

Compared to that, Charms was easy: I simply demonstrated some of the spells in our curriculum, and a few of the ones I'd learned on my own for good measure —which seemed to please Flitwick greatly, given by his enthusiasm and the words of congratulation that followed. So yeah, at least I could count on one Outstanding score.

Two, with Defence, as long as Snape wasn't a git to me. But he enjoyed torturing the Gryffindors too much for that, tutting after they demonstrated their spells as he wrote words in his parchment notes. I was tempted to perform Sectumsempra in front of him when my turn arrived, but in the end I decided not to provoke him. I did perform a perfect Shield Charm, though, which I hoped would help impress him somewhat, even if he didn't show any outward reaction.

Potions was also with him, and that one was a subject I felt less confident about. In part because I hadn't paid that much close attention to it —thanks to Hermione covering for me during the year, something that came back to bite my arse now that we were forced to brew our exam potions on our lonesome. But also because the girl's very presence a couple desks away distracted me from my dicing of ingredients and stirring of my cauldron; the way she continuously shot subreptitious looks at me, as if trying to puzzle out a particularly thorny puzzle. Well, good luck with that.

Both History of Magic and Astronomy were relatively soft subjects, at least for someone who remembered having to memorize much drier and stuffier material for my university exams. So yeah, they were boring, but I was left with a good impression when I managed to reply to almost all of the questions in our exams without much trouble. As for Flying, I knew I wouldn't get anywhere near the top scores in our class, but thanks to Tracey's help I hoped I'd at least graduated to be reasonably average on top a broom.

Herbology, though... well, the theory part I guessed I got mostly right. And my dittany might not have looked as fresh and healthy as the other students' plants —its leaves sagging down a bit as if saddened— but at least it wasn't dead either. Yet.

Whatever. It wasn't like my grades would matter anyway, was it? I was the only one who would ever care about them, after all, with no parents to scold me if I failed a class. Because I highly doubted the Giraffe would be even privy to them in the first place.

So with the exams done we were left to enjoy the last few days of school in a surprisingly free-form manner, with many of the professors finally relaxing the pace of their lectures, their remaining classes filling with ramblings, diatribes and sometimes, a few interesting questions. And while they gave us homework for the summer, most of us who weren't Hermione didn't feel that pressure to get started on it right away, so it was easy to put out of mind for the time being.

The unexpected spanner in the works came one day at night, when all of us girls were sleeping in our dorm. A soft noise woke me up, and I opened my eyes to the darkness of our dorm room, a darkness only broken momentarily by the soft light that squeezed its way inside when someone cracked open the door to slip out.

It was enough light to recognize the silhouette as that of Tracey's, though. And sure enough, a very low intensity wand-lighting charm revealed her bed to be empty. I didn't give it much thought, however, figuring she would be making a night visit to the loo —all that tasty Greengrass tea, right?— so I simply extinguished the charm and rolled over in my bed, finding a new comfortable position and going back to sleep in no more than a minute.

But when the same thing happened again the day after, I stood awake for longer. And after ten minutes or so of waiting without Tracey returning, I let out a sigh and stood up myself, leaving the dorm and descending the stairs towards the common room.

The common room was completely empty, of course, only lit by the low shimmer of the fireplace's embers. It was so late even my fairies were motionless for once on my pyjamas —one of them cranked open an eye, her wings twitching for a moment before she went back to sleep.

I first looked for Tracey near the grand windows to the lake, but it seemed the girl wasn't as drawn to water as me. Instead I found her curled on a tall seat facing the fireplace, her feet curled under her body and covered under a blanket that she'd carried here from the dorm. It was a picture that reminded me fiercely of Astrid, back at the residence, and made the girl look even younger than she really was. Not that eleven years was a lot anyway.

I took a seat in the chaise lounge next to her, and remained silent. But Tracey didn't even acknowledge my presence, her gaze fixated on the feeble flames dancing inside the vast fireplace —a fire that seemed right about to peter out, but that somehow always managed to survive for one more minute after another.

We remained like that for a few long minutes, the common room's grandfather clock tick-tocking with sombre cadence. Eventually, she spoke, with her eyes still glued to the flames.

"I keep seeing his face," she said, simply.

I didn't dare to ask whose face —Quirrell's, or Voldemort's. Instead I kept silent, allowing her room to expand if she wished.

"He looked scared. And... and so confused, like he didn't understand that he was... that he was disappearing," she clarified with a shudder.

So, Quirrell's, then. I wasn't sure she'd seen Voldemort's face at all, in fact. I hoped not. That was another entire layer of horror she would be lucky to do without.

"And now... I'm afraid of Potter... Like, what if he touches me? Can he... make me go away like that too?"

Well, shit. Now, that was an unfortunate conclusion to make.

"I don't think he can," I said, trying to edge my words. "I talked a little more with the Headmaster after you left. He thinks it had to do with how Potter defeated You-Know-Who, and that it only worked in Quirrell because he had dark magic infused in his body."

Technically, I hadn't lied to her: I had talked to Dumbledore —just not about that. Harry's power to turn Quirrell into dust had indeed something to do with how Harry defeated Voldemort, and Quirrell had had dark magic —a revenant of a dark wizard, specifically— inside his body. All of them perfectly factual sentences, thank-you-very-much.

"Yes... I figured it was something like that. But still..."

"It was a fucked up sight," I agreed with her.

"Fucked up," she repeated after me, as if tasting the words.

I hoped she wouldn't use those words again in front of her parents. I knew I got away with most of my colourful language thanks to a lack of parental supervision, but somehow I doubted she'd have such freedom, and didn't want them thinking me to be a bad influence on her.

Something that, as I observed her small figure cuddled up in the large chair, I figured I pretty much was. Because I doubted the original Tracey Davis, the one that should have existed had I not been here, would be having problems sleeping due to reliving a traumatic experience. Not when she was eleven.

And I had no doubts that I was the cause of it, that in dragging her into my shit —or Harry's shit— I might have hurt her. I might have broken a part of her, ruined something in her that couldn't be fixed. Showed her a side of her own Wizarding world that she hadn't been prepared for, not yet; and that now she could never unlearn, never unsee again.

"I'm sorry, Tracey," I muttered, almost too low for her to hear. She did, though, humming in agreement; though I doubted she understood what had prompted my words. What I was truly sorry for.

"Hey... Sylvia," she said, after a few more long minutes of staring into the fireplace and in which my eyelids had grown heavy once more, my breath steadying as if in preparation for going back to sleep. "Do you think you could... er– nevermind."

"No, what is it?"

She sounded uncharacteristically bashful: "I was wondering if you could tell me... some Muggle story?"

"A Muggle story?"

"Yes. Like in those 'filmies' you mentioned. One that... hmm... that had no magic?"

Ah...

It was a harder request than it seemed, as most of the movies I liked did indeed tended to the fantastical and magical —even if the magic in them didn't fully match with real world magic, which wasn't a weird concept at all, no sir. But let's see... what was a popular movie that was completely without fantasy? Something based on real history, perhaps?

"Do you know about the Titanic?" I asked her.

"No. What's that?"

"It was a Muggle boat that– uhm– yeah... hold on, let me think of a better one."

Because somehow I suspected that a story of a ship sinking and sending hundreds of people to their deaths in the icy Atlantic wasn't exactly what she was after.

So... movie... not fantastic, and not a drama either. I scrunched up my face thinking hard for a couple of minutes.

"I think I have one," I said at last. "There was once a Muggle boy named Kevin that lived in a very big house, in a very large family —think the Weasleys, but with even more people. And since he was the youngest son, younger than even us, his older brothers and cousins always made fun of him. And one time at Christmas, the day before the whole family was meant to leave for vacations to France, he got very angry at being told off by her parents; and so that night he wished that his family would disappear..."

I narrated the story for about half an hour, putting emphasis in all the little devious traps and tricks Kevin had devised. I was lucky the film was still fresh in my memory —perks of living back in the 90s— and that I could do it justice. And by the end of it Tracey was breathing evenly under her blanket, her eyes finally closed.

I had hoped that would have been it. But by the next night it became apparent that the issue ran deeper than I thought, when I also awoke to find her bed empty once more. And so over the following days the story repeated itself: with me telling her the plot of Muggle books and films to help her fall sleep. I was lucky that the school year ended just right then, since by the time I'd finished telling Tracey of the adventures of Captain Jack Sparrow, I was starting to run out of ideas.

The curious thing was that it was only the nights that troubled her, and she didn't look that weary during the day, when the sun was up. And so when the last day at Hogwarts arrived and the entire school gathered for our last lunch in the Great Hall —under a shiny, summer blue sky that more than justified my wearing of the sunglasses— to celebrate the end of the school year, she was among the ones who clapped and cheered the loudest when the green Slytherin banners unfolded to decorate the columns and walls of the Hall.

Another change from the original plot, though one I welcomed for once: with a sum total of 493 points to Gryffindor's 486, it was us snakes who won the House Cup. And while I guessed Harry might have been disappointed at that, the way Tracey beamed at the announcement quickly made me forget about it.

Given what I remembered from my fore-memories, though, I had almost expected Dumbledore's fuckery to steal the Cup for the house of the lions at the last minute; but that never happened. Maybe because the events with Quirrell had taken place earlier than they should have been, and so there was no need —or justification— for any sudden and mysterious point giving on his part. Or maybe because he didn't want to needlessly anger the potential Dark Lady in the making.

So there was a little celebration that night at our common room —despite the Ravenclaws having snatched the Quidditch Cup from us. A celebration that included butterbeer for us younger students, while the older years enjoyed their firewhisky, rum and other assorted spirits smuggled in straight from Hogsmeade; all of it happening right under the surprisingly permissive eye of the prefects. Though I suspected Gemma Farley in particular wouldn't have been that keen to take any unpopular measures so soon into her newly minted reign anyway.

And since the common room was still occupied and it was our last day of the year after all, we were allowed to stay late that night —Tracey, Perks and me— playing with our Chocolate Frog cards; a somewhat childish parody of the cards game that some of the teenagers were playing among themselves a couple of tables away. A sort of magical poker which included some cards transfigurating into others, a generous dose of haggling and bluffing, and quite a few Galleons exchanging hands —all of it punctuated by the occasional shout of excitement or indignation.

Our own game wasn't that much of an emotional rollercoaster, but it still was fun enough to distract Tracey from her nightly fears, so that when we finally went to bed she fell asleep and didn't wake up until morning. And then it was all a mad rush of packing everything into our trunks, heading to the Great Hall for a quick breakfast, and off to board the train back to London.

It was a quiet trip, all of us girls too tired from the lack of sleep to talk too much —except for Greengrass, who had been well-behaved and responsible enough not to linger in the common room for so long after our usual bedtime, and now looked annoyingly fresh and peppy as she read from her magazines and commented aloud on the articles and the expensive trinkets and jewellery they featured.

I myself simply observed the fields roll by with half-opened eyelids, trying not to think too much about the future, about what awaited this little group of girls in the upcoming years. But it was easy, being surrounded only by the very housemates that had accepted me, that had supported me. And now that I'd managed to successfully navigate this critical first year, my being thrown into the snake pit, I could almost believe that everything would turn out fine, in the end.

Almost.

Then we arrived at King's Cross station and disembarked the train. And unlike the sea of unknown faces that platform nine and three quarters had felt like at the beginning of term, this time the people around me felt familiar, even though I didn't know the names of that many students from the other houses. But now that I was paying attention, I saw some of my housemates' parents, such as Zabini meeting with a tall, elegant witch dressed in a flashy robe who I guessed must be her mother —and who was pretty much ignoring the boy, too wrapped in her flirty conversation with an elderly wizard.

I saw the Trio too, and Harry Potter caught me looking at the three of them. Our eyes met for the briefest of seconds, and he gave me a quick nod, right before turning back to his friends.

I turned back to Tracey, who had just pulled ahead of me, dragging her trunk and heading towards a middle-aged balding man wearing a brown cardigan. She said: "That's my father, see? Dad!"

"Hold on, Tracey," I said, opening my trunk to dig through its contents. "Just a moment. Your birthday is in five days, no?"

She paused, eyeing me with undisguised curiosity. "Uh... yes?"

"Well, I know it's ahead of time... and that it isn't properly wrapped... and second-hand, but... Happy Birthday?" I said, presenting my gift to her surprised face.

Slowly, she took the book off my hands and read its cover: "The Other Healing, by Celestina Dervish?"

"I know, I know... but give it a try? It did help me sleep better, right after Christmas when... well, you–"

But I couldn't finish the sentence, because out of the sudden I had Tracey hugging me like I was a tree and she a koala. Which turned a few heads our way, since it wasn't that common for Slytherins to show any outward signs of affection —the socially accepted way of showing you enjoyed someone's company was by gently teasing them, but apparently nobody had explained that to her.

"And... uhm," I said, feeling a bit uncomfortable. "I don't have an owl, but if you send yours to the Residence I could give you something more too? Like one of those Rubik cubes I told you about."

She said: "No, you don't have to—"

"Nah, it's fine; nobody will miss it. Just tell the owl to land on one of the trees outside, not at my window."

She nodded, releasing me after that but not letting me go away yet; dragging me instead to meet his father —who apparently knew almost everything about my backstory already from the letters Tracey had sent him during the year.

But soon after that I was left alone to cross the threshold back into the Muggle world —where I saw the Weasley kids surrounding a portly witch who could be none other than Molly Weasley. I ignored them, though, and headed towards the lone figure waiting by a ticket kiosk, eyeing the arrivals panel on the nearby wall with confusion.

"Oh, there you are!" said Gary, taking the trunk off my hands and effortlessly placing it on top a nearby trolley. "I must have missed your train's arrival; but never matter, let's head back quickly. With some luck we might be able to beat the afternoon traffic."

And if that wasn't enough of a sign that I'd just left an entire world of magic behind, the trip to the Residence was quick to reinforce it: all traffic lights and smoke coming out of the double decker buses as we crawled our way through the streets of London, the noises of a nearby pneumatic drill determined to push through a layer of concrete, and the veritable masses of pedestrians everywhere.

It felt like going back to some sort of familiar, yet alien planet. Or perhaps, like I'd just waken up from a dream.

And yet it still felt different than my previous life, my life before Dumbledore had crashed into it with all the subtlety of a meteor into a world full of dinosaurs. Because I might be going back to the Muggle world, yes, but I wasn't the same anymore. I wasn't the same Sylvia who had left the Residence.

No, Hogwarts had changed me. Subtly, perhaps; but it had. The reminder was everywhere: on the magic I could still feel beating right under my skin. On my wand, still in my pocket. Or on the bone white Skeleton Key hanging off my necklace, begging to be used.

Chapter Text

It didn't take me long to realise that time hadn't paused on the Muggle world while I'd been away at Hogwarts; even though it was exactly what I'd half-expected: for everything to be and look exactly like it had the year before, when I'd left for King's Cross.

But no. The first hint I had that things were different at the Residence was Lucy's empty room: she'd been one of the oldest residents the year before, and at some point during the last months she'd graduated and had now moved onto greener pastures —which is to say, she was now old enough not to be a ward of the state any longer. Apparently they'd even thrown her a little farewell party. And while I should have expected at least that one change, given her age, her absence still took me as somewhat of a jarring surprise.

The other main change was even more unpleasant, though.

I was sitting on the little, low brick ledge by the short span of stairs that descended to the Residence's back garden —a narrow expanse of dirt and grass, with some uneven patches of flowers and a couple of trees, all of it enclosed by a tall wood fence— and reading a book from Hogwarts; basking under the warmth of the sun as I took advantage of it being summer, and so one of those rare days in Britain when the sky wasn't too overcast.

The book itself wasn't that interesting, truth be told. I had taken advantage of the sudden increase in free time during those last few days after our exams were over to peruse the school library in search of tomes that might hold answers to my... well, to my nature, I guessed. Both in regards of my blood and my fore-knowledge; though I had a growing suspicion both things might be related after all.

But it wasn't that easy, given that I wasn't exactly sure of what to search for —it was one of those 'I'll know it when I see it' situations, which wasn't the most efficient way of engaging into academic research. And it goes without saying that I couldn't simply ask Madam Pince for helpful pointers either. One, because Madam Pince; and two, because there wasn't an easy way for me to justify needing those particular books by appealing to our school work, given that they had absolutely nothing to do with our classes' contents as first years —or second years now, I guessed.

So yeah, I had resorted to wandering the stacks aimlessly and pretty much hoping against hope that I'd manage to find something interesting or useful as if by magic. In the end I'd ended up with a couple of books that I'd managed to... uh... 'borrow' for my summer reading, as it were.

I doubted Madam Pince would miss them; there were thousands of other books in that library!

But the current one on top of my knees —'The Theory of Fate: A Comprehensive Analysis of Seers and Their Visions'— had turned out to be somewhat of a disappointment. It was way, way too academical for my liking, dabbling into advanced topics of arithmancy, magical theory and numerology that simply flew higher above my head than an airliner. I guessed it would have been the perfect textbook if I were a N.E.W.T. student wanting to write a dissertation on how the predictions of a seer tended to follow the Muirkes Laws on the recursivity of destiny or some such. Which yeah, not really what I was looking for.

But it wasn't a complete loss, either. At least it taught me the difference between the different types of destiny, fates and fortunes; and how some of them were pretty much guaranteed to happen, while others could easily be avoided when forewarned. The problem, of course, was telling which vision was which type.

Not that any of that applied directly to me, as my fore-knowledge didn't come in the form of sudden visions or eyes that rolled back as your tongue spoke in riddles; but in memories of having read a book series and watched some films. Unsurprisingly, the book didn't have anything to say on that particular source of information on the future.

However, it did lead me to one other interesting discovery: that the threads of fate could act as... rubber bands of sorts, in a sense; pushing back against the forces trying to change them. It was something that could explain a little of what had happened during the last year, of how most of the events relating to the core plot turned out to be a little worse, a little more dangerous and dramatic than they had been in the book and film: my very presence and the changes around it —such as Dumbledore choosing Duskhaven over Quirrell— bending the threads, and those in turn pushing back.

The conclusion of that line of thought was a worrying one, as I was very aware of what next year held in store: a bloody basilisk. And so things going 'a little worse' could easily mean the deaths of one or more students. And given that I was a student, that on its own warranted a serious reconsideration of my whole strategy of trying to keep the plot as close to the one I remembered as possible; because, what was the point of doing that if it only resulted in me —or Tracey, or most likely: Hermione— getting killed by the giant snake?

Reconsideration was the right word. As in, I was right now considering time and time again how exactly I should intervene to purposefully pre-empt the whole plot of 'Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets' from taking place at all. And what consequences, if any, that change would carry in the years to come. I thought it would be fine, for the most part. My fore-knowledge was the ace up my sleeve, and so I didn't want to lose that by entirely derailing the future events; but the second book was always the odd one out, in that it wasn't as strongly connected to the rest of the series. No Voldemort, for starters. And what good was an ace if you never used it when it mattered?

So yeah, a lot of deep thinking, which was why I wasn't really paying that much attention to the book itself. But also, because Astrid's presence kept distracting me.

And that was the other main change: Astrid. Where I'd left a subdued, fearful girl that always seemed to be afraid of the world, the Astrid that I met upon my return almost felt like someone else entirely.

She was now running like blazes, racing across the back garden as she played tag with the new boy —Kenneth, apparently. He was a wiry kid her same age that was completely unable to stay still for longer than a second, always bouncing on his feet and twitching in excited nervousness. And he seemed to have taken a liking to my room-mate —or she to him— because they went everywhere together.

But the key, Earth-shattering change was that Astrid was outdoors. She was outdoors, without her blanket.

Which made me feel like I'd missed something important, some critical step in her life, her growth; a breakthrough that I should have been here for. And while I was certainly happy for her, at the same time a dark, ugly side of me wished that it wouldn't have happened, that I could have returned to my Astrid; the one I remembered from the year before. Because this new girl didn't seem like she needed me all that much.

And why should she, now that she had Kenneth? Someone who was here day after day, who hadn't abandoned her to go play witch.

I could almost sense it: this gap, this chasm between us that grew a little bit larger with every passing day. With every experience she had that I wasn't here for; with every adventure of mine that I couldn't tell her about. The way that my path was taking me away from hers; from the entire Muggle world. A world that was starting to feel a little grey, a little monotone in comparison, truth be told. Her world, the world of Astrid, Colin and the others.

But maybe not mine, not any longer.

No. Now I was well on my way to become merely a summer visitor to this world of cars and tellies, of films and printers. And I suspected that, without my fore-knowledge about the future inventions and social changes —phones and the Internet and all that— in a few years more I would have grown completely out of touch; as lost and incapable of navigating it as any of those Slytherin pure-bloods would be today.

The other issue was that I was starting to get older myself —not old older, but just enough that playing silly chasing games in the garden didn't sound as fun as it once did. Although I still maintained a healthy appetite for some of the other common pastimes at the Residence: I enjoyed watching shows and the Gameboy; and taking stuff that wasn't mine. In fact, a couple of judicious —and secret— uses of my Skeleton key in the days since my return had served me to quickly reinforce my reputation as the Residence's master thief.

Well, second only to Colin, maybe. Somehow the fifteen-year-old still managed to outdo me time and time again, and without using any magic.

And speaking of the devil, I paused my reading when a shadow fell across the pages of my book, turning my head to discover Colin standing next to me. He offered me the bag of assorted illegal sweets he was carrying, and I took a cherry drop without a word.

"I bring bad news," he said, "the Giraffe is asking for you."

"Shit."

"Yep. Did you get caught? Getting sloppy?"

I shot him a look of faux indignation. "Caught? Me? You insult me! I should duel you for that!"

He shrugged. "They say a gentleman should never duel a lady."

"Good thing I'm not a gentleman, then."

He snorted dismissively, before rummaging in the bag and extracting a crystal mint that he then put in his own mouth.

"So, did you get any juicy loot at your fancy school?" he asked after a beat.

I nodded. "Not as much as I could, but probably more than I should."

"What does that mean? Are you going all upstanding citizen on us now?"

"Nah... it's just... more difficult there, easier to get caught. They even have the prefects doing patrols at night, you know."

He shrugged. "You know the saying: more risk, more reward. Besides, you owe it to us."

"Oh, I owe you? I'd love to hear how."

"Well, see: you said the other night that they put you in the same house with all those posh fellows, right?" at my nod, he continued: "Then it's like in Robin Hood: you must steal from the rich, to share the booty with us humble folk. 'Tis but the right thing to do."

I let out a laugh. "Like shit you're humble."

"Humbler than them posh buggers! Am I not?"

Well, he was right about that, at least. But rather than conceding the point I stood up: "I'll better see what the Giraffe wants, before she gets agitated."

"Yeah. Good luck with that."

I shrugged. "It's probably just about replacing the clothes I've outgrown. I need new pyjamas." —and sure, my fairy ones might have had resizing charms to account for just that, but I couldn't exactly wear them here, could I?

With that thought in mind I entered the building and walked up to her office, which compared to the splendour and majesty of Dumbledore's massive one now felt like a little, pitiful thing. Cluttered, poorly lit and full of filing cabinets; as if it was only half office, half archive room.

Though this office had one thing in common with that of the Headmaster, I realised as I entered to find the Giraffe staring me down from behind her desk: there were gargoyles in both of them.

"Sit, Sylvia," she commanded. "Your grades from Hogwarts School have arrived."

You know, as if that was a perfectly normal sentence for her to utter. But she hadn't tripped on the name, pronouncing it as nonchalantly as if it had been 'Harrow School' or 'Westminster'. And sure enough, she was holding a parchment in her hands that looked positively out of place among the piles of papers and notes spread across her desk.

What the hell? Had Dumbledore let her in on the secret?

"I must say I'm disappointed, though," she continued, reading from the parchment. "Care to explain how you have failed your Gardening class?"

My eyes were very open, and I could only utter an "Uh..."

"I see. At least the rest of your grades are acceptable. You received good results in Maths and Chemistry, as well as..." she went a little cross-eyed for a moment "...as well as in Physical Education and... Martial Arts."

"Can I see it?" I asked, extending my hand.

"It's 'may I see it'," she replied. But she handed the parchment to me.

I quickly glanced over it and sure enough, it was a Hogwarts parchment, letterhead and all. And the names of the subjects matched perfectly with those I was already familiar with. So no 'Maths' or 'Chemistry' anywhere to be found. However, in her way the Giraffe had been saying the truth: next to Herbology it did say 'Poor'. That hag Sprout had given me a failing grade, after all!

But I was starting to see what was happening here. And well, hats off to Dumbledore, I guessed. I wasn't sure if it was some sort of mind magic he had performed on the woman during his visit the previous year, of if it was the parchment itself that was enchanted to fool Muggles; but regardless, it was a pretty nifty trick.

One that would make sure the Giraffe kept a firm control over my schooling, though; and that I wouldn't be able to get away with failing any classes, wouldn't have any more freedom in that regard than any of the other kids at the Residence enjoyed. Even less so, if the Giraffe somehow believed that Hogwarts was some sort of very special, prestigious institution. Because she would make bloody sure I wouldn't tarnish the reputation of her Residence by doing something as crass as failing in my studies. So perhaps I should retract those kudos to the old wizard.

At least I had 'Outstandings' in Charms, Transfiguration, Defence Against the Dark Arts and even Potions —though I guessed being a Slytherin might have helped somewhat there— with 'Exceeds Expectations' in almost everything else. All in all, not a bad result by any means; maybe even second only to Hermione. The Giraffe was just being a pain on my arse, as usual.

"I'll try to work harder in that class for next year," I hedged, trying to look appropriately contrite.

"Very well. And to help you with that I have modified your summer schedule. Since we do have a garden here, I added two more weekly hours of gardening work for your–"

"What?!"

"Sylvia–"

"But it's only Herb– er, Gardening that I failed!" I argued, slapping the parchment with my free hand. "I passed everything else with flying colours!"

Even Flying class, which I'd had my doubts about. But no, it turned out I had managed an 'Acceptable' there.

But the Giraffe didn't seem reassured, now furrowing her brow at me and straightening her blouse, something that in my experience never preceded anything good. She said: "You are meant to pass every single class you have, Sylvia! Attending such a prestigious school is a privilege you should be always thankful for and mindful of, and applying yourself to make sure you don't fail any of your exams is your duty as a student who has been granted a full scholarship. There are many other children your age who this grant could have benefited instead of you, and so you must make yourself worthy of it."

She was wrong about that, as I was pretty sure I was the only orphan witch my age in Britain raised by Muggles who were unaware of magic. But of course that was something I couldn't even begin to explain to her. So I simply sighed and said: "Believe me, it won't help any."

Because it was the truth. Sure, I didn't like normal plants either. But magical plants, it was them who didn't like me. That was an entirely different issue, and sweating under the summer sun while I weeded the Residence's stupid garden wasn't going to help me with that. It would only get me dirty and annoyed.

"We'll see about that. I understand you must also have summer homework from your other subjects?" I gave a tentative nod, and she continued: "Very well, I will also add a daily homework hour to your schedule, starting tomorrow."

"But I have until September to do it! That's like... aeons away!"

"Don't worry," she said matter-of-factly, her gaze returning to her notes. "If you run out of your assigned homework, we do have other schoolwork here you may do after that. Off you go now, girl!"

I groaned in protest, but left her office as soon as humanly possible; before she could think to add any more stupid hours to my stupid schedule.

And thus my beautiful, pure summer days became polluted by the writing of essays on such enthusing topics as the Druids Revolution for History of Magic, or why a double pinch could sometime substitute for a side-swish for Charms. And since the existence of the trace meant our teachers were aware many of us wouldn't be able to use our wands at all, they'd made sure all of the Hogwarts' homework was purely of the theoretical kind. It resulted in a lot of digging through my course books in search of those fine, little details I'd already forgotten about, but that our teachers certainly hadn't. That was counterbalanced by my time spent outdoors, however: weeding and watering, trimming and sowing; all under the supervision of Mrs. Williams, a gaunt curt woman who was part of the staff and a mix or sorts between a housekeeper, a nurse and a cook.

On the positive side, all that homework made it so that I simply couldn't forget about magic and the wizarding world, something that I'd been marginally afraid of while on my return trip aboard the Hogwarts Express. That with the prohibition of casting even a simple wand-lighting charm, it'd be just too easy to slip back into the Muggle mindset completely; to begin doubting whether my year at the castle had been real or simply a fever dream, an invention of my mind all along. Nothing like wracking my brain to figure out the number of clockwise and counter-clockwise stirs for a Cleaning Potion —with double the amount of Mistletoe berry— to cure you from that. I could almost picture Snape's satisfied sneer as he came up with his devious little problems, sitting all alone in his office... on a weekend.

Another cure for my re-Muggle-ification was that I still kept in contact with Tracey, thanks to the visits of her Fetaria —her family's reddish barn owl, with a heart-shaped face that looked like it was wearing a white mask— that I found one day perched on the branch of one of the trees outside and hooting at me while I did my gardening practices.

It was a good thing that Fetaria was a young, strong owl, because Tracey's family had gone to visit their relatives on the continent: to Hyperborea, a wizarding community in southern Greece where her aunt had a ranch and bred hippocampi, apparently. It was hard not to feel the ugly bite of envy when I read her description of the secret beaches of pure, white sand, and of how they had allowed her to ride one of the younger creatures. She'd also included a picture showing her mounted on the hippocampus' back as it galloped on the water's surface and jumped over crashing waves.

Yeah. Not envious at all. No sir.

That said, I was glad for it, and I hoped that having some nicer and fun experiences with magic would at least help Tracey get over the thing with Quirrellmort; help her sleep better.

I was also in contact with Daphne Greengrass, who sent me an overly formal letter congratulating me on my good grades —I didn't know how she knew my grades, because I for sure hadn't told her— and expressing her 'deepest wishes' that I would enjoy a nice summer. Cute.

But to be honest, not every waking hour of my summer was homework: most of them weren't, in fact; it's just that I had more work on my plate than most of the other kids did.

But there was also plenty of lazing around and playing games with the other residents; and as the days passed I got to enjoy the traditional holidays activities at the Residence: such as the yearly trip to the zoo, the trip to the swimming pool —where I discovered thanks to Colin's duckings that witches do not, in fact, float— or the more sedate 'Arts & Crafts' days, which included drawing and painting but I also suspected were thinly veiled excuses to get us girls to learn how to sew and do other classical feminine household chores —given that the boys were allowed to spend that same time kicking a ball outside, or whatever it was they did.

I also slowly got to reconnect with Astrid somewhat; on account of both of us still sharing the same room. Though I didn't fool myself: after all these months, this was now Astrid's room through and through. I was simply her summer guest.

It was right before our bedtime and I was laying on my bed and taking a look at the other book that I had extracted from the Hogwarts library, just killing some time while Astrid brushed her teeth. It was an old copy of a book by one Meridia Travers titled 'Magical Peoples and Their Customs' —so old that it was missing a few pages, in fact. I had been quite inspired when I'd found it, because it promised answers; with its listing of dozens of sapient mythical beings, complete with their basic factoids.

The truth was a little more nuanced, though, as the book predated the modern definition of magical 'beings', and pretty much lumped them together with many of what we now would refer to as 'beasts', based simply on facts such as if they could talk or looked vaguely humanoid. And so it covered beings such as goblins and merpeople, sure; but also trolls and pixies. Which yeah, it meant about half of the book was a waste for me, as I already had Scamander's 'Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them' for many of those —and that one had pictures!— And even though I didn't know what kind of magical being I was, at least I knew I wasn't a troll.

Wayne Hopkins might have disagreed on that particular point, though.

I was working under the assumption that I must be a half-breed —half human, half... not— and so it was a matter of identifying which species my other half belonged to. Simple enough, right? Except that... not really; because while most half-breeds showed physical characteristics that were significant enough to quickly classify them, I just... didn't.

No, instead I just looked completely human. Which meant it'd be very unlikely I was a half-giant, or a half-goblin, or a half-centaur. My skin wasn't nearly pale enough for a half-vampire, and an honest look at the mirror put my dreams of being a half-veela to rest; though on the positive side, at least a half-hag was also out.

I was working my way through the merpeople —as some of their half-breed offspring could look remarkably human when dry— but I wasn't too hopeful as I didn't particularly enjoy swimming. But more than that, none of the descriptions about the magical creatures I'd seen so far mentioned anything close to the experience of my fore-memories and rebirth. The closest thing to it that I could find were the phoenixes, and those were birds. Centaurs too, I guessed, with their attunement to divination, but their number of limbs didn't match mine.

So yeah, no luck so far. And I was frustrated enough that I snapped the book closed and placed it back on my nightstand right before Astrid entered the room. She took a quick glance at it, but like all my other Hogwarts books this one too was wearing a suitable Muggle-looking jacket to camouflage it as a generic boring school textbook —'Geography II', in its case.

But it must have caught her attention regardless, because as she sat down on her own bed next to mine, she asked me: "So... did you catch any villains?"

I blinked at her in surprise. And I was about to reply with some quip or another, when I realised what the true answer was:

"Uh... yes, actually. Two of them, in fact."

That seemed to take her by surprise. "What? Really?!"

"Yeah, real arse-holes, both of them. One was a psychopathic teenager, the other a murderous overlord. Oh! And I also killed a monster spider, bigger than a car!"

She gave me a narrow look: "A... spider? Are you pulling my leg?"

"Nuh-uh," I said, reaching to my trunk to extract 'Fantastic Beasts' and opening it to the page on acromantulas. "Take a look."

Because yeah: in for a penny, in for a pound; and to hell with the bloody Statute of Secrecy.

Astrid sat down by my side on my bed and started reading from the book: "Acra– Acromantula.Native of the East Indies, favours tropical forests... East Indies? Where's that?"

"Ah, it's old-fashioned for South-East Asia. But look at the picture!"

She did: it depicted the hairy, many-legged beast next to the little silhouette of a wizard for scale. At least the pictures in Scamander's book seemed to somehow be aware of when a Muggle was looking at them and didn't move that much, and so were marginally safe-ish to show to her; for a short while at least. She tilted her head in curiosity.

"That's not bigger than a car," she commented.

"It's bigger than a Mini!" I replied, closing the book once she'd gotten a good look, but before she could read the rest of the text. "Besides... they can grow much larger, you know. Imagine, a spider taller than you!"

She nodded, but seemed a bit reluctant to go back to her own bed, her eyes fixated on the now closed book on my lap. After a beat she asked:

"If they're from Asia... how come you had to fight one? Are they... are those things here too; in Britain?"

Oh, damn.

I let out a soft sigh; stoking Astrid's fears had certainly never been my intention, but now I could see how showing pictures of giant spiders to a ten year old girl who used to be afraid of her own shadow might have been... a tiny bit counterproductive.

"Well, not really," I explained. "You don't have to worry about them, especially not here so deep in a Mug– er, urban area. They only got into my school because... you know, the murderous overlord villain? He sneaked in a couple of them on purpose, to create a panic."

She nodded at that; though I didn't know how effective my words were.

"How– how did you kill it?"

"The acromantula? I dropped a heavy teacher's desk on top of it. It was an ugly, old desk too, so we– I mean, I was doing the school a favour, really."

That seemed to surprise her: "You have super-strength?"

"What?"

"You know, to throw that desk around?"

"Ah, no. I made it levitate in the air and–"

"You can make things fly?!" she exclaimed, her eyes open wide. "Telekinesis is the best power!"

"Shh!" I said, my own eyes going instinctively to our room's closed door. "Yes, but remember: you have to promise me you won't tell anyone about this. Not even Kenneth. It's very important, Astrid."

"Because of the evil people who steal memories," she said, nodding.

"Right. I wouldn't say they're evil, just civil servants; although you could argue the difference is–"

"Do you–?" she started, sounding suddenly bashful. "I mean... do you think... that I'll get powers too?"

Oh, damn.

I found myself at a loss for words, unsure how to explain to her that no, most likely she wouldn't, without crushing her dreams and self-esteem in the process. Bloody hell. This was the risk of telling Muggles, and I just knew this was a common pitfall for Muggleborns; one of the reasons so many of them ended up estranged from their families.

I mean, this was exactly what had happened in the story too, right? Between Lily Potter and her sister; and I'd just walked straight into it myself. Here I was, tempting her with a fantastic world that I knew she would never be allowed to access.

My pause as I searched for what to say must have been long enough to be an answer on its own, because I could see the hope abandoning Astrid's eyes, her body posture deflating a little as she stood up again and walked back to her bed, sitting on it.

"It's just... very rare, Astrid," I tried to explain. "It's still possible; but it is very unlikely, and I don't want to give you false hopes."

She nodded in silence.

"But look at it this way," I added. "You are one of the very few people who know about all this."

The girl didn't say anything at first, her lip trembling; then she replied: "Sorry... I knew... it was a stupid question. But..."

"It wasn't stupid, Astrid."

"And... you... will protect the house if a spider comes near, right?"

I shot her a confident grin and said: "Of course, but they wouldn't dare, if they know I'm here!" trying to lift her spirits. But she merely nodded again and replied: "Good night, Sylvia."

"'Night," I said, turning the room's lights off at last.

Oh, well. That could've gone better.

But also much, much worse. And a couple of days later she seemed to have mostly forgotten about our little conversation and was back to her usual —or well, new usual— self, back to running across the garden and playing games with Kenneth, who shot me looks now and then somewhere between curious and antagonistic. He seemed to have caught on that something had happened between Astrid and me, but not quite what; which was exactly how I preferred it.

And so, day by day, week by week my vacations slipped away. And one afternoon I finished with my Transfiguration problems to discover that I'd already completed all of my Hogwarts homework —which of course I never mentioned to the Giraffe, employing that hour of my schedule to work on my own research from that point on. And one bright, beautiful day Mrs. Williams took her own vacations —to Spain, apparently— and I was finally relieved from my gardening duties.

And then one morning I was watching 'Rugrats' on our communal telly when Gary from the staff entered the large living room and simply stood there, his eyes fixated on a blank wall. I didn't pay him any attention at first, but when a few seconds had passed I turned my gaze on him. He still wasn't moving.

"Gary?" I asked.

His whole body jerked, as he turned to face me.

"Oh! There you are! Ah... you need to... go to the... foyer?"

"The foyer?"

He nodded distracted, then turned back to look at the random spot on the wall.

I stood up slowly and approached him. He was mumbling: "But where did I...? Uh..."

"Hey, Gary. Are you okay?"

"Yes, yes. But... remember... about the foyer."

"Hmm... why don't you sit down on the couch? Just for a little bit, will you?"

"That... sure, yes. That sounds like... a good idea," he said. But still he remained standing.

Gently, I grabbed his arm and lead him towards the pale blue couch that presided our living room. He seemed surprised at seeing it, saying: "Oh! I had forgotten where it was! Can you believe that?" Then his eyes went to the cartoons on the screen, and he laughed at something Angelica had just said, slapping his thigh.

I took a couple steps away, waited for a few moments longer to see he wasn't about to stand up and jump through the glass windows or something, then edged my way towards the door leading to the foyer.

I tried to be as silent as possible, ninja-stepping my way there; because this little episode pretty much smelled magic a mile away. And the issue was that —should this be some sort of revenge attack by Selwyn and company— my wand was inside my trunk; in my room upstairs. A room that I simply couldn't get to without crossing through the foyer in the first place.

So yeah, my eyes wandered in search of any random object I could use as an impromptu melee weapon should the need arise, and my ears were all open to any and all strange sounds. But when I leaned over the door's frame to take a quick glance at the house's entrance, I felt a smile tug at my lips at the sight that waited for me there.

Chapter Text

Severus Snape stood right by the main door, dressed in his usual wizarding garb. His long, draping dark robes contrasted absurdly with the foyer's suburban decoration: the little table with the umbrella stand next to it, the framed pictures of the Residence's previous guests that had already graduated, or the cork noticeboard with pinned post-it notes of different colours. And in the middle of it all, this big, human-sized bat looking around with endless disdain, standing ramrod straight as if afraid he'd catch the Muggles if he came into contact with any of the exposed surfaces.

I joined him, grinning widely as I said: "Hello Professor! Uhm... isn't that a violation of the Statute of Secrecy? I mean, the part about the dressing guidelines?"

He glared at me. "Silence, girl. Now, let's go."

"Go where?"

"To Diagon Alley... obviously. To purchase your new coursebooks. Or have you already forgotten everything to do with your schooling?"

Right. I might have forgotten how much of a git he was, actually.

"Oh, it's just... I was expecting McGonagall, like last year."

His teeth were almost grinding together as he explained: "Professor McGonagall was adamant that since you were —regretfully— sorted into my house, it now falls to me to escort you. Now go and bring your trunk; quickly."

"Sure. But... I need to get dressed first."

A sudden, shrill voice coming from the door to the right exploded: "Who are you?! Explain yourself at once! What are you doing here–?!"

"Confundo," said Snape in a bored tone, waving his wand in the Giraffe's general direction without even looking. The woman gaped at him and opened her mouth like a fish, but without uttering any more words —as if she'd suddenly forgotten what she was about to say— before turning around and retreating back towards her office. Snape then said back to me: "You are already... dressed."

"Do you really want to walk next to me wearing this, in Diagon Alley... sir?"

He seemed to realise for the first time just what it was that I was wearing: my black T-shirt depicted a witch... or more accurately: the Muggle interpretation of a witch; which is to say: a hag. With a huge nose, pale green skin and riding a broom in front of a full moon. The text underneath read: 'Feelin' Witchy!'

I had of course gravitated straight towards it the moment I'd first glimpsed it at the thrift shop, a few weeks ago while we were renovating my wardrobe. Its ironic pull had been simply too strong to resist.

Snape took an incredulous look at it, closed his eyes as if counting to ten, then aimed his wand at the stairs going up and grumbled: "Go. Get. Changed."

I didn't have to be asked twice, quickly rushing upstairs, dragging my trunk out from under my bed, and putting my nice turquoise weekend robes on. I also removed the two little forbidden vials I still kept inside the trunk, hid them deep into my knickers drawer; lastly I extracted my wand, too, placing it in my pocket where it belonged. After that I started dragging the whole heavy trunk towards the stairs, reconsidered for a moment, and cast a quick 'Leviosa' on it. With no Astrid around —she was outside— and Snape shooting spells left and right, I'd figured I'd be safe from the trace for once.

And besides, casting a spell again felt... invigorating. Like I was really going back to the wizarding world, in style.

Of course, Snape frowned at me when he saw me descend with the trunk hovering after me. But as he didn't comment on it, it seemed I was indeed correct that it wouldn't be an issue. He shrunk the trunk without a word until it resembled a piece of doll-house furniture that he then placed inside his own pocket. He must have cleared the use of magic with the Ministry or something along those lines... perks of being a Hogwarts professor and in the confidence of both Dumbledore and well-connected families such as the Malfoys, I guessed.

He reached for my arm, and before I had any time to react or say any words, he spun; and then my whole body was already being violently compressed and twisted around, a sickening deluge of motion and sound hitting me like the front wave of a tsunami.

The moment I felt solid ground beneath my feet back again I took a step away from my traitorous Head of House and promptly released my breakfast all over the cobblestones. I blinked once, twice, and realised we were now smack in the middle of busy Diagon Alley. And a middle-aged witch dressed in elegant golden robes was looking at me with disgust written all across her face, maybe because I'd just made a puddle of sick appear right in front of her.

I was too weak to apologise, and Snape didn't seem to mind it too much either, as he simply vanished the puddle and started dragging me down the street and towards one of the shops nearby; not giving me anytime to recuperate from the unexpected bout of apparating.

Not that he needed me to, though. I realised that we had entered the apothecary right as he was marching us straight to the counter-top, ignoring the two teenagers already waiting in line to pay for the little packages they carried under their arms —they both did a double take at realising who exactly it was that had just jumped the queue, then quickly decided to make themselves scarce.

Snape spoke to the shop attendant in a commanding tone: "A second-year standard ingredients kit, with double the amount of belladonna and a heat-proofed stirring stick..." he then eyed me for a beat and added: "... and a set of crystal vials."

The attendant nodded quickly and went to the back room. Meanwhile I had recuperated enough to say: "I already have vials, McGonagall bought them the year before."

"After what you used them for," replied Snape with barely constrained fury, "it would be... unwise to allow you to keep using those. You will dispose of them, and use these new ones from now on. I do hope that we won't have to purchase a new set for you come next year."

I gave him an innocent, confused-looking shrug that he didn't buy for even a second. And after I'd placed the new materials into my trunk —Snape knew better than to open it himself— the same situation repeated itself when we entered the next shop. Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment was the same place where I had found my sunglasses last year, and the professor was quick to warn me to keep my hands inside my pockets.

"This shop is a trustworthy supplier of Hogwarts," he explained after asking for the astronomical charts I'd need this year. "It wouldn't do to have them think our students to be nothing but thieves, would it?"

"No," I agreed, as if the comment was purely theoretical. "I guess not."

But that reminded me that I was still to pay my debt here —except that to do that, I first needed Galleons. The shape of a plan started forming in my head, and it coalesced a while later when we reached Flourish and Blotts and I saw the announcement placed on the front window.

"Gilderoy Lockhart will be signing books here?" I asked, reading aloud and pretending ignorance. "Looks famous; who is he?"

"A charlatan," spat Snape, pushing into the book shop and grabbing the closest stack of Lockhart books. "... and your new Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts, for reasons that elude me."

His tone told me that his being passed over for becoming the new Defence professor in favour of Lockhart of all people was probably a sore point for him, so I abstained from making any witty comments, focusing instead in committing into memory the date of when Lockhart was meant to do his little book signing in Diagon Alley. But I did speak aloud again when I saw Snape reaching for the second volume of 'The Standard Book of Spells'.

"I already have that one," I said. "But could I get the third one in the series instead? I'm ahead in Charms."

He quirked an eyebrow, but dropped the book without comment and grabbed the one for the third-years instead.

I saw my opportunity there and added: "And... perhaps some other book for Defence too? Professor Duskhaven recommended me some–"

"The Ministry's fund is already paying for seven books on Defence Against the Dark Arts for you this year," he interrupted me in a chilly tone. "Certainly no student would find that to be... insufficient."

Right. Not talking about the Lockhart thing. Or Defence. Got it.

I tried to get him to buy me a fiction book —like last year with McGonagall. The second one in the Talking Teapot series, in fact: 'A Very Venomous Vase'. The first volume in the series had turned out to be surprisingly well written, managing to keep the mystery of who had transfigured the victim into a teapot until the very end —it had been her lover, it turned out. Yes, the same one that was supposed to have been dead all along, but had only been faking it. But a dismissive look at the book by Snape was everything I needed to realise that it would never fly.

And speaking of flying:

"Like last year, the school will provide you with a broomstick for your lessons," he declared after I inquired about that particular topic. "And from what I've seen of your skills, you certainly aren't at risk of being admitted into our Quidditch team anytime soon. So no, we won't need to purchase any brooms today."

"What about an owl, then?"

He let out an angry breath. "The school–"

"–has owls, I know, I know," I said, raising my hands as if trying to calm a dangerous beast. "But I can't use those when I'm at the Residence- I always need to wait for either Davis or Greengrass to send their own owls first, if I want to send them any letters."

"And as you are already in contact with them... I fail to see the need for you to have your own owl."

"Yes, but I'm in contact only with them. If I had an owl–"

"If you had an owl... you would use it to talk to... who, exactly? Miss Granger, perhaps? Famous Mr. Potter? Forget about it!"

Wait, what?

What the hell? Where had that come from?

Was this the reason he was being so short to me? Not that he'd ever been friendly, but... did he see me in Potions with Granger, saw us talking like normal people those last few weeks after the events with the Stone, and figured I had become the friend of the Golden Trio or something along those lines?

"It was you who made us sit together in Potions... sir," I reminded him, even though I already knew it was the absolute worst thing to say.

"There will be no owls," he sentenced after that, his sneer savage. "No cats or toads, either. No broomsticks, no absurd mystery books, no joke products, no new robes, no–"

"Wait! But I need new clothes!"

He paused for a moment. "What for? Your school robes have resizing charms woven into them, as do the ones you're wearing now. They will last you for the upcoming year."

Oh my God, really?

"I can't just go back wearing the exact same things than last year!" I replied, stating the evident. "Maybe boys can, but girls don't work like that! Everyone will think that I am–"

His eyes widened in an expression of mild surprise. "That you are... what, exactly? An orphan raised by Muggles, perhaps? You foolish girl; are you trying to pass as a pure-blood? Think for once! It won't matter how many robes you own, when everybody in our house will be able to tell at a glance that you got them from... Madam Malkin's."

"What's wrong with Madam Malkin's?" I asked, crossing my arms and sounding petulant to even my own ears. "Everyone gets their robes there!"

He replied to that by pulling slightly on a loose thread sticking out of my left sleeve. "Their Hogwarts ones, yes; but only because that particular shop is the school's official provider. One that was chosen because of its... lower-end prices. Did you really think that was where the Greengrasses purchase their own 'weekend' robes? The Parkinsons? The Malfoys?"

I shook my head, clenching my jaw so forcefully it hurt. "It doesn't matter! That's... there's no reason I can't... I should do my best to keep up, to have a good appearance regardless of–!"

"They have vaults filled to the brim with gold, Sarramond," he said evenly. "You can't keep up, no matter how hard you try. And the quickest you learn that, the fastest you will be able to focus instead on the things where you do have a chance to compete... Duelling, perhaps, in your case."

Surprisingly, he didn't sound cruel when he said that. Instead it felt... brutally honest, like he was passing down a bitter lesson he'd had to learn himself when he was my age or something. I refused to look back at him, my gaze downcast and my fists clenched as he led me without more discussions to the next stop in our shopping trip, to buy ink and parchment replacements.

Fortunately that was the last shop in our lightning visit to the shopping district, and faster than you could say 'Apparate' we were back at the Residence's entrance. I staggered a couple feet away, thankfully managing not to vomit again —most likely because I had already emptied my stomach before— and I heard the loud crack that signalled Snape leaving me alone without saying even a word of goodbye. I turned to see he had at least grown my trunk back into its usual size, leaving it in the middle of the foyer.

Then, I realized that with him gone the trace would be back in effect, and so I couldn't simply cast another levitation charm on it. I let out a deep groan, and started dragging the heavy piece of luggage towards the stairs to the best of my ability.

I was saved by Astrid and Kenneth, who chose that moment to come back indoors, maybe attracted by the very noise of Snape leaving.

"Sylvia?" asked Astrid, eyeing the robes I was wearing, then the trunk. She frowned. "You were gone?"

"Yeah. Just got back from shopping for my school supplies... hey, would you help me carry this thing upstairs?" I looked at Kenneth. "You are a boy; you are pretty much obliged to, you know."

Astrid asked: "But can't you just...?" then she snapped her mouth closed, her eyes wide as she looked at the boy next to us.

"Not allowed," I clarified. Kenneth looked confused between the two of us, but when neither of us volunteered any explanations, he simply reached for one of my trunk's handles.

With some effort we managed to climb the stairs with the dead weight shared between the three of us, then drag it back under my bed at last.

"Why... why don't you use a normal suitcase?" asked Kenneth afterwards, leaning on the wall to recover his breath. "And why are you wearing a... a Victorian dress?"

"Because my school can be old-fashioned to the point of stupidity about some things," I confessed with a sigh. It was just like with the bloody quills: when I'd asked about the reason we used them, back at one of the meetings of the Read-Ahead Club, Susan Bones had gone off with the typical wizarding explanation about how quills were simply so much easier to enchant and transfigure than pens.

Hermione had been quick to poke holes into that theory: you could enchant a Muggle pen as easily —or complicatedly— as any quill. And while sure, the transfiguration angle was indeed true... just... how often did you find yourself actually needing to transfigure a quill, really? Certainly the benefits of not having to deal with the hassle of ink bottles were worth that tradeoff.

I had remained silent then, but quickly realised that all those excuses the children from wizarding backgrounds gave us were... pure codswallop, to be honest. And what the true, unvoiced reason must be: that we weren't allowed Muggle pens because they were made by Muggles.

It was a sort of cultural superiority complex, pervasive to wizarding society and that you could also see in the widespread use of trunks, or parchment. Things that pretty much required magic to not be huge pains in the arse, and that justified an unwillingness to acknowledge that some Muggle stuff was actually better; coupled by the ever-present fear of slow encroachment, of the loss of their own cultural identity to that of the Muggles.

Those emotions weren't restricted to the pure-blood families, just watered down in the rest. And they were the very same emotions that caused all those issues when they manifested in their darkest shades: as prejudice and hate against Muggleborns; and that Voldemort had used —and would use again— to fuel his war.

So yeah, Kenneth's simple question had a... very complicated answer, indeed.

But then it was time for lunch, and after that both Kenneth and Astrid remained indoors and watching the telly while I spent my afternoon lazing around in the garden with my new Charms book. I didn't pay much attention when I didn't see Astrid at our living room once the sun started its descent and I went back into the house, but I started to worry when dinnertime rolled in and Gary —who had recovered by then from his spot of mental confusion— mentioned that the girl had stayed at our room because apparently she wasn't feeling that well.

There was a sense of unease that started then to grow inside me, and that had me rushing upstairs the moment I'd finished wolfing down my baked salmon and chips, ignoring the Giraffe's disapproving tut.

I found Astrid sitting on her bed, with puffy tear-streaked red eyes, and covered up to her chin in her old blanket. The very same blanket that I had seen no trace of during the entire summer.

Uh-oh.

"Astrid?" I asked, calling her attention. But with no effect, because her gaze was lost in the night sky visible through our room's only window. "Hey, chipmunk? Are you good?"

She nodded, shakily, her lip trembling. Then she sniffed.

I bit my own lip, entering the room fully and approaching her.

"Uhm... are you sure? Because..."

My words trailed out when I saw that my trunk was poking slightly out from under my bed. We... hadn't left it like that, I was sure. I looked at it, then back at Astrid, catching her right in the motion of averting her eyes.

I took a quick step forwards, grabbed Astrid's blanket and pulled it away, gasping at the sight that welcomed me.

Her fingers in both hands looked like oversized, boneless sausages; they were more than twice their usual size, with their skin completely covered in red, furious blisters.

"Fuck, Astrid! Why would you try to open my trunk?!"

I quickly closed the door behind me, then started pacing the limited confines of our room, one hand to my forehead as I thought furiously on what to do now. On her bed, Astrid was stammering an apology:

"I– I'm sorry. I just– I wanted to see if– if there were more monsters in that book."

Right. I knew a weak excuse when it stared me in the face, and I was certain her sudden interest in my trunk had nothing to do with the book on magical creatures. Or not entirely, at least. Rather, it had probably been triggered by her seeing me dressed in my weird —to her— garments, and then helping me carry my trunk obviously full of mysterious, forbidden goodies.

But I could understand how that must have prompted her curiosity, so I couldn't really blame her for it. And yeah, sure, perhaps all my tales about just how good of a thief I was had had the unfortunate side-effect of loosening her own morals. Hindsight and all that.

Not that the why of it was of any relevance, really. Not right now.

"Bloody hell, Astrid," I muttered, trying to focus again on what my next steps should be.

She sniffed. "I'm sorry!"

"Bloody hell... Okay, let me see those hands again," I said, taking a closer look. "Oh, shit... bloody hell."

The first option was to simply... do nothing. I couldn't do any magic with the trace active, and I didn't have any potions that could help here. But the enchantments on my trunk's latch weren't any sort of dark magic, and shouldn't be strong enough to cause any serious or permanent damage. It's not like the Jelly-Finger curse in particular had made her bones disappear either —it just caused them to become... soft and gelatinous. Its effects should vanish on their own after a few hours, maybe one or two days at most.

The Furnunculus curse was trickier. New boils would stop appearing as soon as its effects dissipated, sure, but the existing ones wouldn't just go away. They'd need time to heal on their own, just like any non-magical injury did. But having only access to Muggle healing, and with the amount of them already covering Astrid's hands, she was looking at a few very painful days ahead, maybe longer. There was no way we'd be able to hide that from the staff, either.

And that was if they didn't scar, because there was a worrying thing about this all: her fingers should have the consistency of jelly, sure, and have pimples on them... but what I was seeing in front of me went way beyond that. There was nothing in the curses I'd used that should have caused her hands to swell like they had, or for the boils to break into blisters.

But I knew sometimes spells could have unexpected side-effects when combined, the results being somehow greater than the sum of the parts. Was that what was happening here? I didn't know, but I was starting to think that, should her hands remain untreated —or treated only with Muggle medicine, which in wizarding eyes pretty much amounted to the same thing— we might be looking at some permanent damage here, after all. I wasn't that sure they'd heal cleanly at all.

I let out a deep sigh, closing my eyes and hitting the wall softly with the back of my head, then letting myself slide down until I was sitting on the carpeted floor.

Shit.

Fine; leaving them untreated wasn't an option. What then?

I shook my head. Well, I couldn't do magic on my own; which meant I'd need some outside help. The first option that came to mind was the apothecary I'd visited earlier in the day with Snape: they'd probably have a stock of boil cure potion that could help fix the main issue here. But I discarded the thought as soon as it came, as it was already late enough that I doubted they'd be open anymore. And at the rate new boils kept visibly popping up on her hands, I just didn't want to wait until tomorrow morning.

Although... I had a certain key that could perhaps make waiting for the shop to open... unnecessary.

But there must be a better option here, right? One that wouldn't involve us committing grand larceny. I thought of reaching out for Tracey —who was by now back in Britain— and ask her to ask her family for help. But since Snape had refused to buy me an owl, and I had no Floo, I simply couldn't contact anybody at all in the wizarding world.

Maybe I could reach Hogwarts through the Giraffe? If Dumbledore had thought of having her keep an eye on me, it'd be possible he'd left her with some means of communication. But if so, it would probably be of the letter variety, and so too slow. I didn't see the Headmaster using a Muggle phone. Besides, involving Dumbledore —or any other magical high ranking official for that matter— risked Astrid ending up obliviated when the dust settled.

I cursed under my breath, hit the floor with my fist, then stood up and opened my trunk with an angry kick to its latch. I started digging through its contents under Astrid's startled gaze.

"Right," I said at last, as I extracted a bunch of my clothes and let them fall all over her bed. "Let's get dressed; we're going to the hospital."

"But I'm already dressed."

"Not like that," I said as I spread the outfit I wanted her to wear: my fairy pyjamas and my dressing gown. "This is a... a special kind of hospital; for people like me, you know."

"They're– they're moving!"

"Exactly. We just can't have you looking like a Muggle, right?"

I mean, we could; but this plan of mine would go much smoother if that wasn't everyone's first impression of her.

"What's a Muggle?" she asked, her eyes still glued to the animated stamps.

I turned to retrieve my wand, along with the same robes I'd worn myself during my earlier visit to Diagon Alley. "Oh... it's just, someone who doesn't have any... someone without..."

"Without powers... Like me, you mean."

She let her head hang low, clutching her blanket the best her swollen hands allowed. I sighed and rested my own hand on her shoulder.

"Hey, hey... there's nothing bad in that!" I said, trying my best to sound chipper when in truth I was feeling nothing but panicked myself. "Now, put these pyjamas on, quickly. The sooner we leave, the sooner someone will take a look at those hands."

She nodded weakly, then said: "I'm going to need help... I can't... I can't get dressed on my own."

"Oh, right! Of course! Don't worry about that. Let's start with the bottom half..."

It took us more than five minutes to get her into the pyjamas, something that under normal circumstances should have taken no longer than a few seconds. But her oversized hands kept getting stuck in the sleeves, her fingers bending all the way back; and the very brush of the fabric on her over-sensitive skin had her biting her bottom lip and almost crying in pain.

But in the end, we succeeded. The pyjamas were an inch too large on her, but the enchantments soon triggered and shrunk them down to the appropriate size, the stamped fairies staring at Astrid's hands with horrified eyes as they flew across her body. I quickly covered the girl in the dressing gown, not caring about getting her hands through the sleeves this time; and then rushed to get changed myself into my own robes, and put my wand and all my meagre remaining money into my pockets.

"Right. You're going to see a lot of crazy stuff, but there's just one very important thing to remember, Astrid," I said, squatting down in front of her to tie down her trainer's shoelaces. "If anyone asks, you're my sister."

"What?"

"Yes. If anyone asks your name, you are 'Astrid Sarramond'. Everything else can be the same: we live here with the Giraffe and the other Muggles, you go to your same school... but just remember this: you are my sister. Got it?"

"Yes. But... but why do I–?"

"Because if they think you're just some Muggle girl, they'll have to tell the government people I told you about who keep the secret hidden," I replied quickly, to her growing horror. "But there's a provision in the Statute of Secrecy for immediate family members; so if they buy that we are sisters, you get to keep your memories."

I spent a few more moments tiding up the room a little and placing our pillows inside our respective beds, to give the impression that we'd chosen to go to bed early; just on the off-chance someone happened to open the door looking for us.

Astrid said: "Can't we just go to a... a normal hospital? Why do I need to go to that one?"

"Because... this isn't a normal injury, chipmunk. And besides, I'm sure they must have people in Muggle hospitals too, to keep an eye out for just this kind of thing; so it wouldn't help. You ready?"

She nodded, standing up on two wobbly legs. I signalled her to be quiet, and opened the room's door slowly. The outside hall was empty and dark already, and we descended the stairs as quickly as we dared. There was some noise of adults talking coming from the kitchen area, but the door to the foyer was closed and so nobody saw us walk all the way up to the Residence's front door.

The front door was usually locked tight during the night, but that didn't mean much when I could simply use my Skeleton key. I unlatched it and pushed it open slowly, slipping to the fresh air of the street outside, followed by Astrid.

These were the most critical moments, as we were pretty much in plain sight of both the house's windows and any traffic that happened to pass through the residential street, and whose driver might wonder just what in the world two prepubescent girls were doing alone and outside at night. But while I could hear the noise of cars driving nearby, our own street was thankfully deserted, and I quickly guided Astrid along the pavement until we were away from the building and hidden from prying eyes under the lush branches of a nearby, large oak tree. Then, I took a well-deserved breath.

I took my wand out and turned to Astrid, who at least wasn't crying anymore, and who looked at the dark stick of wood with curiosity.

"Remember, you're my sister," I said once more. When she nodded, I added: "And one more thing... it's not superpowers, Astrid. It's magic."

I then took a step towards the kerb as I raised my wand. I wasn't intentionally aiming at theatrics —it just came naturally— but I had the intrusive thought that I'd certainly lose a lot of cool points in the younger girl's eyes should nothing happen, and it wasn't like I'd ever done this thing bef–

BANG!

Chapter Text

I took a reflexive jump back as the enormous, garishly purple triple decker appeared right in front of us, simply popping into existence. Then I gathered myself again and shot a smirk at Astrid, who was looking at the monstrosity with the wide eyes and slack jaw it very much deserved.

The conductor was just what I'd expected from my fore-memories: pimply, awkward and probably not yet old enough to drink. But the Knight Bus' questionably lax staffing choices worked in our favour now, as I guessed someone older —or just slightly more professional— might have wanted to know what two young girls were doing on their own at night.

He, however, didn't seem to mind it as he dismounted the vehicle and said: "Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded– Merlin's beard! Woss wrong with your hands?!"

Astrid took a step back, looking sheepish as she tried to hide her hands inside the dressing gown.

"Hi," I said. "I'm Sylvia." I tried to block his line of sight of Astrid with my own body, but my short stature made the manoeuvre ineffective: the young man's eyes were still latched to her fingers, which now that I thought about it actually looked somewhat larger than they had before, back at the Residence.

"Hey!" I repeated myself, more forcefully. "We need to go to St. Mungo's."

"Yep," he nodded, still not looking at me. "I reckon ya should."

"Well... can you take us there?"

"Ah, o' course!" he said, taking a step to the side at last and motioning us forward. "Get on, get on! Name's Stan, Stan Shunpike."

"Uh... how much is it?"

"Eleven sickles; but tell'ya what, for an emergency we'll just go free, won't we, Ern?"

The old man sitting at the driver's seat glanced at us and nodded: "Nasty."

"Yup. Grab tight, Sylvia... and, woss your name?"

"Astrid, she's my sister," I replied, because the younger girl was still shell-shocked, now looking at the impossibly expansive inside of the bus —with its beds and wooden walls— with something akin to fearful amazement.

It was indeed a sight to give someone pause, the unlikely collection of eclectic furniture and assorted items —cupboards and candelabra, two or three tea tables with steaming mugs of chocolate, trunks and bags of all colours and sizes piled up near the back— but I focused first on trying to locate the nearest empty bed, then quickly dragging Astrid towards it.

And it was a good thing I did so, because right as I was helping her climb onto it I heard the bus door closing behind us, and Stan saying: "Hit it, Ern!"

I reached for the bed's post with one hand and Astrid's clothes with the other, just at the same time as the vehicle jerked forwards with a new loud bang, a cracking sound reminiscent to the one Snape had made when he'd disapparated away after dropping me at the Residence —if Snape were a triple decker, fifteen meters long purple bus, that is.

Outside the windows there was chaos, the lights of a hundred lampposts blurring together into messy streaks that shone over the fleeting hints of the facades of the dozens of building we were moving past —or that were moving themselves to make way for us, I wasn't that sure. But I tried to ignore all that magical craziness in favour of keeping my eyes on the girl next to me: with her ruined hands making her unable to grasp any handle to steady herself with, Astrid's body tilted like a sack of potatoes, leaning dangerously left and right with every quick swerve of the driving wheel.

Stan, though, didn't seem to have much trouble keeping his balance. He towered over us, steadying himself with the help of an overhead bar as he looked with naked curiosity at Astrid.

"What'd ya do?" he asked at last, "Stick your 'ands into a boiling cauldron?"

The girl looked at me, her face a mask of panic. I wasn't sure if it was at being addressed by him, or at the general... mayhem of a situation she suddenly found herself in.

"She touched a cursed object," I replied in her stead.

"Ah, bad thing that, eh?"

I nodded; and I expected him to go back to his post then, but instead he remained there in front of us, observing as I struggled to keep the girl from falling from the bed, never lending a hand himself.

"Want some chocolate?" he asked at last, motioning with his head in the direction of the steaming mugs.

"I– I think I'm going to be sick," muttered Astrid.

"Uh... no thanks," I replied after a beat. At least that seemed to satisfy him, because he went back to his own seat next to the driver.

"Just hold on," I said to Astrid. "It's shaky, but the good thing about that is that it makes for a very quick trip. Try keeping your eyes away from the windows, though."

She nodded, but I could almost see the greenness invade her face with each passing second. I hurried to try and distract her from her growing bout of bus-sickness:

"So yeah, it's magic, sorry I didn't mention it before," I said, keeping my voice low enough that Stan wouldn't hear us over the ruckus all the beds and rattling furniture made with every turn. At least he didn't seem to be paying attention to us anymore, his face burrowed into an unfolded issue of The Daily Prophet.

"All this is... magic?"

I wasn't sure if she was talking about the bus or what had happened to her hands, but I opted to think it was the former: "The Knight Bus. It's a quick transportation service for witches and wizards. There are other, less... uhm... less intense ways of travelling. But this is good if you are in a hurry and don't have access to any others."

"But... so... how...?"

"Magic, Astrid. The answer is always magic."

She meditated on that for a few seconds, her eyes going over the interior of the vehicle, pausing when they got to the pile of trunks —possibly taking into stock how similar to mine they looked. I was glad to see my trick to distract her attention was working, though; or maybe we were both simply getting used to the continuous rocking of the bed, because it no longer felt like I was holding on for dear life, and I could relax my grip on the post a little.

"So you're a... a magician?" she asked at last.

"A witch," I corrected. "I have a magic wand, you saw it just now, and I go to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where I learn how to cast spells... among other things, like brewing potions and–"

"Brewing potions... in cauldrons?" she asked, as if unsure whether Stan —or I— were telling the truth or simply pulling some extraordinary prank on her. It was a feeling I knew well.

"Exactly!"

Her eyes went back to the world outside the windows. "But how can... nobody know?"

"Well, the bus is probably invisible, it's my guess," I replied. "Like that day when we were in the Giraffe's office and she almost caught us, remember? It wasn't a superpower or anything, it was just accidental magic on my part. There's a lot of those kind of spells going on, to keep the secret. And when someone does see something that they shouldn't have, well..."

"They take the memory away," she muttered.

"Yes; but also Muggles... uh, rationalize it when they see something weird, you know. If you see a purple bus driving towards you at night and then blink and it's gone, you're most likely to believe you were just tired and imagined it all. But even so, it's not a perfect secret: there is stuff leaking all the time; that's how people know about witches having cauldrons and magic wands and brewing potions, and flying on brooms."

She snapped her head towards me: "You can fly on a... on a broom?"

I nodded.

"You can fly on a broom?!"

"Shh," I said. "Yes. But not just any broom, it has to have been enchanted to–"

That was when the bus stopped with another sudden crack, finally launching the two of us from the bed. I barely managed to prevent Astrid from crashing straight into the nearest nightstand, but felt the muscles of my arm stretching into a forceful position that I knew I was going to regret come morning.

"Two to St. Mungo's!" announced Stan, opening the bus' front door.

At fucking last, I thought. I picked myself up and helped Astrid stand up again, and together we disembarked the maddening vehicle as quickly as humanly possible. The street we landed on seemed to be a trafficked, commercial one; but as it was night already most of the shops were closed, and there weren't that many pedestrians around.

And it didn't help that we were right in front of a derelict building, the street lamps on this part of the street all burnt out and the pavement dirty with litter. I knew from my fore-memories the hospital was supposed to look somewhat like that, so I wasn't too worried; but the sight still was —to be quite honest— a little bit intimidating, and I suddenly became very aware of how small my twelve-year old body was.

I was about to turn and ask for Stan on instructions on how exactly to enter the building, when I heard the crack beneath me and the gust of air rushing to fill the suddenly empty void the bus had left on its wake, the wind pushing scraps of paper and abandoned plastic bags into fluttering across the ground.

"Sylvia...?" asked Astrid, looking around with a worried expression.

"Let's go," I said, pushing her elbow gently towards the abandoned department store. The hospital itself should be safe, but I wasn't that sure about this very street on the Muggle side, so it was probably best not to linger around.

The issue was, of course, that I wasn't that sure of what to do next. Unlike with Diagon Alley, or platform nine and three quarters, I couldn't quite remember how you were meant to cross whatever barrier separated the Muggle and magical sides here. So I simply advanced towards the abandoned front window display, took a quick look around to make sure nobody was paying attention to us, then extracted my wand —not that I knew what I should use it for.

Nothing happened, and I reached with my free hand to touch the window. As I did so, though, the dusty mannequin on the other side turned its head slightly to look at me with its featureless, blank face. Astrid took a quick step back; but the mannequin didn't do anything else, simply looking at us as if... expectant.

I said: "Uh... can we... go through? It's an emergency."

I felt a little silly, but it seemed to do the trick, because the thing nodded at us and the fingers I had resting against the window suddenly went through it, as if the solid pane of glass had gained the consistency of smoke.

"Come on, Astrid!" I said, grabbing for her elbow again and pushing forwards.

"What–?" she tried to resist what must have looked like me wanting to crash her straight through a window, but I'd been quick enough that the momentum carried her forwards, and together we stepped through the barrier and into a large mix of a reception area and waiting room.

I wasn't sure what I'd expected —some place that looked old-fashioned and sort of Victorian, certainly, given that this was the wizarding world after all; but that would still be elegant and refined. Kind of like the halls of the Ministry of Magic in the films, or like the Slytherin common room. But I quickly realised my being sorted into the house of the posh and rich might have given me some unrealistic expectations of how official wizarding buildings should look like, because St. Mungo's didn't look just old-fashioned; it looked old.

The room was large, with walls covered in off white and green tiles that took my mind to the London underground, but the yellow stars that decorated the floor were worn down from years and years of people stepping on them, and the light enchantments in the lanterns that hung from the arched ceiling seemed to be petering out somewhat, seeing as they left some of the corners of the room in a penumbra.

The wooden benches —with some patients and their families seating and waiting for their turn— didn't help improve the look, given that they could have been taken straight out of some ancient cathedral or something; and I had to wonder why nobody had thought to transfigure them into something more comfortable a long time ago, like soft couches or something. Or perhaps they had, originally, and the spells had simply worn down with the years.

At least it was clean, I thought as we crossed the room to approach the reception desk at the other end. A middle-aged witch eyed us with a severe look from under a poster on the wall beneath, depicting a moving dragon of bronze scales: 'Do you know the symptoms of Dragon Pox?' it read, followed by a list of such wholesome things as 'pockmarked skin' and 'sparkful sneezes'.

"Hello," I said to the woman. "We... well, she needs her hands looked at."

The woman took a quick look at Astrid's hands, then asked: "Cauldron accident?"

"No, it was a cursed object."

"Names?" she said, taking notes with a quill on the thick tome open on her desk.

"The Furnunculus and Jelly-Fingers Curses."

She paused in her writing to look at me as if I was the biggest idiot on the planet.

"Your names, girl."

"Oh... she's my sister Astrid. I'm Sylvia Sarramond."

She nodded at that, not before shaking her head slightly. "Sit down there," she said then. "A healer will be with you soon."

I didn't have to be asked twice, dragging Astrid to sit on a nearby bench —which was as uncomfortable as I'd feared. On the good side, it didn't look like we'd have to wait a long time, given that the waiting area was only half-full at this late hour, with just a few clusters of patients here and there. Most of the people around looked perfectly healthy, in fact: wizards and witches dressed in a wide variety of robe styles and colours, and with bored expressions on their faces.

Astrid was one of the few patients that showed any outward signs of affliction —the other was a boy that must have been fifteen years old or so, with a skin that looked just like it was turning into tree bark— and that attracted the curiosity of some of the younger kids around the room. I even heard a witch scolding her son in a low tone when he'd spent a few too many seconds staring at Astrid's hands: 'Kevin, don't be rude!'

From time to time, healers dressed in long green robes entered the waiting area, talking to the patients and bringing them one by one to the next corridor over. One of them took a look at Astrid in passing, but she didn't say anything and moved to the bark-skinned boy instead, which told me we would probably need to wait for some more time yet. So I took the opportunity to instruct the younger girl in the very basics of the wizarding world and what she should expect. A quick —and probably way too dense— crash course on magic wands, spells, charms, potions, Hogwarts, Muggles, the Ministry of Magic, and so on.

But after a few minutes I noticed Astrid was only half-listening to me, because she kept blowing air on her reddened hands, then biting her lip.

"Does it hurt more now?" I asked.

She gave me a quick nod, then blew some more air.

I sighed, then waved at one of the healers as soon as he entered the room sometime later; a somewhat short, thin young man with glasses who stopped and looked at a parchment note, then gestured us over.

"Astrid... Sarramond, are you?" he asked. At our nod, he gestured us towards the corridor that went deeper into the building, and through one of its open doors, but right as we walked past his side he paused to look around the waiting area. "I'm Healer Towler. Now, where are your parents?"

Astrid looked at me with alarm in her eyes. But I simply said: "They're dead. We're orphans."

And yeah, I figured being blunt would help here. Most people don't want to keep digging after you make them feel a little self-conscious.

"Oh," he muttered. "I'm sorry to hear that. Do your guardians know you are here, at least? Who are they?"

"Right... about that. We live in a Muggle orphanage, and–"

"It's not an orphanage," muttered Astrid. "It's a residence."

"–and they don't know anything about magic, the Muggles," I continued, doing my best to sound like a young child. "And... and Headmaster Dumbledore told us we couldn't share the truth with any of them, because of the Statute of Secrecy. So we figured it would be easier if we just came on our own so that you could just... heal her hands?"

Healer Towler listened to me with growing astonishment, then ran a hand across his hair. "Come on your own? How did you...?"

"The Knight Bus."

"That is... very unorthodox," he said at last. "Do you know who your legal representative is, at least?"

"Our what?"

"You must have one, if you're registered in the Ministry's books and going to Hogwarts. Or are you... are you squibs, perhaps?"

"I'm going to Hogwarts," I said, sounding a little offended as I half-raised my wand out of its pocket so that he could see it. "And she is ten."

"Ah, so too young for a letter yet. Well, then you at least must have a–"

I sighed. This bloody bloke was starting to annoy me; I crossed my arms and said: "Look. I don't know who this legal representative is, and nobody told us about any of that. But perhaps we could call Headmaster Dumbledore to come here and clear things up? Of course, I'd rather not bother him with this at night, but if you think we have to, before you can treat her hands..."

I saw how the weight of my casual name-dropping impacted him, as he straightened out, then sighed and said: "No... I don't believe that disturbing Professor Dumbledore tonight will be necessary. After all, this seems like only a minor curse, with a straightforward treatment." He addressed Astrid next, looking at his parchment again: "And you said you touched a... cursed object? Do you remember what it was?"

She nodded, then said: "It was her trunk."

Shit.

"It was an accident!" I rushed to clarify, before the man had time to reconsider whether or not Dumbledore's involvement was warranted after all. "I put enchantments with the Furnunculus and Jelly-Fingers Curses on it, and... uh... forgot to tell her."

"Why would you put curses on your trunk?" he asked, looking at me all surprised. Really? That's what he was focusing on?

"To prevent stealing?" I said, shrugging and biting back the 'obviously'.

"From your sister? Or from the Muggles?"

"Not from her! Or from... well, I'm in Slytherin," I added, as if that explained it all; which perhaps it did.

The healer shook his head slightly, then motioned Astrid to cross the door "Well... Astrid? Come here, let's get those hands fixed."

She entered into what looked like an ordinary consulting room —complete with a desk, a nurse who beckoned Astrid in, and a patient's couch covered in a white sheet— except for the towering shelves replete with all sort of potions that completely covered the far wall. I was about to follow when the man blocked the way and said: "I believe it would be better if you wait outside, for... your sister's privacy."

"Sure," I said. Then I addressed a panicky Astrid: "I'll be right here."

With that, Healer Towler closed the door and I was left alone in the corridor.

I paced back and forth near the closed door to the consulting room. It didn't seem like a very sturdy, thick door, but it was enough to completely block the sounds of whatever conversation was taking place inside; so I had no way to know what was going on.

Now it was time for me to play the waiting game, it seemed like; and to cross my fingers as I hoped Astrid wouldn't say anything that gave the truth away in terms of her being a Muggle. Or that they wouldn't accidentally discover the girl had no magic in her during the treatment. Although with some luck, they'd just think her to be a squib if that happened.

With nothing else to do, but aware that I was inside a very magical building with a lot of spells going on all the time —which meant the trace wouldn't apply here— I whipped my wand out and cast the bubble charm to produce a stream of bubbles the size of my fist, that floated in the air. I'd aimed for a green sheen —because house pride and all that— but in truth they turned out a little more blueish than I wanted.

Whatever, the colour wasn't the point of this. I followed the charm with the 'Ventus mitis' incantation, a variation of the wind charm that was meant to produce gentle, more controllable breezes. Then, I waved my wand this and that way, using the soft wind to prevent the bubbles from touching the walls and ceiling of the corridor, trying to corral them together —but not so close that they'd hit one another and burst.

It was difficult, requiring a high degree of subtlety and anticipation of the bubbles' motions. And all my tries always seemed to end the same way: with one or two of the bubbles drifting a little too far, a little too fast, then me trying to over-correct with a stronger gust which only served to push all the other well-behaved bubbles into a myriad different directions, from which there was no recovery possible.

But that was precisely the point of this little exercise —which I'd read about in the 'Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2' and that I figured Flitwick would require us to perform at some point during this upcoming year. I had quickly pegged it as the most finicky thing he'd have us learn, and as so I wasn't planning on going unprepared for it; I had a reputation as a charms genius to maintain, after all.

But my worrying about what was going in the consultation room wasn't exactly helping, making me lose my concentration time and time again as my mind drifted into all the ways in which this little excursion could end badly for Astrid and me. The result was that the part of the corridor near me was quickly filling to the brim with a swarm of bubbles that slowly drifted away, too far already for my unsuccessful attempts at controlling them to make any difference.

And that was something that the old, exquisitely dressed witch that suddenly appeared from behind the nearest corner didn't seem to like at all, judging from the thunderous stare she immediately sent my way, as if I was polluting the entire place or something. I quickly created a strong vertical gust that pushed all the bubbles into the ceiling where they burst, clearing the corridor and making way for her to pass. She resumed her walk towards the reception area without a word.

She wasn't alone, though. Following her footsteps was a young boy that I recognised from school. And he recognised me too, judging by how he kept his eyes glued to his feet as he walked past me.

"Longbottom," I greeted him with a nod.

That caused the older witch to halt on her tracks and turn to stare at me —from under her very... very distinctive hat— as if evaluating my very worth. I could almost feel the way she judged my appearance, my wrinkled yet pretty weekend robes, my unbrushed hair... my everything.

"Well?" she said a few seconds later to Neville, in a curt tone. "Aren't you going to introduce us?"

The boy looked like that was the last thing he wanted to do; like he'd rather the Earth swallow him whole, in fact. But still he stammered ahead:

"Uh– yes. T– this is my grandmother Augusta... Longbottom. And gran, this is... uhm... this is..."

Really? He didn't remember my name?

"Sylvia," I said, trying to keep my voice from sounding too harsh. "Sylvia Sarramond. Nice to meet you, madam."

"You know my grandson from Hogwarts, of course; are you in the same house?"

"No, but we share a few classes," I said, avoiding the topic of which house exactly I belonged to. No need to antagonise someone who I figured was probably a Gryffindor herself.

Of course, it was Neville who felt the need to clarify: "She is in S– Slytherin."

"Oh," said the elderly witch, regarding me again as if under a different light.

And that more than anything caused the vindictive streak within me to rear its ugly head. Because that was so typical, how they automatically would think themselves more honest, more moral than me, right?

"Yes; but we shared that detention with Hagrid too, right Longbottom?" I said, because perhaps they needed a reminder that they weren't perfect either.

Neville nodded softly, his cheeks flush red; but his grandmother seemed to immediately pick up on the subtext, what my not so subtle dig had been aimed at, because she straightened out slightly and said: "Ah, yes. I do hope we will not see a repeat of it this year. Of course, one way to prevent such situations is to make sure to keep well away from bad influences in the first place. Isn't that true, Neville?"

"Uh–"

"Well, it was nice to meet you, girl; but our visit has run late and we don't have any time left for idle chit-chat. Good night."

She didn't wait for my reply, turning and walking away from me at a fast clip. And it's not like I had to wonder who exactly she was referring to as the 'bad influence', because it certainly wasn't Potter or Granger. You know, the ones who were actually responsible for Neville getting detention. If I hadn't wanted to antagonise her, well... mission fucking failed. I blamed it on my anxiety over Astrid, still in the room next door.

Ah, whatever. It's not like I had to deal with Neville on a daily basis or anything; and he wasn't as important as the Golden Trio either, all things considered.

I started pacing again, but didn't resume my little charms exercise —wasn't in the mood for it anymore— and after another five to ten minutes, the door finally —finally!— opened again. I scrambled to look through, fearful of what I'd find. An obliviated Astrid, perhaps.

But the girl seemed fine, at least. She was sitting on the couch and eating a licorice wand, her hands now looking perfectly normal. And when our eyes met, she seemed to recognise who I was and didn't show any overt signs of magically induced confusion.

The nurse I'd seen before helped her towards the door where I waited, but before I could say anything Healer Towler addressed us: "Astrid, why don't you wait outside for a few moments? There's something I need to discuss with your sister."

Oh.

She shot me a guilty look and shrugged, before nodding and vacating the room alongside the nurse. I followed the healer's gesture to sit on the old-fashioned chair in front of his desk, and waited as he closed the door again and went back to his own seat. I had to restrain my hand from diving into my pocket, in search of the security of my wand.

I figured he probably had discovered that Astrid had no magic to speak for. But that was something I'd certainly been expecting, and not a big deal, right?

Healer Towler rested his chin on his linked hands, looking at me over his desk; then he sighed and said: "How old are you... ah... Sylvia?"

"Twelve."

He nodded. "Now, I'm not sure of how exactly a Muggle orphanage works; but should both of you have been raised in a magical household, there's something that your parents would have explained to you by now. As this isn't your case, and since the teachers at Hogwarts aren't perhaps aware of this particular issue, it falls to me to explain it to you now: we need to talk about the basic safeties and ethical uses of magic in the–"

"I know, I know. There's no need to–"

"There is all the need in the world for you to listen to me," he interrupted me. "Unless you prefer to hear this from Professor Dumbledore? I said I didn't want to bother him tonight, but I can certainly send him a letter. Merlin, girl! You can't simply put any curses you find in a book on your trunk, then leave it lying around where anyone else might touch it! Do you realise how lucky you were that it was just your sister who did, rather than any of the Muggles you live with?! You would have breached the Statute of Secrecy and would have needed the intervention of the Department of Magical Accidents!"

I nodded, my head hung low at his rising tone. "Sorry," I muttered.

He took a deep breath, then said: "Well, it's not only your fault, is it? If no adult wizard ever explained these things to you. So... let's talk a little about jinxes and curses..."

The talk lasted for almost half an hour, and besides the basic security and ethical guidelines it also included such awkward topics as the use of beauty and love potions, changes in magic resulting from puberty, and cautioning against the use of transfiguration to... enlarge one's bosom. Which I was way, way too young to even consider anyway; but according to him it always resulted in a couple of teenager witches ending up requiring urgent care here every year.

By the time I left the consulting room to join Astrid outside —who had long finished her licorice wand and was now half-asleep, wrapped in my dressing gown and spread all over one of the benches of the reception area— I was feeling abundantly chastised, and more tired than incensed or anxious. Now that the crisis was finally over, I only wanted to be left alone to go back to the Residence in peace.

But it seemed like even that little wish was beyond my reach, because Healer Towler escorted us both towards the main entrance and then through it to the street outside.

"You're certainly not going back on your own," he said. "I will take you both back home on the Knight Bus. And I also want to talk to this new conductor they hired, how he could just allow two unaccompanied children to–"

"Could you not?" I protested in a tired voice. "Please? He was nice to us, gave us a free trip and all."

A trip that turned out to be the more pleasurable of the two of that night. Because while my begging on Stan's favour resulted in the healer not being as... straightforward to him as I'd feared, the way he looked at the teenager and the continuous hints at how a responsible person in a public post should act made for a very, very long few minutes.

At least Astrid seemed relaxed, now that her hands were fixed and she didn't feel at risk of being found out, because she promptly fell asleep on the bed she claimed right after boarding the bus, snoring softly. And I had to shake her awake when the vehicle finally stopped right in front of the Residence.

Healer Towler escorted us all the way to the front door —under the cover of a charm to repel Muggle attention. He then stopped and said to us: "Now... Sylvia, Astrid. There's something you should do as soon as possible: if your guardian is a Muggle, whenever you have a situation that is... magical in nature such as tonight, they won't be able to help you. This is why you need to know who your legal representative is in the wizarding world, and be in contact with them so that you always have an adult figure to go to."

I nodded, though I wasn't too sure about the wisdom of that. Wouldn't they immediately realise the truth about Astrid's situation? It was only luck that Towler here hadn't found out about her being a Muggle herself. And wouldn't someone from the Ministry possibly digging into my origins be dangerous too, given... well... what I was?

Whatever, I could think about that later. I asked: "How should I find out?"

"Send a letter to the Ministry of Magic, to the Department of Magical Education. They should be able to put you in contact."

"I don't have an owl."

He sighed, then said: "Well, then wait until you are at Hogwarts and use one of the school's owls. But remember to do it, will you?"

Some more nodding and assurances seemed enough to satisfy him, and finally he let us go and enter the Residence. The house was silent now, and we had no unwanted encounters while climbing up the stairs and taking refuge into our room. I closed the door behind me, let out a relieved sigh, and fell onto my bed, too exhausted to remove my robes.

Astrid seemed similarly tired, but she at least removed the dressing gown before climbing into her bed —still wearing my pyjamas. Then she turned to look at me and said: "So, Sylvia... now that we're sisters and I know all about magic... can you show me what's inside your trunk?"

Chapter Text

In the end I let Astrid take a good look at the contents of my trunk —except for a particular notebook, of course— in no small part because I still felt guilty about the whole ordeal with her hands. Funny, that she found it slightly disappointing. I wasn't sure what she'd expected to find inside, but most of it was just my clothes, books, and school paraphernalia. I didn't have much in terms of magical items, having already used the last of my joke products.

My potion ingredients were just gross stuff in her eyes —the bottle of spider eggs in particular— but she did find the telescope interesting, even if the only magic in it came in the form of antifogging charms on its lenses. She asked to use it one night to look at the moon through our window, and together we identified the main craters thanks to the chart in my second year Astronomy book.

They were by far the most outwardly magical stuff I possessed, the books, and she loved the little animated diagrams. Although she was stumped when she looked into the Transfiguration textbook: 'this is just maths!' she had exclaimed, almost as if offended on my behalf.

In the end she quickly lost interest in the banality of what actually doing most magic entailed —perhaps because I couldn't exactly demonstrate any of the spells, with the trace in effect, and so she only had the descriptions in the books and my stories as a point of reference.

But she loved Scamander's book, and she was enthused at learning that, yes, dragons and unicorns do actually exist. I didn't mention anything regarding my own first encounter with a unicorn, though, or the two little vials full of silvery liquid still at the bottom of the trunk.

I had plans for those, in fact, but I had to wait until almost the end of summer to enact them. My first step was to badger the staff about wanting to go see 'Batman Returns' at the cinema; which technically was not recommended for my age, but I made the argument that since I was precocious and all, I should count as two full years older in what regarded to age appropriateness and such.

I wasn't sure if it was my argument that was effective, my continuous moaning about the film and references to Batman every single day, or that I also enlisted the support of Colin —who was too a force to be reckoned with— but in the end the staff relented, even going so far as to accept the very same day and showing I had so helpfully proposed —the very same day and hour when one Gilderoy Lockhart would be paying a visit to Diagon Alley, coincidentally enough.

And so we climbed into the van —Colin and a couple of the other older kids and me— escorted by Gary from the staff. Fortunately the young man was distracted enough that he never realised that I was carrying my school bag —Colin did, of course, but a simple 'just in case' as I wiggled my eyebrows satisfied his curiosity; it wouldn't be the first time we nicked some gummies or cans of soda, and you needed a secure place to hide them out of view.

I didn't steal anything that day, though, too focused on what I would need to do later. Don't do two crimes at once and such, you know. Gary bought us some popcorn to share and we started munching on it right after finding our seats, but the nervous butterflies doing loops inside my stomach prevented me from enjoying the taste.

The film started with the perturbing birth scene of the Penguin —I had forgotten about that particular Burtonian overture— and I felt conflicted: knowing it was time to get a move on, but also not quite finding the impulse to do it. Oddly, I was sort of paralysed; perhaps because it would be so easy not to take these risks, to simply... stay here, watching a superhero film, enjoying one of the last days of my vacations before...

Before I went back to Hogwarts, where a basilisk would soon be released.

Right. Yeah. Talk about risks...

"Uhm," I said to Gary, who was sitting by my side. "I need to go to the loo... I think all this popcorn didn't sit well with me."

He groaned and stood up to allow me passage. "I warned you, didn't I?"

"Yeah, yeah... sorry," I mumbled passing by his side, my school bag thankfully unnoticed in the darkness of the cinema.

I quickly followed the aisle to the back of the room, pushed open the heavy door and exited to the carpeted hallway outside. With all the other films in the neighbouring screens having already started the corridor —which was always so packed with people entering or leaving— was now eerily silent and deserted. But I preferred it that way, and I rushed at a good pace to the nearby toilets, where I quickly claimed a stall and closed its door behind me.

I unzipped the school bag and took out my good robes inside, which I draped over my head to cover my otherwise Muggle outfit. Then I extracted the other assorted items I'd packed before, back at the Residence: some magical coins, my wand —obviously— a brand new notebook with an empty envelope inside its pages, and the vials of unicorn blood. The bag itself I then hid on top of the toilet's cistern —because this was still good ol' 1992 and people wouldn't yet lose their minds over an unattended bag in a public space.

What came right after, leaving the toilets, was much more nerve-wracking. I pretty much had to clench my jaw and force myself to open the door quickly and leave for the hallway before I could second-guess myself too much. Yes, if anyone saw me dressed like this their eyebrows were sure to migrate to the top of their heads —and if that anyone was someone from the Residence I would have some very awkward explaining to do, without the advantage of Snape's Confundus charms. But there was nothing I could do to avoid that risk, really. And besides, the inside of a cinema was probably one of the most forgiving places in what regarded odd garments, so there was that too.

I saw an employee cleaning some spilled drink near the far end of the hallway, but thankfully they didn't notice me, and nobody stopped me as I approached the little, nondescript door tucked all the way at the hallway's other end; the one with the notice on it that read: 'Employees Only'.

It was of course, locked tight. I was, of course, prepared for that. My Skeleton key shifted shape and fit smoothly into its keyhole. A half-turn later, and I was already walking away, through the alleyway behind the building and towards a side street.

Then it was simply a matter of raising my wand and waiting for–

BANG!

For that.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for— oh, it's you again!"

"Hello Stan!" I said to the conductor, who was eyeing me like I was a fly that had just landed on his soup. "It's only me this time."

"Only yah? And we're not havin' another one o' them healers going on at me if we're cartin' you along, eh?"

"Uh... no? I'm going to Diagon Alley, not St. Mungo's. And besides, it's daytime!" I pointed at the sun with my wand for added emphasis.

He actually stepped out of the bus to gaze at the sun for a few seconds. Then he shook his head and said: "No handouts this time. You cough up the eleven sickles."

"Sure," I said easily, dropping the coins on his open hand and stepping onto the bus. I gave a quick nod to Ern the driver —who ignored me, muttering something under his breath and with his eyes fixated on the white van parked just ahead— and found an empty chair close to a vertical bar I could use as a grip point.

That was an odd sight: somehow the beds that had occupied the full width of the vehicle during my last trip had now disappeared, having been replaced by dozens of chairs of different styles, but that wouldn't look out of place at some grandma's house. And the bus was also more crowded, many of the assorted seats taken by older wizards and witches. There were also a small group of teenage witches near the back —none of whom wore robes anywhere as neat as mine— and a few others who weren't dressed in any sort of robes at all, nor something that would pass muster on the Muggle world outside either —their shabby waistcoats and worn flannel dresses being completely out of fashion. I wasn't sure what their deal was.

And I didn't have much time to contemplate it, because pretty soon I had to hold tight as we began running like the clappers though the streets of London. I got blurry glimpses of Piccadilly Circus and Oxford Street through the windows and I figured we'd be arriving quickly enough at my stop, but then something odd happened: the bus swerved violently to the right through a side-alley —causing a few of the feebler passengers to land on the floor— and then we were in a motorway and passing cars left and right. And in the distance, I could see a small town with the lonely spire of a church raising over a few dozen houses. A town that looked a lot like it wasn't London at all.

Hmm...

It didn't dawn on me until we swerved once more and stopped suddenly with a loud jerk. At the front of the bus Stan opened the door and disembarked, and I could hear him repeat his little spiel to the arriving passenger: "Welcome to the Knight Bus..."

The street outside was lined with trees and squat, small village houses; and behind those there were some moors descending into a wide valley.

Yeah, we weren't in London at all. Hell, even the weather looked different. But this had to be just how the bus always arrived so fast whenever you raised your wand, wasn't it? It simply diverted from the destination it was driving to at the time to pick you up. There must be some divination charms weaved somewhere in the driver's post —or perhaps it was time manipulation?

Whatever. The conclusion was that the bus always arrived fast, but the duration of the trip itself was impossible to predict: it depended on how many people felt like raising their wands at any given moment.

At least the stops were quick, and a couple of minutes later we were moving again. But I was on a timer of sorts, and by the time the third straggler had boarded —at some random road crossing a rugged, hilly landscape with absolutely no constructions in sight— I was already groaning and tapping my foot in impatience. And I wasn't the only one, judging by how the elderly wizard next to me looked at his pocket watch time and time again.

Fortunately that was the last passenger, and five minutes later the bus stopped with a crack and Stan announced "Diagon Alley!" causing more than half of the occupants to stand up and disembark, with me among their midst.

I welcomed that, because we entered the Leaky Cauldron as a group and so I received none of the pesky questions I was fearing about what exactly I was doing there on my own. Instead everyone probably thought I was the child of one of the other passengers, and so we all moved to the back of the shop and crossed the threshold into the street itself without any fuss.

And then I was there. I was at Diagon Alley, on my own. Unsupervised; with no Professors nearby to hurry me along, tell me what I could and could not purchase.

No money to purchase anything with, either; but that was something I planned to solve real soon.

First, though, I headed to Flourish and Blotts, to check I wasn't too late. I moved along the street, walking past the many families doing their Hogwarts' purchases, the little groups of people window shopping, strolling past the many establishments. There was a waft of sweet and savoury smells in the air coming from the bustling cafes and tea shops that I did my best to ignore, and quite a few passers-by carried impossibly overloaded ice-cream cones covered in chocolate chips.

Flourish and Blotts turned out to be one of the most crowded shops in the entire street —a large group of mostly middle-aged witches filling the entirety of the bookshop's lower level— which I took to mean that Lockhart was already there. And yeah, I could half-glimpse a mane of perfectly styled blonde hair in the distance; but no Potter and company in sight, so I quickly left again.

Right, that meant I still had time; hopefully. Now for the hard part.

My turquoise robes didn't have a hood, but the Muggle hoodie I had taken the precaution to wear underneath pretty much did. So I put it on, and walked towards a particular nearby corner; and down the stairs that descended into a narrow, crooked and shadowed side-alley.

Knockturn Alley was... interesting. Or rather, the people in it were.

Most of them looked savvy, but also shabby. Dressed in muted robes and tunics, many of them covering their faces. They felt twisted, somehow, in a way I couldn't quite put my finger on but that I figured had to do with the way magic settled around them. As if they were tainted; as if they had delved too deep and too greedily into something that should have been kept buried. And I couldn't help but to remember Dumbledore's warnings to me right before summer.

Then there were the others, the beings: like the sallow skinned, probably-a-vampire young man sitting on the stone steps, or the tall hag wearing a stereotypical witch hat that rested her weight on a broken street lamp next to a boarded-up shop.

Or like me, I guessed.

And surprisingly, they didn't look as evil as I'd imagined, when planning this little trip back at the Residence. Knockturn Alley was meant to be the Wizarding world's version of the wretched hive of scum and villainy, but the people who surrounded me looked less evil and more... well, more like people who'd just fallen through the cracks. Which wasn't that surprising, honestly, as I'd seen what the real arseholes looked like —people like Selwyn and company— and while I was sure they'd visit here often, I doubted they'd enjoy spending here a single minute more than strictly necessary.

But what surprised me most was that nobody bothered to harass me. Maybe my camouflage was working, and in a world with goblins, half-goblins, house-elves and other species of a lower physical stature, they might assume me to be one of those rather than a lost child; at least as long as I kept my head and face well covered.

Or maybe it was some sort of kinship, some hidden sense telling the hag that I wasn't really a human child, or the vampire that there was something messed up with my blood; and so they let me be. Perhaps I just didn't track as food to them.

Or maybe it was simply that I didn't linger, instead walking forward like someone with a destination in mind. Something that couldn't be further from the truth, though; because where the shops in Diagon Alley were all too happy to display their wares through their enormous windows, competing for the attention of every passer-by; most of the ones down here were... muted, almost shy, many windows opaque or enchanted to not let on more than blurry silhouettes of what was inside. And the signs and placards weren't that much help, with most only having the names of the establishments written on them; things like 'Belthia's' or 'The Spiny Serpent' with no mention at all of what they traded in. It was an 'if you know, you know' type of situation.

And I didn't know.

I guessed at least one of the doors around me must have opened into an apothecary of the dark sort, but I certainly wasn't going to try and find it by trial and error, and so I opted instead to head for the one shop I did remember from my fore-memories:

Borgin and Burkes —yeah, I know, Burke... ugh!— was one of the most welcoming shops, funnily enough. At least its window display wasn't opaque, showcasing instead shelves lined with all sorts of odd ancient artefacts, ranging from musical instruments to damaged silverware. It all looked perfectly normal to innocent eyes, and not too far from some of the odd thrift shops I'd visited in my fore-memories. And perhaps it was that very facade of normalcy and familiarity what allowed it to be one of the most daring shops in the crooked street, advertising the 'unique magical items' inside.

The inside itself was much more sinister, what with the human skulls and creepy masks, and the gloomy and somewhat dusty décor. The bell over the door rang as I crossed into the shop and approached the main counter, and an old man with shifty eyes and bad hair emerged out of the back room.

"Mister... Borgin?" I asked.

From my fore-memories, I half-remembered him to be somewhat solicitous —a snake oil peddler for sure, but one that would show you a false smile as he conned you— but he surprised me by replying in a harsh, mocking tone: "Are you lost, child? Get off my shop!"

"I don't think I am," I said, trying my best at sounding mature and self-assured, at channelling the adult I'd once been. "I'm here to sell something... something that I can't sell at Diagon Alley. My friends said that this is just the place to go."

He narrowed his eyes at me. "Your friends, eh?"

What? Did he think I was an undercover, underage Auror or something? I tapped the silver snake brooch on my robe. "My housemates in Slytherin."

He stooped to get a closer look at it, then back at me. Whatever he saw in my face seemed to satisfy him somewhat, because he grunted and asked: "Well, what is it then?"

I extracted the vials, rolling one on the counter towards him but keeping the other firmly in my hand. He took the offered container and examined it, adjusting a pair of pince-nez eyeglasses on his nose.

"Hmm... and where exactly did you get this?"

I shrugged. "Just laying around, going to waste."

He grunted again, and evidently it wasn't an answer he liked; but what had he expected? He placed the vial back on the desk.

"I'll give you fifty Galleons," he said. "For both of them."

"What?! These are easily worth at least two hundred. Each!"

He shot me a grin that wouldn't look out of place on a shark, then waved magnanimously at the street outside. "Ah... and if you knew of a place that would pay you four hundred Galleons, why didn't you go there in the first place?"

Damn... this bloke was actually smart.

I didn't think I'd be able to fool him by pretending I knew the area well —the truth that I was a newcomer here was just too evident, apparently— so I opted for a different tack:

"Oh, well... I might have to do that still; and perhaps also tell Draco Malfoy that this place is a little... unwelcoming, no?"

"Draco... Malfoy?"

"Yes. Lucius Malfoy's son?" I shrugged, playing distractedly with the vials in my hands. "About yay high? Blond?... We're in the same year, in Slytherin. Didn't I mention that? How forgetful!"

We looked at each other in silence for a beat, then he said: "One hundred total."

"Three."

"No, girl. The blood's not as fresh as it should, not as valuable."

"What? That's rubbish, the vials have charms to preserve–"

A dull thump —like that of a large bag falling to the floor— coming from somewhere behind the many rows of assorted objects interrupted me. Mr. Borgin turned to look, but then waved his hand as if that was a common occurrence at his shop.

"These vials are school stock, aren't they?" he said. "Might be good enough for common ingredients, but they're not meant for keeping more... delicate materials inside for months on end. See this? The consistency is too thick; lumpy. I can give you one hundred and fifty Galleons in light of your... ties to good families, but no more."

"What about two–?"

He shook his head: "No; one hundred and fifty. That's more that what you'd get at Mr. Mulpepper's Apothecary... and that's assuming you'd get him to admit dealing in these substances in the first place."

I sighed, but nodded at him. It looked like this was the best offer I was going to get; and by this point I was keen to get rid of the bloody unicorn blood once and for all. I certainly didn't want to go back to Hogwarts with those vials still inside my trunk.

The man took them away, then placed the little stacks of gold coins on the counter —more gold that I'd seen together in my entire life. In both my lives!

I made sure to count them myself —trust but verify, you know— then collected forty Galleons and placed them inside the empty envelope I'd carried, under Mr. Borgin's idly curious stare. The rest I dropped into my pockets, next to my wand.

"Make sure to tell young Mr. Malfoy that his family is always welcome here," he said as I went to leave the shop.

"I will!"

I quickly rushed to leave the little, odd dark place, and then along the street outside aiming to get back to the safety of Diagon Alley as soon as humanly possible. Suddenly I didn't feel as safe there, with all those little coins clinking inside my pocket.

At some point I noticed the crowd making way for someone, and I got a glimpse of a man and a young boy, both of them looking very blonde and very posh. Shit! It seemed like Mr. Borgin was going to get his wish fulfilled ahead of schedule. I followed everyone else's example and squeezed my body against the nearest wall, keeping my gaze down and hoping the younger Malfoy wouldn't notice me —a hope that I figured shouldn't be too hard, as the folk here probably rated as little more than urban furniture in his eyes.

But it turned out Draco was once again more perceptive than he seemed, because he paused mid-stride to look at me, narrowing his eyes.

"Sarramond? Is that you?"

Well, that didn't work. I sighed, but there was no use in trying to pretend I hadn't seen them. I took a step forward, removed my hood and said: "Fancy seeing you here, Malfoy."

Lucius Malfoy turned towards us and stepped next to his son, who said: "Father; this is Sylvia Sarramond, my housemate. Sarramond, this is my father Lucius Malfoy."

I plastered a pleasant smile on my face and did a slight bow towards the man —I wasn't nearly well-versed enough in pure-blood etiquette to try something as daring as a curtsy, which I figured is what he probably expected out of a witch of what he undoubtedly saw as a lesser status; but at least it was a way of showing him respect.

I absolutely did not want a repeat of the situation with Longbottom's grandma. Not with a Malfoy and when I was in Slytherin myself.

"It's nice to meet you, sir," I said. "Your son has told us much about you."

And wasn't that an understatement.

Draco's father gave me a slow once-over. I was sure he was well aware of the same loose threads in my robes that Snape had also noticed; but by the same token, he should also realise I was better dressed than pretty much anyone else in Knockturn Alley —other than themselves, of course.

His eyes paused on my brooch, the same way Mr. Borgin's had. But unlike him, Lucius didn't try to get a closer look. He didn't move at all, except for a barely imperceptible nod that I took to mean I had passed whatever exam he'd had in mind.

"Yes," he said, his voice like smooth silk. "One of the half-bloods in the Greengrass heiress' circle. Draco has also told me about you."

I had to learn how to speak like that; that had sounded somehow both pleasing and menacing at the same time.

"Oh? Everything good, I hope," I half-joked.

"Everything... unexpected," he said. Next to him, Draco seemed oddly awkward, fidgeting with his sleeves. His father noticed and sent the boy a warning glance —just with his eyes, without even turning his face an inch— and Draco went back to a mask of stillness.

"We considered whether to put a petition through the board of governors, to have you expelled from Slytherin," he continued, as if he was talking about something as inconsequential as the weather. "But my wife Narcissa suggested patience; she trusted the Sorting Hat wouldn't have made such an... unsightly mistake as it seemed. It appears she was correct, in the end."

Don't lose the smile, don't lose the smile.

"I'm also glad I was able to clear the confusion and prove my blood," I replied evenly. "Hopefully this new year I'll be able to focus more on my studies."

"Yes; with an Outstanding in the Dark Arts, you do show some promise. It wouldn't do any good to squander it, now would it?"

How the hell was it that every pure-blood family I came across seemed to be aware of my grades? And wait... had he just called Defence... 'the Dark Arts'?

But he continued: "I was just thinking... it'd be good for Draco to have someone in his circle that is competent at duelling for once. Someone that could be of use should he be threatened, given that his current company proved out to be... should we say, somewhat disappointing in that regard."

I had to blink and process the words twice, because... had Lucius Malfoy just offered me to become Draco's friend? Not only that, but also... was he really offering me to replace Goyle and Crabbe?

My first instinct was to say no, but I refrained from it. Because really, this was a golden opportunity, one that I had to seriously consider rather than reject out of hand. I would be given full access not only to Draco —someone who perhaps I'd be able to turn away from his family's prejudiced ways, turn into an ally with some work— but also to the Malfoy Manor itself, to Voldemort's future centre of power. Even perhaps to the Black family, through Narcissa.

That level of contacts might just prove invaluable, in future years. But it would also be risky, getting that close and personal with the darkest elements of the upcoming plot. Decisions, decisions...

In the end, though, I simply couldn't turn my back on the girls, on Daphne who had backed me, or Tracey who had been there every step of the way. Still, I didn't want to sound ungrateful and trigger the Malfoy's sense of vindictiveness.

I waited for a few seconds, putting my words in order, then said: "That's... truly an honour, Mr. Malfoy. But I'm afraid that turning my back on Greengrass' circle wouldn't reflect good on me." I noticed the way his eyes narrowed, and I rushed to add: "That... that said, I also have a deep sense of loyalty to my house. And should Draco be threatened, he can of course count with my wand."

That seemed to pacify him, because he nodded and said: "That is acceptable. Good day then, Miss Sarramond, it was good to meet you. Oh... and should you find yourself having... difficulties with any other wizard or witch in our house, please don't hesitate to send me a letter. Now if you excuse us, we do have some business to attend to."

I gave the man another shallow bow as he was already turning away and resuming his walk. Draco stayed behind for a moment, giving me a quick nod —as if I'd done good or something— before following in his father's footsteps.

They turned the corner, and I felt the tension in my muscles relaxing out of a sudden, the nervous energy draining away. God, that had been awful!

And at the same time... not. Of course, I wasn't idiot enough to believe Lucius Malfoy's offer had been truthful. He didn't want a friend for Draco, he wanted a bodyguard. It was more like a job offer of sorts. But still, I wasn't going to lie: it felt nice, being appreciated for once. Being wanted.

But I could freak out about that later, back at the Residence. Now I had to get my head back in the game, because if the Malfoys were here already, that meant I better rushed now if I wanted to keep to my timetable. I quickly climbed the stairs back to the main thoroughfare, and retraced my steps to locate a very specific shop selling stationary and other assorted items: Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment.

The crowd there was strong too —it seemed most families left their Hogwarts purchases for the last minute, the lazy buggers— but I took advantage of the distraction of one of the wizards waiting —he was discussing some recent Quidditch news with another customer— and my small size to jump most of the queue.

I carried a small item that I'd noticed on one of the shelves —a silver-plated magical padlock. It wasn't incredibly secure, but the sign next to it boasted that it would resist an unlocking charm, which was more than my current trunk could claim. Nasty curses didn't really prevent a trunk from being opened in the first place, they just made the perpetrator pay a dearly price —as Astrid had experienced in her own flesh. But now I could afford to spend the five Galleons on this minor security upgrade.

Not two minutes later the attendant —a tall man with puffy sideburns— charged me for it, and asked me if I wanted anything else. I pointed at one of the brass scales on the shelf behind him, and as he turned to go grab it, I placed the five Galleons on the counter next to the envelope —itself filled with forty additional Galleons, and with the text 'For the sunglasses last year. Sorry!' written on top— and skedaddled out of the establishment.

Right. That was one more weight off my conscience, at least.

And now for the big highlight of the day: time to return to Flourish and Blotts.

An almost solid wall of noise hit my face the moment I entered the bookshop, and I pushed my way through the throng of people taller than me —receiving the odd elbows now and then— until I reached the twisting stairs that lead to the second level. I climbed a few steps until I reached a good vantage point, overlooking the entire gathering.

Gilderoy Lockhart was a surprise, to be fair. No shade to the actor who portrayed him in the film, but the real man was noticeably younger, and I was pretty certain he must use some sort of charms in his mane of hair, because it just looked unnaturally lush; always falling just so, not a strand out of place as he smiled at reader after reader, signing each book with a flaunty flourish of his quill.

It was as if someone had made a polar opposite of Severus Snape: all looks and no skill whatsoever. Why wasn't anyone in the Wizarding world just normal?

But to be honest, that sentiment wasn't fully truthful: for every Snape there was a Madam Hooch, for every Lockhart a Professor Sinistra; people who were overall competent and who weren't walking piles of eccentricities. But still, it was hard to ignore the feeling that there were just more... well, kooky people in this world than in the Muggle one.

Perhaps it had to do with magic, once again. How it boiled down to intention, how it was easier to perform spells when you were sure of yourself, rather than doubting your every action —just take a look at Neville Longbottom, will you? And that, it invited theatrics: the exaggerated wand movements, the loud and clear invocations... all of those fed into it. And if that's all you knew, for your entire life... well. It wasn't that surprising, was my point.

I waited, running my hand on the cover of the notebook I'd carried all the way here from the Residence: it was a dark leather bound journal, all pages blank. It was as close as I'd been able to get to the vague memory I had from the films —I had no idea at all of how Riddle's diary was meant to look according from the books, though, but I hoped it wouldn't have been too different.

Half an hour later I was still waiting there —I had taken to peruse the books about Muggles in the nearby stand, some of them were positively hilarious— and wondering just how long would Gary wait for me to return from the toilets before he started suspecting anything was amiss. If the pack of Gryffindors didn't make their appearance soon I'd need to abort and try again at Hogwarts; but I was willing to risk it for a bit longer yet, as this would possibly be my best —and safest— chance at not only getting my hands on the first horcrux, but also putting it somewhere safe before it could do any harm at all.

I didn't have to wait for long, though, because soon enough:

"It can't be Harry Potter?"

I hadn't even noticed the famous boy's arrival, but Lockhart dived into the crowd and plucked a reluctant and shy Potter out of the sea of people. My eyes went instead to the spectators, looking for... there, red heads. That middle-aged man there must be Mr. Weasley, who I had never seen before. Over there were Fred and George, who I desperately hoped wouldn't see me right now. And... I couldn't find Ginny, or Ron.

Shit.

But I could see Lucius Malfoy again, of course, near the entrance; so I only had to keep my eyes focused on him. I descended the stairs slowly, trying to position myself in his overall vicinity, but not so close that Draco's attentive eyes might recognise me here too.

Not that he would be paying attention to me now, with Potter around. I couldn't hear their confrontation, but soon enough I noticed the older Malfoy was on the move, and I followed two steps behind.

"... a disgrace to the name of wizard..." he was saying. I looked for Ginny Weasley again, but I couldn't see her without stepping forward myself and into the empty space between the two men.

A space that grew out of a sudden, the moment Arthur Weasley charged at the blonde man; there were pushes and shoves and people yelling, the loud noise of books hitting the floor resounding within the bookshop's limited confines. I glimpsed Lucius Malfoy was holding a school book in one of his hands, one I took belonged to the youngest Weasley.

Not yet.

"Arthur, no!" shrieked a voice. Molly's, I guessed. But it was Hagrid who appeared in the end, out of a sudden, gently pushing people out of his way as he approached without much difficulty the source of the conflict to break up the fight. And yeah, I could see how the giant was effective at that; if this caring for monsters thing didn't work for him, he could always find a new job as a security guard at any rowdy pub.

And now I saw Ginny. Mr. Malfoy returned her book with disdain. A book I eyed like a seeker a snitch, not even risking a blink.

Not yet.

The Malfoys collected their dignity and backed towards the main door, not noticing me hidden behind the cover of the crowd. Meanwhile the Weasleys were regrouping together, along with Harry, Hermione and two other adults next to her that were probably her parents. A minute later they too started walking as if to leave the shop.

Now!

I emerged out of the crowd at a fast clip, my gaze deceptively low and set on the black notebook I carried —as if I was reading off it— and pretty much in a direct collision course towards Ginny Weasley.

"Sarramond?" asked Hermione, "Is that y–?".

Crash!

I walked right into the redhead girl, crashing bodily into her and purposefully hitting her cauldron hard with my notebook as I did, letting my own book fly along with her stuff. Ginny's cauldron clanged across the shop's floor, the books and other contents inside it spreading around. I tried to twist my head to look at where it had landed, but I was too busy tripping over Ginny's body and falling to the floor myself.

"Ugh!"

"What is–? You!" cried an incensed Ron.

"That's my name, apparently," I muttered, climbing back to my knees and patting my pockets. My wand and Galleons were still there, thankfully. Ginny Weasley looked at me, her face a mix of indignation and pain from the fall.

In fact, the entire Weasley family was looking at me, along with Potter and the Granger clan. But it was the redheads who seemed the less friendly of the bunch.

"Sorry!" I said to Ginny. "My bad! Here, I'll help." I walked up to her knocked over cauldron and crouched down, reaching for the fallen books and quickly putting them inside; all the way searching for the bloody–

"Here," said Harry Potter, standing up right in front of me as he handed me a black leather bound notebook.

My notebook. My stupid, fake notebook. That I had to take back from his hands, because he was right there returning it to me. Like the bloody, kind-hearted meddler that he was.

"Thank you, Potter," I ground out, trying my best not to kill him with my bare gaze. Which of course I couldn't do, because I wasn't a basilisk. You know, like the one we'd now have to face at Hogwarts, thanks to him.

Great job ruining it, hero.

I didn't wait a minute longer, didn't find myself in the mood to withstand the barrage of questions and accusations that Ron Weasley was sure to pour over me; so I said a quick "Sorry again" to Ginny, clenched the notebook in my hand to the point it started bending, and marched towards the door myself, ignoring everyone else.

After so long inside the busy, stifling bookshop, getting to the open street again felt like a relief. A short-lived one, because my blood boiled inside my veins and my jaw hurt from grinding my teeth. I thought about throwing the useless notebook into the closest rubbish bin I could fin —one of those which devoured whatever you put inside, emitting loud belches afterwards— but managed to contain myself, evening my breathing and relaxing my stance. No, the notebook could still be useful.

But this one chance was utterly and fully blown. Nothing to it, really. I wasn't going to get Tom Riddle's diary today. So try to relax, will you? One breath at a time.

There was still something I had to do here, and so I aimed my steps towards the large building presiding most of Diagon Alley.

I climbed the stairs of Gringotts Wizarding Bank, and a couple of stout goblin guards to each side of the main doors eyed me with bored hostility as I entered the marble main hall. There were towering ornate columns rising all the way to a high domed ceiling, with enormous windows letting in the day's light. Rows and rows of doors lined the far walls, and countless desks manned by scores of goblins —perusing ledgers and weighting coins— attended the dozens of customers.

Jumping the queue here wasn't a consideration that entered my mind, and I waited patiently for my turn; despite being very aware of every minute that passed, and how Batman Returns was only about two hours long.

Eventually I reached the desk, and the goblin behind it shot me a sneering grimace that I tried not to take personally.

"What does the girl wish?" he asked.

"Uhm. I want to open an account– a... vault, I mean."

"Do you have an initial deposit?"

I nodded, and extracted the coins out of my pocket, placing them on the counter. This seemed to annoy him further, as if he'd hoped for me to walk away and not make him do his job.

Still, he didn't utter a word as he counted them one by one, then looking back at me as he produced a long parchment out of the bowels of his desk: "Eighty-five Galleons. What is your name, girl?"

"Sylvia Sarramond."

He scoffed under his breath, but wrote the name in a flowery script on the parchment, making a few more notes here and there. Eventually he turned it over and offered it to me, along with a needle. "Read it and sign," he ordered me.

The parchment was a full-on contract, bursting with an odd kind of legalese that sounded eerily similar to what I remembered from dealing with banks in my fore-memories, but also included references to loss of limbs and curses; so I made sure to read every word carefully.

Curiously it didn't make any mentions to the customer's age —and the goblin hadn't protested at me being a child either, never asked for my legal guardian— so I hoped Gringotts simply didn't care about purely human legal notions such as being of age or not. Good for them.

Vault... vault... oh, here it was... my vault would be of basic security —the next level was simply too expensive for my means— but I was still allowed to keep magical items stored inside it; and most importantly: there were no prohibition against cursed or dark objects, as long as they didn't affect the bank itself of any other vaults. So yeah, it seemed like my plan of keeping the horcrux safely contained at Gringotts could have worked.

Bloody Potter.

I went to sign my name, but the goblin wasn't offering his quill to me. He pointed at the needle with the claw at the end of his finger, and for a moment I wondered if he wanted me to transfigure it into a quill, like we were at the Hogwarts' end of year exams. But then he said: "With your blood."

I let out a deep sigh, then used the needle to prick my finger and write my name in red cursive. The moment I let go of the parchment, it wound up of its own with a loud snap and the goblin took it back from me. He handed me a golden key and said: "Your vault's key, Miss Sarramond. Do you wish to make the deposit in person, or would you rather we do it for you?"

"Not today; you can do it," I said. Without the diary, there was really no need for me to waste anymore time here with the roller-coaster ride and such.

He sneered again —maybe he understood it as cowardice?— and took the coins behind the counter, handing me a receipt in return.

"Anything else?"

"No... no, thank you."

And yeah, I wanted to inquire about investing my Galleons in the Muggle markets somehow —doing it from the Muggle side was surprisingly more difficult, given that there they did care about my age— but that was something I could owl them about in the future. I had lost too much time already, so I hurried to leave the building after adding the vault key to the other one already in my necklace.

I had also planned to visit Madam Malkin's, get myself some new robe or something, but again... not enough time. So instead it was a quick walk back towards the Leaky Cauldron, another trip on the Knight Bus —"Yah look suspicious. Why yah look suspicious?"— and then getting myself back into the cinema without anyone seeing me.

My school bag was still in the same toilet, and I changed myself back into Muggle clothing and then returned to the screen, where the Penguin had just betrayed Catwoman. I sidled back onto my seat, and let out a deep, angry sigh.

"What took you so long?" asked Gary. "I was about to go look for you!"

"I just had my first period," I lied. Because really, it was as good a time as any for it, it made Gary shut up, and it went a long way to justify the shitty, murderous mood I was in.

Whatever; I'd wait until we were all back at Hogwarts, then find some way to get the bloody diary off Ginny. She was a firstie after all, so how hard could that be?

Chapter Text

I didn't have to wait for long before August ended, both summer and my vacations dying with it. Sooner than I could say 'Goodbye, Astrid' I was already loading my trunk onto Gary's trusty van, and we were off to brave the nightmarish morning traffic on our way to King's Cross station.

I yawned deeply as I left the young man behind and approached the barrier leading to the hidden platform; I hadn't managed to get much sleep in the last nights leading to the big day of my return to Hogwarts —something that was becoming sort of a worrying pattern to me. Perhaps this time it had to do more with the bloody diary and what I knew awaited us all if I didn't find a way to put my hands on it. I had vague ideas of how to do it, but they still felt shaky and uncooked. Most likely, I'd need to observe Ginny's behaviour closely in anticipation for some opening, and wing it.

The other worries were related to whatever nasty surprises I might find once we arrived at the castle, like last year with Duskhaven's unexpected presence. She'd turned out to be quite an alright professors during that year, truth be told, but there were no guarantees other changes to the plot would be so well-behaved. And besides, I didn't like it out of principle when things became too unpredictable.

I didn't think something like that would happen this time, though. Snape had already confirmed to me that we would indeed have Lockhart as our Defence teacher, and that specific class was the most voluble variable of all, wasn't it? It betrayed that Dumbledore was already satisfied with how he'd impressed on us —on me— the need to be mindful of the Dark Arts; and I was guessing this year he'd focus mostly on Harry. Under that light, our new professor of Defence was a walking warning of the risks of letting fame get to your head; and that was something that didn't feel aimed at me.

And I was okay with that, surprisingly. I'd liked Duskhaven —and I wouldn't have minded another competent teacher— but I was perfectly fine learning defensive spells on my own if it meant I could take advantage of my fore-knowledge. A new, completely random professor was always a wildcard; and I didn't want to have so many spinning plates at once as I'd had last year.

I crossed the barrier and smiled faintly at the sight of the Hogwarts Express: there was something... well, magical about it. Not only because it was a magical train —duh— but also because of all the powerful memories attached to its silhouette, to its bright red paint and puffy clouds of steam, to the nervous hissing sounds its locomotive made in preparation of our upcoming departure.

It was a particular mix of nostalgia —coming from my previous life, when the train had been only some symbol of my childhood's wishes, some impossible dream— and tense anticipation —from my current one, where the same train was the door to a world and place that was slowly starting to feel more like home than anywhere else.

"Sylvia! Here!"

A place that felt like home in no small part because of my new friends, too. I raised my hand in response to Tracey's enthusiastic waving, and approached her and her father. The balding man folded the copy of The Prophet in his hands to greet me with a gentle smile followed by a handshake with both his hands grasping mine; like a politician or something. Odd, but okay.

"Nice to see you again, Sylvia," he said. "Did you have a good summer?"

"Sure, Mr. Davis. But not as good as Tracey, it seems," I mentioned, winking at the tanned girl. Her deep dark hair had adopted a somewhat sun-bleached tone to it, and she looked healthier and more... unburdened than she'd been when we'd last seen each other at this very platform. "Did you have fun?"

"Oh yes!" she said, nodding with enthusiasm. "Riding Chrysaor was brilliant, and I was getting good at it too! By the time we had to return to Britain I was only falling into the water one out of every four times! I was telling dad that I think I'm going to enrol in Care of Magical Creatures for next year; do you think Professor Kettleburn will let us ride the hippogriffs?"

"Hmm... maybe? But you know, falling off a hippogriff is probably–"

"Oh, and this too!" she interrupted me, rolling up her robes' sleeve to show me a bracelet made out of tiny colourful beads, one of which —a yellow one— was pulsating softly, emitting a low light. "I got this at the street market in Hyperborea. It's a Chromosentis Bracelet, see? Each bead is for a different emotion, and they light up when you're feeling it. The woman who sold them also told me that one could use the beads to feel that same emotion again? I don't know... I was trying it the other day but I couldn't get it to work; maybe you could try it too? Oh! And I have to tell you about our visit to—"

"Tracey, Tracey," said Mr. Davis, reigning her in. "You will have all the time in the world to tell Sylvia about our summer when you are both on the train; but there is something I need to talk about with her first, remember?"

"Oh. Sorry, dad; I forgot."

That made my heart skip a beat, and I asked: "Did... did the Ministry reply?"

"Oh yes," said Mr. Davis, producing a small parchment envelope out of a bulging pocket in his cardigan, then handing it off to me.

Elias Davis —Tracey's dad— was sort of a mystery man to me, despite all that the girl had told me about her family last year. Her mother was a much more straightforward character to wrap my head around: she came from a long wizarding lineage —not a fully pure-blood one, these days, but one that I figured Greengrass would have heard about— and she was the current manager of her family's firm.

Mr. Davis was a Muggleborn, in turn, and probably the source of Tracey's distorted knowledge about Muggle life and customs. Her parents had first met at Hogwarts, then married not too long after, remaining neutral during the war.

But that was as far as my knowledge of the man extended. I didn't know what his occupation was —other than 'Tracey's dad' and his Muggle outwear was surprising, for someone who according to my friend had pretty much abandoned his mundane roots a long time ago.

In any case, my eyes were glued to the envelope in his hands.

"Take a look," he said, handing it to me.

The name of Tracey's mother's firm was embossed on its surface: 'Ashwick's - Arcane Artefacts & Antiquities'. It struck me as weird at first, until I remembered that this letter didn't come from the Ministry itself, not really; it came from her firm's own lawyer. In the last letter I'd sent to Tracey I'd told her a little about my St. Mungo's adventure —nothing too incriminating about Astrid, of course, I just told her it was due to a mishap with my trunk's enchantments— and the reply I got contained her parents' offer: to ask their lawyer to inquire on my behalf to the Ministry about my legal representative. I had accepted, of course.

I quickly opened the envelope now —it wasn't sealed, which meant Mr. Davis already knew what it contained— and read the parchment note inside, skipping over the legalese. Then... then it almost slipped out of my fingers.

I said: "But... it can't...?"

"What is it?" asked Tracey.

I shook my head, almost laughing, almost not quite believing my own words when I replied: "Dumbledore... Dumbledore is my legal representative."

Because of course he was. Right? Of fucking curse it was him.

"The headmaster?"

"Unless you know of some other Dumbledore?" I half-joked. "Please... please tell me you know of some other Dumbledore."

Both Davis shook their heads, the older one slightly amused at my reaction.

"But he didn't tell me anything! Why?!" I protested. "And he's the school's headmaster! Is... is this allowed? Is it even legal?"

Elias shrugged, smiling at me. "I can ask our lawyer, but most likely..."

"Yeah," I agreed, waving the note around in the air as I rose my voice. "He is Albus Dumbledore! Chief Warlock! Supreme Mugwump! Grand Sorcerer! Of course it is allowed; he probably wrote the bloody legislation himself!"

Tracey had taken an instinctive step back at my outburst, maybe fearing some accidental magic to explode off me. I bit my lip, calming down, then shook my head and asked again: "Why didn't he tell me anything?"

"Most likely it was because it simply never came up. But I think, Sylvia, that you should at least ask about it to the headmaster himself when you get back to Hogwarts," her father said. Then he looked at the clock hanging from the station's roof. "And unless you want to remain here at London, we better hurry up and put you both girls aboard the train now."

I nodded, though I wasn't that sure about the wisdom of confronting Dumbledore about it. What was I going to do, after all? Tell him about Astrid; or about my discoveries about my own past?

I sighed, following them meekly to the carriages where Mr. Davis helped us carry both our trunks inside an empty compartment. After that I thanked him for his help with the whole legal matter, then waited awkwardly still as he and Tracey hugged and said their goodbyes.

After Mr. Davis had left, I asked Tracey to wait outside and be my lookout, as I drew the curtains and changed into my Hogwarts robes. I certainly didn't like wearing Muggle outfits in wizarding places any longer than strictly necessary, and I started to feel more balanced and comfortable —more myself— the moment I was wrapped by the soft dark fabric of the uniform, with my wand within easy reach inside my pocket.

"I figured I'd meet your mother this time," I mentioned idly to Tracey sometime later as we waited for our departure, on a lull after she'd just finished telling me of how she —her mother— had managed to book a visit to the Minotaur's Labyrinth. Apparently it was tremendously expensive, on account of needing to be escorted at all times by trained wizards if you wanted to observe the Minotaur —without it observing you back up close, as it chewed on your bones.

"Ah... she had work this morning, you know how it is," she said, affecting an absent-minded tone. A tone that was quickly betrayed by her bracelet's beads momentarily turning from solid yellow to a soft blue glimmer.

The awkward moment was quickly forgotten thanks to Sally-Anne Perks, who found us and entered the compartment just then, asking for our help with her trunk. After greeting us she started telling us about her own summer, that she'd spent on the Yorkshire Dales; and then she made the mistake of asking us about our vacations, which launched Tracey into another full-on recounting.

I waited there, half-listening to Tracey as the train slowly filled with more students. I eyed some of them in passing: mostly faces I couldn't really pin names on; but that still felt somehow familiar. People in older years you cross paths with on the Hogwarts corridors, or that populate the background of the Great Hall, of the grounds and courtyards.

And then Blaise Zabini's smirking face appeared on the other side of the door's glass.

He entered our compartment, asked "Mind if I sit here?" and then started storing his trunk into the overhead bins without waiting for our reply.

"We were saving it for Daphne," protested Perks. But to little effect, as the boy simply sat down on the only free seat, leaning back into a lazy posture.

"Don't bother, Greengrass is not joining us."

"What?" I said, suddenly very awake and very tense. "What do you mean? Has something happened to her?"

He shrugged. "How should I know?"

"The same way you know she isn't joining us, maybe?"

"Well, they have already closed the carriages' doors; so if she isn't here already... surely that means she isn't on the train."

As if to punctuate his answer, the locomotive emitted a shrilling whistle, and the whole train shuddered as we finally started to move. I eyed the other two girls, and saw the same concern I was feeling reflected on their faces —and on Tracey's bracelet, which was now orange. Which meant they probably didn't know anything, if it had taken them by surprise too.

And neither did Zabini, despite his self-satisfied stance. I was starting to learn how to get a good read on the boy, and I figured he was acting like this to purposefully needle us. Time to deny him his fun, though:

"She probably arrived late," I said, trying to appear relaxed myself, and as if the very idea of the little prim heiress arriving late to anything wasn't absurd to begin with. "Or maybe she's travelling by portkey and will be there waiting for us already at the castle."

"Maybe," drawled Zabini, managing to convey in a single word what he truly thought about my theories.

I tried to ignore him and stared at the brick buildings moving past the windows. It was worrying, Daphne's absence, and I concentrated on my fore-memories, trying to remember if that was what was supposed to happen or not.

I knew Harry Potter and Ron Weasley were meant to lose the train, but I didn't remember if that was also true of anybody else. Could their shenanigans have impacted her too, if she was maybe arriving at about the same time? Maybe, but that would have been in the books, if that had happened; and I didn't remember reading anything like that. Not like I remembered every detail of the story, anyway.

Could this be my own influence? Something I'd inadvertently changed? Also maybe, but I couldn't imagine what that could be. No, most likely this was something else, something that was actually meant to happen. The reason it wasn't on the books was simply that they were written from Harry's perspective, and he wouldn't have noticed about Daphne's comings and goings. She was just an extra character after all, right?

As was everyone else in this train compartment.

Because what attention had the Boy Who Lived pay to any Slytherin other than Draco and his two bodyguards? How much did the books have to say about Perks, or about Tracey? Blaise here might have gotten a few extra mentions, but that was about it.

Just extra characters. Expendable.

A girls' voice came from the corridor outside, and we all turned our heads to look at the door —myself wondering if this would be indeed Daphne, arriving unusually late. But no, the girl who soon stepped right outside our door was as far from a side character as you could get.

Hermione Granger went to open the door, then she paused as her eyes met mine for the briefest of seconds. She averted her gaze to glance quickly at the other occupants of our compartment, then jerked her hand away from the door handle as if it could be cursed or something. She turned, took a step, then paused again. She stared at me out of the corner of her eye for another long beat, her lips silently muttering something. For a moment it looked like she'd open the door after all, but finally she shook her head and resumed her path, walking out of sight. A moment later we heard her knocking on the next compartment over and asking: 'Hello. I was just wondering if you have seen Harry Potter, or Ron Weasley? I can't seem to find them anywhere.'

"Oh God," I muttered. "She's still doing that."

"What?" asked Tracey. "Going with Weasley and Potter?"

"No. That! Acting all weird around me! It started last year, right after... uhm... that thing that happened; you know what, by the end of the year... you know where..." I forged ahead, ignoring Zabini's chuckles. "I'd hoped not seeing me during the entire summer would have made her forget about whatever it is, cured her of it; but it seems I'm not that lucky."

"Perhaps she just wanted to boast," said the boy.

"Boast?"

"About having the best grades in our entire year, of course. A Muggleborn Gryffindor, can you believe it? It could have easily been a Slytherin in her place, you see, it was that close... but no; Herbology is simply too tough a nut to crack, it seems."

I snapped my head back to him. "Wait, you mean–?"

"A shame, really. All that clout, that leverage... all those bragging rights... all lost to a no-name little know-it-all."

"How is it that everyone else seems to know my grades?!" I protested out-loud. "Do you lot have the school owls in your payroll or what?"

He grinned at me, leaning forward: "Do you really want to know? I could tell you... how much is it worth to you?"

"That depends. What do you want in return?"

He pantomimed thinking, looking out of the window. "Hmm... let's say... you teach me how to cast a spell. You're not too bad with those, I hear."

"Better than with plants, sure."

"So?"

"Well, which spell?"

"A dark curse, obviously," he said, staring back at me. "You must know at least one or two of those, by now."

I let out a soft huff as I leant back. "Forget it, Zabini. Your gossip is not worth that much."

"So you know a dark spell."

"I didn't say that."

"But you didn't deny it either," he replied, looking like the cat that got the canary.

I shrugged. "Oh, well, you know how it is: people are always saying all kinds of things about their betters; you can't really expect me to go around denying every rumour."

"Oh? Like this other rumour about your–"

"Merlin," commented Perks to Tracey, "I think they're flirting!"

"What?!" I protested. "We're not... flirting!"

But that had the effect of shutting up Zabini for good, making him look suddenly bashful and flat-footed for once. An awkward silence filled the compartment, broken only by Tracey's repressed laughter, her shoulders shaking. After a few moments the boy stood up, took the second year Potions textbook out of his trunk, and started reading it; ignoring —or pretending to ignore— the three of us girls.

It wasn't a bad idea, though, and a few minutes later I followed his example. I didn't have a mind for something as complex as Potions while on the train, opting instead for History of Magic: I was already half-way through it, and of all our textbooks it was the one that read the most like a story —if you ignored all the dates and lists of names, that is.

Ironic, that History of Magic could have been one of the most entertaining classes, if not for Professor Binns. There was an entire, hidden side of history to the one I'd known about in my previous life as a Muggle; and it was wild to learn how before the Statute of Secrecy, magic had been fully interwoven with mundane affairs. Like how when the Roman legions landed on Britain, they weren't composed only of warriors and legionaries. There were also the Magi of the 'Cohors Arcanum' apparently, and an entire chapter of the book was dedicated to the clashes between them and the local Celtic druids.

Eventually the Romans had won, thanks in no small part to their magic staffs —the predecessors to our own modern wands. And right there you had the reason half of our spell invocations were in some form of Latin.

The oddest thing was that... people had known, back then. Muggles. They knew about magic, knew about sorcerers, about mythical beasts —which weren't really mythical back then, just... beasts. They'd written about unicorns and dragons, and about those famous battles with their magical heroes. And somehow, they had made it all work; the world hadn't ended.

I could see the appeal, when reading the book. The source of all this conflict deep within wizarding society. How a pure-blood family would loath being forced to hide from the Muggle world, and would rather return to that: to the sorcerers that were widely respected, and part of a king's court —or that were the kings themselves, like the ancient Pharaohs had once been.

It was a world that didn't exist anymore, of course; and that the book in my hands looked at with somewhat rose-tinted glasses. I doubted everything would have been so great between Muggles and wizards back then, if somehow it had eventually led to them wanting to burn the everliving shit out of us, right?

Zabini spoke again when the trolley witch opened our door to ask if we wanted anything, and I —now that I had some more Galleons under my belt— decided to splurge a little: a cauldron cake and a couple of chocoballs, along with a handful of jelly slugs, pumpkin fizz to wash it down, and a sugar quill that I planned to save for later.

"Don't they feed you in that orphanage of yours?" he commented, biting into his pumpkin pasty: a suitably traditional wizarding desert.

"Not an orphanage. And no; they only let us eat grass and wallpaper. They say hunger keeps us from softening up."

"I've missed this," interrupted Tracey, preventing the boy from launching into another tirade. "British sweets and food, I mean. They had all these weird looking dishes with all kinds of cheese in Hyperborea... I couldn't pronounce half the names. And people there don't seem to know what pumpkins are!"

I shook my head. "Please, Tracey. It's not like Greek food is anywhere close the perfection of French cuisine, of course; but it certainly beats the hell out of British cooking. Everything does. It's all bland pudding this, bland pudding that, overcooked roasts... and don't get me started on breakfasts!"

"What's wrong with our breakfasts?"

"They're either too heavy or too... tasteless!"

She shrugged. "Speaking of tasteless..."

"You're a lost cause," I muttered, shaking my head again and biting into one of my chocoballs. Which was certainly heavy, filled with strawberry mousse as it was, but also tasted bloody great. I wasn't about to admit the point, though; I didn't feel sweets should count.

The sun began its slow descent after that, as we felt into a discussion about our new professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts, and I told them of Snape's lacklustre opinion of the man's competence. It was a good way of fore-warning them —vaccinating my friends against his stupidity, so to speak; and one of those rare times when I could honestly claim a legitimate source to my knowledge.

I had expected Lockhart to be so famous that all my housemates would already know who he was, but apparently Tracey had learned of his existence right when she'd received the Hogwarts letter for this year. And while Zabini acted as if he knew everything there was to know about him, I suspected it was mostly an act. Only Perks seemed to have truly heard of him beforehand, and only because her mother was a reader, as it turned out.

It matched with what I'd seen during my second escapade to Diagon Alley: the bookshop had been filled with middle-aged witches, mostly. And sure, many had dragged their families into the book signing, but it was clear that —Hermione being the exception— prepubescent girls weren't exactly Lockhart's main target demographic. To his credit, I figured.

As we began entering into the Scottish highlands the sun disappeared rapidly, and by the time the train stopped at Hogsmeade and we finally could stretch our legs, leaving for the fresh and cold air outside, the only lights were those of the platform's own lamps and Hagrid's lantern. The giant man shouted at the confused first years to gather around him, while we instead followed the main throng of people towards the opposite end of the platform, and along a twisting dirt road afterwards. And it made me feel... adult, somehow; not being a firstie anymore. Not being treated that much as a child.

Not that any of us were really adults; not even the older year students, who rushed to the carriages at the front as soon as they appeared from behind the road's bend. We four had to content ourselves with one of the vehicles towards the rear of the flock. Sally-Anne and Zabini quickly walked towards it, but Tracey stopped suddenly in her tracks; her eyes glued to the animals that were pulling the carriages. I paused next to her.

"What's the hold up?" asked the boy in an impatient tone when he noticed we had remained behind, but we ignored him and he climbed into the vehicle itself a moment later, shaking his head. He was soon followed by Perks —who shot us a confused look.

Tracey said: "Those are..."

"Thestrals," I confirmed. The two skeletal horses seemed quite bored, looking at the passing students with idle curiosity. One of them hit the ground softly with a hoof.

"I've read about them. I just didn't think... I mean, of course I can see them now, after... you know."

"Yeah; that."

"Yes."

She observed the creatures for a few moments longer.

"I read they eat meat," she commented, her tone implying a certain suspicion.

"Sure. And? So do dogs."

"It's just... you probably don't know it, being raised by Muggles. But thestrals have a... a bad reputation among wizards."

I shrugged and approached them slowly, making sure not to do any sudden movements. Then, I raised a hand and rested it on the gaunt flank of the closest one; I could feel the ribs underneath the thin black skin. Its body was oddly cold.

"I think they're alright," I commented after a few moments had passed without the thestral mutilating me. Tracey didn't seem too convinced, but at least she boarded the carriage —not without giving the strange horses a wide berth.

This was annoying, actually. Last year I had idly wondered if I would have been able to see the thestrals as it was. Before Quirrell I had never seen anyone dying in front of me or anything; but I remembered having once been an adult —pretty much aware of the concept of death— and besides, I had died myself, hadn't I? So it would have been an interesting scientific experiment of sorts: seeing if my fore-memories were enough to see the creatures, or if it was only my experiences as Sylvia that counted here. But of course, after what happened under the forbidden corridor there was no way to tell anymore.

Whatever. Not that it was important anyway. I removed my hand off the thestral and climbed into the carriage too, sitting in front of Zabini —who muttered a 'Finally!' when I closed the door and the vehicle started moving at last.

We followed the dirt trail for a few more minutes in relative silence, and then the castle emerged into view from behind the canopy of the trees around us, all towering stone walls and warm lit windows. It was always an incredible sight, approaching Hogwarts at night; one that we shared in reverent silence, without any Hermiones around to break it. I figured even the most jaded Slytherin student would still feel something warm at the majestic view, at how it somehow managed to mix the sense of longing for the home you know, with one of mystery and adventure.

The carriages took us straight to the main entrance hall, the combined crowd of students from every year of the four houses carpeting the wide stairs in a sea of people, as we all ascended towards the Great Hall among the noise of a hundred different simultaneous conversations.

A Great Hall that was presided by a simple wooden stool, with a raggedy hat placed on it. I took a quick look at the teachers already waiting for us as we walked up to the benches: there was Dumbledore, of course —showing off in his very visible purple and golden robes, complete with a fitting hat. Next to him was Flitwick —who was probably my favourite professor— Sprout —who pretty definitely wasn't— and the rest of the staff. Snape was, funnily enough, sitting next to a beaming Gilderoy Lockhart, the Potions master's face frozen into a rictus of disgust. The only missing teacher was McGonagall, who I figured would be dealing with the firsties ahead of the Sorting.

We found our usual seats —now shifted along the Slytherin table, the very end left empty for the upcoming new snakes— with the ease of habit; as if it hadn't been months since the last time we were here, merely one or two days. But there was an awkward, empty space among our ranks where Greengrass was missing.

I had hoped we'd meet her upon our arrival at the castle, but it turned out that I had been too optimistic, as the last stragglers —Gryffindors, obviously— had already found their seats and there were no signs of the girl. I noticed Perks shifting uncomfortably as it became more and more apparent something must have happened to her, to miss the banquet too.

She wasn't the only one missing, though. In front of me Draco Malfoy turned on his spot to scan the entire hall with narrowed eyes.

"Typical. They're not here," he said. "Why aren't they here?"

"Who do you mean, Draco?" asked Pansy Parkinson —who, unfortunately, was here.

"Potter and Weasley, of course. They haven't been booted out yet, trust me; I'd be the first one to hear if they were."

"They must have missed the train," commented Millicent Bulstrode.

I said: "What do you mean you would already know? How would you?"

He looked at me over his shoulder, all important: "My father, obviously. He is in the board of governors; and they are always informed of any disciplinary sanction or expulsions. Remember Selwyn, last year?" he finished, eyeing prefect Gemma Farley, far down the table.

"How could I not?" I grumbled. But then my eyebrows shot up: "Wait, is that how he knew what my grades were?"

"Oh, naturally, Sarramond," he said, distracted. "Families of renown like mine always get the annual report from the board, including the best students in each year and their grades. It's important to know which up-and-coming wizards are actually worth paying attention to."

I looked at Zabini with a triumphant expression. He rolled his eyes and mouthed something that could have been 'that idiot'.

But Draco didn't notice the exchange, turning back to look at the Gryffindors once more. "I bet they did some new desperate thing for fame and attention. Always seeking the limelight, are they not? Hopefully they'll get caught this time. If they do, I'll make sure my father knows about it and have him order the school to punish them. It's high time they faced some real consequences."

"Would he?" I asked. "Because I don't really get this vendetta of yours, Malfoy. Is it worth all this effort? What's the benefit here, for you?"

It was something that was bothering me, that had been in the back of my head for the last few months: Draco Malfoy's downfall. How he wasn't, at his core, really a twisted rotten arsehole like the true Death Eaters were —like his father probably was. But he would nevertheless be pressured to join them, and in the end he'd never get a redemption arc, would be too weak and isolated to change into someone better.

And perhaps it symbolized the whole of my house, right? And now that I didn't have the immediate threat of Selwyn looming over my head —let's not think of the basilisk, okay? Okay— I was starting to wonder about my long-term plans.

Could I change my house for the better? Somehow turn Slytherin away from the Death Eaters' influence. Perhaps I'd already inadvertently taken some steps there, simply by helping Farley topple Selwyn last year. But could I do more than that?

Could I try and save Draco from his own idiocy?

The boy turned to face me, looking at me as if it was me who was the idiot here.

"I mean..." I clarified, "it looks like you're just making an enemy for the sake of making an enemy. And he's the Boy Who Lived, after all! Most people love him, justified or not; so you're paying a lot of public standing in front of everyone, and won't get that much in return even if you win. Say you catch wind of them breaking the rules... wouldn't it make more sense to lord it over them, rather than telling your father? Compromising information is best used as leverage to threaten with, get them to do your bidding... If you use it, you lose it."

There was a beat of silence —Perks looking a little alarmed— as the other second years digested my words. Then Draco replied with:

"But you're a half-blood!"

Which was so unexpected that I had to repeat the words to myself to try and understand, but to no avail.

"Meaning?" I asked, my tone harsher.

"Well, that naturally it makes sense for a half-blood to think that way. You need to scrabble for every scrap you can find: working yourself to the bone for a few Galleons, or taking risks just for the opportunity to get invited into a pure-blood circle. You certainly can't afford to make powerful enemies the likes of Potter," he said, turning his nose slightly up. "But me, I'm a Malfoy. There's nothing we can't afford."

That left me speechless for a beat. Because... well, because the bloody posh bugger was right, for once. And it highlighted something of a revelation: that there were in fact two Slytherins, two sides to my house.

Yes, there was the cunning Slytherin, the house of ambition and self-sufficiency. The side I represented best: the machiavellian aspect of it. But there was another side entirely too: that of the pure-blood, ancient families. And even if I'd always been aware of it on some level —on more than one, after all my pain last year regarding my blood— I hadn't really grasped what it meant to be one of those. Because how could I? Their experience was entirely alien to mine.

But now I could get a glimpse, at least, of what Draco thought like. Of what he represented: the side of Slytherin that valued clout, power and appearances above all else. The ones that would punch down, not trying to hide it —in fact, going out of their way to make it as public as possible— because they knew they could. Because they could afford to do so; to display that sort of power, to make those sort of enemies. A display of power that stopped others from getting too ambitious, from trying to topple them in turn like a pack of hyenas.

Theirs was the logic at the top of the status hierarchy, of course; a place I had no access to myself. But under that logic, it made loads of sense to go for the biggest rival you could find. The more famous your enemy was, the more clout points you won when you stroke them down and shrugged off the consequences.

Sort of like getting into a prison and going straight for the neck of the strongest inmate. A somewhat Gryffindorian way of thinking too, that of defeating a great foe; but the difference here was that the lion would try to make it appear heroic and honourable. The snake instead would cheat and backstab, all the way trying to appear as if it had been barely any effort at all.

But there was a flaw in that logic, one that I could see very clearly from the vantage point that my fore-knowledge granted me. And because it really miffed me that he had so thoroughly made evident the difference in status between the two of us, I felt eager to share it:

"That might be true for now," I said with a shrug, interrupting Pansy who was simpering to Draco about how right he was. "But fortunes rise and fall, you know. And if you make an enemy of everyone on Potter's side now, and have no leverage to use on them later on... well, maybe they'll return the favour when your own fortune happens to fall."

He crossed his arms in a bored gesture. "But it won't. The Malfoy name is not like the Weasleys, you see. We are pure-blood aristocracy! Our lineage goes back more than a thousand years. That doesn't simply disappear overnight."

"No? Maybe we should ask the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black what they think about that," I said, pantomiming looking left and right around the Slytherin table; then shrugging. "Oh, that's right... we can't."

Now, that caused a stunned silence in our part of the table, every pair of eyes fixated on me as if I'd just committed a terrible faux pas; Tracey's in particular looking quite unbelieving. I shrugged to her, and she huffed and looked at the night sky through the enchanted ceiling, as if asking the stars for patience.

I didn't get to hear Draco's reply, because at that moment the main doors to the Great Hall opened, and McGonagall entered followed by a flock of firsties —like baby ducklings following on their mummy's footsteps, all of them anxious and fidgeting as they pushed each other and looked around the Great Hall with wide bright eyes.

Dumbledore stood up then, and after a few words of welcome, and singing the silly Hogwarts song, the Sorting itself began.

It was a monotonous process, now that it didn't affect me or the key characters; and one in which we had to remain in a mostly respectful silence —punctuated by the occasional burst of applause— as pipsqueak after pipsqueak walked up to the stool to be sorted one by one. And then one of them would cause the hat to stall for a few minutes, to the annoyance of all and the groans of my hungry stomach.

On the plus side I got to watch as a very fey-looking Luna Lovegood sat on the stool for almost five minutes, her gaze apparently lost in the distance. But following her line of sight to the far wall of the Great Hall, I did notice the faint outline of the Bloody Baron watching the proceedings from above.

Eventually she was sorted into Ravenclaw, so no surprises there. Also unsurprising was Ginny Weasley's sorting into Gryffindor, to the rapturous applause of the two red-headed twins.

On the Slytherin side of things, we ended up with a Thomas Avery —who was a big deal, apparently— and a Sabine Rosier —a frail-looking girl who was also greeted effusively by the pure-bloods around me. I initially assumed that our other new addition Grace Crabbe was Vincent's sister, but apparently they were from different branches of the family tree. Sean Higgs, though, was indeed Terence's brother, who walked up to the end of the table to congratulate him in person —despite McGonagall's reproving stare.

I was glad when the last student went to Hufflepuff and the banquet finally appeared on our tables, and was one of the first to dig in —despite my earlier comments on British cooking.

And between bites, I was also glad to notice how Draco Malfoy looked somewhat thoughtful, for once.

Chapter Text

Daphne Greengrass hadn't magically appeared in our dorm during the night, and when morning rolled in the bed next to mine was still eerily intact, the bedspread smooth and untouched, the four-poster's curtains properly tucked in, no trunk to be found by its foot. It felt deeply wrong, and it took me a few seconds until I realised that it was because I'd never seen an unused Hogwarts bed before: the house-elves made sure our trunks were always waiting for us by the time we first entered our dorm at the beginning of term, and took them to the train after we'd already left for breakfast. The empty spot next to Daphne's bed was... ominous.

The other girls must have been thinking something along those same lines, because the mood in our dorm —the next door over from the one we'd occupied last year— was just a tad too quiet that first morning; even accounting for the tiredness of the previous day's trip and banquet. Too expectant, all silent stares and avoidant gazes.

Even Parkinson seemed to be caught flat-footed at the princess' absence. With Greengrass missing, she was now the highest status witch among the five of us sharing the dorm —as per Slytherin's absurd traditions. I highly doubted she wasn't very aware of that; but oddly enough she wasn't taking advantage of the situation. No ordering us around, no establishing new humiliating rules for us poor half-bloods to follow, no nothing.

Not yet, at least. Perhaps she was simply bidding her time.

I tried to gather some information on the matter when we eventually descended towards the common room. Prefect Farley stood in the middle of a circle of a dozen or so firsties, her hair tied in her usual ponytail, her eyes sharp as she towered over the newest crop of snakes; explaining to them the basics of daily life at Hogwarts that she hadn't the night before:

"—but never between classes, only in your free periods. Now, today I will show you the way to the Great Hall, so keep close to me if you want to eat your breakfast in time. But if you get lost some other day, simply remember to look for the Grand Staircase: it does connect to the dungeons not far from here —I will show you where— so that's always a safe bet even if it's a longer walk. And I can see you hovering there, Sarramond, what it is that you want? It's only our first day!"

"Ah, morning Gemma," I said. And sure, we weren't in first name basis, but I figured it would be good if the firsties thought that we were. When the Prefect didn't seem to mind it, I continued: "I was wondering: do you have any idea of what happened to Greengrass? When she'll arrive?"

The older girl took a quick step towards me, lowering her tone into a more private conversation: "You don't know? I figured you would, being part of her circle."

"Know what?"

She shrugged. "Well, I don't know, myself. Only that apparently she had a matter of some importance come up; but Professor Snape didn't feel like sharing the details."

Or maybe he didn't know them himself either. Hell, I hoped he didn't; it would be horrible for Snape to know what was going on in my sort-of-friend's life when I had no idea myself. Still, I had to wonder why Daphne wouldn't have sent her owl with a quick letter to any of us girls, tell us what's what.

"Did he say when she'd be back, at least?" I asked.

"No, but he gave us the impression it shouldn't take too long; that's why her bed is still in your dormitory. And now, if you don't mind... I do have to bring this lot to the Great Hall, and I can see they're starting to disperse again." With that, she turned sharply towards one of the young boys who was walking up to the stairs back to the dorms. "Oi! Where do you think you're going, Berrow? Come back here!"

I left the Prefect to her tasks and joined Tracey and Perks, recounting what little I'd learned on the way to the Great Hall, where we were welcomed by a foggy morning of grey skies, the usual Hogwarts breakfast fare, and the little show of Ron Weasley receiving a howler from his mother, scolding him for stealing a certain car. This caused a loud wave of jeers to come out of the Slytherin table, to which I gladly joined. But I couldn't avoid feeling a slight, stupid twang of envy directed at the redhead, chagrined boy; simply because I knew I had nobody back home who would ever care enough to send me a howler.

Whatever. We were also welcomed by our new schedules, and I examined mine idly while spreading a heavy amount of butter on my toast. I wasn't the only one among my housemates to groan when we discovered our first class of the day would be Transfiguration –McGonagall didn't subscribe to the idea that the first class of the year should be a low-intensity, introductory affair. But hey, at least it wasn't Potions, right?

No. Potions would be our last class for the day, a class that we still shared with the Gryffindors. As we did Defence Against the Dark Arts too, which last year we'd attended alongside the Ravenclaws. We now shared Flying with the house of the eagles instead, appropriately enough.

Now that was a change, and I had to wonder if it was an expected one according to the timeline, or one somehow caused by my own intromissions. I couldn't remember that level of detail from my fore-memories, though, and that was without taking into account the differences between the books and films. So I would have to play it by ear.

A possible explanation for why they'd switched the houses around became apparent later that very same morning, when we gathered on the grounds outside for our first Flying lesson of the year:

"What does she mean, we're going to play Quidditch?!" I asked Tracey, my voice alarmed as I eyed the traitorous Madam Hooch. The woman didn't look at all like she was making a poor taste joke; and she in fact was brazen enough to signal us to follow her as she shot towards the Quidditch pitch atop her own broomstick.

"Relax, it's going to be fun!" replied Tracey, smiling like a lunatic. "Honest, I was dreading this year would be like the last one, always doing laps."

"Laps are great," I muttered, mounting my broom and rising carefully in the air. "Nobody ends up with broken limbs when we're doing laps. I like laps."

But my opinion seemed to be in the minority, and I soon had to increase my speed not to fall behind the pack. We landed at the centre of the Quidditch pitch's oval and next to a box of equipment; the stands and towers around us completely empty of spectators. I bit my lip and grasped my broomstick's handle with a tight hand, trying my best not to tremble as Madam Hooch used her wand to reposition and conjure brand new duplicates of the goalposts above our heads.

"There are simply too many of you for a single match," she explained, "so we'll need to split the field in two separate matches. Slytherin boys will play against Ravenclaw boys on the left side, and you girls will do the same on the right side, over there. Now, since the matches will last for the entire duration of our class, there won't a need for having a snitch in play, or seekers for that matter–"

That was met with a wall of groans and mutterings, Draco's very loud 'Just what poor excuse for Quidditch is this?' among them. I was sure Madam Hooch must have heard it, but she forged ahead as if nobody had spoken:

"And since most of you are still learning how to master your broomsticks, we will make it a little easier on you, with only one bludger in each match. Is that clear?" She opened the box and extracted the bats, quaffles and bludgers, closing it again before the little snitch inside had time to escape. "Now, arrange the team positions among yourselves and pick up the equipment, quickly!"

I walked robotically to meet with the rest of the Slytherin girls, dragging my broom after me as I eyed the two iron balls resting on the grass; wondering if there was some excuse I could use to get out of having to play. But none came to mind in the five steps that it took me to reach my huddling housemates. My teammates too now, I guessed.

Hooch hadn't said anything about choosing a captain, but Parkinson had eagerly taken that role upon herself, assigning the positions to the rest of us: "Millicent, you are the beater. I reckon we'll only need one with a single bludger; and besides, we're missing a player. Davis, you can be the keeper; and–"

"I want to play chaser," interrupted Tracey, who was bouncing on her feet as if wanting to get over all this talk and just jump into the air already.

Parkinson didn't seem to like it, but she nodded after a beat. "Fine. You play keeper then, Sarramond."

"Isn't the keeper the one who is supposed to intercept the quaffle with... you know, with their own body?" I asked. "I think I'd rather play as... well, as anything else, really. Why can't Bulstrode play keeper instead? She is... uh... she has a stronger build than me."

Bulstrode shot me a narrow look, but it was Parkinson who seemed determined to deny my pretty reasonable request, with an ugly sneer on her ugly face:

"Tough luck, Sarramond. You're the only one too poor to afford your own broom," she commented offhandedly, pointing at the school broomstick in my hands —that was missing about half its bristles. "Flying that thing you'll be too slow to be of any use in any other position, really."

It grated, having her point out the obvious truth to the others: now that we were second years, the prohibition of not bringing brooms into Hogwarts didn't apply to us any longer. And so the rest of the students had all brought their own, higher quality broomsticks from home, all slick aerodynamic shapes and varnished woods. All except for me, of course; I was the only one still using the school provided ones.

I looked at the other girls, but none spoke in my defence. Even Tracey had her gaze lost on the grass, as if she were looking for a Galleon she'd dropped or something.

Traitors, the whole lot of them.

I shrugged, trying to look impassive and as if it made no difference to me at all, and I ambled my way to the equipment box to grab the protective helmet and pads, no longer interested in the discussion. I felt ridiculous putting on the weather-stained helmet, but yeah... it was better than having a bloody iron ball hit my noggin, right?

Oh, how I hated this sport.

At least it wasn't windy, or so foggy anymore, or raining, or freezing cold. I feared what Hooch might have in store for us for the rest of this year. The only reprieve was that Flying wasn't one of the most important classes, and so it didn't take as much precedence in our schedule as say, Potions or Transfiguration. Which thankfully meant I would have time to recover after today before I'd need to go through this nightmare again.

And by that time, Greengrass would certainly be back with us. So perhaps I could drop the keeper position on her shoulders —even though the very idea of the high-born girl ever wearing the protective gear I'd just donned was so unlikely as to be doomed from the start, simply out of sheer unbelievability.

So yeah, I was probably stuck as keeper now for the rest of the year. Great.

On the plus side, our rivals weren't the Gryffindors. And I figured that would be the possible explanation as to why the school had seen fit to switch us around, if Hooch had warned the powers that be of her plan of having us play friendly matches. Because there was no way in hell that a Quidditch match between us and the lions could ever be called 'friendly'.

Or between us and the Hufflepuffs, after what happened last year. The Ravenclaws were probably the only safe option here, truth be told. And that suited me just fine now, as the girls that faced us —as we gathered and mounted our brooms under Hooch's piercing yellow eyes— didn't look like the most athletic bunch.

Madam Hooch blew her whistle, released the balls, and we all rose into the air to our respective positions. I parked myself in front of the middle hoop, and realised with some surprise that the rings were much wider up close than what they'd always seemed to me from back on the ground —large enough for myself to pass through, with plenty of space left over. So in other words: they were wide enough that I had no hope to block them entirely with just my tiny twelve year old body.

And that was one more reason why Bulstrode should have been keeper, not me. Ugh!

A few minutes into the match my nerves were finally starting to calm down, though the old broom I was riding still shook slightly as I manoeuvred myself, as if reflecting my insecurity as I turned in mid-air to go from one ring to the next in a lazy patrol path. So far I hadn't needed to intervene at all, in fact. Thanks in no small part to Bulstrode, who was enjoying her role as beater perhaps a bit too much, truth be told; she hit the bludger and sent it careening towards any Ravenclaw who dared enter our side of the field with a savage, brutal intensity.

But the calm didn't last, and soon enough Bulstrode miscalculated and let Sue Li pass through. Sue Li, who was flying straight at me with the quaffle well secured in her hand, a determined intention written all over her focused face.

I wasn't sure what to do, other than trying my best at getting in the middle of her flight path and being a general nuisance. But still, I had to fight my well-honed survival instincts to do so: the idea of purposefully getting in the way of someone flying straight at you at speed was antithetical to the survivalist part of my lizard brain who was screaming internally: 'No! You dodge things that come at you, not get in their way, you idiot!'

It did the trick, though, forcing Li to course-correct if she didn't want to crash straight into me, plunging the both of us to our deaths below. She flew to the side and lost her window of opportunity, passing the quaffle to the Patil girl, who promptly lost it to Perks when a bludger hit her side.

With that I let out a relieved breath. I had saved the first attack, at least. Perhaps this wouldn't be as hard, right?

Well, wrong.

It happened pretty fast. One moment they were fighting next to the Ravenclaw side, and the next moment someone threw the quaffle straight towards the top hoop of the three I was supposed to guard. I pushed my broom upwards, but I was already way too late, and the ball passed cleanly through the ring.

It wouldn't have been that bad, if not because bloody Sue Li had seen what had happened and quickly realised that my broom —and my flying too, probably; but let's stick to the broom here, okay?— wasn't up to par. Too slow to react, to arrest my momentum and switch from one hoop to the next in time when the circumstances changed.

So when she approached our side again a couple of minutes later, she aimed herself straight towards the top ring, waited until I was half-way there and then fell downwards with a spiralling pirouette I had no hope to match, sending the quaffle through the now unprotected bottom ring.

It happened again some time later; and then twice more, and again with Lisa Turpin. That time I'd been expecting it and had feinted my first move; but even then it wasn't enough. I stretched my arm, felt my fingers graze the quaffle as it passed right in front of me, and saw it sail through the goalpost.

"Fuck!" I shouted, earning a 'Language!' from Madam Hooch below us.

"Will you get your head in the game already, Sarramond?" asked Parkinson, approaching me all high and mighty. "It's like we don't have a keeper at all!"

"Perhaps you want to trade brooms, Pansy?" I shot back. "Maybe this one will fit you better: it's slow and clumsy... so just like you."

Pansy aimed herself straight towards me, showing me her teeth in an angry rictus. But before she could say or do anything, Tracey noticed the escalating tension and shot towards us with a quick, agile manoeuvrer: "Hey, stop it, you two! Remember, we are in the same house; we don't show disagreement in public!"

She aimed that mostly at me, judging by her knowing look, something which I found tremendously unjust. But still I nodded and then said to Parkinson: "Right. Not much I can do if my broom is slower than theirs," which was quite true, since I wasn't Harry bloody Potter to compensate for inferior gear with amazing flying skills. "But tell Bulstrode to wait until they get closer to the hoops before sending the bludger at them. If they have to dodge, that will give me some more time."

She looked like she wanted to argue the point further, but we couldn't exactly stay put there and debate with the game still going on; and so the girl parted ways with a reluctant nod, passing by Bulstrode in her way back to —hopefully— relay the new instructions. At least I hoped it was that, and she wouldn't be instructing her friend to send the bludger at my face instead.

"Just keep calm and loose, like we talked about last year," said Tracey to me after Pansy left, in a lower voice. "You're not going to fall, Sylvia. You're past that point already."

"Yeah."

"And... uhm... try to stop the quaffle too?"

"Yeah. Go back, Tracey, they need you there."

She hesitated for a moment, then gave me a sharp nod and turned to join the fray at speed. She intercepted a pass from Patil and sent the quaffle swiftly towards the opposite goalpost. Unfortunately, it was stopped by the Ravenclaw keeper, who didn't appear to be having any of the same difficulties with her own broom as I did with mine.

The game continued, and the next time Sue Li charged at me and tried her little misdirection trick, Bulstrode was prepared: a murderous bludger impacted the girl's right leg with a loud, nasty crunch. She exclaimed in pain, wobbling for a moment before throwing the quaffle at my ring; a ring that by that point I was already in front of. Not that it was necessary, because her aim was so off that the ball flew inoffensively past my side.

And I must have celebrated that a bit too effusively, because Li flashed me a single raised finger as she returned to her side of the field. And yeah, I hoped nobody would dare give me those talks again about how healthy sports were, how they bred camaraderie and such.

There were a couple further attacks, one by her and another by Turpin, both of them foiled in no small part by Bulstrode's proactive violence: she sent another cannonball-like bludger at Turpin, and then simply charged at Li, trying to club her with the bat. Something that would have surely caused Madam Hooch to intervene if she wasn't already too busy dealing with Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle over by the other end of the pitch. Li managed to outmanoeuvre her, though, launching the quaffle at the hoops; but I was already there and ready to stop it. I reached with my padded gloved hand, and for a critical second I thought it would slip past, but then the ball hit my palm and bounced away obediently.

Finally! I was still riding the success when Madam Hooch's whistle sounded at last a few minutes later and we all descended to the ground, only to learn that our strategy had came too little too late, and the Ravenclaw girls had indeed won the match.

"It's a stupid sport anyway," I muttered angrily as we walked back towards the castle. "I just hope it won't be like this the whole year."

"Losing?" asked Malfoy, who was strutting around after the boys had won their own match —illegally, according to the Ravenclaws. "It will, if you insist in flying that old thing and dragging your team back. I saw you in Diagon Alley, why didn't you just purchase a new broomstick then?"

"Because she's too poor for that, of course," commented Parkinson, with a malicious smile on her face.

"Oh, of course," agreed Malfoy. "Merlin knows which misery she lives around, in that Muggle orphanage!"

"One: not an orphanage, and two: don't be dense, Parkinson; I can afford a bloody broom. I just didn't think I'd need one for this year." I shrugged and added: "Besides, it's not like I'd get that many opportunities to fly it outside of school, no?... so why bother?"

"Well, you better find one and quickly," she snapped back. "I just refuse to be humiliated again by that upstart Sue Li, and that mudblood Turpin!"

I rolled my eyes, but she was right that I needed something better if this was going to be a common occurrence; I didn't enjoy being humiliated either, or treated as a hindrance to the team. But being forced to use my hard-earned money to purchase a broom out of all things, it irked me.

Although perhaps there was another, better option there.

I'd need to come back to it later, though. Because then there was Potions.

It was the last class of our schedule for the day, and we and the Gryffindors entered the empty classroom with the uneasy anticipation of being in the general neighbourhood of Severus Snape, never knowing what his mood would be like when he deigned joined us. And while most of the other students mechanically walked up to the same desks they'd used the previous year, my situation wasn't as straightforward: because I wasn't a pariah anymore.

Tracey seemed to be aware of that, and that the most natural pairing right now would be for her to sit with me; but I could see her hesitation at the thought of informing Perks —her partner last year— that they'd no longer share a desk. It should have been fine —Perks could always sit with Greengrass, yet another logical pairing— but of course the heiress wasn't here. And I didn't think Zabini —Daphne's previous partner— would take the loss and being forced to sit with one of the Gryffindors with grace; without attempting something first. Not if his suspicious look at us three girls as he approached his usual desk was anything to go by.

And it would be just too easy of a play, because Snape being like he was he wouldn't tolerate both Zabini and Perks sitting on their own for even a single class, just because Daphne wasn't here. No, he would certainly demand that either they sit together —which would be devastating to us three girls, once Greengrass returned to discover that we'd collectively managed to expel her from the Slytherin side of the room— or that one of them sit with a Gryffindor. And that one would end up being Perks —because half-blood.

It was amazing, the level of casual politicking already expected out of us snakes; the Gryffindors probably didn't have these issues. Tracey looked at me expectantly, biting her lip. I suspected she actually wanted to sit with me; it was just that she didn't want to be the one to tell Perks.

And Perks was of course also very aware of this, of the whole situation. I could see her working through it, probably trying to come up with a counter-scheme in case I said anything now. You didn't last long in Slytherin if you didn't develop a sixth sense for this kind of thing. Or at least, didn't last long if you weren't a pure-blood. People like Crabbe and Goyle could afford to spend their lives walking around without ever looking at anything in close detail.

Not me, though. And yeah, it was suddenly a very thorny, delicate situation I found myself in. I had all the right in the world to ask Tracey to sit with me —nobody could ever fault me for that!— but at the same time it risked toppling that line of dominoes that ended with me losing face in Greengrass' little circle; a circle I pretty much needed. Because I simply refused to go back to the outcast's life.

I said: "So... uhm..."

It was Hermione Granger who saved us, in the end. I stopped when I saw her approaching us, her bag of books and other assorted school paraphernalia clasped in her arms. She hesitated for a moment upon meeting our combined gazes, but then she visibly steeled herself and walked up to me.

"Hello," she said. "Er– would you... would you like to be Potions partners this year too, Sarramond?"

Which I had not been expecting; because sure, I did help the Trio defeat Quirrell, but I also was a stinking snake who did a lot of shit to them last year that I knew they didn't approve of. More so Hermione, with how morally rigid and holier-than-thou she could be.

I guess my widened eyes and stunned silence made her nervous, because she started talking very quickly: "I mean, we did well last year, didn't we? I got an Outstanding, what about you? I was the only one in Gryffindor to get one. And... er– I'm guessing Professor Snape will want me to sit with one of the Slytherins in any case, so I thought that... seeing as we already know each other and can work together well..."

"Better the devil you know?" I asked with a smirk.

That took the wind straight out of her sails: "Oh... uhm– well, if you don't want..."

Wait... was this what she'd been wanting to say to me all those times before? In the train too? Bloody hell, talk about making a mountain out of a molehill.

"No... I mean, yes, it's fine. We could do that," I said, turning to look at the two other girls next to me. "Right? You could sit together too, like last year."

Perks nodded eagerly, possible thanking the heavens for Hermione's intercession. Tracey, though, she looked disappointed, and I saw her bracelet flash blue —I had to warn her about that, it wasn't the wisest thing to wear around the other Slytherins— but then gave me a hesitant nod.

Yeah... she wasn't an idiot, though. She probably understood this worked best for me; even if it might come as something of a disappointment.

But in fact, it worked great for me on a number of levels, I realised as I sit next to the frizzy haired girl —in the exact same seats we had occupied the entire last year. This meant I would definitely get another 'Outstanding' in Potions by the end of this year too, as long as I didn't flunk the exam completely; and also guaranteed that I would retain some level of indirect access to the comings and goings of the Golden Trio, which couldn't hurt either.

"So, uhm... did you have a good summer, Granger?" I asked her, trying my best at being social and nice and beginning that long road of worming myself back into her good graces.

She paused in her flipping through the course textbook, looking at me with some surprise. Then said: "Oh... yes. We went to France, my parents and me. We–"

I beamed at her. "Really? Where to in France? Paris?"

"Yes, and–"

"Of course. I guessed so, everybody goes to Paris. Did you try the crêpes?"

"Er–"

"The Montparnasse district is possibly best for them, but I'd give it all to be at one of those kiosks at the Jardin du Luxembourg right now, rather than here. With some music, too... and... some people too..." I shook my head, as if I was a dog trying to rid myself of the unbidden memory.

"Oh, have you–?"

"I got one of the house-elves in the kitchens to cook French dishes for me last year," I misdirected instead. "Plixiette. It was great while it lasted, but after Potter developed that case of... you know... poisoning?"

"Yes. Of co–"

"Well, I was forced to go back to the same boring sh– uhm, stuff as everybody else. But I was thinking, maybe you could ask the Headmaster?"

"Ask the–?"

"He favours you, you know." I shrugged. "You, Potter and Weasley. So if you go to him and petition to have French cuisine reinstated... well, I reckon you'd have a good chance at it. Better you than me, at any rate. And you'd make Plixiette happy too. You like house-elves being happy, don't you? So yeah... just drop some mentions to that, and how it would remind you of the oh-so-very-happy memories you made with your parents at summer? That would help too; the word to remember here is 'happy'."

"What?"

"Yeah; it's like Dumbledore is a lock and 'happy' is its key. It's pavlovian, I think. And that would–"

"Silence!" shouted Snape, entering the Potions classroom and looking at each of us in turn, as if curious whether somebody would be enough of an idiot as to keep talking. Potter, maybe. I shut my own mouth with a snap. "Today, you will brew a Manegro potion. Weasley! Under what other name can you find this potion in your book?"

A tense silence.

"No? Five points from Gryffindor. I see it's too much to ask for you dimwits to open your textbooks. Does anybody here know the answer?"

Nobody moved, except for Hermione next to me, who raised her hand. I had figured she'd know better by now, but I guessed old habits must die hard.

Snape, of course, pretended like she didn't exist. But then his eyes landed on me.

"Sarramond?" he asked, the complete git.

"Uhm..."

"Hair..." whispered Hermione.

"Hair-growing Potion!" I burst out.

Snape narrowed his eyes at me for a moment, then said: "...Correct... Ten points to Slytherin. What are you waiting for, then? Open your books and start preparing the ingredients! We don't have all day!"

"Thanks," I muttered to Hermione once my Head of House was out of hearing range; even though it was her fault for attracting the bitter bat's attention in the first place.

She simply nodded. "Should we split the tasks like last year, then?"

"I'd rather do more of the actual brewing this time," I admitted. It was more work, and more delicate work, but I didn't want to reach the end of year's exam and find out Hermione had been carrying me on her shoulders all those months, find myself unable to complete whatever assignment Snape challenged us with. "Maybe we can turn this year?"

She hesitated for a moment, but then nodded, switching positions with me. "Very well. I'll go and gather the ingredients, then. You can get started with the boiling."

"Uh-huh," I muttered, reaching under the cauldron to start the fire.

"Oh, remember to–"

"Set the fire low at first; yeah, Granger, I know that."

"Yes. Of course."

Still, I noticed she pretended to be reading the list of ingredients off the book for a while longer than strictly necessary —which in her case was no time at all, as I was sure she probably had it memorised already— as she waited for me to finish setting the fire before leaving for the cupboard.

I shook my head, smiling to myself. Hopefully it wouldn't be like this the entire year. Would it?

I busied myself with the cauldron, measuring the temperature again and again; and so I barely noticed when she came back and dropped all the ingredients on the table. She went to the book again, flipping back and forth, then moved some of the ingredients around, then back to the book...

"What's the issue?" I whispered.

"Oh... It's just..."

"What?"

But rather than telling me, she stood up, hand raised and facing Snape. When the professor didn't acknowledge her, she spoke aloud anyway: "Excuse me, professor: the list of ingredients for the hair-growing potion includes puffer-fish eyes; but I couldn't find any in the classroom's cupboard, and they're not in our ingredients kit either."

I snapped my head to look at Pansy Parkinson's table, certain that this would be some sort of sabotage —it was too early in the year for that, but maybe our Quidditch loss had impacted her at a deeper level than I thought— but no. She didn't have any puffer-fish eyes herself. In fact, it looked like nobody in the classroom had them.

"I have removed the puffer-fish eyes from the cupboard," replied Snape distractedly, to a stunned audience.

It took Hermione a couple of seconds to recover from the shock: "But... please, professor. The instructions–"

"Any fool with two eyes can follow some instructions written on a book's page!" he said, standing up to tower over us. Then he paused, eyeing Neville Longbottom for a beat. "Well... almost any fool. But this year we will sort the wheat from the chaff: you will need to prove that you understand the underlying magical principles, the delicate balance of substances and humours that makes for a proper potion. Contained in that cupboard is everything you will need to complete the assignment..."

I muttered a curse under my breath —and I wasn't the only one. Of course this would happen the first time I actually asked for more work, more responsibility...

"Silence!" shouted Snape at the outburst of groans and murmurs. "You have already wasted more than ten minutes of this class, and I will evaluate you on today's potion. So I suggest you start... brewing."

There was an air of urgent despair permeating the room, very visible in the eyes of some of my classmates. But with no other option or recourse, we all started to work. Hermione quickly wrote down a list of the ingredients available to us in both the cupboard and our kits, and we put both our heads together trying to puzzle out a solution.

"What about beetle eyes, then?" I asked.

She shook her head. "They would be a good substitute to keep the magical balance, yes; but they won't encourage growth."

"Right, right... uhm... bat spleens? They're roundish too, and they're used in the swelling solution, no?"

"Swelling isn't really the same as growing."

I tilted my hand back and forth. "It kind of is, though."

"No, it's not!" she insisted. "It would be better to use something that actually grows; perhaps puffapod seeds."

"Puffapods?!"

"Well, yes. They bloom instantly."

"That isn't the same as growing, either," I protested. "And they're bloody unstable! The potion would end up causing whoever drinks it to turn into a ball of hair or something. Which would be hilarious, you know... so perhaps we could sell the recipe to the Weasley twins after Snape is done failing us."

She frowned, but didn't defend the puffapods anymore. We remained in silence for a few more minutes, going over the list once more.

"Dittany!" Hermione exclaimed suddenly. "It promotes–"

"–skin growth! Yes, that could work. But we'll need something to refocus its magical properties, something hairy. What about... hmm... puffskein hair?"

She hesitated. "It might be a bit too hairy, but we can always cut down on the number of stirrings."

"Yeah, that should work! Great idea!"

"I will go and get everything, then," she said, sounding enthusiastic for the first time in the afternoon. "Can you calculate the stirrings for the new balance?"

"On it."

"Remember that dittany has a lower–"

"I know, Granger. I did our summer homework too."

"Oh, of course," she said, looking a tad sheepish. "I didn't mean to–"

"I know. Go get the ingredients and let's get started. We're running out of time already and we need to crush the leaves first."

She nodded, leaving quickly for the cupboard. I observed her picking up the jar of puffskein hair, and realised we were the first pair of students to actually get some new ingredient —most others were still debating what to do. I noticed Snape was also looking at her curiously. Then, the professor's eyes met mine for an instant, and I quickly averted my gaze, focusing back on my own work.

The brewing process was tense, rushed and stressful —with the distractions caused by some of our classmates' cauldrons bubbling uncontrollably. We had to improvise when exactly to add each of the new ingredients, but I trusted Hermione's intuition on that; and by the end of the class the liquid we bottled and tagged with our names was roughly in the same ballpark than that of the description in the book, colour-wise. So I finally took the vial to place on Snape's desk.

"Does it look... good?" I prompted him in a low voice, after he'd pretty much ignored my walking up to him.

He blinked slowly at me, then at the vial without even turning his head.

"Good?" he drawled. "I suspect I shouldn't have expected anything better, out of this class full of dunderheads. But should an apothecary ever try to sell this, the Ministry of Magic would certainly close the premises, if they didn't send everyone involved in its creation to Azkaban."

"Uh... but wouldn't an apothecary have access to puffer-fish eyes, sir?"

"Go and clean your cauldron, Sarramond."

I nodded, going back to our table where Hermione looked at me, all impatient curiosity.

"He said it's good," I told her, beaming.

I was in a celebratory mood, cleaning up the work surface and emptying the cauldron's contents into the sink. But it didn't last for long, because then I set my gaze on Tracey and Perks —whose half-finished potion didn't look all that much like ours, its consistency all wrong.

But what worried me is that I noticed Tracey looking back at me and Hermione out of the corner of her eye, her lips tight and her bracelet shining a disquieting red.

Chapter Text

"So what it is that you're offering, exactly?" asked the boy.

I looked at him from my vantage position —leaning on the wall next to where the little group was seating in the common room. For a first year —and one that had been at Hogwarts for a sum total of three days by now— Thomas Avery somehow managed to command a fair amount of respect and attention; and so he had quickly gathered a sizeable group of followers within his year.

Him, and Darius Berrow —another first year, and one who was quickly emerging as the other focal point among the firsties. Which surprised me somewhat, given that in my year there was both a male-led circle —Malfoy's— and a female-led one —mine, or rather: Daphne's. But Sabine Rosier, who would have been the logical choice as the highest status female figure among the Slytherin's firsties, seemed uninterested in acquiring any followers. She was content instead to vegetate on her own seat, gazing listlessly into the depths of the lake.

I shrugged. "Everything, Avery. What I'm not offering! Answers to the homework exercises in Transfiguration, Potions and Astronomy, pre-written and battle-tested essays for History of Magic and Charms —you'll just need to reword them a little, y'know, so that they aren't identical? But really, anything and everything you'll need to excel in your schooling at a minimum of effort! The only exception is Defence Against the Dark Arts, as that one simply changes too much year to year. But as the local expert in the subject, I'll be available for consultation if you need any help... for an adequate price, obviously."

"Obviously."

"So, what's the price?" asked Sean Higgs. "For the Transfiguration homework?"

I flashed him a grin, producing a piece of parchment with as much theatrics as I could, then handing it off to him. "For this first time: nothing! This one is free, you can consider it a welcome gift. Now, if you like the quality —which you will, because remember: I got an Outstanding on Transfiguration!— and want more of it... well... for the most basic homework my price is low: just a few Galleons here and there. But Transfiguration... now that's a tough subject."

"It is," muttered Grace Crabbe. "I could use some help with it myself."

"Yes, well... a favour, then. That is my price."

Avery frowned at me. "A favour? What favour?"

"Oh, I don't know it yet. But I'm doing you a favour by helping you, no? And so... someday —and that day may never come— I may ask you for a favour in return."

The firsties looked among themselves with some alarm that they tried to conceal behind impassive faces. Joke was on them, though: I knew everything about wearing a mask, and they were still too green at that to fool me. I wondered for a moment if I might have come across as too direct and ominous for them; but just how many times in your life did you get to use an epic line from a film and actually mean it? A film they'd have never heard of, so I could take all the credit for its epicness. I wasn't one for wasting opportunities.

"Well, thank you for the offer, Sarramond," said Higgs the Younger at last. "We will consider it."

I nodded, stepping away from the wall. "Consider away. You know where to find me. Which is... over there, after lunches and dinners," I added, just in case they didn't actually know. "Don't take too long, though. I bet Berrow will also be interested... and my time is limited."

I parted with those words, joining back with Sally-Anne Perks and Tracey Davis, who were patiently waiting for me to be done before we went to our own class of Defence Against the Dark Arts —our first lesson of that subject in the year. We left through the common room's secret door, then ascended the spiralling stairs out of the dungeons, me leading the way —with Greengrass still missing, it seemed I had become the default leader of our downsized group.

Which was worrying —Greengrass still missing after three days, not me being elevated to a leadership position; that was perfectly good— and a worry in the back of my mind. We had sent her a letter using one of the school's owls two days ago, but we had received no reply so far.

"Did you get any customers?" asked Tracey as we entered the Defence classroom and sat down among the Slytherin ranks —opposite the Gryffindors we shared the class with, of course.

Tracey's annoyance at me because of the Potions thing hadn't lasted long. Or at least I believed it hadn't, as she'd stopped wearing her chromosentis bracelet at my and Perk's urging. But she was back to treating me like she always did, so I figured it must be water under the bridge already.

"It's still too early to tell," I admitted with a shrug. "But I reckon at least two or three of them might become regulars; they just need some encouragement. A little taste first."

"Won't that take you too much time?" commented Perks. "Having to keep up with your own work, while also doing theirs?"

"Not really. Most professors don't come up with entirely new assignments year from year, they just reuse the same ones; so I already have all that work done. Snape is an exception, sure, but remember what we were doing this time last year? It was all very basic stuff; I could write an essay on measuring ingredient quantities off the top of my head."

"And you have a Self-Writing Quill," added Tracey.

"And I have a Self-Writing Quill, yeah. So I don't even need to write it at all. Saves me from all the hand cramps."

"I asked my mother for one too, you know," she commented. "When we were at Diagon Alley purchasing this year's books and such. But she said using one of those quills can hamper one's own skills at cursive writing."

I had heard that line of logic before, in my fore-memories. And in the end my adult life hadn't required much writing at all. Maybe because of computers and phones, truth be told; I doubted the same would happen now that I was in the Wizarding world, so it might turn out to be an actual concern this time around. But I simply shrugged and said: "I can't use it during classes or I'd be yelled at, so I still get to practice my penmanship."

The girls didn't seem that convinced. But the thing was, I couldn't use the quill at the Residence either, with all the Muggles. And I'd done so much handwriting over summer that I reckoned I had already filled my quota for this whole year.

"What do you make of this year's professor?" asked Perks as she paced down one of Lockhart's books —selected at random, apparently— on the desk. "My mother said we should listen to him carefully, that he is very adept at fighting dark creatures."

Oh boy. I needed to burst that bubble quick. I had invested way too much time in helping both girls get better at duelling, for this year's fraudster come and ruin it all. I said: "Told you on the train, remember? Snape didn't seem to like him much when he escorted me to Diagon Alley. He implied he was faking it all."

"Yeah, but Snape never likes anybody," commented Tracey.

"That's true. But he's good at spotting who is competent and who isn't, at least."

That comment didn't land quite as I wanted, because I noticed Tracey's subtle jerk when the words registered. I'd never intended it as a jab aimed at the girls —who had both received a thorough dressing down from out Head of House at their 'complete and utter failure of a potion', when out of sight of the Gryffindors— but her sudden silence told me I'd put my foot quite deep into my mouth.

I didn't get the time to apologise, though —not that I knew how without shining a light all over the thorny issue— because Gilderoy Lockhart finally made his appearance, causing the remaining students to sit down, and the conversations to fall silent one by one.

Lockhart shot us a winning smile —and I just couldn't get past how different to the films he was, so youthful and... well, good-looking. I couldn't fault anybody for taking him seriously at face value, not really. He had a natural charisma of sorts, able to hold the class' attention by his mere looks.

And then he started talking: "...Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defence League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award..."

I felt my mind quickly going off into daydreaming, and noticed that I wasn't the only one. Whatever appeal he'd hold at first on the students was quickly evaporating with every single asinine word coming out of his yapping gob.

Then he had the great idea to hand out tests; tests asking questions about himself and his books. I hadn't recalled that particular detail, and so I hadn't really prepared for it. Not that I would have, in any case. I had better things to do with my time than learning who Lockhart's first love had been, thank-you-very-much.

I opted to answer with whatever I could remember off the single book of his I'd partially read over those last days at the Residence, plus a lot of guessing and random answers. It would probably turn out to be my lowest graded test, but I didn't expect it to matter at all.

Besides; is it really a low grade, if that's what the entire class gets anyway?

The entire class except for Hermione, of course, who I'd hazard had read all seven of his books, twice.

Half an hour later the test was over, Lockhart was disappointed, and a large cage covered in a piece of canvas was on the table at the front of the classroom. I quietly cleared my own desk, putting all my stuff back into my bag and placing a hand on my wand, inside my pocket. The professor uncovered the cage with a flair, revealing the dozens of angry pixies in it. The creatures screamed at us in high, piercing shrieks, fluttering inside the confines of their cage, hitting the bars and making it rattle in place.

"Get ready," I muttered to the girls. "I think he's gonna open it."

Perks blinked. "What? Open it? In the middle of the–?"

And then, of course, he opened it.

I was quick on the uptake and whipped out my wand to cast a Shield charm, the trusty bubble protecting the girls and me from the four or so pixies that shot like rockets towards us and bounced off its surface. The contents of their desks weren't so lucky, though, and two of the devilish creatures were already hard at work destroying their sheets of parchment and throwing quills and ink around the classroom.

"Let's fall back!" I said, following my own words as I placed my free hand on Tracey's shoulder, urging her to move with me rather than try and recover her book —it was already a lost cause. Slowly, we stepped towards the back row of the classroom and away from the eye of the hurricane —most people simply too scared to raise their heads from the safety of their desks.

All except for Neville Longbottom —swinging from the chandelier somehow— and Vincent Crabbe; who, for whatever inane reason decided to stand up wand in hand, next to a covering Malfoy, and shout 'Incendio!' at the top of his lungs.

I would have yelled him a warning not to do it, but by the time his intentions registered it was already too late. A jet of flames emerged out of his wand, setting fire to a bunch of the pixies flying around him.

If they had been noisy before, the shrills of pain the creatures emitted now were ear-splitting. Engulfed in flames they shot in all directions across the classroom, bouncing off desks, tapestries and bookshelves —all very combustible materials— spreading the flames around. I saw Dean Thomas emerge out of hiding, his robes smoking as he ineffectively tried to pat them down to put out the fire. Fortunately Granger was quick to react, casting 'Aguamenti' on him and drenching him on water.

"This is stupid; I'm out!" shouted Zabini, zapping pixies left and right with his wand as he ran past us, abandoning the classroom.

It was the smartest thing to do, of course —it was what Gilderoy Lockhart himself had done a few seconds before, having lost his own wand to the fury of the swarm. But unlike the professor, our housemate didn't have the precaution of closing the door after him. And so the flock of burning pixies quickly flew outwards, leaving the confines of the room for the expansive corridors outside. I heard the cries of panic from the figures in the paintings that were suddenly catching fire.

Zabini's example was quickly imitated by about the entire Slytherin wing, and half the Gryffindors. Inside the classroom, conditions were quickly getting worse: the pixies turned fireballs had stopped flying at last —succumbing to the fire— but almost the whole room was now aflame; with long red tongues snaking through the smoke-filled wooden ceiling. I could feel the radiating heat on my skin, like being one step too close to an enormous fireplace.

"Everyone, get out!" I shouted, walking with my girls towards the entrance; Tracey was casting water charms, putting out fires, but it just wasn't enough. Most people didn't need much encouraging, though, abandoning books and bags in a wild stampede to save themselves.

Most people except, of course, the Golden Trio.

"Shit!" I muttered. Then raised my voice: "Granger! What are you lot doing? Get out!"

I didn't think Hermione would have heard me, but it seemed she did because she yelled back: "Neville! We can't leave him behind!"

"Oh, no," muttered Perks. And yeah, 'oh, no' indeed... because Neville Longbottom was still hanging off the chandelier, his head now deep inside the cloud of thick, black smoke that filled the top portion of the classroom. He was coughing, jerking this and that way as he tried ineffectively to release his stuck robes. I figured the only reason he was still conscious was thanks to Hermione's wind charm pushing a stream of somewhat fresh air towards his face. But the fire was advancing quickly along the wooden beams and would soon surround him.

Bloody threads of fate. A little worse; yeah, no shit.

I aimed my wand with my arm extended, steadying my hand and even going as far as closing one eye for more precision; I simply couldn't afford to mess it up here.

"Sectumsempra!"

The slash of my wand hit the chandelier's chain, which broke in half. I winced when Neville fell and hit the desk underneath with a loud bang, following by the remains of the solid iron light fixture crashing right on top of him. But he didn't seem to have broken any limbs, seeing as the three Gryffindors helped him to his feet.

I didn't wait for them, though. For one, both Tracey and Perks were pushing me towards the exit already; but I'd also seen the curious look Hermione had given me when I'd spoken aloud the incantation, and didn't want to stay around and have to give explanations as to what spell exactly it was that I'd used.

I needed to learn the 'Relashio' spell already. Less questions, and less risk of accidental dismemberment if your aim happened to fail.

The corridor outside welcomed us with a breath of fresh air, and the panicked voices and shouts of our classmates, the paintings on the corridor's walls —some of which sported deep, dark stains, although they hadn't quite caught fire— and Professor McGonagall, who was rushing towards us from the opposite end of the corridor, probably after hearing all the commotion. Behind her a group of fourth years poked their heads curiously out of the door of the classroom she had just vacated.

I joined the rest of my housemates, turning alongside them to look at the inferno still raging inside our own classroom, the fire consuming everything that still remained inside the chamber. I was one of the few who had managed to save my school paraphernalia, and Nott —who hadn't— was asking pointed questions to Crabbe in a low, menacing tone.

"Yes, Crabbe," agreed Draco. "What in Merlin's name were you thinking?"

"I– I'm sorry," replied the boy, eyes downcast. "I just– I thought– Well, my father told me– He said that... that after last year and... I should be more... uh... better at protecting my housemates."

"Perhaps he should do us a favour and think less," muttered Tracey, but loud enough that the boys would hear her. "If that's even possible."

I chuckled for a moment, going straight-faced immediately afterwards not to invoke McGonagall's ire —with my luck, she'd think I'd started the fire myself. But the witch pretty much ignored me and the rest of the Slytherins, focusing her interest instead on Gilderoy Lockhart, who had reappeared once more and now observed the ruined chamber with the expression of a man quite in over his head. An expression that vanished the moment he saw the older witch, giving her a wide smile and saying: "Ah, Professor McGonagall. No need to be alarmed, truly! We were merely performing a routine exercise with some Cornish pixies when one of the students... overreacted. Understandable, as not everybody can have the nerves of steel required to handle such vicious creatures. But now that you are here, perhaps you would like to demonstrate to our students how one would bring a fire back under control?"

I'd have openly laughed at the guy's audacity, though McGonagall's thinning lips said she hadn't quite believed the story. Nevertheless, she entered the classroom wand in hand, and started casting water charms this and that way, the flames receding under her assault.

Nobody followed the two adults back into the room to witness the demonstration, however. Instead, the three most famous Gryffindors approached our group, Hermione in the lead. She went straight towards Crabbe, saying: "Why in the world would you cast a–?!"

"Shut up, Granger; nobody asked you," replied Malfoy, giving her a dismissive stare down his nose. Funny, how quickly he changed tunes the moment it was them criticizing his sidekick. He would never have told Nott to shut up.

"He almost killed us all!" she continued, turning to face the blond boy instead. "I left the bag with my books inside! It will now be utterly ruined! If only you could think for once before–"

"He told you to shut up, you filthy mudblood!" Crabbe shot back.

And then everybody went crazy.

Ron Weasley jumped at Crabbe's throat, who fell back to the floor. Goyle started raining punches down on him, and Draco took advantage of the situation to sneak in a few kicks of his own. After a beat Potter —and half the Gryffindors around, even though I was quite sure they hadn't even heard the insult in the first place— happily joined the melee. From the sidelines, Pansy Parkinson and Bulstrode used their wands to cast stinging jinxes on the lions; but I was sure they didn't care much about friendly fire.

Hermione remained still, as if paralysed. Then she looked around and her eyes met mine for a moment, as if demanding... something, I wasn't sure what. I gave her a subtle shrug; but it seemed like the wrong answer, because she frowned as if offended —not at Crabbe or Draco, at me!— and stepped towards the idiots, trying to break the fight.

"Let's go back to the common room," suggested Perks after McGonagall's furious voice put a truce to the skirmish, and she started berating a dishevelled Malfoy and Potter. "It doesn't look like this class will resume anytime soon."

"Right," I agreed, joining them. But inside I was churning; because from what I took from Crabbe's reasoning, this looked a lot like it was yet another side-effect of my own interference. I was started to glimpse the silhouette of a picture, of how that thing with the Hufflepuffs —and how his counterpart Goyle had been so thoroughly humiliated by them— might have set in motion a number of things behind the scenes.

My working theory was that the event might have caused Draco's father to wonder if the two gorillas truly offered sufficient protection to his precious child —which pretty much tracked with the offer he'd made me in Knockturn Alley, after he'd seen my grades. But could he have made some comment to Crabbe's father too?

Who was I kidding? He was Lucius Malfoy. Of course he would have made his displeasure known. And in turn Crabbe's father had... what, told his son to be more proactive? To be seen as the perfect sentinel Draco could ever wish for?

It was a reach, sure; but it was within the realm of possibility. Something had changed to get this result, something that had necessarily started with my existence. And once more, it was sobering to realise how even my minor interferences could branch out, then come full circle back at me with the fury of a Cornish pixie set on fire.

It didn't bode anything good, regarding the basilisk. Which reminded me that I had to put my hands on Riddle's diary.

But that was something easier said than done. I'd taken to keep an eye out for the youngest Weasley, but she being in a different year altogether complicated things. I had half a mind to repeat my performance from last year, when I'd assaulted Wayne Hopkins. I just needed to wait for the right moment when Ginny would be on her own and attack her from the shadows, quick and swift. But that came with a lot of risks —the first among them being the reprisals from the whole Weasley clan, who I knew wouldn't take such an event lightly.

There was another, safer option I wanted to try first, though it would take me a few days to prepare for it. In any case, I put all thoughts about Ginny Weasley out of my mind the moment we entered the common room and saw who was waiting there.

"Daphne!" exclaimed Perks, rushing to embrace her friend. Because we might be part of the same circle, sure, but that didn't mean we were all equally friends to each other. Tracey and I followed after her at a more even pace, sitting down around our usual tea table.

The blonde pureblood had been reading our Herbology textbook, apparently, and she looked as close to perfection as always. Just from her immaculate appearance you wouldn't have noticed anything was wrong at all. No, that took personally knowing her, realising how her eyes darted around as if distracted, how she was a little slow to react to our presence —as if coming from a deep daydream. How she forgot about asking us to sit down if you wish, please, and would you like some of these pastries?

"Greengrass," I greeted her. "Nice to see you at last! You just missed a perfectly invigorating first class of Defence."

She flashed me a fragile smile, nodding at me and asking about how our first days had gone. We had some minutes of stilted conversation, bringing her up to speed with the latest common room gossip. Then, Perks asked the question in everyone's minds:

"What kept you, Daphne?"

I saw Daphne's mask crack a little at that, her eyes darting again as if looking for an exit. Saw her bit her lip for an instant before she corrected herself.

"Oh. I apologise for not replying to your letter, really. But as you would have only received my reply this very morning, I considered it unnecessary when I knew we were meet in person today in any case," she replied. Then, after a beat, she added: "I was at St. Mungo's. It was... it had to do with my family."

"Is everything alright?" I asked.

She gave me a tired, sad smile, then nodded. "Yes. My sister Astoria had a spot of sickness, but she is... she is fine now, thanks for asking."

I nodded back, deciding not to keep digging. There was a world of worry in those words, in her eyes. One that I didn't think she'd appreciate having to unpack in public. Because you didn't miss three days of school just because your sister got a cold, right? Right. And while I didn't remember what the deal was with her sister exactly, my fore-knowledge told me enough: that it was sort of a big deal, and that it would cause her to die young.

And I guessed, looking at how Daphne's eyes didn't know where to rest, at how she uncharacteristically fidgeted with her robes... I guessed that the twelve years old girl in front of me might be very aware of that fact already.

So instead I decided to distract her, by telling her of our ordeal in Defence and my assumptions about Crabbe's sudden bout of proactivity —skipping any mention of my encounter with the Malfoys, of course. But it helped that I was honestly curious about her take on the situation, seeing as she was in the pureblood loop. She nodded at me, listening with rapt attention and making comments here and there, in a way that mostly resembled her usual self.

"Yes, I could see how that could have made an effect," she said at last. "And I'm sure Mr. Crabbe must have mentioned something along those lines to his son. Though you haven't considered the status motivations."

Again with the status. It always seemed to come down to that, with them. I asked: "What do you mean?"

"Well, Draco Malfoy's circle is now second on status to ours," she explained. Then, at our widened eyes: "Yes; think about it: you two gained a score of points for our house, without which Slytherin might have never won the House Cup. You helped defeat a dark wizard! And academically speaking–"

"They have both Crabbe and Goyle," commented Perks, nodding. "Their average grades must be pretty low."

"Yes. And we have Sylvia," continued Daphne, ignoring my noise of protest. "No, don't try to be modest now. It doesn't suit you."

I smirked at her, then shrugged. "Fine, I won't be modest."

"Good. Because the truth is that all of us benefit from having you in our circle: our own grades would have been lower without your help, we all know that."

"And I doubt I would have passed Flying on my own," I admitted, playing into her game. Because it was a game. A social repartee of sorts, where she first complimented me, then I was supposed to flatter them in return. Kind of the opposite of that other game I had with Blaise Zabini. "Besides, all of your help when my blood was in question; goes without saying."

"Goes without saying," Daphne nodded.

And yet it had to be said.

"So if our circle is... well, the best considered one in our year," commented Tracey. "Doesn't that mean he might try something against us? Malfoy, to recover the top spot?"

"He might, although it's not necessary for them to attempt anything direct. Perhaps they simply aim to overcome us academically–"

I leaned back on my seat, hands behind my head. "Fat chance."

She smirked back. "–or perhaps they'll try to gain respect in extra-curricular activities, such as defeating packs of Cornish pixies. But we should keep vigilant if they try to move against us, when that fails."

We all nodded, though I realised with a start that they had already moved against us. Because in light of this new knowledge, Lucius Malfoy's offer that day took a whole new meaning. Perhaps it wasn't really about me being so valuable and good at Defence —or, the Dark Arts, as he'd called it— as much as it was about denying an asset to the Greengrasses. Simply taking me away from her, and thus breaking apart Daphne's circle. Hurting her chances in favour of his son's.

Ugh. And I was so happy, thinking I was already savvy enough to navigate the Slytherin waters. I had this sinking feeling that I would always be an immigrant to this world, an outsider. That no matter how many years I spent in Hogwarts and the wizarding society as a whole, how many books on pureblood etiquette I read, there would still be things that eluded me. Things that people like Daphne would find only obvious.

Whatever. It still meant I was highly regarded, right? It was enough to boost my ego, as long as I didn't think too hard about it. Because sure, I was coveted by Mr. Malfoy, in a sense; but only like one would covet a particularly fast greyhound, or a unique painting to hang on the wall. Only as a tool, as something that would serve to raise Draco's status.

Yeah, fuck him. I'd rather stay with the prim heiress; at least she seemed aware that I was human.

The irony being, of course, that I wasn't.

We then went to our first class of Herbology in the year, filing into the stuffy Hogwarts greenhouses and taking our usual positions around the different workbenches, beneath the eerie cover of a web of vines softly moving, creeping and twisting across the ceiling's glass.

I had just opened my textbook when Professor Sprout entered the greenhouse and walked up to me: "Ah, Sarramond, dear. Why don't you sit next to me for today's class?" she asked, putting a hand on my shoulder and pretty much guiding me forcibly to a spot by the head of the table. "We will be repotting Mandrakes today, and they can be dangerous if treated without the proper care and attention... and they can be... quite expensive, also..." She then addressed the rest of the class at large: "Now, does anyone know the properties of a Mandrake?"

"They can cure cursed people," I replied, my voice carrying a hint of annoyance. She quite visibly wasn't expecting me to know the answer, though, because she turned to look back at me with some surprise evident in her face.

"Oh, that's... correct. Five points to Slytherin," she said. "But as valuable as they are, the cry of a Mandrake can also be dangerous, even if the plants we will practise with today are quite young; which is why you will have to wear a pair of those protective earmuffs. Now, everybody get one, quickly."

We put on the earmuffs and I got a first row seat to Sprout's demonstration on how to repot one of the evil, crying vegetables, as the one in her hand shook and twisted. Despite that, though, the older witch expertly buried it into the other pot without any visible difficulties.

"Just pick it up from its leaves, then plop it down," she explained later. Somehow, I suspected it wasn't going to be quite that easy.

A suspicion that became a grim reality just a mere few minutes afterwards, once she'd spread the trays around with the rest of the Mandrakes and we were back wearing our protective earmuffs to perform the exercise ourselves. Extracting the root required me quite a bit more of yanking than it had required the teacher —maybe because I was only twelve, and so had just a fraction of the older woman's strength— and while she had warned us about the plant's cry, she had never mentioned a word about its teeth.

I was trying to use my left hand to guide the bottom part of the root into the pot —otherwise it would just twist around, making the repotting impossible— and barely managed to dodge its bite.

"You bloody git!" I muttered, pressing the plant harder against the dirt of the pot. Its ugly, deformed face looked at me with a look of profound loathing as it fought back with desperate energy.

Five minutes later I wasn't anywhere closer to burying it into the dirt than before, so I reached for the trowel on the tray that we'd used to dig into the dirt. Using it like one would a shoehorn, I started to apply leverage and pushing down with all my —admittedly, light— weight.

"Come on, you piece of shit!" I said, confident in that Sprout wouldn't hear me with her earmuffs on. "Get in already!"

Beneath my hand, the plant shook in anger, and even through the earmuffs I could hear the faint traces of its cry —that was getting even louder. But my clever plan was working! Thanks to the leverage, inch by inch, the Mandrake began to slid down into the pot.

That was, until Sprout snatched the trowel out of my hand with a frown and placed it back onto the tray.

I cursed at her under my breath, then began the process anew, with no tool to help me this time around. And after ten minutes of tireless fight with no visible progress, the professor simply grabbed my right wrist with her own hand, and guided it down with a sharp motion. And the Mandrake slipped smoothly into the dirt, as if by magic, becoming quiet at last.

I shook my head and rose my gaze up, only to discover that mine had been the only Mandrake to be still kicking around. And now that it was safely contained, Sprout gave the signal for us to remove our earmuffs at last. I did it quickly, running the back of my hand across my face to clear the sweat.

"Very well! Now, we ran a tiny bit late for another exercise–" said Sprout, causing every student in the greenhouse to look at me. "–but before you leave: for our next class I want you to write a one foot long essay on the medicinal properties of Mandrakes, and their use in potions and antidotes. Is that clear?"

Yeah, it was; and I couldn't pack my stuff quickly enough to get out of the bloody greenhouses as soon as possible. I was about to leave, when Sprout addressed me again:

"Dear, please, stay here for a moment; there's something I wanted to tell you."

Shit. I looked with panic written across my face at Tracey, but she gave me a helpless shrug; and yeah, there was nothing she could do to rescue me. I would have to face whatever the witch had in store for me.

So I approached her —Sprout— as the greenhouse emptied. The portly woman was busy storing the earmuffs and trays back into a large, low cabinet.

"Sarramond," she said. "I see that you're still having the same troubles as last year when handling plants; you tend to be too rough."

I shrugged. "Well, being softer doesn't seem to work either."

"I see... Hmm... since I don't wish for you to fail this year too, I thought that–"

"Let me guess," I interrupted, arms crossed. "Extra exercises?"

"Not quite. Rather, you will have one hour of remedial Herbology lessons with me every week in this term, starting with next Saturday. You will need to be here for the first hour of the morning, right after breakfast, and–"

"Wait! Are you giving me detention?!"

She blinked, then laughed softly. "Don't be silly, girl; nothing like that! Remedial classes are quite common, to help those students that need some extra guidance before they fall behind in their studies. You wouldn't want to get a failing grade this year too, would you?"

I wouldn't want... was that a threat or what?

"I know the theory quite well," I bargained. "It's just that plants seem to hate me for whatever reason. So... you know, if I could do an exam that was mostly theory, and skip a little on the practical side... I don't think I'd fail that. And we both know I'm never going to be an Herbologist, anyway."

Sprout shook her head. "No, girl. You will do the same exam as everybody else in your class. It wouldn't be fair to your classmates any other way; but it also wouldn't be fair to you, if I simply gave up on your education. No, I won't have any of that! Be sure to be here on Saturday morning, Sarramond. Now, that will be all; have a good afternoon, dear."

Yeah, sure... I thought as I left the greenhouse at last, my head hanging low. A bloody great afternoon.

Chapter Text

Ginny Weasley flew across the Hogwarts grounds like a bird on fire, her broom twisting and pirouetting in the air, skimming the tops of the trees in a succession of reckless manoeuvrers that put her way too close to becoming a splatted bug than anything I'd ever risked myself. And still, she didn't seem fearful in the slightest, not even as she shouted and yelled for help.

Riding on her coattails, a veritable swarm of parchment paper planes chased after her like hungry birds of prey, desperately trying to close the distance to the young girl. Now and then one of them managed to get closer, throwing itself at her face and eyes, forcing her to crouch atop her broom or do a barrel roll to dodge the attack.

And chasing after those was one of her older twin brothers —either Fred or George, I wasn't sure— alongside Lee Jordan. Jordan was trying to use a Quidditch beater's bat to hit the paper planes, ineffectively enough; but the Weasley twin was smarter: he instead produced his wand and now was casting a fire charm. One that would have consumed the entire swarm, if not because a quick twirl of my own wand sent the planes scattering to avoid the thick of the flames, regrouping a few seconds later and some distance away to resume their chase of Ginny —only one or two of them having fallen prey to the fire.

I then scuttled back behind the cover of the tree trunk, where I could still keep an eye on the spectacle and intervene again if my fleet of paper planes needed any new corrections. But they were mostly autonomous, I had made sure of that. The enchantments I'd written on the parchments —that I'd copied from an advanced charms textbook found in the Library and that I didn't fully understand that well myself, truth be told— were effective enough at mimicking the movements of birds, and at staying on target.

The target, of course, being one Ginny Weasley.

A girl that was currently very preoccupied with her flying, and so not paying any attention to her belongings, placed against the castle's short rampart. As was also the case with the rest of her friends and family that were busy trying to help her. And so none of them noticed as a slight, thin disillusioned silhouette walked up to the bags and coats with furtive steps, crouching to quickly dig through them.

I would need to give my thanks to Gilderoy Lockhart if this worked out as expected, as it had been his shenanigans with the pixies that had inspired this little ploy. Although the more than two hours I'd spent in the Library enchanting all those pieces of parchment one by one meant it hadn't been entirely effortless on my part, though.

But the distraction was necessary. The camouflage on the figure far ahead wasn't as perfect as I'd have liked it to be —because a disillusionment charm, at least one cast by me, still fell very short of true invisibility— and so it would have been too much of a risk otherwise, if say any of the Weasleys happened to look in the wrong direction at precisely the wrong time. This way I could be sure they would all be looking right where I wanted them to. At Ginny.

To be extra sure, I split a few of the planes away from the main group and redirected those to target the boys head-on. It was a futile attack, of course, and the kamikaze planes quickly felt prey to the fourth-years defensive prowess, but their sacrifice wasn't in vain: it was enough distraction to cover for the silhouette's actions.

"Merlin's balls!" shouted the red-headed twin. "Ginny, stop flying away! Come back to us!"

"HELP!"

The silhouette walked away now, seemingly having completed their task, and so I moved back as well. I rushed from tree to tree like I was a fugitive from Azkaban, crouched and keeping an eye on the flying Gryffindors until I reached the shoreline of the lake, some fifty meters away; then I followed it in a wide loop as I made my slow way back to the castle, pretending I was simply coming back from taking a stroll. In the distance, I saw how my little air force was finally bested —without my direct guidance, the planes were simply too stupid to dodge the older boys' attacks, and so they quickly succumbed to them; only a few stragglers persistently chasing after the first year girl.

And oddly enough the hardest thing of this whole little plan was to remind myself not to rush ahead, to keep my pace looking even and relaxed as I calmly returned towards Hogwarts. As if I had no hurry in the world; as if there was not a bloody horcrux in play right now. As if my heart wasn't beating like a drum, my mouth drier than a lecture from Professor Binns. But no, it simply wouldn't do to attract the Gryffindors' attention now that they were free from aerial attacks, and probably looking for the one behind it. Slow and steady wins the race.

Ten, maybe fifteen minutes later I finally reached the castle, and patiently made my way to the Transfiguration Courtyard, walking up to a very particular corner where a first year Slytherin student waited for me —now fully visible and free of any disillusionment charms.

"So?" I asked, ambling up to him. "Did you do the deed? Do you have anything for me? Speak, Higgs the Younger."

"I told you not to call me that," the boy grumbled, handing me a black leather bound notebook. I had a moment of elation upon seeing it, just to came crashing back to the ground.

"This is the same one I gave you!" I protested, almost offended.

"Yes," he shrugged. "I couldn't make the switch; her diary wasn't in the bag."

"Wasn't it? Did you really look–?"

"I did look! She only had a couple of notebooks in it, but they weren't anything like that; they had yellow covers and some homework on them."

I cursed under my breath, once more wanting nothing but to throw the bloody fake diary away.

"So, that's the favour paid?" hazarded the boy. "I did what you wanted. It's not my fault if she left her diary back at her dormitory."

"No, it's not," I admitted. "You did good, Higgs the Younger; we are even."

He rolled his eyes, then nodded. "It was fun, but... next time I'd rather pay you some Galleons, you see. No essay is worth setting the Weasley twins after me."

I said some commiserating words before finally walking away. The fact that he was probably right —in that the diary was at the Gryffindor Tower, as I had kept an eye on Ginny and I had never seen the book on her hands here at Hogwarts— only made me angrier. But Higgs the Younger was right too in that it wasn't his fault. And sure, I could try and keep squeezing him on it, argue the technicalities to extract yet another favour as payment; but if I did that it wouldn't take long for the word to spread, and then nobody would ask for my help with their schoolwork. I would ruin my spy network even before it had time to grow.

Patience, then. All plants needed nurturing before they could bear fruit, didn't they?

And yeah, I'd had my first remedial Herbology lesson just the day before.

I had arrived to the greenhouses with very little expectations —or more like, all the expectations in the world that this would be a fruitless, infuriating exercise. A complete waste of a perfectly good Saturday morning —and how many of those do you get in a life, anyway? Not enough, if my fore-knowledge was anything to go by.

And the fact that the greenhouse was nearly empty when I arrived only made me feel like I shouldn't be there. It might have been the very same work room where we had our usual classes, but the stools tidied up and placed under the workbenches, the gardening tools properly stored inside their cupboards... it all combined to make it feel like an oddly different place. Like I was intruding, somehow.

At least I wasn't the only one there. Three other students also waited awkwardly for Sprout to deign join us: Ernest Macmillan from Hufflepuff, that boy Boot from Ravenclaw —I didn't know his name—... and Neville Longbottom.

Which made me pause in surprise at seeing him there, as from what I could remember of the Harry Potter books and films the Gryffindor was supposed to be some sort of genius at Herbology. I didn't know if he indeed was, though, since we didn't share that one class with the lions; and perhaps that trait only appeared later, once he got more confident in his own skin; plus there was room for misremembering things on my part there too.

Still, it was surprising enough that I ambled straight towards him, curious as to what the true reason behind his presence there would be. The boy saw me coming out of the corner of his eye, and pretended to be very busy reading over some parchment notes on his hands, his head receding into his shoulders in a pretty good impersonation of a tortoise.

"Longbottom!" I said, loud enough that he couldn't ignore me without it being obvious to the point of rudeness. "We keep meeting in the unlikeliest places, no?"

"Y– er– hi."

"So... what's your crime?"

He paused for a beat, looking puzzled. "My— my...?"

"I mean, why are you here on a Saturday morning, rather than enjoying life with... uhm– with your mates?" Even as I asked, I realised Neville wasn't exactly the most popular of boys; and even though the Golden Trio probably liked him, they didn't exactly hang together in the books, right? So it was entirely within possibility that he didn't have any mates to enjoy a free morning with. I quickly added: "Did Sprout fail you in Herbology last year too, like me?"

"N– no," he stammered. "I... I didn't fail. I just... asked Professor Sprout if she– if I... could help her with... with the plants?"

I blinked.

"Wait. Longbottom... are you telling me you asked for this?"

"Er–"

I shook my head, biting my tongue not to say what I was thinking —something along the lines of 'what the hell is wrong with your head?'— less he became even more avoidant of me. Thankfully, I was saved from the awkward conversation by Madam Sprout, who finally joined us and quickly set us to follow her lead.

The class itself didn't start that bad, to be entirely honest: a refresher on the basics so to speak. Back to first year concepts that we should already be very familiar with at this point: things like how to identify dead leaves and prune them without damaging the plants, and how to water them properly. Except that this time the woman was much more hands-on than her usual at class, at points going so far as to grasp our own hands with hers, guiding our movements so that we wouldn't mess everything up, as was the usual in my case.

Neville quickly proved himself to be the odd one out, because while we were going through these very basic motions Sprout set him loose on a couple of pots of valerian, telling him only that they needed grafting. It seemed to be enough, because he quickly went to retrieve a set of gardening tools from the cupboard and sat at the workbench, starting to work on them and pretty much ignoring the rest of us.

So, this was his pastime, uh? Curious, how different people could be. Although my opinion on the usefulness of Herbology seemed to be shared by at least the other two students next to me. Macmillan in particular looked like he wanted nothing but to cast a vanishing charm onto the stifling greenhouse at large.

After half an hour of this without any plants dying, however, Sprout considered it was time to give us a wider range and have us repeat the steps on our own.

That was, unsurprisingly, a mistake.

"Shit," I muttered after accidentally cutting a perfectly good, green leaf out of the stalk of the moly in front of me. I turned to search for Sprout, but the witch was busy talking to Boots and hadn't noticed my mistake yet; so I quickly grabbed the evidence and hid the cut leaf by burying it under the pot's own dirt.

Neville however, he seemed like he had seen it all, because I caught him averting his gaze off me. I paused for a moment, considering whether we were both far enough for Sprout to hear us, then muttered:

"It wasn't my fault, you saw it!"

"Uh?"

"It moved, the bloody plant!"

"M– moved?"

"Yeah," I shrugged, pointing to a different, yellowing leaf still attached to main stalk. "I was trying to cut this one off, but the plant twisted at the last moment. It's always the same story, it's like the stupid herbs hate me or something!"

He scrunched his face, but then his eyebrows shot up as if he had reached some deep realisation.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Well, if the–"

"Shh," tutted Sprout from over her side of the workbench, causing Neville to immediately lower his gaze and shut up. I sighed, shook my head and went back to my pruning.

But the same thing happened again a few minutes later, as I grabbed yet another yellow leaf and carefully approached my shears to it. The whole plant immediately started to shudder as if under the influence of some sort of phantom breeze.

"Stay still, you piece of–!"

Neville said: "That's– uhm..."

"What?" I muttered back to him.

"Nothing... just..."

"Come on, Longbottom; just spit it out already!"

His eyes went to Sprout for a moment, but when he saw she was busy replacing some trays he nodded and said: "It's just... you shouldn't talk to the plants like that. It's– it's no wonder they are s– scared."

"Scared?"

He nodded. "See how it trembles?"

I turned to look at the moly once more, and moved the shears slowly back. The shuddering slowed, then stopped. But it started again once I tried to grab the dead leaf with my hands.

"Uh..."

"See?" he said. "It's simply reacting to your... to you."

"But that's just not... It's them who started this!" I protested, keeping my tone low. "I wouldn't be angry at the stupid herbs if they just let me do my work in peace, without sabotaging me at every step! They just hate me."

"They don't. They are scared, and might try to defend themselves. If you are miffed at them, they are just reacting to your mood. Although... I've never seen this strong a reaction before. You must be really... really upset."

I wasn't that upset, truth be told, but still I pretty much considered I had good reason to be. "Well, they started it," I grumbled.

He shot me a dubious look, before going back to his own work.

I said: "They are just plants, though... I mean, how can they–?"

"They are magical plants," he muttered back, interrupting me. Somehow, his timidity seemed to have vanished. "They can react to your mood and intentions, just like any magical thing can. If you don't want to be here and are angry at them, then the plants can tell and will get nervous at you."

I burrowed my frown at Sprout. "That would have been good to know last year. Why didn't she tell us that?"

"What? But she did! During that lesson about–"

"And what should I do, then? Sing at them?"

He shrugged. "Well, some people do... but just... just try treating them with more respect?"

I closed my eyes and sighed, then took a deep breath, opened them and stared at the stupid moly.

"Right," I muttered to it. "Okay... well... Moly: I don't want to be here, and it's obvious you don't want me to be here either. So let's make a deal, shall we? I won't hurt you if you stay still and let me prune you, and then I'll be done and out of your hair... or, uhm... leaves forever. How does that sound?"

The plant, obviously, didn't reply —it being a plant. And I only felt like a complete moron, talking to the vegetation. But at least nobody seemed to have heard me, other than Neville perhaps.

I nodded to myself, then grabbed the tool again... only for the stalk of moly to resume its shuddering once more.

I snorted and shook my head in defeat. Then I spoke under my breath, low enough that not even the boy would hear: "You know what?... You win. Yeah, you fucking do. I just realised... it's because of it, no? It has always been because of it. Because you can smell it on me, somehow." My blood, I didn't say; there are things you simply don't say aloud, not even to a plant. "I reckon that's what's making all of you so nervous, or angry, or whatever, even from the very first class we ever had... But that's the thing, I can't... that's something I can't change about me. I will always be a fr– well, what I am. So yeah... yeah, you win."

It wasn't ideal, of course, as I couldn't exactly tell Sprout that the reason I was so bad at Herbology, and I would always be, was that I was some sort of odd and exotic half-breed —something that I learned about by performing a ritual using forbidden materials— and that the plants were somehow reacting to that. But maybe I could come up with some bollocks excuse about having some sort of vegetable-related trauma or something. Weird, yes, but I was an orphan and so I knew people were predisposed to accepting that sort of thing coming from us.

Or maybe I'd just keep pretending, and keep failing, until Sprout's patience finally ran out and she gave up on me as a lost cause. I would need to keep coming to these remedial classes, of course, with the knowledge that despite all this effort and wasted time I would always get 'Poor' or even 'Troll' grades in Herbology –that I'd need to counteract with better results in the other subjects I wasn't magically incapable at.

It would be a nightmare, sure, but knowing that there was no use in trying would make it somehow easier, paradoxically. I wouldn't need to be so frustrated, for once; and...

And the moly wasn't shuddering anymore.

I paused for a beat, tilting my head as if I wasn't sure it wouldn't be a trap. But no; ever so slowly I approached my shears to the plant, and it remained still. It didn't shudder even as I cut off the yellowing leaf, with an unbelieving swift snap.

Uh.

I quickly took advantage of this odd truce, rushing to prune the rest of the moly's leaves before it could change its mind. And when Sprout finally examined my work, she didn't say anything, which was a new one.

"Thanks," I muttered later as we were packing our things, still somewhat bewildered. I wasn't sure if I was saying it to Neville or to the plant.

So... that was something.

The disruption to my Saturday morning's schedule had another, unexpected benefit: right after our remedial Herbology class ended, I was left to my own devices and without any of the girls around to inquire into what I was doing. And yeah, I loved being accepted by them and belonging to their circle and all that, but I also liked —needed— my moments of privacy every now and then. And after what happened with Tracey the year before, this time around I was determined not to drag any of them into any sort of dangerous adventure that might left them hurt or traumatised. Those last nights telling a reeling Tracey Muggle stories in front of the common room's fireplace had been a waking call.

Not that what I wanted to do this time was that dangerous. I was only shopping, after all.

I had tried not to rely too much on the Room of Requirement and what it could provide, but so far I hadn't run into any truly dangerous or cursed items —to my knowledge, at least. And so I felt reasonably confident as I examined the racks of forgotten and abandoned brooms it welcomed me with, pacing next to them as if I was perusing the stock of some Diagon Alley shop.

Most of them were, truth be told, completely unfit. Broomsticks —or good broomsticks, at that— were expensive enough that most students wouldn't simply forget theirs, didn't leave them behind at Hogwarts when they left to go home. Not unless there were some good reasons for that. And so most of the brooms in front of me sported such things as cracked sticks, splayed or missing bristles —that could be a hazard to in-flight stability— and in one very particular case, a completely burnt off handle.

But there were some exceptions, too: a few of them that looked to be in perfectly working condition, if only second-hand. And armed with the Revelio spell and a book of curse-detecting charms that Professor Flitwick had recommended me when I'd asked —after he'd inquired with a knowing wink why I hadn't gone to Lockhart instead, as he was supposed to be my Defence teacher; something to which I'd only shrugged and smirked— I set out to double-check if they were safe or not.

Sure, the diagnostics spells I had access to wouldn't be able to detect the truly, devious and subtle curses that a talented dark wizard with enough time and sufficient motivation could cast on a broomstick —you'd need to take it apart and examine each piece in separate, with dozens of different charms to be completely sure— but they were certainly good enough for the kind of stupid shit Hogwarts students were likely to use, either to prank each other or to protect their own belongings —such as I'd done with my own trunk.

Which was my real concern, since dark wizards planting items on the school grounds so subtly cursed that they were virtually undetectable wasn't just that common of an occurrence, in the grand scheme of things. I'd be incredibly unlucky to run into anything like that by accident.

Crossing my fingers, here.

So yeah, one of the brooms turned out to be cursed, but it was easy enough to detect: it shone in a very bright red under my charm, and I was able to tell it was some sort of buckling spell. Dangerous, yes, and stupid if it was someone's idea of a prank; but also obvious and easy to avoid as I simply skipped it and moved to the next one.

After a few minutes of that I settled for a dusty, old-fashioned broomstick, just because it looked sturdy enough and like it was in a better condition than most of the others. The stick itself was mostly straight —nothing like the smooth curves of the modern brooms I'd seen in the hands of my housemates— with a crooked bend at the rear, right at the point where the rider sits. It had silver bands and handles, and a full mane of bristles. Which was what convinced me to go with it: because it looked like its previous owner had taken a good care of it; and while it was covered in a fine, grimy coat of dust it didn't sport any splinters.

A quick spin around the room —just hovering at a low height, because I didn't fully trust it yet not to fail under my weight— proved my choice right: the broomstick worked well enough, and was somehow both more agile and stable than the school brooms I had rode so far. I suspected it could go much faster than those too, but I simply didn't have the space —or recklessness— to put that to the test within the confines of the Room of Requirement. If I was to crack my head open, I'd rather do it someplace where other people could witness it and come to my rescue.

I was further vindicated a while later, when I finally descended to the Slytherin common room broom in hand, to the curiosity of my friends:

"It's an old Comet model," said Adrian Pucey, twisting the broom in his own hands as he examined it. Tracey had pretty much dragged me to talk to the older boy, on account of his well-known expertise on the topic, being in the Slytherin Quidditch team and all. "I'd say a 160 maybe, or even a 140... but I'm not sure, I'm not that familiar with antique brooms."

"A– antique?" I asked.

"Yes, from the 20s or 30s. They don't sell these anymore, unless you go to a specialty shop of course. Where did you say you got it from?"

"Bought it from an older Ravenclaw girl," I answered, sticking to the lie I had came up with on my way down to the dungeons.

"Hmm... it probably belonged to her grandparents, then..."

Tracey interrupted: "But is it any good?"

"Well, yes; although the Comets are certainly no racing brooms: they have a good speed but lack in acceleration, you see. They are jacks of all trades: good enough for Quidditch at an amateur level, or just as an everyday broom to travel back and forth."

"Doesn't it matter that it's so old?" I asked.

"Yes, of course it does!" he replied, sounding almost offended at the idea. "They hadn't perfected inverted flying back then, had they? So I bet it will wobble a lot if you fly it upside down–"

Right. As if I needed any more reasons not to do that.

"–and you will need to give it a new coat of resin if you don't want it to splinter when you fly it under the rain. Modern brooms have water-repelling enchantments, of course; but these old ones needed more hands-on maintenance." He handed the broom back to me and added: "But it's not as worn down as it should be, given its age; it almost looks like it hasn't seen that much sky."

I shrugged. "The girl told me they kept it locked in some old cupboard or something."

"Not a bad find, then. Most broomsticks this old are barely holding together as it is."

"So... will it do better than the school's own brooms?" I asked him then, fearing the answer. After all, age was also the main problem with those ones too, wasn't it? But he simply looked at me as if I was asking some stupid question and gave an energetic nod: "Yes, definitely!"

Which was all that Tracey needed to hear before rushing to our dorm to retrieve her own broom, and then pretty much dragging me all the way back upstairs and onto the Training Grounds outside, to 'test it properly'. I was reluctant, but she was cunning enough to bribe me by offering me the use of her own broomstick service kit.

So yeah, I spent that Saturday afternoon flying around, familiarising myself with my brand new antique Comet broomstick. Thankfully, I had no crazy paper planes chasing after me. And over the next days my flying slowly improved —as I dared manoeuvres I wouldn't have felt comfortable to attempt on the school brooms— and the Comet proved itself not to be cursed. Or if it was, at least it must have been a curse with a very, very subtle long term effect.

I did get some disparaging comments from Draco Malfoy, comparing it unfavourably to his own Nimbus 2001 when I took it to our next Flying lesson. Which fair, my second-hand broom hadn't been anything crazy expensive like that even back on its day, but still I felt way more comfortable and agile when protecting those bloody hoops, and dodging the occasional bludger.

Improving my flying was a work in progress, but it would always need to play second fiddle to my other concerns: that of snatching the diary, primarily. I had been eyeing Ginny some more, but didn't see the notebook with her, which reinforced my suspicion that she wasn't taking it out of the Gryffindor tower that often —although a growing, worrying alternative explanation was starting to insinuate itself in my brain— and also... getting better at magic.

And that was why I stood behind right after one of our Defence classes with Gilderoy Lockhart ended, everybody rushing to collect their books and walk out.

"Go ahead; I'm just going to ask him for some more advanced work," I commented to the girls with a shrug. And because I was always practising spells from years further down the line, they accepted the excuse easily enough.

After the whole situation with the pixies —which had caused us to have to move into an entirely different classroom, at least for a while— Lockhart hadn't attempted any other practical lessons, opting instead to limit his teaching to the purely theoretical. Lots of book reading and essays. Which was rubbish, as you could write entire books with what the man lacked in knowledge about dark creatures or defensive spells. At least, it meant for peaceful, relaxed lessons; if useless ones.

But there might be a way for this year's class of Defence Against the Dark Arts not to be a complete loss of time for me. And so I walked up to our professor, waiting demurely as the last students filed out and he cleared his own table. He gave me a winning smile as he noticed me around.

"Ah, Miss..."

"Sarramond."

"Miss Sarramond, yes! Please, tell me, what do you need of me?"

"Uhm— well, sir... you see: last year I got the highest grades in this class, and I was wondering–"

"Well, of course! You must be looking to learn more from an accomplished wizard such as myself! Sadly, the school was very strict in that there shouldn't be any more practical demonstration. Disappointing, if you ask me; but I can certainly understand. Not everybody is as ready and sure-footed as me, when facing the true dangers of dark magical creatures."

"Right," I said, nodding and playing into his game. "That's very unfair! And I don't want to waste the chance of having you teaching us. So because last year Professor Duskhaven allowed me to study a few other topics than the rest of the class, I was wondering if you too could give me some... more advanced tutoring?"

"Certainly, girl! I could teach you everything about creatures of the night such as vampires and werewolves, or perhaps you want to hear about trolls and hags?"

"Well..." I said, "I was wondering instead if you knew anything about memory charms?"

Chapter Text

I saw how Professor Lockhart tensed the moment my words registered, his whole posture suddenly becoming subtly guarded, his eyes darting around, as if scanning the classroom for anyone who might be overhearing.

"Oh? Mem– memory charms?" he asked. "And... ah... what makes you think I know those?"

"Well, I figured you must know them, sir, being such as accomplished wizard as you are," I simpered, rehashing his own words from earlier and throwing them back at his face.

I tried to look relaxed, non confrontational, my hands still inside my pockets as if this was a simple and innocent, carefree conversation —and because that allowed me to keep my wand grasped tight, incidentally; just in case the man panicked and did something stupid.

I really, really hoped he wouldn't, though. This was a calculated risk, as I didn't know what my chances would be against an adult wizard and I wasn't dying to find out. Still, it was Lockhart, so I guessed I might have at least some chances of coming out on top if he attempted something as crass as trying to obliviate me. As long as I reacted quickly, that is.

This was also why I'd decided to approach him in the classroom —the door to the corridor outside still open, other students walking past— rather than somewhere more private such as his own office, where he'd have an easier time attacking me without anybody else noticing.

But if he was thinking of doing that —and he was definitely thinking of doing that, judging by how eerily silent he had become out of a sudden— it was better to simply nip that idea in the bud. So I said: "You see, I'm really afraid of somebody obliviating me. Can you imagine, losing your memories without even realising it? I know it's unlikely here at Hogwarts, of course; but still, I've taken precautions."

"Precautions?"

I nodded. "Yes. I send letters to myself regularly, and I also have a system of codes that I write on them and across my notebooks. That way if someday I receive a letter in my own hand that I don't remember writing, I'll know for sure that I was obliviated; and using the codes I'd be able to work out exactly when it happened! Say for example it happened right now: then by this time tomorrow I would already know that somebody obliviated me after our class of Defence ended, but before I could get to Charms, which I have next. It would narrow down the list of suspects, when I went to tell the Headmaster."

He blinked at me, pausing for a few moments. "That is... quite thorough," he said at last. "Well... I don't think you really need my help with–"

"But that's the thing, sir; I'd rest easier if I could learn more about how memory charms work themselves. It's like what you wrote in 'Wanderings with Werewolves': the fear of the unknown is the worst kind of fear there is."

Yes, I had ended up reading more of his stupid books. Skimmed through them, at least.

"I... I did write that, didn't I?"

"I know you are a very busy professor, of course, and I wouldn't want to impose on your time." Not yet, at least. "So I was wondering if you could simply... hmm... write me a permission slip for some book on memory charms that I could get from the Library?"

That seemed to steal all the tension from him, his smile returning at last as his body relaxed once more. He half-sat on the teacher's desk and said: "Oh? A... book? Is that all?"

I nodded. "Books on memory charms are in the restricted section of the Library, so I need a teachers' permission to check one out."

"I see... I see... but don't you think you are a little young for those books, Miss Sarramond? Even I didn't start learning memory charms until a later age."

I shrugged, trying to look guilty by averting my eyes, but not too much. "Well... I'm ahead of my course. Last year our old Defence teacher —Professor Duskhaven— was very kind to accommodate me by giving me some personal book recommendations. I know you're not really obligated to do the same, of course, but since I read in 'Marauding with Monsters' that you pride yourself in always going beyond the line of duty... well, I was hoping you'd do that for me too?"

My shameless tugging at his self-professed image seemed to do the trick, because he nodded with exaggerated movements, producing a quill and a piece of parchment: "Indeed! as a Ravenclaw myself, I certainly don't see the harm on learning more!" He started writing, but then paused and eyed me once more. "Now... this is only... theoretical knowledge you're after, right?"

"Of course, sir! I would never dream of performing a memory charm without your supervision."

"Of course," he nodded to himself, resuming his writing and handing me the piece of parchment with a smile. "Here you go! And rest easy, Miss Sarramond: nobody would dare attempt to obliviate a student of Hogwarts, not least with me here as a Professor!"

I gave him my best overacted, impressionable smile as I thanked him again and took the slip, escaping the classroom as soon as he turned back towards his own table. I didn't even allow myself permission to relax my face until I was well away from the man, already walking down the stairs towards Charms and in sight of other students. I released my wand at last, realising it was coated in sweat.

Wow, that had been bloody tense.

But worth it too, judging by the not one but two books Lockhart had written on the slip for me. And on the plus side, hopefully he'd think it twice now before he dared obliviate me, if it ever came to that. I'd been bluffing about that whole sending letters to myself with a system of codes, but I did have a page inside my special, purple-covered notebook meant to warn me in case of sudden, unexplainable memory loss. With this man around, though, I judged it might pay off to go the extra mile and actually implement some of those ideas, no matter how bothersome they might be.

In any case, I was already beginning to relax and relishing my success by the time I reached the Grand Staircase: this had been a victory, at least so far. I had skirted the line, sure, but hadn't stumbled —at least, I didn't think so— emerging out of the encounter with as much value as I could reasonably get from the man, for the time being.

These books promised a good introduction to the topic, even though I highly doubted they'd be quite enough to master its intricacies. Very few fields of magic could be truly grasped just from the theory —at some point, you needed to cast the spell, brew the ingredients, or work the ritual. But this was a start. And maybe I could even go back to Lockhart after reading the books, with some of my questions about the memory spells. Just as long as the classroom's door remained open, of course.

But for now: baby steps.

I hadn't lied, though: it's not like I was planning to obliviate anybody; it was simply about gaining yet another weapon for my growing arsenal. Just as with last year's Sectumsempra, it meant one more ace up the sleeve, should it become necessary.

Which it might, in the future. Because I couldn't kid myself: the information I held inside my head, the nature of my memories... it was dangerous stuff. Pretty much so. Knowledge that not only Dumbledore would love to get his hands on, but also the... less well-meaning people. The Death Eaters and their ilk, mostly.

I planned to be careful, of course, but there was always the chance for a mistake; especially as time marched on and the plot became gradually harsher, with even more lives on the line as the war loomed ever closer. I would need to become more active, such as with the basilisk this time around. That meant higher chances that someone would learn something they shouldn't about me; and if that someone happened to be in the more reactionary camp of my house, that risked being... catastrophic. Very much so.

I mean, with how I remembered Voldemort was pictured in the books in regards to prophecies and the like, I could only shudder thinking of what would happen if my existence somehow reached his ears. Someone who knew how his war would end? Who knew exactly what Dumbledore was planning, or who among his followers was a traitor?

You didn't need to have a dark lord's mind to know how invaluable that sort of intel would be. And that was without factoring the bloody Horcruxes. Because he might very easily opt to have me murderized just to keep his own secrets safe; and I couldn't count on Potter's blood charm protection. If an enterprising Death Eater crept into the Residence at night, there was nothing that would stop them.

So yeah, better to have a safety net of sorts: a way to quickly press the 'undo' button in case I messed up and showed my hand. Information was the name of the game, here, and as such memory charms could easily prove to be an invaluable tool to control it.

I was distracted and musing about that as I descended the stairs, when I heard a soft 'whoosh' and something solid hit the top of my head. It wasn't painful, not really; but I felt some sort of thick liquid running down my hair. For a moment I panicked, thinking it would be my own blood, or brains —perhaps because I'd been just psyching myself out over Voldemort— but it only took me a few moments to realise the truth, sticking my fingers in the substance and bringing some of it into view.

Egg. Runny, disgusting egg white dripping down my hair.

I was still trying to come to terms with it when I felt a second hit, drenching the back of my head this time. I shouted a curse as I turned and belatedly grabbed my wand, searching for the attacker. And talk about my defensive skills; Mr. Malfoy would certainly rescind that offer if he could see me now.

I didn't have to look for long to find my target, though; mostly because he wasn't trying to be sneaky at all:

"Green and clean you were at dawn, but now let's add some egg; be warned!"

Peeves was floating near the span of stairs right above me, and carrying a basket full of eggs that he must have snatched off the kitchens. He smirked and threw yet another one at me, but this time I was smart enough to side-step the projectile. Using my wand, I then replied with a chaotic burst of magic of my own —not a real spell, just a nasty package full of vicious retribution— that he dodged easily thanks to his unnatural manoeuvrability.

"You piece of shit!" I shrieked. "I will fucking banish you from this castle!"

"Oh ho! The Slytherin lass thinks she's quite the mighty class!" He readied another egg and sent it my way.

"DEPULSO!" I cast at the flying egg. The projectile stopped and reversed directions mid air, shooting backwards towards him. I had tried to aim roughly at his figure, but my accuracy left much to be desired; and it simply flew off into the depths of the Grand Staircase. To ruin the day of another student down below, perhaps.

"With a splat and a splatter, Peeves makes your day go madder!" the poltergeist cackled, this time flying straight over my head as he tilted the full basket, emptying its entire contents on top of me.

I let out a cry of indignation as I crouched and invoked my trusty shield charm with a quick 'Protego!'. Just in the nick of time, as it turned out: the eggs rolled off it as if it was an umbrella, crashing instead against the stone steps around me and spilling their insides all over the place, leaving a pretty mess for the castle's house-elves to clean up.

I stood up again when the last of them had hit the floor, verifying I wasn't hit —or at least, not hit again, because I had yolk running down the back of my neck and starting to drip under my robes... ugh!— and turned my gaze to see Peeves disappearing through the nearest wall. I reflectively aimed my wand at him, but there was nothing I could do, to be quite honest. While I was sure there might have been spells to fight him off, I didn't know enough about his nature to tell for sure what those were. With all my worries last year and this one too, the pranking poltergeist had never been a priority of mine.

Then again, he had never targeted me before. So perhaps that would have to change now.

I ground my teeth in frustration, then resumed my descent; my shoes leaving messy imprints on the steps, my face a rictus of annoyance.

I paused for a moment when I came across a first year girl climbing the same staircase: Luna Lovegood, who carried a handful of books braced against her chest, and passed by my side with her gaze down. I half-expected her to make some comment to me —maybe about my head being full of Nargles, to which I could always reply wisely that no, that it was full of egg— but she simply walked past me, without so much as a glance.

Which sure, it shouldn't surprise me, right? Because real people weren't just stereotypes. To Luna I was simply another face in the crowd, and she had no motive to stop and talk to me. Not when the only reason I knew who she was in the first place was only because of my fore-memories. And perhaps all my shouting and cursing before had made her a tad nervous to spend more time than strictly necessary around the obviously short-fused bomb about to explode that she likely thought I was. That, too.

But still, I couldn't help but feel somewhat disappointed; I had liked Luna —the character— back in my previous life, and I had half-hoped —and half-dreaded— that with her odd outlook she might have noticed that something was... well, different about me.

Whatever. There was no way I was going to go to Charms now; not like this. So instead I kept my descent until I reached the dungeons, and set towards the nest of vipers. At this time most other students were at class, so there were only a group of three sixth-years when I entered the common room. They had been discussing something in hushed tones, and went fully silent the moment they noticed me around; but I completely ignored whatever suspicious conspiracy they were weaving and marched instead straight towards the girls' bathrooms, where I took a very long shower —scrubbing my hair over and over again until it felt sufficiently clean once more, and muttering curses the whole time.

After that, and since I still found myself with ample free time before it would be time for dinner, I decided to go visit the Library and cash in Lockhart's slip already. Madam Pince gave me a sceptical stare down when I presented it to her with a guileless grin, but I stood resolutely and in the end she went and retrieved the books for me. I also got myself a copy of 'From Calorifors to Torridus: A Practical Guide to Heating Charms' because I had already endured enough freezing cold last year, and I wasn't planning on a repeat of that come winter.

The Memory Charm books were on the advanced side, judging from the quick leaf-through I gave them on my way back to the common room, before I finally left to meet up with my housemates. It was to be expected, but I judged it was something I could learn given enough time and effort. The theory, at least, and the invocation and wand movements —although it also appeared there were several variations, depending on the type of memories you wished to edit and such.

I'd need to go through it all slowly... and in secret, obviously. I was in fact trying to come up with a suitable excuse for when the girls inevitably asked me what it was that I'd wanted to talk to our Defence teacher about, given that I'd made my lacklustre opinion of him very clear to them, very often; so now they were likely to feel a tad curious about my change of heart. I could always tell them the truth, but my knowing of the Memory Charm would be more effective if nobody else —not even them— knew about it.

Not that I planned to obliviate any of them, of course. There were my friends! But still... what they didn't know, couldn't hurt me. Or them.

The excuse I came up with was that I had tried to ask for permission to access some books on more advanced hexes and curses, but that Lockhart had rebuked me. It was close to the truth —in that I only wanted to use his role as a professor— but not quite.

In the end though, it turned out to be unnecessary, because the moment the doors to the Charms classroom opened and the students started to file out, I noticed many subreptitious looks going my way. And then Tracey, Daphne and Perks walked out, and they too stared at me with eyes wide like saucers.

"What is it?" I asked them, trying to keep my voice low and even. It was obvious there was something wrong here, and I hated not knowing what it was.

"Your... hair," said Daphne; which made my stomach drop to my feet.

"What– what is wrong with my hair?!" I all but cried, reaching for it, and forgetting all about keeping my voice low. It didn't feel bad to the touch, but when I grasped a few strands and brought them in view of my eyes, I felt my breath leaving me.

That total piece of...

"Shit," I muttered, looking around for any reflective surface. "Shit, shit shit..."

"Did you dye it?" asked Perks. "I think you might have gone... uh... a little overboard with it?"

I stepped in front of the protective glass that covered an old shelf full of brass knicks and knacks that belonged to this or that witch, I didn't care. What I cared about was the way my hair looked: all of it a fiery, bright red.

Not even the soft, almost chestnut red that you'd find naturally in a redhead, no. This was clown-red; it was telephone box red.

It was... it was hideous! Red didn't fit my complexion at all!

I clenched my fists, muttering "Peeves..." under my breath. But even then, this didn't feel like his doing, right? Because Peeves' pranks tended to be on the simpler side. Eggs? Sure, whatever. Red hair? No... this was much more like...

"Look George, what we have here!"

"Is it...? Could it really be, an honorary Weasley?"

I turned slowly to face the two newcomers. I questioned for a moment the perfect timing of their arrival, but then realized they probably had been stalking me all this time through the Marauder's Map, ever since I left Lockhart's class. Because how else would have they known if their prank had worked, right?

Fred and George's eyes were glinting in satisfied mischievousness, taking the sight in front of them as if I was a particularly hard-earned trophy.

"It's got to be," said Fred. "Because only a Weasley would dare a stunt like that, eh?"

I frowned, not quite following what he meant. But George quickly clarified:

"Right. After all, everybody knows that Ginny's our sister. Trying to prank her, that would be asking for trouble."

"Not the sort of thing one would walk away unscathed from."

"Definitely not."

Okay; message received. I would have asked them how they'd known —after all, I had been cautious enough to keep out of sight, and then walk the long way around the lake just to avoid exactly this kind of scenario— but it must have been that bloody map once again, right?

Bloody cheaters.

"How did you get Peeves to do it?" I asked instead, pointing at the disaster sitting on top of my head.

"Are you joking?" replied George "It's Peeves! Barely needed a nudge!"

"The real trick was keeping him from throwing those eggs at everybody else in sight; save them all just for you."

I crossed my arms. "Well, I'm honoured for sure... uhm... but how do I clean it off?"

They acted affronted, gasping as if insulted.

"Clean it off?! Did you hear that, Fred?"

"The sheer ungratefulness! Outrageous!" said the other twin, already the both of them walking away.

"To put down a gift like that! How can she be so rude?"

"Shameful, George! Just shameful!"

I watched them leave, shaking my head slightly. To be fair, I hadn't really expected for them to hand me a potion I could use to remove the dye —and if they had in fact handed me one, I certainly wouldn't have been enough of a naive idiot to actually use it. But with no clue at all as to the nature of whatever they'd put into those eggs, I wasn't willing to experiment, not even if the Cleaning Charm was in the third year coursebook and so at last within my reach.

And so I meekly followed the girls to the Great Hall instead, tried to act high and confident, my head up as if my brand new looks had been entirely my own idea. And they did attract some curious looks —courtesy of the vibrant hue the twins had chosen— even those of Headmaster Dumbledore —who smiled grandfatherly— and Snape —who frowned and muttered something under his breath.

I started to worry for real a couple of days later, when I noticed that not only wasn't my hair back to normal, but it in fact looked like the redness was actually increasing, somehow. It took Daphne's suggestion that perhaps whatever substance the eggs had contained was in fact reacting to all my shampooing to realise that the Weasley twins were indeed two very, exceedingly devious individuals.

Exceedingly intelligent, too. Something which I had already known at some level, thanks to my fore-memories, but that it was also very easy to forget. It was a very common mistake, I also knew: seeing them day in, day out one would think them to be little more than silly pranksters.

Not that this was one: a prank. Like sure, it technically was one, but it was also a warning of sorts. A warning to me. A line drawn in the sand, in what regarded Ginny Weasley. A 'no further', delivered with a wink and a smile, sure... but that also betrayed the absolute nightmare my life at Hogwarts could become should the twins get wind that I was back at harassing her in any way, shape or form.

So I was stuck between a rock and a hard place —or well, between the Weasleys and a basilisk. Of course, of the two of those I knew which one I'd rather face, so I was still willing to step across the line if I saw the chance, if it meant putting an end to the plot. I just would need to be more careful about it.

I didn't find any chance, though, as the following days slowly turned into weeks —and my hair finally lost the last traces of the red colouring. And if the diary was at Ginny's dorm, I'd need to get creative —and very daring— to retrieve it.

I did have some ideas of how to go about it —featuring one Neville Longbottom, who I half-remembered had the habit of writing down the common room passwords not to forget them, and whom I had easy access to during the remedial Herbology lessons. While I was grateful to him for his help —I was marginally better at Herbology now, as long as I remembered to keep my focus on acting nice to the plants, something easier said than done— I wasn't above using him if that would help prevent the future events from the book.

But the password was only part of it: there was also the Fat Lady to consider, as the portrait was likely to tell on me, correct password or not. And finding the right moment where I could get to the Gryffindor common room with no lions around to notice and confront me before I could take even two steps inside it... well, it seemed unlikely.

In the end I decided to wait: focus on my studies, my homework, my friends... and wait for the chance I knew would come to me anyway. Because I already knew there would be one day where Ginny would need to take the diary out of the tower for a walk, no matter what:

The day of the Hallowe'en Feast.

I had it all perfectly planned out, see: I couldn't simply leave in the middle of the feast to go hunt Ginny —that would be quite suspicious, of course— so instead I told the girls that I needed to pay a quick visit to the Library to return one of the books on advanced combat spells I'd been perusing —an excuse that had the benefit of happening to be true— and to go ahead; that I'd be joining them as soon as I was done there.

I did not, though. Instead I was now biding my time hidden inside one of the stalls of a very particular bathroom on the second floor; a bathroom that nobody used. Perhaps because it looked like it had came straight out of some horror film: complete with a coat of dust covering the sinks, walls missing tiles here and there, rust stains in the toilets and a lighting so poor that it made the place feel much more gloomy and foreboding than it had been in the films.

I was sitting there on top the closed toilet lid, wearing my protective sunglasses and with my magic wand already out and ready for action, hoping my target would make her appearance already and I'd be able to join the festivities sooner rather than later —so that my delay wouldn't be as noticeable.

And that was the plan: Ginny would need to access the Chamber of Secrets through this very bathroom, wouldn't she? And she was pretty much guaranteed to carry the diary when she did. So I would simply wait here and ambush her, knock her down with my superior duelling skills —and the element of surprise, that too— the moment she stepped in, and snatch the book off her inert hands.

Unlike with Hopkins last year, I wouldn't even need to hide my face for this, since according to my memories she would be in a trance induced by Tom Riddle. Which meant she wouldn't be able to remember me; she would simply wake up later in the bathroom, confused and with no idea of what had happened. The perfect crime.

Not that it was a crime, really; I was in fact helping the girl here.

Or I would, once she appeared. Right now, though, I had a different wrinkle on my plan to deal with:

"Oh well, at least you could have asked for my permission first, if you wanted to hide in my bathroom. It's only proper, isn't it?"

"Shh!" I hissed at the ghost for what felt like the twentieth time. She was sticking her head through the closed stall door, her semi-transparent face eyeing me with annoyance. I said: "I told you I would leave soon."

"And what do you think you're doing, pointing that wand at me?"

"I'm not pointing it at you," I lied, tilting the end of the stick away from her face. "You were just in the way."

"Oh, of course!" she exploded. "Sad Myrtle always a nuisance, always in the way! 'Go somewhere else, Myrtle,' they said. 'You're such a burden, Myrtle'. And now here you are, telling me to move away even after I'm dead! As if I hadn't been shooed away enough in my lifetime!"

"But I didn't say–"

She wasn't listening, though. Instead her head retracted through the door as she wailed about the injustice of it all, followed shortly by her cries coming from somewhere near the ceiling.

I closed my eyes with a soft sigh, then shifted posture once more. I had been waiting there for about twenty minutes already, and I didn't know how longer I could last before it was me who exploded at Moaning Myrtle. I had tried being nice to her at first, of course, but she had a way of grating on my nerves. It didn't help that I was already tense because of the anticipation.

Also, because there was no point in doing all this if Ginny —or Riddle, rather— would immediately realise somebody else was in the bathroom with them, thanks to the bloody ghost. At least if she was crying by herself she wouldn't be giving my position away. Harsh, maybe... but also true.

In the end she turned out to be useful, though, as the first indication I got that something was happening outside my door was her going eerily silent, her moans and cries suddenly stopping. I tensed up then, holding my breath and grasping my wand tight as I waited for something to happen. For anything.

I heard the scraping of stones first. A low, grinding sound that I took to mean the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets was finally opening. Somewhat subtler than what I'd expected —because of magic, I guessed. The odd thing was, though: I hadn't heard Ginny speak first.

Hadn't Harry needed to order the sink to open, for it to... well, to open? But it was Parseltongue, something I didn't fully understand. Could it be that that other people simply couldn't hear the words when spoken along?

No, that made no sense. People knew Harry was a Parselmouth after that scene during the Duelling Club, which wouldn't make sense at all if nobody else could hear it. So maybe Ginny had simply whispered the password to the sink; or perhaps Tom Riddle didn't need to speak it to access the Chamber, being so in league with the magic infused in it that the entrance simply opened to its mere will.

Never matter; this was the moment. I reached with my free hand and ever so slowly pulled at the stall door, opening it. I bit my lower lip, and stood up with measured movements, then took a step forward.

And my foot landed on a puddle of water.

A puddle of water filtering below the stall door's lower opening, and that hadn't been there a few moments before, I was sure of it. I paused, my breath catching, and that's when I heard it.

It was a young girl's voice, sure enough, hissing in some disturbing, eerie way. The sounds somehow taking the shape of eldritch words. But unnerving as that was —and I could right away understand why Potter had found such prejudice when his being a Parselmouth became common knowledge— it wasn't that what caused the blood in my veins to run cold.

No, it was the other voice: the one that replied to her. A lower, murderous voice hissing back; the voice of a monster come from some nightmare, the thing living under your bed. And now that I cared to listen, I could also hear the heavy rustle that the creature made as it slithered down the bathroom's floor.

My mouth went completely dry, and I took a step back —taking my foot off the puddle— without even realising it. My traitorous heart started beating like a drum, so fast that I was sure the basilisk would hear it; because how could it not?

Shit. What the hell was I doing here? Alone in this stupid bathroom? Was I a complete idiot? If Ginny... no, if Riddle ever suspected somebody was here... well, he only needed to say a word, right? A word I wouldn't even understand, and then the basilisk would be onto me. It wouldn't matter one bit that I was wearing my sunglasses: the monster could simply bite me, inject his venom into me. I would be dead long before anybody downstairs could wonder what was taking me so long.

Shit.

I'd been caught by this rubbish thing again: this... overconfidence, wasn't it? I had expected —been completely sure— that I could catch Ginny going into the Chamber; not that she would be getting out of it already... alongside her giant pet.

Yeah... this might have been a serious miscalculation.

Chapter Text

The thought of the creature or its master possibly noticing me was chilling, and it caused me to become utterly, completely still; not even breathing. So still one would wonder if I'd already been paralysed myself, simply because of being in the general vicinity of the basilisk. I didn't even dare to blink, focusing all my attention into the sounds, the strange words someone was speaking just a few meters away.

The door to my stall was still ajar, but I didn't risk reach for it either, didn't risk trying to close it again. In fact, I didn't even dare closing my very eyes —still fixated on the puddle of water. Although I had the vague notion that I should totally close them, to protect myself in case the basilisk decided to stare at me and my sunglasses proved themselves ineffective. But closing them and not seeing, not having any idea at all if the creature was or not right in front of me... no, that was simply unthinkable.

So instead I remained there, trying to become like a ghost myself. And I heard the rustle, the soft rub of its scales against the floor tiles. Slowly but surely, the noise got closer, and I could almost imagine the basilisk right outside the door, tasting the air, smelling me.

Ironic, that it was Ginny —or more accurately: Riddle— who saved me, in the end. His vengeful spirit must have grown impatient, because I head the girl make a short, commanding hiss. And at last, the creature seemed to recede. Another hiss responded hers, this one heavier and fuller and a little further away from my refuge.

I kept waiting, until at some point I heard the bathroom's door open and then close again, but still I didn't venture outside. I remained there instead. One minute, then two...

I guess I was hoping for Moaning Myrtle to return, perhaps; for her to signal to me that the coast was clear once more. But it seemed like she was in no hurry, and had better places to be. Something which didn't really surprise me at all, to be honest, given that it was this same basilisk that had caused her death in the first place. Ghost or not, something about seeing the image of the monster again, seeing its very eyes must still have been pretty traumatic to her, even if at some deep level.

It was fear that pushed me to risk moving again, though. Fear of being still in this very same bathroom, getting caught here when the creature eventually returned back towards its lair in the Chamber beneath. So clenching my jaw I dared a quick look outside the stall, verifying the place was indeed empty. The hidden entrance had closed again, and nothing looked out of place in the bathroom. Nothing but the large puddle of water.

I hurried then, doing my best to step around the puddle not to leave any footprints that could give my presence away later on. Then I exited the bathroom and crossed the corridor outside, hiding behind the closest corner. Only then I allowed myself to breath again, panting quickly as if to vent my fear away.

Footprints.

Yeah, Riddle hadn't been as cautious as me in that respect, it seemed like: from my position I could see a couple of wet footprints exiting Myrtle's bathroom and heading down the corridor. Small footprints, like they could belong to a first year girl... a barefoot first year girl, apparently.

Who the hell walks barefoot into a bathroom, of all places?

And just like that... it clicked.

Because I hadn't seen the notebook in Ginny's hands... ever, had I? Which sure, I had been hoping it meant she kept it safe inside her trunk, back at the Gryffindor tower; but deep inside I feared it could also mean she never got it back after we stumbled into each other that day in Diagon Alley. That the diary had remained there, forgotten on the floor of Flourish and Blotts until somebody else picked up.

Somebody who would have been curious enough to notice it, and to write into it. And who must have been feeling lonely enough to pour their secrets, their soul into it. Somebody who... didn't wear shoes.

"Fuck," I muttered, hitting softly the back of my head against the cold stone of the wall behind me.

So what I could do now, then? Wait right here for them two to come back? That sounded... well, insane. This had already been too bloody close for comfort.

And yet...

It had been so close.

If not for the basilisk, the plan would have worked. I could have snatched the diary. I knew that. If only I had arrived sometime earlier, caught her going in rather than out.

But she would still be around, right? She would do her dastardly deed, at Riddle's command and with the basilisk, and then... then what?

Then she'd need to leave, not to get caught herself. Towards her common room, too, because she couldn't simply enter the Great Hall with the Feast still in progress. Arriving this fashionably late would be too incriminating. And Riddle would no doubt anticipate Dumbledore consigning everybody to their respective dorms after his message is discovered, too.

Right, that was probably his plan: take the girl back to her common room ahead of the main throng of students. But if she went to her dorm, then Riddle would need first to order the basilisk back to its lair, towards the Chamber of Secrets. So the girl would be on her own when she returned. Alone, with no monstrous escort.

So this wasn't a total failure yet. A new plan started to take shape in my mind. There was still a chance, here; one that wasn't entirely suicidal: she would be coming up the stairs alone and unguarded. I only needed to intercept her there, knock her out and get the stupid book.

Yes, it would be Riddle puppeteering her, of course. So that made the calculation a tad riskier. But it was still early in the year, and his control over the girl shouldn't be that absolute, that iron-clad, right? I doubted he could get her to fight that effectively. But more importantly: he wouldn't have a reason for it.

No, Riddle wouldn't be expecting my attack any more than any actual first-year would. I was only a random student, after all. He would try to play the part, most likely. Try to look like the inoffensive, naive eleven year old girl he was inhabiting. A girl that just would have no reason to suspect she'd be attacked out of a sudden by somebody she probably didn't even know the name of.

Yeah... yeah, it could work.

But I had to move. Like, right now!

I scampered away, rushing as fast as I could go without breaking into a sprint that would risk making too much of a ruckus in the empty stone corridors; call too much unwanted attention to myself.

I didn't have much time, though, and to intercept her I'd first need to get ahead of her and then come the opposite way. Which meant I had to go around the Grand Staircase —ascending through the Astronomy tower's stairs instead, taking the steps two at a time— and then and only then running like a pixie on fire across that one large hall with all the sets of armours to get to the short corridor that lead towards that painting of the drinking goblins, and then descending back down the Grand Staircase.

By that point I was sweating and panting like... well, like I had just run my way across half the bloody castle, which I had. Thankfully I hadn't encountered any professors, prefects, cats, wayward students, ghosts, caretakers or any other of the nuisances that populated the insides of Hogwarts. The Grand Staircase was completely deserted, in fact; so I found a good vantage point, one where I was safely out of sight while I recovered my breath, and waited some more. I observed the rotating staircases idly, waiting for the telltale figure of the first year old girl returning home.

And I waited.

And waited some more...

And... well, by that point I was starting to get suspicious. Because the girl wasn't coming back, apparently, and I didn't believe it would have taken her this long to set up the message, Mrs. Norris included.

No. Judging by the books I'd read a lifetime ago, the basilisk's attacks must have happened rather quickly, for it never to get caught in the act by any authority; not even when the professors were actively looking for the cause of all those petrifications. So this first attack was probably done already, and if my guess was right the creature should be back at the Chamber, or well on its way there by now... hopefully.

And yet no girl around.

Could it be that Riddle's control had faded away already? It would be a likely explanation for her apparent absence. That would mean she'd be somewhere down below; probably all confused and dizzy. Which would work for me, in fact. A confused and dizzy opponent is always easier to safely subdue. Or at least, a tad easier than one actively controlled by the murderous spirit of a dark wizard.

But that would be too optimistic.

"Stupid!" I cursed myself, taking off again as fast as my short legs allowed. "Stupid! You stupid girl!"

I flew up the Grand Staircase once more —which was kind enough not to misdirect me this time around— and into a long corridor decorated with ornate tapestries. I was taking another detour into a part of the castle I didn't visit all that frequently, but that I more or less knew well enough —from all those walks last Christmas— to navigate towards my destination.

Because sure, the Grand Staircase was the fastest path towards her common room... but that was precisely why Riddle had her avoid it, right? Because he didn't want to run into anybody else, anybody that could put two and two together. No, he'd have her take this same detour and come from the Gray Lady's corridor instead.

I arrived at the Ravenclaw tower staircase a couple of minutes later, and took a quick and hopeful look down, then up the spiralling steps.

And... it was empty, nobody around. Which meant either I was early, or —most likely— too late to intercept my quarry.

I cursed some more, hit the metal railing with the heel of my hand, and then resumed moving without wasting any more time, starting to climb upwards as fast as I dared —because the Ravenclaw tower wasn't the kindest of places to those with a fear of heights, and I doubted there would be a cushioning charm at its bottom if I somehow managed to trip over the railing.

The climb was tiring, hard enough on my mistreated calves that for once I wished I had my Comet broomstick with me —or even any broomstick, truth be told— to simply raise through the centre of the cylinder that was the tower without any effort at all. And perhaps this was why Flying was so prevalent in wizarding culture, I wondered idly: half the students in Hogwarts lived in towers, and if they had to climb up and down so many steps in the regular, I could certainly sympathise if they decided that enough was enough.

The exertion and stress all combined to make the ascent feel like an eternity, the staircase turning and curving seemingly without end, to the point that I began to wonder whether there would be some sort of protective spell on it, some extension charm that made it effectively endless for those belonging to the other houses.

But that didn't mesh with my fore-memories, and sure enough, eventually the staircase ended onto a wooden door under a pointed arch. A door with a bronze knocker on it, shaped like an eagle.

To be quite honest, I was sort of disappointed at the sight. After the Hat didn't sort me into Ravenclaw, I had purposefully avoided coming anywhere close to here, out of a desire not to torture myself with what could have been. But in my imagination I had expected the eagle to be larger, more ostentatious, the door more... well, majestic.

But no, it wasn't any different than any other of the hundreds of wooden doors that dotted Hogwarts. Except than when I knocked on this one, the eagle opened its beak and asked: 'What walks on four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon, and three legs in the evening?'

Oh, how I hated these things.

I opened my mouth almost instinctively, to try and... I didn't know, negotiate with the knocker, try to fish for more information, for a clue... maybe? But I closed it back with a snap, because I remembered last year I had heard some Ravenclaws complaining about how picky the door to their common room was, that it would take almost anything spoken aloud as an attempt at an answer. And you only got the one try, it seemed like.

So I bid my time instead, looking down the staircase once more —holding tight to the railing— in the hope that I'd see my target returning, ascending towards me. But no, still deserted. And it should say something, that I'd rather face that Riddle —albeit in a somewhat reduced capacity— than try to work out the bloody answer to this one.

But nothing to it. So I closed my eyes, tried to breath evenly, and started thinking.

It said 'walks', so it had to be some sort of creature, right? And the legs thing couldn't be literal, riddles never were. Not literal, but also not completely figurative, or else it wouldn't make sense. So what was a leg that wasn't a literal leg?

And also, why did this riddle sound somewhat familiar? Like I'd heard before, even if I'd forgotten what the answer was. Like I should know this.

Maybe something I'd heard in my previous life? Or read, perhaps. A vague, half-remembered memory pushing through, of a book I had once owned, back when I'd last been this age. I knew it'd had red covers... and black and white illustrations inside. Pictures of... rabbits? No... all kind of animals, dressed in cute little human outfits.

A book of fables, yes; and riddles. I could almost see it now, almost hear the rustle of its pages, the noise my family made in the living room. It had been a Christmas present. I felt the bite of a wave of dizzying nostalgia, a sob almost escaping my lips.

"Focus," I muttered to myself, and thankfully the stupid eagle didn't take that as my answer. I scrunched my face, impossibly trying to remember the contents of the book. Though the only thing I could recall with any clarity was a story about a hedgehog that had given away all of his spikes for his neighbours to use, leaving him defenceless when a snake tried to eat him. But then of course the neighbours came to the rescue, each carrying a spike like they were swords; and together they'd skewered the poor snake to death.

And wow, no wonder so many people in the other houses were predisposed against Slytherins, uh? But yeah, it was to no avail. My memories of the riddles themselves were too foggy, too distant. Perhaps if I could use Dumbledore's pensieve...?

No. No time for that. And that was a stupid idea, anyway.

I pushed the memories aside, focusing instead on the riddle itself, trying again to figure out its logic. I should be able to: I was almost sorted into Ravenclaw myself, and the students there apparently had no problems doing this in the regular. So... what was a leg that wasn't a leg?

An arm, perhaps? But what had three legs? Three arms? No, that's stupid... but what about the morning, afternoon...

"A cane!" I said instead, and then rushed to give out my entire explanation: "It's... people! Four legs when we crawl about as babies, then two legs when we grow up, then three when we get too old and have to use canes and stuff!"

"Correct," replied the door, and it opened to me.

I rushed to take my wand out, took a deep breath, and crossed the threshold into the Ravenclaw common room; my eyes alert and scanning everything around me.

It was a wide, circular room, with constellations painted on its ceiling and tall windows with blue drapes spaced regularly around its outer wall; windows that now only showed the cloudy night sky. The wooden benches, couches and seats all had blue cushions as well, and many of them were tucked into nice, cosy reading nooks. Yet another, narrower spiralling staircase descended down to where I guessed the dorms themselves must be.

Not that I would need to use them now, because the lone figure of Luna Lovegood waited right by the bust of Rowena Ravenclaw, her wand already out and aimed at me.

"You seem to be lost," she said, her tone unreadable, her face an inexpressive mask. "Your common room is down in the dungeons, not here."

"Oh? How silly of me," I replied; but all of my focus, all my attention was on her hands —his hands?— The one with the wand... and the one carrying Tom Riddle's black leather bound diary.

I guess something of my intentions, of why I was really there must have come across, because Luna's own eyes dropped to the notebook for a single beat —one that I'd have missed, if not because I already knew about the diary— and then an eerie, sardonic smile crossed her face. One that didn't fit right with the young girl.

"I wonder... how did you figure out it was me?" she said, the words smooth, almost silky.

I was about to reply something about the diary —guessing that maybe if Riddle suspected that I knew about his whole plan with the Horcruxes it would throw him for a loop— when I realised how that might not be such a wise idea. So instead I simply said: "You aren't wearing shoes."

It was such a non-sequitur that for a moment, she looked puzzled. And for a moment, her gaze went to her own bare feet.

A moment was all I needed.

"Stupefy!" I shouted, discharging my magic at the girl in front of me, at the same time I took a step sideways. But my spell didn't connect, instead Luna simply intercepted it with her own wand. And in a move that would have been impossible for any first-year —or for any second-year, for that matter— she simply slung it back at me, the bolt of energy whizzing past my head, flying through the space I'd occupied just a moment before to crash against the common room's door behind me.

I silently thanked Oleander Rook and his defence book —for the stepping sideways technique thing— then kept moving, circling around the wide room as I shot one, two tentative spells at her. But her defence was impeccable, and she returned them back with vengeance. Her eyes were cold and calculating, as if judging my very worth. There was nothing of the whimsy, curious Luna Lovegood in them, nothing at all of what I remembered from my fore-memories.

And as if to drive the point home that this wasn't quite the same girl that had sit under the Sorting Hat earlier in the year, she said: "You'll have to do better than that," the words a mix of malice and sick amusement. "Let me show you how."

She cast a spell of her own, then. An invocation that she only whispered, her lips moving silently as she waved her wand to encompass the whole room. But I felt the effects immediately, the discharge of magic saturating the air itself, the flames on every sconce around us twisting, somehow. I stared unbelieving as shadows grew from behind every piece of furniture, every bookshelf. They moved in spasms, morphing and sprouting dark, crooked tendrils that slithered along the floor right towards me. I took a step back to dodge one of them, but didn't see the one behind me.

It was so cold that it burned, as it grasped my left ankle and pulled me down. The pain shot up and through my leg, so sudden and intense that I immediately felt to my knees with a cry. I reflexively tried to scoot away, but the shadow's grasp was like iron; it only became tighter the harder I pulled.

Luna advanced towards me slowly, her expression one of gloating as she regarded me.

"Not too bad, for a second year," she commented. Then her eyes landed on the silver snake brooch pinned to my robes. "As befits a Slytherin, of course. You might still prove yourself useful to me. Tell me... do you wish to learn this sort of power? I can show you the depths of it, if only you pledge yourself to my service."

What was it about all the Death Eaters throwing job offers at my face? I guessed this time a polite refusal was out of the question, though. I doubted Riddle would take rejection well, especially now that he knew that I knew he was in Hogwarts.

Yeah... so I had no choice, really. It was either that or... well.

But it still made me angry beyond belief, the way Luna's guard was down. As if I hadn't turned out to merit that much caution, after all. As if this fight was already over.

So I rose my wand back towards her face as my only reply, and at least I got the satisfaction of forcing her to stop her advance and return to a defensive stance.

"Lumos Maxima!" I cast instead. The light burst from my wand's tip like it was a lighthouse, bathing the entire common room in its pure white shine, dispelling the strange shadows. I still felt the pain, the burning sensation on my ankle; but I was no longer grasped by it.

Both Luna and I were forced to look away from the light not to be blinded outright, but I'd had a moment's warning that she hadn't. So I tried to take advantage of that, to act as fast as I could now, aiming my wand at the book in her hand and shouting the most critical spell: "Accio diary!"

The notebook jerked visibly, but it wasn't enough to break her grip on it. My summoning spell still was a work in progress, and I was pained and unfocused, and this was bloody Tom Riddle in front of me. So of course it wasn't enough.

But it was enough to make Luna's whole demeanour change. Out of a sudden she wasn't interested in playing with her food anymore; all of a sudden her expression morphed into one of alarm, then fury as she aimed her wand back at me.

She said: "Avada—"

I didn't think about it; I simply surged ahead, jumping straight at her. She was close enough now that she didn't have time to react when I bodily charged into her, wands forgotten; couldn't finish the invocation with all the air escaping her lungs as I fell on top of her, when we both crashed down to the floor.

It wouldn't have worked on any other opponent, that's for sure. Oleander Rook would've been appalled. But I had a year on Luna, and we were both of the age when those differences still mattered. And besides, she'd always been on the frail, fey-ish side. So I simply punched her gut, then grasped the diary with both hands and pulled with all my might. Under me the girl trashed, and screamed in rage, but one by one her fingers slipped, and then she finally let go of the book.

And the moment she did, she promptly fell unconscious, collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut.

I clambered back to my feet, then quickly gathered both our wands from where they'd fallen, making sure not to let Luna out of my sight for even an instant. I took a few limping steps backwards, but after a few more seconds had passed without she opening her eyes —or without the creepy shadows coming back after me— I began to relax.

My eyes went to the diary in one of my hands —old, its pages slightly frayed around the edges— to Luna's wand alongside mine in the other —a soft and polished bright wood, with little engraved acorns— and then landed on the girl herself. Her hair was splayed out around her head like a golden halo.

"Okay," I muttered. "... okay."

Making sure to leave the book on one of the desks around, well out of Luna's reach just in case she wasn't as unconscious as she appeared, I picked her up with some effort and half-carried, half-dragged her towards one of the blue-trimmed couches. I laid her on it, worked my lip for a beat, then nodded to myself and placed her wand back into her own robe's pocket.

After that I collected the diary once more, took a last and quick look around the airy common room to make sure there was no incriminating evidence of my being there, and limped back towards the exit door.

Descending down the Ravenclaw tower was an endless nightmare, my ankle radiating pulses of pain with every single step, one hand gripped to the railing and the other to the diary, so hard I was sure my fingers were leaving imprints on both. And I simply couldn't take it slow, couldn't pause to rest; not when I knew the entire Ravenclaw student body would be climbing up these very stairs any moment now, returning to their dorms after the Feast.

But I wasn't interrupted, and I was already two full floors below them when they eventually burst into the staircase above me, speaking loudly about this 'Heir of Slytherin' and Filch and Dumbledore and whatever. I waited in silence, but none of them went downstairs, and a couple of minutes later the sounds of their conversations receded in the distance.

That was when I had to sit down right there on the steps, less I collapse like I was the puppet myself. Because suddenly my legs were trembling, unable to support my weight. And my hands were shaking. And even my lips were shaking, my teeth chattering. Like I was about to freeze, except that I was sweating under my robes, big drops running down my forehead too.

And I couldn't think.

I couldn't think at all; because the moment I did, it was that image that came to mind. Luna's expression of fury as she aimed her wand at me, as she pronounced the last words that I would ever–

"Okay," I whispered to myself. "Okay," like a mantra.

"Okay..."

So close. It had been so close.

My eyes wandered to the notebook in my hand, to the hideous, murderous entity stored within its pages. Almost without realising it, I noticed my wand was back in my right hand, its tip pointed at the diary.

It would work; it had to. It was a soul, right? Or a piece of one, at any rate, and that's what that spell targeted. Just two words, and a zig zag motion of my wrist, and the diary would be simply... a diary.

God knew he deserved it.

But I didn't do it. Maybe because I still expected the book to play a role in the future, like it had in the original timeline I remembered: setting Dumbledore on the trail of the Horcrux hunt. I had vague notions of how I could get it into the Headmaster's hands, where it would be safely contained and could provide him with valuable info —the problem here was doing so without incriminating myself in the process.

Or maybe it was because I was too much of a coward, despite it all. But still, with a deep sigh I eventually returned the wand to my pocket —not having cast any spell— and slowly stood back up and resumed my walk down the staircase.

I was still limping, but only slightly, and it seemed to be improving slowly. A quick examination didn't reveal any visible injuries —just a redness on my skin, in the shape of five long fingers— and the burning on my ankle had transformed into more of a dull pain. More tolerable that way.

It helped that getting to the dungeons was the polar opposite of the mad rushes from before: slow and meditative steps; paying more attention to my environments, to the noises around me. Partly because I knew the professors and prefects might be looking into the whole Heir of Slytherin thing, after Riddle's message. But also because I wanted the moment to drag on... I wanted time, before I had to face my housemates. Before I was forced to explain my absence to my friends.

But while I had time, it didn't do me much good, unable to concentrate as I was, walking as if in a trance. And soon enough I found myself in front of the Slytherin common room's secret entrance, spoke the password aloud —'Dominion'— and went through.

I tried to relax my grip on the diary. I was already likely to attract some attention to myself merely by being the last one to arrive to the common room, but it would be no good to also make them wonder why I was trying to hide a notebook from their collective eyes. Misdirection was the name of the game, then.

There were quite a few students hanging around, sitting by the fire or the windows to the lake, all of them busy commenting the events of the night, apparently. Most of them belonged to the older years, but I saw a handful of first and second year students here and there too, including my own circle. I strode towards them, and tried to ignore how the conversations died in my wake, how they all went silent the moment their eyes landed on me. Even Prefect Farley gave me an unnerving, pensive look, opting not to confront me directly this time.

Only one person spoke aloud, though not to me: one of those girls who liked hanging around the Carrow twins. She said: "What about her? Do you think–?"

"Don't be daft," interrupted one of the twins, Flora or Hestia, I could never tell them apart. "She's only a half-blood."

And yeah... that benefited me, actually. I'd rather people suspect Malfoy, or pretty much anybody else other than me. If they thought only a pure-blood could possibly be Slytherin's heir, well... that would only protect me from any unwanted attention.

Not all attention, though, because while many of my housemates returned to their gossiping, I could still feel Zabini's gaze burning a hole in the back of my head. And he wasn't the only one. I pretended not to notice as I sat next to Perks. I also pretended I didn't see the way Tracey frowned at the sight of me.

"What's the matter?" I asked to the girls, acting all innocent. "What did I miss?"

That seemed to be a faux-pas, because Tracey suddenly went very rigid. Then she stood up without looking at me and said to the other girls: "I'm tired. I'm going to bed."

She didn't wait for a reply, turning around instead and marching straight towards the dorms.

I blinked, surprised at her intensity. "Uhm... did I say anything wrong?"

There was an uncomfortable moment, when none of the two girls responded, both of them waiting for the other to take the leading role. Then Daphne said: "I believe it's more... what you don't say, that she is angry about."

"Like where you were all evening," clarified Perks, helpfully.

I nodded for a moment, unsure as to what to say to that.

"I went to the bathroom, then remembered I still had to pick up this book," I explained after a beat. The good thing was that I was being completely honest, on both counts. Withholding information is not quite the same as lying, is it?

But Daphne's polite, neutral expression as she nodded at me without further questioning told me I hadn't been as convincing as I'd hoped. I blamed Riddle for that: he'd left me shaken, off my game.

Oh, well... things would calm down soon enough, now that I had the book. With the basilisk back under control there would be no more attacks, and in a couple of weeks everybody would be back to normal, including Tracey, Daphne and Perks. They would all think the business with the Chamber of Secrets and the Heir of Slytherin had been just a poor taste prank.

Speaking of which...

"So, what happened?" I asked once more. "Why is everyone so bloody tense?"

There was another pregnant pause, then Perks said: "Somebody killed Mrs. Norris."

"What?!" This time I didn't have to pretend, didn't have to fake the horror and surprise in my voice, the way my hands started trembling once again. "Ah... are you really sure?"

"Yes," added Daphne. "The Headmaster confirmed it. There was also a most impolite message written on the wall, by somebody naming themselves the Heir of Slytherin. It threatened their enemies–"

"Muggleborns," clarified Perks.

"Yes, Muggleborns. It also warned about the Chamber of Secrets being open. It's an old legend of Hogwarts. One I had heard about before, but I couldn't remember the details. Bletchley explained it to us a few minutes before you arrived. Apparently it goes back to Salazar Slytherin..."

I half-listened to her explanation, unsure as to how to respond to all this. The revelation that Mrs. Norris... that... well, it simply didn't feel real. My mind rejected it, didn't want to believe it, despite what I already knew about the threads of fate and the dangers of foretelling. Somehow, I was still sure tomorrow morning Dumbledore would announce to us that the cat was simply petrified; and of course he would, how could he not? Just wait for this strange evening to end, wait for tomorrow's dawn to come and put everything back into place.

Back into order. Back to how it should be, just like I remembered from my fore-memories.

"... and Filch was beside himself," the blonde girl continued. "He even pushed Harry Potter against a wall, and had to be restrained by the Headmaster... I would suggest you don't use any of those Weasley joke items for a while, Sylvia, at least not until he calms down."

"He thought it was Potter?" At least that seemed within the plot line.

"He was already there at the crime scene, when everybody arrived to discover Mrs. Norris' body," replied Perks, nodding. "He and Granger and Ron Weasley. Dumbledore took them away to interrogate them."

"To punish them, one would hope," interrupted Malfoy, escorted by his two thugs and with Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott next to him, as they all walked by our side on their way towards the boy's dorms. "Murdering the caretaker's cat in cold blood; now that's a new low, even for that lot!"

"You can't really believe it was Potter," commented Nott.

Draco shrugged and moved on, but it was Blaise who replied: "You have to admit it's quite suspicious, how they missed the entire Feast." Then, he paused to look straight at me, a glint of something mischievous in his eyes. He nodded and said: "Goodnight, Sarramond."

"Uhm. 'night."

He smirked, then walked away to follow his dorm mates. I endured the girls' silent stare for a few more beats, before the awkwardness grew so large that I too stood up and announced: "I think I'm also going to bed."

They remained behind, then, to talk about me or something, I guessed. But yeah, no need to worry yet, it would all certainly go back to normal by the morning. Or in a couple of days at most.

I entered our dorm to discover Tracey's four-poster's curtains were already closed, even when the room's lights were still on —Bulstrode and Parkinson up and going through their respective bedtime routines. It was almost like a cloth fortress, as if Tracey had wanted to separate herself from the rest of the world. From me.

Well, that I could respect, at least. I'd done the same thing that one day last year, after all. And so I simply opened my own trunk and placed Riddle's diary deep into it, right next to my own notebook of future prophecies. Then, after a moment's indecision, I separated both books so that they wouldn't be touching each other.

Just in case.

I extracted my pyjamas, changed into them, and stored my robes before latching the trunk closed once more, Horcrux inside. And yeah, I wished I had somewhere safer at hand to contain it —like a Gringotts vault— but this would have to do in the meantime. Leaving it lying around in some hidey-hole where any enterprising student could find it by accident would simply be too irresponsible.

I would have to trust the enchantments on my trunk and its brand new padlock would suffice to keep it safe. And that it would be far enough from my head for it to be able to affect me indirectly. I'd thought about acquiring some sort of lead-lined box to put it inside of, or the magical equivalent to that —the box's material would not matter, after all, only that it be charmed to constrain powerful magical effects within its walls. But the Room of Requirement hadn't been helpful there, it being too specific an item, and crafting one myself was beyond my meagre skills as a novice enchanter.

So yeah, the trunk would have to do. I didn't think it would put me at risk, though, not really. After all, I didn't plan on doing anything as stupid as writing on the diary.

Chapter Text

Everything was not right when the next morning came, it turned out, and even my breakfast toast felt cold and insipid when I bit into it. Perhaps because I'd had a fitful, restless sleep, plagued by visions of a twisted Luna aiming a wand at my face. That, combined with the pain that flared on my ankle whenever my skin brushed against the sheets —I even had to forego wearing my socks when I got dressed in the morning.

Or perhaps it was because we were having breakfast under a gloomy, overcast sky that seemed to threaten us with rain even through the Great Hall's enchanted ceiling. Or maybe —you can take your pick— because Tracy was still acting cross at me over my acts the evening prior, and so far she had only replied to my friendly overtures with monosyllabic responses, if at all. She had answered 'No' when I asked her if she wanted me to help her with her Potions assignment that afternoon —testing the waters, as it were— and then 'Here' when I asked her to hand me the pitcher of apple juice during breakfast.

Nothing overly hostile, just cold and indifferent, like the weather. I decided not to press, though, and instead give her some space to be angry at me, flush it out of her system. I knew from both my lives that fights among children weren't long-lived, and so I merely had to wait for the storm to pass, so to speak. As long as I kept hanging with her and the rest of our circle, adopted a somewhat contrite posture, and avoided provoking her further eventually she'd tire of her sullen mood. Or so I hoped.

At least her attitude hadn't rubbed off on Greengrass or Perks, which was a small mercy. Though they obviously hadn't liked my going behind their backs to do some very obviously shady shit either, they refrained from pressing me on the matter any further; just enough to make me feel somewhat guilty and drive home the point that they had indeed noticed; that they weren't complete, oblivious idiots.

I was also somewhat guilty at the absence of Luna Lovegood among the Ravenclaws. The blonde first-year girl was nowhere to be seen, which made my stomach tighten in anxiety —and perhaps that was the true cause the toast today wasn't up to par. One, because I feared it could mean our confrontation had left her more injured than I'd realised; and two, because part of me couldn't help but wonder if taking the diary out of her hands had been enough. If some trace, some wispy fragment of Tom Riddle might have managed to jump ship at the last possible second and latch onto her soul permanently, the way it had happened with Potter.

And I knew it wasn't likely —hell, it was probably impossible; from what I knew about the Horcruxes, they simply didn't work like that at all— But there was that fearful, scared part of me that didn't want to listen to reason. A part of me that couldn't forget the hateful expression on Luna's face, right before she'd started casting the killing curse. To kill me.

To put an end to me.

And so now I couldn't stop wondering whether Luna would complete the incantation, if given the chance in the near future. Whether I'd be walking relaxed along one of Hogwarts' halls one day next week, maybe on my way to the History of Magic class or something, just to see a flash of green coming from somewhere behind me; and then nothing else at all.

It was the very same part of me that felt partially relieved when I realised she wasn't in the Great Hall. But because I also knew that —logically— she was most likely to be injured herself and at the Hospital Wing, my relief came across as selfish and tone-deaf even to myself.

And then there was Mrs. Norris. Or more appropriately: there wasn't a Mrs. Norris anymore.

I had expected —hoped— that the confusion that must have happened right after finding the message on the wall was behind the rumours of the cat's demise. It was something that I could see happening in the original timeline too: Dumbledore had quickly sent everybody rushing back to their dorms, so it stood within reasons that the students hadn't stayed around long enough to get a clear picture of what had happened, other than a petrified cat and a grisly message. Gossip and rumours would've taken over after that, and so it was of course very reasonable that they'd jump to the conclusion that the cat was in fact dead. Right?

Except that during breakfast that day Dumbledore stood up and clinked his cup to call our attention, and when the last murmurs from the Gryffindor table died out —not that there many to begin with, as the students seemed as subdued themselves as the weather— he announced to us that we were all excused of our first period's classes, so that we could attend the service in Mrs. Norris' memory that would be held at the courtyard outside the Entrance Hall, just after breakfast was over.

I let out a long sigh, my eyes closed, my ankle flaring, and whispered 'Stupid' under my breath.

Stupid, because it was my fault, all of this. I could have prevented it all. If only I hadn't visited the Library yesterday, before going to Myrtle's bathroom —I had wanted Madam Pince to see me around as she prowled across her domains, so that I'd have some sort of alibi in case I was ever confronted for missing the Feast— then I could have intercepted Luna as she was getting into the chamber, still alone and vulnerable. No dead cats, no messages, no nothing.

Or if I'd paid more attention at Flourish and Blotts, enough to realise Ginny hadn't picked up the diary back from where it fell —and why would she? She didn't knew it even existed in the first place, so of course she didn't miss it when picking up her own stuff!

"–not that anybody will miss her," Draco was saying in a low tone, while Dumbledore's speech turned to how we should be vigilant after these grave and sad events. "That cat was a bloody pest. I say, this Heir has done us a favour, they should give them the trophy for Special Services to the School."

There were a couple of quiet, mean laughs at that, then Parkinson whispered: "If only they'd get started on the mudbloods next. And some of the half-bloods too, those that don't know their place."

I knew that needling voice of hers, well enough to realise she was provoking me, trying to get a rise out of me. A good try, as if I got angry and loud during his speech I would no doubt summon Dumbledore's reproving stare onto myself. But it was easy to ignore it today, as wrapped up in my own feelings and thoughts as I was.

"Smart of the headmaster, to cancel the first period classes," commented Zabini idly, between bites of a pastry. "This way there is no excuse not to go to the service. I reckon the courtyard would have been quite empty, otherwise."

"Yes. Nobody in their right mind would want to be there," agreed Warrington. "But everyone in our house should attend. It's the Heir of Slytherin, after all; and you wouldn't enjoy getting associated to them, whoever they are."

Which turned the conversation to the matter of who could be behind it all. And despite some curious gazes going my way, thankfully it didn't seem like I was that much of a suspect, not really. Not even after missing the Feast and being the last one to arrive to our common room.

See, the thing to remember about Slytherins is that they —we— had a well developed sense of pride. And because I had been so thoroughly humiliated the year before, I couldn't reasonably be the Heir myself. Someone who had allegedly opened the Chamber of Secrets and then gone and murdered Filch's cat with some sort of dark curse, as Dumbledore had just finished explaining —although I knew for a fact that it had actually been the basilisk's deadly stare— would have never allowed themselves to be turned into an insect in front of the entire house, right?

It simply didn't fit: if I had that sort of power, I'd have used it before. Add to that the fact that I was a half-blood, and so most likely to side with the Muggleborns than against them —plus a second-year only— and that about cleared me of most suspicion.

Most, but not all. Because I had arrived way too late to be fully innocent, truth be told, and so I gathered some more stares and whispers as we left the Great Hall to go pay our respects, and even an indirect question or two that I gave excuses to.

Zabini's theory —that he was smug enough to present to me, and to everyone in hearing range for that matter— was that while I couldn't be the Heir myself —since they obviously had to be an older, pure-blood student, wink-wink— I must have witnessed something, or being involved somehow. And my gloomy demeanour and refusals to elaborate only gave credence to the idea, so before long my own house-mates started to suggest to each other that I had been threatened to keep my mouth shut.

Which was better to the alternative, to be fair; so whether or not Blaise had been honest about that being what he truly believed, I at least was thankful for its practical results.

It didn't rain on us as we reached the courtyard to gather in a wide circle around the staff. There was Dumbledore at the centre, escorted by the Heads of the four Houses, and by Filch to the left side —who looked like a ghost, like it was him and not his cat who had died; pallid and thin, his hair wild and his gaze lost in the distance.

I didn't have that much appreciation for the Hogwarts' caretaker —I mean, who did?— but that didn't mean I enjoyed seeing the broken shell of a man that greeted us there. Although greeted would be quite the overstatement, as he simply ignored the lot of us. Except for Potter: for a moment his eyes fixated on the Boy Who Lived —who was for once attempting his best at being inconspicuous, observing the proceedings from as far as possible, by the colonnade that enclosed the courtyard— and he clenched his fists as if in a rictus of resentment.

I wondered what this could mean, going forward. There was no lying to myself: this was a change to the plot, as it were, and an unpredictable one to boot: so, my worst nightmare. But what now? Would Filch try and actually do something against Harry? In my fore-memories he was merely an unpleasant annoyance, but maybe that would be about to change now; maybe he'd take a more active role.

Although, active wasn't what came to mind when seeing him; and I couldn't discount the opposite: that he'd leave the castle, too pained to continue with his duties. And if he did and needed replacing... well, all bets were off.

The service was a quick, informal thing presided by the headmaster; nothing at all like the one he himself would receive in a few years, assuming the timeline didn't change. There was no casket in view —they must have disposed of the cat's body already— as he pronounced yet another short speech, this one focused on Mrs. Norris' few virtues: her undoubted intelligence, her tireless patrolling of the school... It painted a kinder picture of her; probably a more virtuous one than she truly deserved, as —at the risk of agreeing with Draco— for us students she'd always been little more than a nuisance.

But then Dumbledore chose to finish his speech with some ominous words, ones that left an eerie aftertaste to the proceedings. He said: "... and it is quite probable that this Heir of Slytherin, whomever they might be, desired a more grisly debut to herald their presence —preferring instead to strike at the heart of our community by targeting a student directly. Hence, we owe a great debt of gratitude to dear Mrs. Norris and her vigilance against malfeasance, for it was indeed her timely intervention that prevented such a dreadful event. By her noble sacrifice, it is likely she spared one of our own students from a grave harm."

Uh... well, I hadn't thought of that. Had Luna —Riddle— actually tried to murder a Muggleborn student yesterday, only for Mrs. Norris to force his hand prematurely? Was that what had happened in the original timeline as well? If so, I had to be really, bloody thankful that the threads of destiny hadn't gone any further than this.

Not that it would matter; now that I had the book. There would be no more attacks.

Speaking of which, when the service ended and we started to file out and return to our common rooms —as we had some free time before our next class of the day— it was a hard internal fight for me not to go along with the girls, if only to double check if the diary was still inside my trunk. But I fell behind, hesitating and unsure as to how to breach the ice.

It was Daphne who noticed: "Aren't you coming with us, Sylvia?"

"Uhm... you go ahead. I better pay a quick visit to Madam Pomfrey now that I have the time; I think I sprained my ankle last night."

"Of course she did," commented Tracey in a cutting tone, not even looking at me. Then she proceeded to ignore me for good, saying to the other two girls: "Come on, let's hurry down before the older years take all the good seats."

I knew I'd decided to give her space, not to press. And that childish spats were short and easily forgotten and forgiven.

I knew that.

But guess what? I was a child too. And it just made my blood boil, the way she disregarded me, the way she didn't even face me. As if I wasn't there; as if out of a sudden I didn't matter anymore to her.

"You can come with me, if you don't believe me," I challenged her, crossing my arms. Which was probably a mistake.

She whirled around to face me again, as if some sort of insect had suddenly stung her. "Oh? Now you want me to come with you?" she said. "Why's that? Aren't Granger, Potter and Weasley your first choice anyway?"

I blinked. "What?"

She put her hands on her hips as she regarded me, in a posture that reminded me of the Giraffe, back at the Residence: "I'm not an idiot, Sylvia! I know you spent yesterday's evening with them. How odd that they also skipped the entire Hallowe'en Feast, and then they were right there when we found the message! I was surprised we didn't see you there too, but perhaps you were hiding behind a corner?"

"I wasn't there, Tracey! I wasn't with them."

But she wasn't listening to me any longer, she just went on with her tirade: "Like last year too, right?! You did the exact same thing, rushing after them on Hallowe'en! And then again when they went after Professor Quirrell, you were quick to–"

"That's not fair; you were there too! And you know that–"

"Only because I followed you!"

"–that they actually needed help! I was right to go after them!"

"What about Potions, then? You were very quick to accept Granger's proposal, weren't you? You didn't even think to ask Sally and me!"

"I wanted to sit with you! It's not my fault Daphne wasn't there and we couldn't arrange the seats better! But Granger's offer was a good option."

"Good for you, of course! You should've seen yourself, how relieved you looked when she mentioned sitting with you. Why is it that you care about them so much?! Is this all about Potter's fame? Do you like the limelight so bad that you'd rather leave us behind just to spend a few minutes in their company? So what, they invite you into one of their antics and you go rushing after them, like a lapdog?"

"Careful now, Tracey," I warned in a cold tone, my teeth clenched.

She paused for a moment, her eyes slightly widened. But then she did something surprising: she visibly steeled herself and took a step towards me as she said: "I guess I understand now why you asked the hat to sort you into Gryffindor. You only wanted to be with them, didn't you? But of course the hat saw right through that... I only wish I'd realised earlier too."

"Realised what? Go ahead Tracey, why don't you say it?" I challenged her. My ankle hurt, and my heart beat fast, and my hand had gone to my wand.

"Where were you yesterday?" interrupted Daphne instead, her voice mild among our raised tones, as if this was just some idle chit-chat.

I waited for a beat as I centred myself, searching for an answer. The thing was, I could tell them something about what had happened, but I knew it would only invite even more questions. Even if I told them I'd seen something strange by chance and went off to investigate it, my timing was very suspicious. I had decided to miss the Feast well in advance, after all, the very same night somebody just happened to kill Filch's cat. It was too much an ask, for them to believe it had been merely a coincidence.

And I'd known that. But I had hoped they'd allow me this one secret, this one transgression. Because it would all be over now, so I had known it was simply a matter of moving them past this one hurdle, before everything would be back to normal.

Except that now they refused to budge. And I was caught between a rock and a hard place, as I didn't want them to get involved; because I couldn't forget how the whole thing with Quirrell had hurt Tracey, in the end. How she'd have been better off without me dragging her into this shit. I wasn't about to repeat that same mistake, not with something as deadly as Riddle and his basilisk.

And maybe I was a little bit angry; that too.

"I went to the Library," I said through gritted teeth, sticking to my guns, "you can ask bloody Madam Pince if you don't believe me. I didn't meet with any Gryffindors."

"Right," replied Tracey, rolling her eyes at Daphne and Perks. "Whatever, she can keep her secrets. Let's head back."

Tracey marched ahead, not waiting for any of us. The other girls stood there for a beat, torn between the two of us; but finally Daphne gave me a saddened, resigned look and followed in Tracey's footsteps, Perks quickly joining her.

I took a first step after them —causing yet another wave of pain to radiate from my ankle— then stopped.

They had left me behind, right there; the last student still on the courtyard.

I sighed, my gaze going upwards to that heavy, grey sky. And to the imposing bulk of the castle looming over me; the Clock Tower rising high right in front, but with the top of the Ravenclaw tower visible to its side too, the same one I'd climbed the night before.

Yeah, I guessed I could have handled this shit better.

I had a sudden panic, right then, a sudden unwelcome idea hitting me as if out of the blue: because what if Tracey had stolen the diary? That would explain her mood, wouldn't it? How angry she was with me out of a sudden. Hadn't something like that happened in the story with Ron Weasley and one of the Horcruxes too?

I almost acted on that impulse, wanting nothing but to rush to the dorms after the girls, check on my trunk.

But I didn't, because I knew it couldn't be the case. Tracey had left the dorm ahead of me, and I'd of course checked the trunk right before leaving, so it was impossible. Or, well... not really impossible —because magic— just incredibly unlikely.

No, the true reason for that idea to sound so appealing was that it would have absolved me, if Tracey's mind had been tampered with. And it would've been so easy to fix it, too: just take the book back and place it somewhere else, and everything would be good once more. No messy, conflicting minefield of emotions to navigate.

So easy.

I didn't go after her, in the end. Instead I did as I'd told them and headed back into the castle and towards the Hospital Wing. In part because it was true that my ankle still hurt a lot, but also because I wanted... I needed to see her, Luna. I needed to see how she'd react to me, and whether she'd remember anything of our fight.

I arrived to the Hospital Wing to discover that it must've been a pretty quiet day for Madam Pomfrey, as nearly all of the patients' beds were empty, their sheets smoothly tucked in. All except for a single one in the entire pavilion: a single bed enclosed by half-drawn privacy curtains.

There was no Madam Pomfrey in sight when I arrived, and so after a few beats of awkwardly waiting by the entrance, I took a few tentative steps towards the occupied bed, the sound of my shoes against the smooth floors too loud to my own ears. Once more my hand went to my pocket on its own, to reach for my wand as if it was a lifeboat; as if it was my very own version of Astrid's blanket.

There was enough of a gap in the curtains for me to take a quick look inside, and with my mouth dry and my muscles tense I approached it and leant forward.

Luna lied on the bed, either sleeping or unconscious. Her skin looked pale, but I didn't have enough familiarity with her complexion to tell whether that was odd or not. Her breath, though, seemed even and relaxed.

Just an asleep, innocent eleven year old girl. Nobody would have suspected her of unleashing a giant magical snake on the school the day before, or of trying to cast the Killing Curse on me.

I stood there a few moments, waiting for... I don't know; something. For her to wake up and apologise, maybe, or tell me she was going to finish that invocation one of these days. At least that way I would have known where we stood.

But she didn't wake up, and I was still standing there when the main doors opened once more behind me, almost causing me to jump in the air like I was a cat myself. I quickly stepped back from the curtains, feeling a bit sheepish at being caught snooping around; but it was too late anyway.

"Ah, Miss Sarramond," said Dumbledore, walking towards the enclosed bed. He was still wearing the same set of robes from earlier, some uncharacteristically sober ones. "Come to check up on a fellow student, I gather?"

The headmaster was escorted by Madam Pomfrey and another man, wearing bright green robes himself and a purple beanie over a mane of blonde hair, as if he had to compensate for the headmaster's solemnity. I wouldn't have recognised him, looking both younger and thinner than his counterpart from the films, but his identity became obvious the moment he rushed ahead, not sparing me any glance as he muttered "Oh, Luna. My Luna..."

I stepped back to give them some privacy as I replied to the headmaster: "Uhm... actually, I was looking for a painkiller? I think I sprained my ankle."

"Indeed. We do seem to have our fair number of students with sprained ankles, don't we, Poppy?" remarked Dumbledore, his voice hinting amusement. "Must be all that dashing about in the corridors and up the staircases, I daresay."

I tensed at his words. What did that mean? Did he know anything? Had any of the portraits saw me running across the castle yesterday, told on me?

Shit. And with my sunglasses deep inside my pockets —because I hadn't expected to run into any legilimens today— I wasn't about to look up into the headmaster's face to check if he was merely joking or if there was a second meaning hiding within his words.

Not that I had much chance to, because Madam Pomfrey quickly rushed me to an empty bed by one of the tall windows, then forced me to sit on it and lift up the end of my robes to show her the injury.

"That's not a sprained ankle, girl; that's a burn!" she exclaimed upon seeing my red, swollen skin —which at least didn't look like an imprinted hand anymore; just a large, fiery red blob. "How did you get that?"

I gave a non-committal shrug, to which Pomfrey replied with a frustrated tsk, as she instructed me to wait there for her to retrieve her salve.

I risked a glance at Dumbledore, who was staring at my burn with a curious expression.

"How is she?" I asked him, gesturing with my head towards Luna's bed. In part to distract him from the mystery of my own injury, in part because I actually wanted to know.

He blinked distracted for a moment. "Ah... it appears to be a case of profound magical exhaustion. It seems she collapsed after overexerting herself, perhaps performing more magic than her young body could bear. The fortunate news is that there will be no lasting effects: she simply needs time and care until she regains her full strength."

I nodded absently. Xenophilius had opened the curtains and sat next to his daughter, who had waken up. Luna's sleepy eyes looked in my direction for a moment, but it didn't seem like she recognised me at all. I let out a soft, relieved breath at that.

Dumbledore remained silent, looking at me over his half-moon glasses. Then, after a beat, he asked: "Is there something you want to tell me, Sylvia?"

Shit.

I closed my eyes, if only to gain a few more seconds to think. Just where in the nine hells did Madam Pomfrey store her bloody salves?

But the witch wasn't going to rescue me. Right... I could even believe Dumbledore might have signalled her to take her sweet time; so I looked back at the headmaster —avoiding his eyes, of course— and said the first thing that crossed my mind:

"Why didn't you tell me you are my legal representative?"

My tone came out harsh and accusing; perhaps because the confrontation with Tracey from earlier was still boiling in my veins. But it worked nevertheless, and Dumbledore's eyebrows rose up at once.

"Ah..." he said, a touch of regret in his tone. "It seems I owe you an apology, Sylvia. The matter simply slipped my mind. Your situation being an orphan witch raised by Muggles unaware of the magical world is unusual, but not without precedent. In such cases it is often best for a student's legal representative to be a member of the school's staff, if only for ease of access. I assumed that role myself last year, prior to your Hogwarts letter being sent, and with the intention of transferring it to your Head of House once you were sorted. However, with the many events that transpired last year, some of which you are undoubtedly aware of, this detail escaped my attention."

"Right..."

He remained silent for a moment, then said, very gently: "Would you perhaps prefer it, if I abdicated this responsibility on your Head of House?"

"Snape?" I asked. I considered it for all of a second, then shook my head: "No, that's... No. He didn't even allow me to buy an owl! I mean, what if I have an emergency while I'm at the Residence?"

"Professor Snape, please... Yes, he does have a reputation for being rather stringent about the rules. I shall ensure you have a means of communication before you depart for your summer's vacations, but I trust no such situation presented itself?"

Odd, to see a contrite Dumbledore. It almost disarmed me, almost felt like I could trust him, somehow. I carefully chose my next words:

"There was something. I... it turned out I'm not a Muggleborn," I admitted, without stating outright what I was. I didn't explain how I knew, either: I figured he'd probably know about Nott's ritual by now; and if he didn't, I wasn't going to incriminate myself. "And I... want to know more about my past. I did some digging last year: I learnt that the police that found me were probably obliviated; but I need some help to know for sure if that was the case, and if so... why? What did they see?"

He nodded, maybe not realising how vulnerable this confession had made me feel. How dangerous it was, for me to confide in him with even these meagre details. But if I wanted to learn more about my origins —and I definitely wanted to learn more about them— there was no going around it. I was a child, and would never get past the barrier of the Ministry's bureaucracy on my own. I needed a legal representative, and which one could ever be more effective than Albus bloody Dumbledore, the Chief Warlock himself?

But also... which one could ever be more dangerous?

"I assure you, Sylvia, I will make whatever inquiries I can," he said. Then he paused, as if hesitating. "However... I should forewarn you: even if we manage to locate your birth family, assuming they still live, there is a significant possibility that they may not wish to rekindle a relationship with you, given all these years of silence."

Joke was on him, I had already given up on the birth family thing a long time ago; there was only one family I was interested in having, and they were a country —and a life— away. I said: "I know. It's not for them; it's for me. I... want to know."

But it was good; if he thought that was what I wanted —just an orphan girl desperate to find her family— that would only help me disguise my true intentions. Plus: I didn't need him to figure it all out; just enough to point me in the correct direction. There was still loads that he didn't know about —my fore-memories, my blood— and I pretty much planned to keep it that way. Hard for him to connect the dots if I kept them well hidden from his gaze.

Dumbledore nodded. "Of course. And remember, Sylvia: whatever these inquiries lead to, you are not alone. Your friends here at Hogwarts have the potential to become your family of choice, should you allow them into your heart."

Yeah... as if I'd still have any friends left, after today. I just nodded weakly.

He gave me a nod of his own after that, then said his goodbyes and walked away towards the entrance door. I observed his parting figure without a word, conflicted myself.

"It was Tom Riddle," I said to his back.

It was barely more than a whisper —as if I hadn't fully committed to saying it— but still it registered, because he went eerily, completely still. Then he turned to look at me, his expression unreadable as he approached my bed once more with solemn steps.

"Tom Riddle's diary," I explained. I found the intensity of his gaze too overpowering —overwhelming, like he was trying to look into my soul— so I turned my eyes towards Luna. "I ran across her last night. She must have found it and... and I believe it was possessing her, somehow. We fought, and I took the book away from her. That's when she... when she collapsed."

He didn't say anything for a few long seconds, but I didn't risk turning my head towards him. I knew what I'd see: the accusation in his eyes, the disappointment. I had left Luna alone last night, after all, abandoned to her own luck. I could have warned someone, let any of the adult staff know. Hell, even telling a house-elf would've been better than nothing! For all I knew, she was in need of urgent magical care.

But I had done nothing of the sort.

"This book," said Dumbledore slowly, his tone careful, "do you still have it with you, perhaps?"

I nodded. "It's in my trunk. I can get it later and bring it to you."

"There might be a faster way," he said. "Poggle, if you don't mind..."

I jerked a little when one of Hogwarts' house-elves apparated right next to my bed. A quick explanation from the headmaster later, and soon enough he blinked out of existence, only to reappear a second later with my own trunk.

I didn't protest, stepping out of the bed to open its lock and dig through its contents. There was that same fear from before, that the diary wouldn't be inside anymore, that it would have found a way to escape. But sure enough: my hand grasped the leather bound notebook, and I extracted it to place it on the bed, next to Dumbledore —who instructed Poggle to take my belongings back to my dorm, then picked up the cursed book.

I had always intended for it to end in Dumbledore's hands somehow, but not like this. In my half-cooked plans I imagined I'd figure out a way to place it somewhere where he'd accidentally find it, or have one of the Golden Trio deliver it themselves. All in an effort not to taint his perception of me, not to strengthen that comparison between me and Riddle that already existed in his mind.

Well, it seemed that ship had sailed now.

The headmaster opened it, leafed through its blank pages as if they would contain some crucial sought-after answer; then paused for a moment on the words that were written on its first page —'T. M. Riddle'

"Thank you, Sylvia," he said at last, an eternity later. "You did a very brave thing."

He didn't clarify if he meant fighting Luna yesterday, or returning the book just now. And I didn't ask, feeling sufficiently humiliated as it was. I looked away —at Luna, again— and felt his hand grasp my shoulder for a moment. But unlike Snape, he didn't clench it to drag me along; he simply let go and walked away. I risked a glance and saw him retreating towards the Hospital Wing's doors, his whole body posture looking visibly older.

Why was I like this? Why had I needed to extract a promise out of him first, before I allowed myself to tell him the truth?

Why did I have to turn everything into a trade, into a bargain?

I shook my head softly, laying sideways on the bed, and saw Madam Pomfrey finally returning from her office —which only increased my suspicions about her perfect timing. But before she could reach me, Dumbledore rushed back towards my bed.

"Sylvia!" he exclaimed, gesturing towards my ankle. "That injury, did you receive it during your confrontation last night?"

I nodded, a cold shiver flooding my body. It only intensified when he produced his wand and aimed it at my wound, making some very complicated movements over it. A bunch of colourful threads manifested in mid-air around my leg.

And by the time he lowered his gaze for a beat, then pulled my own privacy curtains closed around my bed, my heart was beating like crazy and there were alarms ringing inside my head.

"Sylvia," he said, his voice oddly calm now. "Have your Defence Against the Dark Arts professors already taught you about injuries caused by dark magic?"

I nodded, fighting back tears. "Duskhaven, she... she said... said that they never heal."

I risked a look at his eyes for once. They were sad, and full of pity as he regarded me. Then Madam Pomfrey joined us within the enclosed space.

"Poppy," said the headmaster, to the witch's visible horror as her own gaze landed on the lines of magic surrounding my burn. "I fear your salve will not suffice for this."

Chapter Text

Funny, that they ended up releasing Luna from the Hospital Wing not too long after lunch, while I was forced to stay behind. I mean: she was the one who'd been possessed by a literal dark wizard, while I was there merely to get something to ease the pain of the stupid burn on my ankle. I couldn't help but resent the injustice of it all, as I saw her depart with unsteady steps towards the exit. Her skin didn't look as pallid anymore, after drinking whatever concoctions Madam Pomfrey had seen fit to pour down her throat, and I knew in a few hours she'd be as good as new.

Myself on the other hand... well, jury was still out on that one.

I didn't know if Dumbledore had told the Lovegoods anything of what had truly transpired the night before, but Luna shot me a curious look as she passed by my bed. I wasn't feeling too charitable, so I averted my gaze towards the tall window beside me, pretending to be suddenly interested in the cloudy skies visible beyond the Gryffindor tower. When I turned to look back a couple of minutes later, she was already gone.

And I was left alone, the only patient in the entire ward —which I was starting to realise was pretty oversized for the actual needs of the school. You had to wonder what exactly must have happened in the past, that someone had decided an infirmary the size of a field hospital was actually warranted.

I sighed, turned in my bed, and gazed at the window once more. Nothing much to do, other than wait. For a moment I considered pulling out my wand, performing some of our exercises from Charms or Defence, but I couldn't find the energy for that —even for something as simple as practising wand movements, which didn't actually required me to cast any magic. It seemed like all that tight panic from before had somehow sapped away my willpower.

Earlier, the Headmaster had been quick to correct my preconceptions, perhaps noticing my short of breath, my tense muscles and clenched jaw. It turned out that Duskhaven last year might have slightly overstated the effects of dark curses —to the surprise of literally no-one. It wasn't that none of them ever healed, but rather that some of them didn't fully heal, or that they could leave permanent scars that magic might not be able to fix.

There was a world of difference, a world of hope in those clarifications, and I held to it despairingly. A scar wouldn't be pretty, obviously, but that was something I could live with. Even if the thought that I may have already managed to permanently mar my body, at only twelve years old and entirely because of my own mistakes and lack of caution, it rankled.

The relief lasted for all of two hours, give or take, during which Madam Pomfrey cast a wide array of spells on my leg, coming and going back to her office to retrieve books and parchments, and at one point an odd-looking brass contraption with many sharp needles. Its appearance almost had me running to the hills, but she only used it to examine my wound, measuring its size with the needles. She was silent during all of this, and I opted not to open my mouth either, if only out of a sense of self-preservation: it looked like whatever she was doing was occupying her full attention, and I didn't want to distract her only to end up with one fewer leg.

Dumbledore meanwhile had ambled up to the Lovegoods —to interrogate Luna about the book, I guessed, though I couldn't hear their conversation. But when he finally returned, the matron took him aside, a few steps away from my bed, and they talked in hushed voices. I evened my breath to listen, trying to catch whatever words drifted my way:

"...just don't understand," she was saying, her tone tense and worried. "...to contain the spread... but the diagnostics charm is still..."

"...of residual magic, perhaps?" asked the headmaster.

She shook her head "If there is... it be visible as well?"

He remained silent for a long beat, giving me a look out of the corner of his eye, then said something else. I didn't catch the full gist of it, but I did hear very clearly the last two words he said, right before he turned and left the Hospital Wing at a fair clip.

He had said 'St. Mungo's.'

"Uhm. Is there anything wrong?" I asked Madam Pomfrey when she returned to the side of my bed, a few moments later.

"Oh, don't you worry, dear," she replied, distractedly. "Now, how is your leg feeling now? Does it still hurt?"

I frowned at her dismissiveness, then gave her a shrug. "A little? Less than it did before."

"That's good, that's very good," she said, nodding to herself. "It means the Alleviato charm is working as expected."

"So it's that it, then? Is it... fixed now?"

I already knew what the answer would be to that. I had heard it in Dumbledore's parting words; I could see it written across the witch's face. And still, I was enough of an idiot to allow a tiny, thin sliver of hope to trickle into my voice.

"Ah... no. Sorry, girl. The charm is only meant for reducing pain, but we still must treat the curse itself."

"Right. Of course," I muttered, quietly crushing whatever incipient optimism I could be harbouring inside.

She eyed me for a moment, and her voice took on a false cheer: "Now, now... let's keep our spirits up! If you are feeling less pain, you should try to rest and catch some sleep now. Meanwhile, there are some notes I need to look up, before we continue treating your injury."

Yeah, I wasn't going to go to sleep —too wired up for that— but I didn't want to fight her on it either, so I simply gave her a weak nod and pretended to lie back, my eyes closed. I opened them again a while later, once I heard her steps across the stone floor, receding towards her office.

That was about when the Lovegoods departed too. And over the next hour, two hours... the pain subsided, but only for the void it left behind to be replaced by worry. Worry about the curse, about what would happen now that Dumbledore had the book, about my fight with Tracey, about what the headmaster would find out when he started digging into my past, about losing my stupid leg... It was all a big, thorny ball of worry. One that Pomfrey's painkilling charm had not eased at all.

Perhaps that had an unintentional benefit, though: that of wearing down my mind, of saturating it; to the point that it all became a little bit too much. Keeping that stressful state going on and on a little bit too effortful for my tired body. Fatigue, then, replaced the fears. A sense of exhaustion, of not having anymore shits to give. An understanding that it was all out of my hands now; that whatever would happen —with either the book, my friends or my leg— it would happen regardless, and I'd need to learn to adapt to it, roll with the punches.

And with that realisation, I had finally fallen asleep.

Not for long, though. Pomfrey woke me up at some point to run more diagnostics, asking me to raise or lower my leg, lean this and that way... and then —already well in the afternoon— Dumbledore returned once more, this time followed by someone else.

"Miss Sarramond," he said, gesturing towards the man by his side. "Allow me to introduce you to Healer Cross, a distinguished alumnus of our very school. He presently works at St. Mungo's, and he shall be helping us with your treatment."

The man was in his late fifties, carrying a brown leather doctor's bag. He sported a dark beard that contrasted with his green robes, and had slit-like, squinty eyes. Except that one of them was covered by the thick lens of a monocle, making it look disproportionately large, and fixing his expression into an odd perplexment of sorts. He nodded distractedly at me and said in a raspy voice: "Conrad Cross, expert on curses and hexes."

"Uhm. Are you taking me to the hospital, then?" I asked. But he pretty much ignored me, focusing instead on my exposed leg. He produced his wand —a white, twisted twig— and tapped the monocle with it, causing its glass to shine and shift hues one or two times.

"Oh, I see, I see..." he muttered. "Yes... fascinating stuff, dark spells..."

I frowned, and gazed back at Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey, a question in my eyes. The witch seemed to share my own misgivings, judging by her own sceptical expression, but the headmaster smiled relaxed, as if this all was an everyday occurrence.

Healer Cross seemed unaware of it all. He cast a couple of spells —one of which made my skin tingle; but I recognised it from before, with Madam Pomfrey— and continued observing my burn through what I figured was some sort of enchanted lens, tapping it now and then and making comments only to himself.

"Ravenclaw?" I asked to the headmaster in a low voice, after a couple minutes of that.

"Indeed! How did you know?"

I shrugged. "Just a hunch."

"Stay still," muttered Healer Cross. Then he belatedly added: "... please."

I sighed, but refrained from any further movement and resigned myself to my fate, that of being examined and prodded like I was a piece of meat at a grocery. After a while of that, the man straightened up, removed his monocle and actually looked at me for the first time.

"A question, Miss..."

"Sarramond," I provided.

"Yes, well... Could you describe the spell? The invocation... the wand movements?"

"Kind of..." I said, before retelling whatever details of the previous night's fight I could remember; for the third time that day. The Healer didn't interrupt, he simply nodded and took notes on a little pocket-sized notebook he just summoned into existence.

"A dark hex... certainly..." he said at last, distractedly. "I can see that, yes... And that's the odd thing, isn't it?"

I frowned at him. "What is?"

"Oh... that it's still spreading, of course."

Those words caused the cold shiver, the constricted throat, the tension to return all at once; like it had never gone away and had been just biding its time, hiding in ambush and waiting to pounce on me again. I sat up on the bed and stared at my ankle. I could see the reddish blob of the burn on my skin; it was certainly larger than the handprint from the night before, but I hadn't put any importance to that. Now, though, I wasn't sure if it had been this size already when I woke up in the morning, or if it was even bigger now.

"What... what do you mean, spreading?" I hated how frail, how afraid I sounded.

"Ah... it means growing," he replied, as if I was a four year old who hadn't understood the meaning of the word itself. Then he turned to the other adults: "It should have dispelled by now. But somehow it hasn't. A hex that acts as a curse... now, that is intriguing!"

"But how is it possible?" asked Madam Pomfrey. "I saw some lingering traces of dark magic, but not nearly enough to explain this."

The healer clapped his hands, looking animated for the first time. In fact, he was smiling like he was one of the Weasley twins and the infirmary was that Zonko's shop: "Exactly! What a puzzle! That is what makes this case so delightful!"

Delightful wouldn't be my own choice of words, and I felt my fear turning to anger with every passing second the healer ignored me; treated me like just a... a thing. A curious object to peruse. A puzzle. I was about to say something impolite, when Dumbledore —who must have noticed my agitation— pre-empted me:

"As interesting as the academic implications of this injury no doubt are," he mused aloud, "might we, perhaps, first address the matter of halting its further spread?"

"No, no..." he said, raising a finger to the headmaster in a gesture no sane wizard would have ever considered. "Can't treat what you don't understand, can you? But I have a..." he opened his doctor's bag, pushed his entire arm deep into it, "... a theory. Bollocks... where is this thing...?"

He rummaged in his bag for a few moments, going so far as to stick his whole head into it, then extracted a little vial of liquid and handed it to me. I examined the substance, which shone in a soft yellow glimmer.

"Drink it," he commanded after a beat.

"What is it?" I asked, scrunching my brow and ignoring Madam Pomfrey's subtle sigh.

"An aura colourizer, of course."

"Which is...?"

He didn't even look at me, replying in an impatient tone: "Something that you need to drink, girl!"

My anger, my stressful exhaustion mixed with an increasing fury must have shown in my face, because when he glanced back at me —after a few seconds of me not drinking the potion— the healer blinked and paused for a moment. Then he tapped his monocle and said: "It will simply make your own magic easier for me to see... to distinguish it from the ambient magic at Hogwarts. Don't worry... it's perfectly safe."

"Right," I muttered, but I uncorked the little vial and took a long gulp. Despite its yellow colour, it didn't taste as much like piss as I was imagining, just like bread that had gone a little stale.

Healer Cross rubbed his hands and eagerly resumed his examination of my ankle. It was longer, this time around, as he cast strange spells and took loads of notes. After a few minutes of that, Dumbledore ambled away —taking a quill and writing down something on a notebook that from the distance looked a lot like it was Riddle's— but Madam Pomfrey remained by my side, watching like a hawk after every movement the healer made.

I hoped she'd stop him before he could step across a line, do something permanent or dangerous to my limbs, but judging by the speed at which the man was weaving magic around I wasn't sure the older witch would have much time to react; or any more idea than myself of what the man was actually doing.

"Ah hah!" he exclaimed at last, an eternity later.

"Did you–?" started Pomfrey, but before she could finish the question, healer Cross was already talking to me:

"Tell me now, Miss...?"

"Sarramond."

"Yes... Are you any good at Charms, girl?"

The question came so out of the left field that I had to repeat the words to myself to make sure I hadn't hallucinated it or something. Madam Pomfrey looked similarly flat-footed.

"Uhm. Yes?" I hazarded.

"Of course!" he nodded enthusiastically. Then said to the older witch: "It's her magic!"

"My... magic?"

"Yes. Any wizard's –or witch's– body will always circulate and diffuse low amounts of ambient magic... even if they're not actively casting any spells. It's... part of why we age slower than Muggles, of course. But in your case... well, see for yourselves!" he twirled his wand, and a veritable mess of colourful ribbons materialized all around my body.

I didn't understand what any of that meant, but apparently Madam Pomfrey did, because her eyes widened and she asked: "But that... is that normal?"

Across the room, I saw Dumbledore slowly approaching back again, perhaps having noticed that the healer had finally figured out something.

Healer Cross wiggled his wand back and forth. "Saw this only once before, but I have read about it. Of course every person has a different magical profile... but these wilder differences only occur in the case of half-"

"But is it dangerous?" I interrupted, right before he could reveal one more secret of mine, strip one more of my weakened defences. I tried to keep the panic out of my voice, hoping Dumbledore had been too far away to hear his words.

The healer looked at me funny, but then he either seemed to understand my actual concern, or simply moved on. He said: "No... not as such. It simply means your body takes on more ambient magic than most, and it also imprints on it more easily. It has benefits, when casting charms or other spells. But it also will make you more sensitive to dark magic."

"Such as causing a dark hex to act as a curse, perhaps?" asked the headmaster, now within hearing range.

The healer nodded. "Yes! But that's good: it's her body doing it, pushing more and more ambient magic into the curse. So we just need to..."

He rummaged once more in his bag and produced the same large quill he'd been using before; but rather than using it to note something down, he approached my leg with it in hand. He muttered a "May I?" but he didn't wait for my consent, proceeding instead to draw an inky circle on my skin around the burn. Then he scrawled a few runes and arithmantic symbols around its edge.

Wait... was he going to enchant my leg?

"Uh..." I muttered.

Before I could protest, I felt the prickly, uneasy sensation of his own magic running over my skin, flooding the circle. The floating ribbons still visible around me were suddenly pushed away from the burn, as if repelled by an invisible bubble.

"The diffusion circle will keep her body from making the problem worse," he explained, dropping his quill back into the bag without even looking where it fell, then standing up as if to leave. "It will need daily reapplication... to prevent the ink from fading away. Of course, since it's merely a hex, a permanent tattoo is not necessary; it shouldn't take longer than three weeks until the hex dissipates on its own. But... as it is dark magic after all, it might leave behind a... a scar or skin discolouration. Also, Miss..."

"Sarramond," I grumbled.

"Yes. It would be good if you learned to perform this circle on your own. Being a h– I mean... having your particular magical profile, it might become necessary again in the future... in case you are targeted again by dark magic."

"Let us hope for this to be a one time occurrence," said Dumbledore. "But I do agree, Sylvia, that it is always wiser to be prepared."

"She should also pay me a visit at St. Mungo's a few months from now. Just for a... a more thorough examination... so that we can be sure all traces of the hex are gone."

"Indeed, Healer Cross," said the headmaster, escorting him towards the room's doors. "We do appreciate your swift assistance with this matter in such short notice. And it is evident that your intellect remains as keen as it was in your younger years. Now, may I inquire after your dear Anna..."

They walked away, and I stood up from the bed, judging that now that the issue was finally solved I'd be able to resume my normal day, or what was left of it. I waved my hand through the floating ribbons of magic to dispel them, and crouched to gather my shoes.

Madam Pomfrey was quick to put a stop to all of that. She raised a single eyebrow and asked: "Where do you think you're going, girl?"

I gazed at her face for a beat —her stern, no nonsense expression had returned apparently, now that things were once again firmly under her control— and groaned. I didn't even fight her, too spent for even a token protest. Instead I simply sat down on the bed, then let my body collapse across it.

"Now, don't be childish," she said. "You'll only need to remain in observation for tonight, until we can be sure the treatment is indeed working. It will also do you good, resting for a day after... after what you went through."

She blinked a couple of times after that, then quickly spun around to walk towards her office, muttering something about some potion or another as she left me on my own.

I could have made an attempt at legging it, now that the crisis was over and all the adults had left, but I doubted it would've worked. Pomfrey would certainly raise the alarm whenever she returned to find my empty bed, and then I'd be summarily escorted back to the Hospital Wing by one of the professors. It would only serve to make me look like an unruly child.

Instead my eyes went to the circle encompassing my ankle, to the shape of the symbols around it. The burn itself didn't hurt much now, thanks to the witch's charm, and if I focused I could sense the almost electrical tingle of magic circling around it; like water flowing around a stone.

I turned on my bed to look out the window once more. Outside, the daylight was already dying, and the grey skies had turned to rain at last. I heard the soft drumming of it against the glass. It was oddly comforting.

Truth be told... I could do with some more resting. All that worrying about, all that tension had left me tired and wrung out. It didn't help that last night hadn't been exactly peaceful, either, the pain making sleep hard to come by.

And... well, as long as I remained in the infirmary, I wouldn't need to face my friends again, right? Find out where we stood now.

Yeah, there was that, too.

Joke was on me, though, because a while later —it must've been sometime after dinner, give or take— I received a visit.

Greengrass and Perks stood by the open door to the infirmary, hesitating for a moment before they apparently gathered enough courage to enter the room fully. They approached my bed, Perks carrying a dish of some sort in her hands. As they got closer, I saw that it was full to the brim with an assortment of sweets: cauldron cakes and chocoballs and jelly slugs, sugar quills and pumpkin pasties... It was so excessive that I knew without doubt it must have been sourced from one of the house-elves.

"The headmaster gave you all the points," commented Perks the moment they reached me, sitting on the edge of my bed.

I blinked at her. "Uh?"

"Fifty points," clarified Greengrass, taking her seat on the opposite edge —after quickly straightening out the bedsheets with her hand. "He said it was for 'coming to the help of a fellow student in need, and doing the right thing'. He didn't specify they were for you, but it was obvious, of course. Who else in Slytherin could he be referring to?"

I shrugged, "I dunno, Goyle?"

She let out a polite laugh at that, then her eyes landed on my leg —exposed to the air, as I didn't want the bedsheets to accidentally rub the circle's ink away. She bit her lower lip for a moment, then asked: "Are you... well, Sylvia?"

"Never better," I deadpanned. Then I noticed the badly hidden worry in the girls' expressions, and tried to cut down on the snark: "It was a dark spell," I explained, causing the two girls to give me identical looks of bewilderment, "but it's under control now. They brought a healer from St. Mungo's."

There was a pause after that, while both of them eyed my leg and the circle drawn on it with naked curiosity, digesting the news. Then Perks said: "The headmaster, he said that the whole business with the Heir was already solved. That they'd found the culprit, but... he didn't say who it was."

I considered my words for a moment, then said: "It was a cursed book, actually. Luna Lovegood —the first year from Ravenclaw— had it and brought it into the school. But I don't think it was truly her fault; the book was possessing her, apparently."

They nodded at that. It was more than I'd given them before —more than I'd planned to ever give— but still an incomplete version of the truth. And they both knew that, I could see it written on her faces, on her downcast eyes. The secrets —my secrets— had an almost physical presence, as if they too were sitting right there on the bed, between the three of us.

"We won't press you," declared Daphne at last. Her gaze was on her hands, where she was twirling with the sleeves of her robe. "Earlier this year, you didn't press me about why I arrived... about my family. So I won't press you about this, either."

I nodded, not trusting my voice, not sure what to say to that.

Perks shrugged: "Tracey, though..."

"She is conflicted," said Daphne. "She feels like you don't trust her."

"It wasn't about trust. I just didn't want her, or any of you to get hurt, like..." like last year, I thought. But instead I pointed to my ankle. "Like this!"

But the words tasted wrong in my lips; because they weren't fully truthful. It was about trust, wasn't it? That was the rub of it. Yeah, I didn't want them to get hurt. But more than anything, I didn't want to have to explain to them how I knew the things I knew. I didn't want them to see me like what I knew I was: something other, somebody that shouldn't be here, in this school, in this world. Somebody that shouldn't even exist; not anymore.

Daphne nodded, like the perfect picture of reason that she was, always contrasting to my and Tracey's tempers. She said: "She is angry, Tracey, but we talked to her. I believe she also understands that; and she still cares for you."

"Well," I grumbled, "I don't see her here. If she cared that much, she would've come visit, no?"

The princess leaned in to grab the dish of sweets from the other girl, then placed it on the bed, carefully repositioning its contents for a better presentation. "She was the one who told us how to get to the kitchens," she explained. "She also insisted we get the chocoballs... said you like those."

"Uhm," I said, remaining silent for a beat. Then I smirked: "If she knew me that well, she'd have asked Plixiette to cook me a crêpe."

"Now you're being unreasonable."

I crossed my arms in mock anger. "I'm allowed to, I'm the patient!"

Greengrass gave me one of her subtle smiles, but it was Perk's loud laugh that attracted Madam Pomfrey out of her lair. Her eyes landed on the dish almost as if magnetically attracted by the convergence of too many sweet substances.

"Absolutely not!" she screeched, rushing towards us and picking up the plate off the bed like it was another cursed object itself. "You are under observation, girl! You can't eat anything until tomorrow morning, at the very soonest! And is that an Ice Mice? That's magical food!"

"But–"

"No buts! I can't believe you would be so reckless, not after–" she cut herself, gave me a strange look, shook her head and remained silent for four, five seconds. Then she said, in an even, conciliatory tone: "Look... I will put these in my office, under an Impervius charm so that they keep fresh. And tomorrow, if everything is still good with your injury, you can have them for breakfast. Does that sound good?"

I sighed, shrugged and gave her a tired nod. And with that the only good thing that this bloody day had brought me disappeared into the depths of Madam Pomfrey's office.

"This day sucks," I muttered, to the girls' wholehearted agreement.

"Perhaps I can make it better still," said Daphne, looking uncharacteristically abashed. "I was planning to tell this to all of you whenever we were together at the common room, but... well, this year my family is staying in Britain for the holidays, and we will host a Yule Ball at our estate. The three of you are of course invited to attend... if you don't have any prior engagements, that is."

There was a moment of silence, before Perks beamed at her and said "That's brilliant, Daphne! Of course I'll be there!"

"Uhm..." I said, "I'll need to consult with my personal assistant first... my schedule those days is always quite busy, with all the staying put at Hogwarts. But yeah, I think I'll be able to make it... Thanks, Daphne."

She gave us a small, relieved smile; almost as if she hadn't been sure her invitations wouldn't be turned down. Which was odd, for someone who always looked like the perfect socialite, swimming with the grace of a siren in the murky waters of interpersonal relationships.

And if I were to hazard a guess —and why not— it would be that this was a step forward of sorts, for our circle. One that would bring our alliance —or friendship, if you will— outside of the confines of Hogwarts for the first time ever. I didn't have a full, perfect grasp of Wizarding customs, but I had eyes and was observant; enough to notice how the friend groups that emerged from Hogwarts tended to last, well into adulthood.

So yeah. Perhaps this was Daphne deciding to invest into us girls for good. Maybe long term.

Maybe for life.

And that gave me a faint sense of vertigo. Because I was mostly focused on the year-by-year. On surviving, finding the best ways to beat destiny, to dodge what I knew was barrelling towards us on a collision course; and also on learning, on getting better at magic, one spell at a time. But Greengrass here, she was playing an entirely different sort of game, one that I simply wasn't used to think about.

I hadn't ever considered life beyond Hogwarts, not seriously. Not beyond vague ideas of finding a way to earn riches at a minimum of effort. But to do... what, exactly? A witch's life expectancy was over 130 years... and that was a lot of time.

If I made it out alive... once I'd made it out alive, what would I do with all that time?

Hell, the very concept itself had a ring of the absurd. The books, my fore-memories on the Wizarding world only went on for seven years. Seven. Beyond that, there was nothing. It might as well not exist at all. And here she was, little Daphne Greengrass weaving her own plans for our lives, our futures together.

Yeah. Vertigo.

But maybe I was reading too much into a simple sleepover offer. That was the thing with Slytherin, wasn't it? It made you paranoid.

The conversation drifted after that into less charged topics, as the girls told me of what had transpired during the day at the different classes. Sprout had continued her teachings on how to grow leaping toadstools —which were not as bad as other plants, not having leaves or branches, but still sort of annoying when they decided to suddenly bounce across the table— and Snape had berated Potter for all of ten minutes and threatened detention over some spilled spoonful of liquid or something.

Much later, when the girls had returned to the Slytherin common room, I found myself awake at night, alone in the entire Hospital Wing —Madam Pomfrey sleeping in her adjacent quarters. The large ward was in penumbra, bathed only in the soft glimmer of a lit sconce by its entrance, and the occasional burst of lightning coming through the windows, followed a few seconds later by distant thunder. The rain was a continuous murmur against the panes of glass.

I pulled the sheets back slowly, and stood up barefoot on the cold stone floor. I tested my weight carefully, but my ankle didn't send any overt signs of pain. Either Pomfrey's painkilling charms were stellar, or the diffusion circle was indeed working. Whatever the case though, one quiet and measured step after another I ninja-walked up to the door leading to the matron's office.

The unlocking charm turned out to be insufficient —no wonder, since this was where the witch stored all of her potions— so I took out the skeleton key hanging off my necklace and inserted it smoothly into the lock. One turn, and the door opened.

I slipped inside the office, lighting my way with a soft 'Lumos' and leaving the door ajar behind me. The dish of sweets was on top of Pomfrey's ancient desk, which was otherwise covered in a surprisingly ordered assortment of parchments, herbs, potions and infusions. I approached it gingerly, and took a chocoball with my free hand.

But then something odd happened.

Instead of biting into it —as was my plan— I simply stood there, observing the piece of desert in my hand as if it held the answers to all my doubts, all my problems and questions. And I discovered... that I didn't feel like eating it, for some insane reason. Not now, not like this.

I remained there for a while longer, trying to sort out my feelings with no luck. Until eventually I sighed and put the chocoball back on the disk, still intact.

"Shit," I muttered under my breath. "I must be growing up."

Chapter Text

"I don't understand... I studied the book, and I think I have the spell down; look..." I demonstrated it then, performing the movements with my wand aimed well away from Lockhart's luxuriously-haired head. "But it just won't work."

He fidgeted uneasily on the teachers desk he was leaning on. "Ah... when you say it didn't work... you wouldn't have tried it on any other... er... student, would you?"

"Oh no, of course not! I only tried it on the owls."

"The owls?"

I nodded, explaining as I put my wand back on its pocket: "I've been feeding three of them at the owlery for the past week, with chunks of bacon and such. One as a control, and the other two I tried to obliviate. But when I went to visit them yesterday they were all happy at seeing me; which... you know, it must mean they still remember me, no?"

"Ah! I think I see your mistake, Miss Sarramond," he said, stepping away from the desk and pacing back and forth, his fingers stroking his chin as if in deep thought. Meanwhile I restrained myself from letting out the loud sigh that was growing inside my chest, as I patiently waited for him to be done with his theatrics.

"Yes," he continued, "it took me many years to realise the truth of it, the unique secret behind memory charms."

"Which is...?"

He twirled in place to face the classroom's windows, for some reason. It looked suitably dramatic, though, the morning light shining on him, highlighting his silhouette. "That memory charms are not a science, but an art! And as such, emotion, feeling is the key to unlocking all of their potential."

I rolled my eyes, taking advantage of him facing away from me. Okay, fine; if he wanted theatrics, two could play parts on that particular stage. I said: "But professor, sir... I don't think I understand what you mean? Could you please illuminate me?"

On any other Hogwarts' teacher that wouldn't have worked —especially not coming from me, of all people. But on Lockhart, who had never bothered to get a good grasp on my character to begin with... well, it turned out unabashed brown nosing was the key to unlocking his will to be helpful.

"Don't fret, girl, I can certainly help you! You see, when you performed the spell on those owls, what were you thinking of?"

"The memory I wanted to remove, of course... so, I focused on the other times I'd fed them before."

He raised his finger. "Ah hah! That's the mistake many lesser wizards make! Listen to me now, dear girl: if you want a memory truly, fully erased, you must also focus on the emotions tied to it. You must remove them as well; otherwise the memory will leave a hole behind. Like a... a missing tooth! The vict– er... the subject will not know what was taken, but they will know something is missing. And what's worse: they might start searching for it."

"But the owls... then..."

"Exactly! You left them with their emotions intact! So they still felt happy at seeing you, even if they can't remember exactly why."

I scratched my head. "Oh! That's... actually helpful. Thank you, professor!"

"But of course, my dear!" he beamed. "Now, most of the Ministry's so-called obliviators will not bother with this. Too much hassle when applying a memory charm to a simple Muggle, you see; and so the subject will end up walking away with a void, a missing gap in their soul that they might notice, but can never fill. Not that this is a problem, as what can a Muggle do? Without any access to the magical world, they can't exactly go looking for clues, now can they? But if you were to obliviate a wizard or a witch instead... ah– I mean, theoretically, of course..."

He interrupted himself when the first students started filing into the classroom, quickly reverting back into his usual professor persona: "Now, time to start today's Defence class! Open your books on chapter ten..."

I went to sit on my usual desk, mulling over Lockhart's explanation and refraining from scratching my ankle. After two weeks of drawing daily circles on my skin it didn't hurt anymore, but it did feel itchy —perhaps because it was healing, or perhaps as a side-effect of the circle altering the flow of magic through my body. The skin was also coarser where the strange shadow figure had grabbed me, a tad less smooth than in the rest of my leg.

That was something that I suspected wouldn't change anytime soon, as Madam Pomfrey had told me the day before that she couldn't detect any lingering traces of the curse anymore, and as so these would be my very last days of the treatment. She had touched my ankle, which meant she knew how my skin felt different there, but she hadn't offered to restore it to its previous smoothness. And I hadn't asked; no need to force her to state the obvious.

Despite that, I was in a good mood. Maybe because going back to a semblance of normalcy after the fear that I'd need to have my leg amputated was exhilarating, or perhaps because Dumbledore dealing with the whole Chamber of Secrets' situation himself had indeed taken a weight off my shoulders.

The only snag to my happy outlook was the girl who sat down next to me, opening her own textbook as Lockhart started the lecture for the day on the topic of ghouls —either oblivious or deliberately ignoring the bored yawns of my classmates. Like my ankle, my relationship with Tracey Davis had healed, but wasn't quite back to what it used to be. I had apologised to her for not telling them at first what happened during the Feast, and it seemed like my brief hospitalization had helped soften her stance. She didn't reply only with monosyllables anymore, at least, and all of us girls had reverted to our circle's usual routines once more.

And yet there was something changed, something bent out of shape that I couldn't quite put my finger on. It wasn't anything overt, like the festering anger or shouting matches of that day. No, it was subtler and under the surface, there in Tracey's body language when I sat next to her at the Great Hall, or in her eyes as we discussed the weekly assignments from Professor Flitwick. An undercurrent of... something. Mistrust? Sorrow? I wasn't sure.

I didn't know what to do, though, as I had already apologised once and bringing it out now into the open risked reopening those same wounds once more, which I didn't feel would help much. So instead I was attempting to be more forthcoming —within reason— and involve myself more with the girls' activities, now that I didn't have the second Harry Potter book plot to worry about.

To that end I had resumed my Flying practises with Tracey from last year, disguising it as an attempt at getting her help to improve my skills at playing Quidditch, now that I had a new broomstick and all. In truth, I didn't give one flying shit about the sport, something that she probably was aware of; which maybe was precisely what helped the most, as it was evident the only reason I was subjecting myself to the experience was for Tracey's own sake. And so while dashing through the air and passing the quaffle between the two of us, she would mostly fall back into her old self. But that liveliness and those easy smiles, they simply melted away the moment our feet were back on the ground.

Still, it did seem like the way forward, and the other side to that was that I could also try to involve the girls into my own activities, so I took advantage when Lockhart turned his back on us to draw a sketch of a ghoul on the blackboard and whispered to them: "Did you see that announcement today on the notice board? About the club?"

"The Duelling Club?" asked Tracey. "Why? Are you planning to go?"

"Sure! Sounds like fun, no?"

She gave me a one shoulder shrug; then, after a beat she added: "I guess I could go too."

Victory! I beamed at her and then turned to my other side: "What about you two?"

"I don't think so," replied Daphne. "I don't find duelling to be much of a ladylike sport, you see."

"Using magic to snot the shit out of people? What's unladylike about that?"

She gave me a subtle smile, but still she shook her head and said: "I'm sorry, I just don't think I would enjoy it myself. I'd rather get up to date with our Astronomy essays."

"Ugh, thanks for that reminder," I muttered, sighing. And sure, her excuse was weak as shit. I could have easily argued that we had an entire week until the assignments were due, and that I knew she had already completed most of them. Or that the current International Freestyle Duelling Champion was Penelope de Camponegro —you know, a woman— and that nobody would ever dare to call her unladylike, if only out of fear of being cursed into oblivion.

But the truth was that, while the wizarding world could be surprisingly progressive in what regarded to gender roles —there had been quite a few female Ministers of Magic across the years, compared to the whopping total of one female Muggle Prime Minister in the same time... and that was Thatcher, which I wasn't even sure counted as human in the first place— the pure-blood families' old-fashioned ways extended to stuff other than mere blood prejudice.

In the rotten minds of some of the more influential families in the wizarding world, a reputable woman's place was firmly at home; hopefully birthing child after child to help repopulate magical Britain after the war. You know, sort of like Molly Weasley did. Which might have seemed odd at first blush, because the portly matriarch of the Weasley clan seemed to be the polar opposite to prim Daphne Greengrass and her ilk; except that, no, not really. After all, under all that chaos and down to Earth cosiness it was easy to forget that the Weasleys were pure-blood too.

Greengrass seemed to aim a tad higher than that, though, her self-professed image as the perfect magical heiress leaving no room for uncomely stuff such as wrinkled robes or knots in her hair. So it was no wonder any sort of violent activity would also be out of the picture.

And while I could have argued against that too, about how she shouldn't allow those strictures to constrain her, to limit who she could be and what she could do... in the end I was weary of challenging her, of opening yet another battle front when our group had not yet finished healing from the last one.

"What about you, Sally?" I asked instead.

Perks scratched her chin: "I'll be there, I believe? Just to see what it's like. Who do you think is behind it? It didn't say in the announcement."

"I would hope for your sake that it's somebody who knows what they're doing," commented Daphne.

Right. I shrugged and pretended ignorance; Lockhart had been smart for once not to mention in his announcement that he was the one organizing the club, and if the rumour spread that it was his brainchild all along I wouldn't expect that many people to actually assist at all. After almost four months of him teaching us, most students were thoroughly cured of whatever illusions they might have had about the famous wizard and his exploits.

Not everyone, though, as from the corner of my eye I could glimpse a couple of the Gryffindor girls paying rapt attention as the professor went on a long-winded tangent about the ghoul that had once lived in his second girlfriend's attic, and how he had bested it by luring it away with cheese.

Did ghouls actually like cheese? Who the hell knew. And that was the issue with Lockhart, wasn't it? That only God could tell whether what came out of his mouth were true stories, or just more of his lies and exaggerations.

And... was that how Tracey had begun to see me now, after catching me on so many lies and half-truths? As somebody who you could never trust was being honest?

I didn't want to think too deeply about it. And well... at least I was actually competent; and while inflated, my ego wasn't nearly at quite the same stadium size of that of Lockhart's... so I reckoned I couldn't be doing that bad, could I?

After the lecture had ended and as we abandoned the classroom, a Gryffindor first year approached me —to the bewilderment of pretty much everyone around us, lions and snakes alike.

"Uh... Sarramond?" he asked, his voice not trembling at all under the combined gaze of the two houses. Gryffindors and their stupid bravery.

"Creevey, right?" I asked, as if the oversized camera on his hands wasn't a dead giveaway. "I have your essay on History of Magic right here." I turned to the girls and added with a shrug: "I'm expanding my network of influence to the other houses too; go ahead, I'll catch up with you."

That wasn't entirely truthful —yeah, yeah, I know. Look, I was trying. Besides, this time it was for a good reason— but it seemed to do the trick: maybe because it wasn't the first —or the second, or even third— time a firstie accosted me out of the blue thanks to my homework sharing scheme, so they were used to the sight of me bartering exercises and essays away for galleons and sickles and other goodies. It was just that the firsties in question tended to favour greener robes.

I took the short boy a few steps away from the thick of the crowd, then waved the essay in front of his nose. "Here it is. But first, do you have...?"

"The pictures? Sure!"

He handed me a handful of photographs and I examined them closely, pretending to have any critical eye at all. It wasn't easy, because I wasn't an expert in either photography or art, and as such I hadn't the faintest idea about framing or composition. Much less what that even meant in the case of magical pictures, which didn't like standing still any longer than strictly necessary.

"Not bad... not bad," I mused aloud. "Oh, I see you followed my advice!"

"Yes! That one was challenging to get right, because of the movement."

"What you mean? They all move."

"Oh, that's just the effect of the magical developing solution. But in that one, she was moving quite fast herself as I took the picture!"

"And that's more difficult?"

"Of course! You have to find the proper shutter speed, don't you? And it's much harder to keep the picture in focus."

"Ah, sure... the focus... speed... thing. Fine, I'll take these as payment. Here you go," I said, handing him the essay. "Oh, and Creevey, are you going to the Duelling Club later today?"

He became suddenly guarded. I figured my reputation on violent matters must have reached him somehow, because he replied: "I'm... not really good at duelling."

"Well, you should work on that." With the war still not even in the horizon, it was easy to forget how critical that skill would become in the coming years. But getting the girls in my circle to practise their defensive spells was troublesome enough, so there wasn't much I could do about the Hogwarts population at large; and Dumbledore hiring people such as Lockhart to teach us Defence surely wasn't helping. "But I guess you won't really need to fight, if you only go as a reporter. Who knows, you might end up with one or two interesting pictures. And I bet Harry Potter will be there, too."

"Oh! Do you think he will? Uhm... perhaps I could go too, just to take pictures."

"Let me know if you snatch any new ones I might be interested in, if you want a galleon or two for them," I replied, hiding the pictures he had handed me inside my Defence book and rushing to meet up with the girls. "See you!"

I didn't know if baiting him with the name of the boy who he so obviously idolized had worked, but later that day, when I entered the Great Hall alongside Tracey and Perks for the first session ever of the Duelling Club, he was indeed there. He was tucked away into the furthest corner from the raised stand and a bit hunched over —as if trying to make himself as small a target as possible, not to be noticed and challenged by any of the would-be duellists.

Not that people were paying him any attention, though. Upon the stand —which I suspected was simply one of our usual dining tables, transfigured— Lockhart was strutting around and making noises, observed closely by a darkly Snape —who seemed to be seriously weighting the pros and cons of a long vacation in Azkaban.

I ignored the two men to look at the attending students. Draco Malfoy, Goyle, Crabbe and Parkinson were all there, as was Zabini —looking already bored out of his mind— and of course most of the Gryffindors, including the Golden Trio. Ron and Harry were busy staring at Lockhart, but I noticed Hermione had turned to observe me, her expression unreadable.

The last two weeks of Potions had been an unnerving experience. It all began two days after my hospitalisation: I had lied and told her the reason I'd missed the Hallowe'en Feast and spent a full day under observation was because I came down with a bad case of stomach flu, then pretended I didn't hear her question about all those points the headmaster had mysteriously awarded Slytherin the very next day. And after that, our shared lessons had been plagued by these sort of long pensive stares and awkward, stilted conversations.

Which by this point I was starting to understand was as per usual with the frizzy haired girl. I had the feeling Hermione liked it best when things —and people, too— were clearly labelled and sorted into their proper boxes, and she probably resented me for being so hard to pin down; and for withholding the very same information she clearly needed in order to figure the puzzle out. What had happened the night of Hallowe'en? Who was this Heir of Slytherin? Why did Dumbledore declared it a closed case that quickly? Why the points? To her it was clear by now that I must know some of the answers to those questions; answers that I wasn't sharing, which was probably driving her up the wall.

Whatever. I wanted to have a cordial relationship with her, but it wasn't exactly my job to assuage her ego. I figured it would pass in due time anyway, probably by the time she returned from our winter break. So I ignored her, turning my attention to the drama on the main stage instead: Snape and Lockhart had just bowed to each other, raised their wands, and then Snape cast his Disarming Charm —with way, way too much intention baked into it— at our Defence professor. Lockhart and his wand parted ways, both flying away in opposite directions; there was the flash of a camera, and Lockhart crashed bodily into the wall among our cheers.

"Wicked!" I shouted, grinning like a madwoman. Because this, right here, it was something I rarely got: the chance to live through something I knew —a scene I remembered quite well from the films— without there being any danger, any unfathomable threat to ruin it and worry about. No basilisks or Quirrells, no trolls or acromantulas today. Simply the opportunity of seeing Snape publicly humiliate Gilderoy Lockhart in front of half the school.

And of seeing Potter reveal himself as a Parselmouth; that too. And being there, it felt something like being a tourist, in a sense: like the first time they'd taken me to London proper and I'd seen the Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament, back when I was eight. It was a place that I recognised from both my lives, and that I was finally seeing in the flesh —or in the stone and brick, as it were. It had a hint of the surreal, that something from the telly and picture books could exist in real life too.

I should have been inured to it by now, living in Hogwarts and all that; but it wasn't quite the same. While Hogwarts had indeed been in that same category during my first weeks as a student last year, it only felt... homely by now. Perhaps I knew the castle and its many corridors and staircases too well already. Now, it was the recognizable events and people that elicited that same vague oddness instead, that sense of the impossibly familiar mixed with the new.

But while I wasn't stressed or worried, that didn't mean I would get to witness it all passively either, since the adults promptly separated us into pairs and told us to practise the charm we had just witnessed in each other —something that I didn't remember from the film, actually.

Not that it was any problem to my enjoyment, as they paired me against that girl Lavender Brown from Gryffindor —who fidgeted in place and bit her lip as we bowed to each other. She was aiming her wand directly at me rather than at the ceiling —a foul, actually, but whatever— and I promptly sent it flying away with a quick 'Expelliarmus!'

Because yeah, of course I had been training the Disarming Charm ahead of time.

My execution wasn't without flaws however, as according to the textbooks I read the opponents' wand was supposed to end up flying towards you in a nice, predictable arc so that you could snatch it off the air. I was probably pushing too much magic into the spell, but it was a delicate balance to get right, since falling short and not pushing enough risked having the opposite effect: leaving the wand intact, and still in the opponent's hands.

I got closer on the second try, and on the third her wand did fly in a nice arc, only not towards me.

I could see how the girl was getting ever more frustrated with every attempt, though, and things went heated on our fourth bout: I misjudged, and my spell failed to dislodge her wand. Brown quickly recovered and shot a jinx at me —rather than a Disarming charm, you know, the spell we were supposed to practice. Lucky for me her aim was off —her eyes focused on the tip of her own wand rather than on me, a common novice mistake apparently— and I simply sidestepped it and replied with a nasty stinging jinx of my own.

"Ow!" she exclaimed, letting her wand drop and shaking her hand, where the jinx had just hit her.

I smirked: "That counts too."

She stared at me, her face a strange mix of watery eyes and a furious snarl. Then she snapped: "You are a horrible person!" before picking up her wand, turning and walking away, leaving me without a sparring partner.

And feeling... a bit conflicted, actually. Because yeah... rude. But also, somewhere deep in my fore-memories I had this faint knowledge that this girl, Lavender Brown, was meant to be one of the casualties of the Battle of Hogwarts. And wasn't she killed by that werewolf bloke, whatever his name was?

My eyes followed her as she walked up to the edge of the group, only to stand there, her back to the rest of us, her arms crossed and her gaze down. I observed her in silence: the girl that would not live past eighteen, who would never marry or hold a job; the girl who wouldn't grow old.

And then there was this ugly, twisted part of me that could only think: no wonder she will die, if this is what her skills at duelling are like.

I silenced that voice savagely, then took a tentative step towards her, unsure as to what to do next. Thinking that perhaps I could offer her an olive branch of sorts, showing her how to perform the spell properly or something. But I never got to find out, because right then Lockhart shouted "Stop! Stop!" and everybody's attention returned to the adults, who were just breaking apart the many chaotic skirmishes that had emerged across the group of students.

"You good?" I asked Tracey and Perks, deciding to approach my housemates instead.

"I got the charm to work!" exclaimed Tracey, beaming; right before she remembered that she was supposed to be cross with me, and her face returned to neutral. "Yes, we're good."

I hesitated for a moment, but then nodded at her before returning my gaze to the two teachers, who were now talking about having a volunteer pair up on the stand —displaying a surprising lack of awareness of what the word volunteer even meant. I felt a nervous sense of anticipation at the scene that I knew would soon play: Draco Malfoy causing Harry Potter to accidentally reveal his snake-ish, dark gift for everyone to witness. And sure enough, Snape's eyes roved across the gathered students, until they landed on the Boy Who Lived.

He said: "How about Potter and..." his eyes then snapped towards me "...Sarramond?"

Well, fuck.

I closed my eyes and let out a sigh, before slowly advancing towards the stand with all the willingness of a condemned inmate. Lockhart was busy demonstrating Potter some spell or whatever, so I approached my head of house.

I said: "Um... perhaps you should choose Malfoy instead? I know he really wanted to fight Potter... sir. Besides, they are both boys and I–"

"Silence! Get up here, now!" he ordered, pointing down at the stand.

Right. So much for that.

I climbed onto the stand, and waited for Potter to do the same, all the while cursing my unlucky stars. I couldn't simply enjoy the first meetup of the Duelling Club, witness the scene from the sidelines. Of course not; my very presence was a plot-derailing whirlwind, it seemed like. Everything I approached I turned out of whack.

The problem, of course, was that I didn't know whatever snake summoning spell Malfoy had used in my fore-memories. I had never bothered to go looking for it, judging its applications too narrow for my liking. And now I was busy going through the ramifications of this simple thing, the changes this stupid deviation would cause.

Because sure, the plot for this year should not be an issue anymore, so this should be okay... but what about the future? This connection between Harry Potter and Voldemort seemed like the kind of thing that the three heroes —and Dumbledore— should better be aware of. Without that piece of knowledge, it was possible they might commit a critical mistake in the years to come; it was possible the headmaster would never realise that Harry himself was a Horcrux.

Potter approached, and we both bowed to each other in silence. His expression showed a mix of worry and determination. I had no idea what mine would be showing. Panicked annoyance, perhaps.

So... what now? Was there anything I could do?

Not much to it, really. Without knowing the spell, I simply could not fill Draco's shoes, as much as that thought grated.

But... I could lose.

Yes! That could work. Throw the fight now, and Snape would be forced to volunteer Draco next. The bitter bat would never allow Potter to leave victorious, would he?

Okay, I could do that, even though the very idea losing on purpose went against my nature something fierce. Let it never be said I don't make sacrifices for the greater good, then: I relaxed my stance slightly, my wand aimed upwards, observing Harry's movements while Lockhart counted up to three. I had to make it believable.

The moment Lockhart said 'Three' I started performing the movements for the Disarming charm, of course. I committed to it, with the full intention of casting the spell. Only I was doing so... slightly slower than before, with Lavender Brown.

"Expelliarmus!" cried Harry, and a blast of magic hit my wand, which immediately went flying away.

And so it was that I entered the very important club of people who had been disarmed by Harry Potter. It was a club I was sure had a huge potential for growth, in the coming years.

That was immediately followed by the discovery that it irked me immensely to see my wand out of my control, on somebody else's hands —Seamus Finnigan, who picked it up from the floor where it had landed and handed it back to me. I snatched it back with a bit more force than necessary. I had counted on it, of course, but I couldn't help it; it took me back to that day, during the previous year.

I walked up to Snape then, ignoring the cheering coming from the Gryffindors in the room. I shrugged and said: "I'm sorry, sir; he was faster than me. But I heard Draco had a new spell he wanted to try on Potter? Perhaps he–"

"You take me for a fool?" he grumbled. Then he bent down, getting uncomfortably close to me, his black eyes boring into my skull as he whispered very matter-of-factly: "You better defeat Potter, you halfwit girl, unless you relish the idea of having detention with me every week for the remainder of the year."

That sobered me up pretty fast, my eyes going wide. It was likely he had realised I'd just thrown the fight, and from what I knew of the man... well, he probably wasn't bluffing with an idle threat. No, he would no-doubt follow through, the complete git.

"Again!" he shouted, silencing the Gryffindors and pretty much erasing Harry's relieved smile from sight. "Let's see what change a little motivation brings."

I closed my eyes, shook my head and finally turned to approach Potter, as I readied my wand once more. Somehow I hadn't imagined this scene would play quite like this, when I read Lockhart's announcement on the Duelling Club thing that morning.

Well... nothing I could do now. It was better if I got my head back in the game, then.

"I'm sorry, Potter," I said in a low voice, as we bowed to each other.

He frowned. "Sorry?"

"For what I'm about to do, of course."

"You wish," he said, with a soft, self-assured chuckle. We then stepped away and raised our wands, eyeing each other. Lockhart counted up: "One– two– three!"

Potter took a quick step ahead, his wand pointed at me. He cried: "Expeliar–"

"Protego!"

"–mus!"

His bolt of reddish magic crashed against the shield I had raised just in the nick of time, bouncing off its surface in the direction of the public, where it impacted one of the other students. I was vaguely aware of the crowd taking one, two steps back, but I didn't want to look away. He shot another spell at me, but my bubble held.

Not wanting to give him anymore time to try new stuff, I dispelled the shield with a swift lateral motion of my wand, then pushed forward to cast a Disarming charm of my own, following the wand movements as fast as my arm and wrist allowed, my eyes never leaving Potter.

He hadn't been ready for my change of pace, going from defensive to offensive in less than a heartbeat. He saw the spell coming, tried to move away, and still was hit by it. His wand jumped out of his hand, flying into the air.

I started to relax then, seeing as I had already won, and... it almost was my undoing. Because before his wand had managed to fly even half a metre away, Potter jumped like he was a cat, grabbed it off the very air and aimed it back at my face.

"Expelliarmus!" he cast once more.

I desperately stepped to the side, half-crouching as his spell went flying a mere hair's breadth away from me. But the narrow stand we were fighting on limited my usual tactics, hampering my mobility, and I ended up right at the edge, a step away from falling off. I was vaguely reminded of Duskhaven last year, explaining to me the difference between duels and skirmishes. The point of the stand was precisely to force us to use our magic, rather than rely on any other unorthodox tactics.

I raised my shield again, blocked another of his incoming charms, and slowly returned to the centre of the stand, facing off Potter again.

And he took a step back at my sight, because I was grinning like mad. And I couldn't help it: this was the most fun I'd had in... I didn't know how long. For a moment I could forget about all the worries, all the little plans and machinations to focus only on the fight, on the next spell, the next attack, the clashing of magical wills. And it was a fight where I knew I wasn't really risking anything of true, critical value. This wasn't anything like my recent skirmish against the possessed Luna Lovegood. No, this was fun!

Harry visibly steeled himself, his eyes locked on my wand and waiting for the moment I'd dispel my shield to go on the offensive again. And that, it was a losing proposition for me: his reflexes were top-notch, so he was bound to cast his Disarming charm before I could finish mine.

Time for a feint, then.

I began the lateral movement of my wand again, but halted it before releasing the shield. Harry's spell crashed against the barrier not a moment later, and then and only then did I dispel it and launched my attack:

"Flipendo!"

There was the flash of a camera, but I ignored it. The spell connected and Potter went flying, legs up and crashing down on the stand. He wasn't out of the match yet, as he twisted to cast something back at me, but I followed with a quick Disarming charm of my own, and then I cried "Accio wand!"; and his wand duly flew into my hand.

It was the Slytherins that erupted in cheers this time around, Snape looking satisfied for once. But I ignored it all, approaching the boy to return his wand.

"Good fight," I said. "You almost got me there. Maybe next time?"

He looked at me, puzzled for a moment, before he smiled and took his wand. Then he gave me a nod and said: "Right, sure."

We parted amiably enough, and I moved to descend from the stand feeling oddly relaxed. I'd never been a sporty kind of girl, neither in this life nor in my previous one, and I had assumed the same would be true for wizarding sports too —Quidditch being the main example of a sport I most definitely did not enjoy. But now I could understand how one could end up dedicating their lives to one of them; perfecting your skills, participating in championships...

Not surprising, then, that Snape had to piss on my parade.

"Stay up there," he ordered me, before turning to the group at large and to Lockhart with a malicious smile. "I believe that a 'King of the Hill' contest would work for the best here. Let's see... Weasley! Your turn!"

Ron Weasley looked both affronted and scared, but he did come on to the stand to face me. I sighed, but there was nothing I could do with Snape's threat still hanging over my head, so we bowed and began our fight. Which was very short lived, because Weasley's broken wand backfired with his first spell, causing him to have a full on sneezing fit. I could have easily walked up to him and plucked his wand off his hand —no magic necessary— and he wouldn't have noticed.

Hermione —who Snape called for right afterwards, of course— was a tougher nut to crack. Somewhat literally, as she surprised me by casting a shield charm of her own. Her form wasn't bad at all, and my probing spells didn't fracture it. But I noticed she was slower than me at casting, and so when she let it go to attack me, I was already prepared and hit her with a Body-bind curse before she could finish her invocation.

And I figured that would have been it, Trio humiliated and all... but no. Apparently Snape's plan was clearly to have the entire second year Gryffindor house —at least, those of them present at the Duelling Club— face me one after the other, so that they could all be defeated by me.

He was enjoying it immensely, the colossal man-child, judging by all his gloating and 'encouraging' words to my opponents. An enjoyment that came at the expense of mine —who quickly became the target of all the lions' dark stares— and pretty much everybody else in attendance, for that matter.

In the end it was Lockhart who rescued me —still undefeated after two more duels, though tired as hell from all the magic that I'd been throwing around. He interrupted Snape before he could call any new opponents to face me, arguing that we'd ran out of time for more, and announcing the date for the next gathering. I used the distraction to jump off the stand at last with a relieved sigh, then walked back to my friends.

"Bet you enjoyed that," muttered Tracy as I approached them.

"What, Snape painting a huge bullseye on my back? Yeah, it was lovely."

"It wasn't your fault, though," protested Perks on my stead.

I tilted my head towards the Gryffindor side of the room, their angry postures evident, their resentment boiling just under the surface. I sighed and said: "And do you think they'll care about that? Nah... they'll gang up on me the moment my back is turned on them, you just wait and see."

"We'll have your back, then," she declared. "Right, Tracey?"

We both turned to look at her, and I was expecting a rebuke of some sort; but she just gazed at me for a beat, her face pensive. Then she nodded and simply said: "'Course."

Which you know, it lifted my spirits somewhat, after Snape's small-mindness had pretty much managed to utterly ruin what should have been an easy, fun experience for me. Thanks to him I'd now need to avoid the lions getting the drop on me, and also find a way to expose Potter's peculiar language skills.

And if that wasn't enough, as we were leaving the Great Hall I noticed Lockhart eyeing me —with a strange, eerily suspicious expression on his face.

Chapter Text

Winter break arrived, December carrying with it its habitual truckload of cold winds and snow, and yet the threats looming over my head failed to materialize.

Not that I was gloomy at that, of course. I had been worried at first about the menace that was the Gryffindors' anger at their housemates being trounced by me, expecting a sudden attack at any point. But to be fair to the lions, sudden ambushes in the corridors weren't quite their style; not when the source of their humiliation came from what was essentially a sporting contest. So instead it seemed they wanted to defeat me in a fair fight, the idiots.

That meant I had to face an increasingly tougher opposition at the next two meetings of the Duelling Club, almost as if most of them had been busy honing their defensive skills between sessions, in their obsession to dethrone me. At least Snape didn't bother to assist to those anymore —gone, along with a substantial share of the students that were there during the first session— and so Lockhart was free to mix it up, have people other than me fighting on the main stand.

And that was yet another thorn on my side: Lockhart. He didn't treat me any different, at least not overtly, but it was clear there was a new tension there where none had existed before. And since I knew I could only trust the man as far as I could throw him, I had decided it was safer for our little private tutoring sessions to come to an abrupt end. I would need to figure out the finest details about memory charms on my own.

But suspicious of me or not, Lockhart seemed to be bidding his time, not acting any different towards me at class or the Duelling Club.

Funny, that it wasn't a Gryffindor at all who put an end to my streak of victories there. Rather, it was Blaise Zabini.

He'd looked deceptively bored as he faced me during the last meetup of the term. I'd opened with my shield, and his response had been some spell I didn't know: a blue whirlwind of energy, that had simply flew past my side. Assuming his aim had been off, I'd then rushed to dispel the shield and begin casting an offensive spell of my own; but before I could do that, Zabini had pulled his wand backwards —as if reeling a fishing rod— saying: ' Boomeraxio!'

And the next thing I knew is that I was falling forwards, right after something hard and unyielding had just crashed into my back, pushing me to the floor like I was a mere rag-doll. It happened so fast that I couldn't stop my wand from escaping my fingers too: I was defeated before I could even understand what was happening.

What annoyed me the most wasn't the fact that he had won —although only thanks to a little underhanded trick, something that I'd never fall for again, of course— or how bloody smug and satisfied he looked afterwards, hands in his pockets and all. No, what angered me the most was that he simply refused to teach me that reversal spell he'd used. Not unless I was willing to trade him a dark curse first, a bargain that I refused, finding it completely unfair.

But that, it had the very welcome effect of calming down the lions, to the point that I could finally relax that last week ahead of winter break. And yet, the girls in my circle still held to their word, escorting me everywhere I went, making sure I was never alone and undefended.

Even Tracey, which made me feel somewhat guilty, but also appreciative. So I'd decided to focus on completely, fully mending my still hurt relationship with them. And to that end, the afternoon before Christmas saw me climbing my way to the owlery, where one very happy barred owl received me with loud hoots. He was soon to be disappointed, because I wasn't carrying any bacon for him that day, only a handful of gift wrapped little packets to send to my friends —plus a couple of other select people.

The chill as I had topped the staircase to the circular room above the tower —its windows lacking any glass and simply open to the elements— was brutal; but for once it didn't bother me that much. It wasn't only because I was wearing my winter apparel, the gloves and scarf that Tracey had gifted me this time around last year, plus a chunky knit hat that I'd found in the Room of Requirement —it had been originally pink, but I'd transfigured it into a soft, coral blue that better matched my outfit. No, the true, ground-breaking secret was that I'd finally learnt how to perform heating enchantments.

It had cost me five socks with burnt holes in them, but that was okay —the house-elves would either mend or replace them. What was important was that my feet no longer felt like two blocks of ice, my neck was warm and cosy from the soft heat that my scarf now radiated, and my winter cloak felt like I was wearing an electric blanket over my shoulders. Equipped like this I could very well go outside and sit on a stone by the lake, with a book to read under the falling snow, and still I wouldn't feel any cold.

And I knew that because I'd just done it the day before.

All the better than spending time in the Slytherin common room. My friends were away —gone to their families, just like last year— but for some reason Draco Malfoy had remained behind, along with Crabbe, Goyle and Pansy Parkinson. Apparently Malfoy's parents were busy this year having to deal with some inspections by the Ministry or some such, and of course if he was forced to stay at Hogwarts, so did his two henchmen. Parkinson I suspected remained behind just to suck up to him.

It wouldn't have been so bad —nothing like the beginning of last year, when I avoided the common room like the plague out of fear of being attacked— if not because ever since the Duelling Club thing, Malfoy had decided that he wanted us to be friends.

He had taken advantage of my circle being away to begin an unrelenting avalanche of friendly overtures: he began sitting next to me at the Great Hall, discussing the latest news from the Daily Prophet — 'these blood traitors are at it again, you see; now they want to prohibit the rearing of manticores!'— providing Quidditch tips —' I say, you should try a vertical twirl next time you are defending those hoops; do you think you could manage that?'— and discussing duelling techniques —' you are decent at it, of course; but my father taught me that it's foolish to rely too much on a shield charm.'

That was bad enough, but the worst of it came one day after dinner, when we arrived at the common room together and he invited me to sit with the rest of them, to share biscuits and some tea. What I had wanted to say was that no, that I'd rather go and drown myself in the bathtub, thank-you-very-much; but I had opted not to be too impolite instead. Because the truth was that, while I had allies and friends now among the Slytherins, I still couldn't afford to make an enemy of the Malfoy family. They had enough clout and wealth as to turn my life back into a living hell, if they cared to.

And besides: I suspected Daphne would be miffed if she returned after winter break to discover I'd gone and involved our circle into a vendetta, by hurling some curse at the blonde twat in a fit of righteous rage or something stupid like that.

So yeah, in the end I'd gritted my teeth and sat between Goyle —who smelt of something weird and foul— and Parkinson —who continuously wrought her hands as if imagining she was strangling someone's neck— and enjoyed a wonderful, mind-numbingly evening with the greatest pack of cretins that wizarding Britain had managed to produce over a generation.

After that, I decided that once had been quite enough; but rather than force the issue into a confrontation I simply decided to make myself scarce. Diplomacy, thy name is me.

To be completely honest, there was a part of me that secretly enjoyed all the attention that Snape's ploy had earned me. From the Gryffindors's obvious envy to the congratulations I received from some of the upper years in my house. My lack of flying skills had been commented upon before, but I was good at duelling —and charms, too— and so I felt vindicated at having it finally recognised by the public at large.

I'd like to say that I didn't flaunt, that I didn't preen at the comments and congratulations. But I'd be lying.

Still, I couldn't repress my groan when I descended to our common room after dinner the day before Christmas, to find that Goyle, Crabbe and Parkinson were lingering right outside the secret door. I had hoped that taking the long way down via the Grand Staircase would have been enough not to run into any of them, but alas, they seemed determined to ruin my holidays.

Though when I took a quick look around the corridor, I saw no signs of Malfoy. Odd.

"What are you doing out here?" I asked, approaching them.

They all turned to look at me, then met each other's gazes for the briefest of moments. Surprisingly, Pansy Parkinson wasn't scowling at me, instead looking sort of worried.

Hmm...

There was a pregnant pause before Goyle finally spoke aloud: "We... uh... forgot the password."

I blinked. "What, the three of you?"

Crabbe nodded silently. Even Parkinson looked uncharacteristically abashed.

Oh.

Oooooh.

I flashed them a smile with too many teeth, resting a hand on my hip. "Well, that's too bad, no? I'm guessing you'll have to pay the fee, now."

"The... fee?" asked Goyle.

"Two galleons, of course."

"Two galleons?!" exclaimed an offended Parkinson. And now she looked more like she usually did in my presence. Really, she should be thanking me for this; I was merely helping her to sell this performance, make it that much more believable.

I shrugged: "Each of you. One for the password, and another so that I don't tell Prefect Farley. You know how she gets about the passwords; remember that day with Berrow?"

Goyle nodded quickly, confirming my suspicions. Because nothing at all had happened between Darius Berrow and Prefect Farley; but of course, a Gryffindor wouldn't know that, would they? My question had been a test, one that they had just failed.

And sure, you could argue that maybe the real Goyle would also have failed the test. But not Parkinson, who was currently extracting coins in a resigned silence out of a little Muggle-designed purse, zipper and all.

Right, because that wasn't odd at all.

"I don't have two galleons," protested Crabbe after looking at the contents of his pockets. "I only have five sickles."

"Don't try to shortchange me now," I warned, shrugging. "I know your family has money."

I mean... it wasn't like he was a Weasley, right?

He turned to mutter something to Goyle's ear, his face blushing, and then Goyle nodded and said to me: "Here, I'll cover it," handing me four galleons instead.

I examined the six golden pieces under the light of the nearest sconce, mostly checking they weren't trying to trick me with a chocolate galleon or whatnot. I wasn't really feeling guilty, not at all. I mean, not-Goyle could certainly afford this little tax, with the fortune he'd inherited from his parents; and it wasn't like not-Parkinson's family were at risk of poverty themselves, either.

But also, because everything had a price, including information. I would have felt taken advantage of if I simply went ahead and volunteered whatever they wanted to know, getting nothing in exchange for myself. It simply wouldn't have been fair, otherwise.

"Ah, well," I mused aloud, leaning on the theatrics as I made their money disappear inside my own pocket. "It's a little surprising that none of you remember the password, being pure-bloods yourselves, no?"

Behind me, the wall opened to reveal the passage and I quickly crossed the threshold, then paused to look at their surprised faces: "Well? Aren't you coming in?"

Parkinson was the first to react, nodding briskly and following in my footsteps. The boys went through a moment later, and together we entered the common room proper. For a moment, the three of them broke characters as they stopped to gawk around the upscale chamber, their heads as if on swivels. I took advantage of their distraction to also do a quick look around the place myself; though mine was a little more purposeful: I was checking if Malfoy was present.

Not seeing the blond heir, I took charge of the group and guided them past the fireplace and the few housemates lingering nearby, and straight towards the far end of the room by the submerged windows. There was a couch and a handful of seats tucked in the corner there that a group of fifth-years favoured. But since they were away for winter break, it meant we could sit there now and be relatively secluded, out of sight of the main entrance.

My hope was that I could resolve this little scene quickly, talk to them and send them off on their way before Draco found us here. With some luck, I wouldn't be forced to spend yet another horrid evening in his presence.

We stared at each other in an awkward silence for a few moments, until Parkinson visibly steeled herself and asked: "Um... so... Sylvia. We were wondering... are there any news regarding that matter with the Heir of Slytherin?"

I had to give it to her: it was a bloody good opening, worthy of a snake. Prodding for information, sure, but without flat out revealing her own cards. She didn't know what the real Parkinson was supposed to know or not know, after all; and it would have been so easy to mess it up in the first question. But the way she had phrased, it didn't imply anything at all about what she did or didn't know. Kudos to her.

Surprising too, that she was here with the boys and wearing Parkinson's face, rather than hiding a furry visage in a bathroom stall somewhere. I guessed something must have changed in the timing, for her to have targeted Parkinson rather than Bulstrode —or her cat, rather. Which led me to wonder why they were bothering with all this in the first place, after Dumbledore had already announced the matter as resolved. Perhaps it was simply that they had already gathered the ingredients for the Polyjuice potion and didn't want to let them go to waste.

"Not much," I replied, tentatively. "The Headmaster dealt with it."

That seemed to annoy her, because she crossed her arms and said: "But you must know something more, don't you?"

Or perhaps it was just that the attacks might have ceased, sure, but her own curiosity hadn't.

Well, they had paid the price, and this was a great opportunity to fill the Trio on what pieces of the lore they should've known by this point, but that they weren't already privy to due to my own interventions. I scrunched my face in concentration as I plotted my way through the conversation, how to fill them in without telling too much, make it obvious that I knew they weren't who they pretended to be.

"Well, I know that the Heir wasn't a student," I confessed, lowering my voice and pantomiming looking around, as if I was telling them a big secret —which I was. "Or not a current student, at any rate. It was this cursed book instead, which can possess people and force them to act on its behalf. Sort of like an Imperius curse, if you will. I took it from a firstie it was controlling, and gave it to the Headmaster."

"Loony Lovegood!" exclaimed Parkinson, after a moment of silence digesting the information. "I mean... Luna. A first year Ravenclaw. She also was missing, the day after the Hallowe'en Feast!"

Very good. Five points to Gryffindor, I guessed. Though if you asked me, she should've totally been a Ravenclaw too.

"But where did that book came from?" asked Goyle.

This, I had to be careful about. I had ran into them at the Diagon Alley's bookshop after all, and I certainly didn't want him to suspect it was that same notebook he'd handed back to me. With my luck, they'd assume I'd been trying to put it on Ginny's hands or something.

So I shrugged, choosing to go for an incomplete truth, followed by a quick diversion: "Lovegood must have found it lying around somewhere... Whatever; it was a diary of a former student called Tom Marvolo Riddle. If you ask me, he must have been the actual Heir of Slytherin, and leave the diary behind to stir some trouble, murder some Muggleborns."

Parkinson looked uncomfortable at that, but it was Crabbe who spoke next: "So the Chamber... it was all a lie, then? Just a rubbish story?"

"Oh no," I replied. "It exists, I even learnt where the entrance is! But it's of no use; only a Parselmouth like this Tom Riddle can open the way. So unless you happen to know of someone else who can talk to snakes, there's just no way to get in."

Crabbe nodded slowly, while Parkinson looked confused, not getting the reference. However Goyle, his eyes widened slightly, his body utterly still.

And that was one problem fixed! Scratched out of my to-do list! I leant back on my seat, contented and smirking to myself.

I knew it was my fault, that Harry Potter's secret talent had remained unexposed. And while outing him wasn't really necessary, I figured he should at least learn of its implications himself. It might be important for the future that the good guys —so to speak— be aware of the connection between Potter and Voldemort, and the boy being a Parselmouth was certainly a piece of that puzzle. Maybe not the only one, or the most important... but I didn't want to discover in five years that none of them had made the connection, and so hadn't figured the Horcrux stuff at all.

The thing was, I had just been too undecided on whether it was safer to subtly encourage Malfoy to cast the snake summoning spell on the boy, or to simply take the time to learn the spell and do it myself —which seemed like the safest option, as I could have timed it for when he was somewhere very public. But in truth... well, I had just relaxed a bit on that front. Without the active threat of the basilisk I simply hadn't seen the need to hurry.

I was glad now, that I hadn't. Because come on, this had been masterful.

My very deserved gloating wasn't to last, though, because a few moments later I heard the most annoying voice coming from behind:

"Oh, there you are; I'd been searching for you everywhere! I've got some news that you're going to like."

I closed my eyes, restraining a sigh as Draco Malfoy dragged a nearby chair to join our little group. So much for trying to do this on the low.

I knew that I was letting a golden opportunity slip by, avoiding the blond boy instead of playing his interest to my advantage. Purposefully or not, Snape had given me an opening with him, one any Slytherin deserving of the name should have milked for all it was worth, exploiting it to get the favour of the Malfoy family's heir for good.

And because I still had that vague idea of somehow turning him away from his father's politics, freeing him from having to join the Death Eaters, I was aware that gaining this foothold now could prove invaluable in the future. But there was this small matter of him being a complete, utterly selfish arse, and I always found it hard not to simply challenge his beliefs straight on —which I knew would only cause him to dig his heels in.

So it was better to avoid crashing into him head-on. Limited, repeated exposure would work best for both of us, I guessed. And besides, I knew that Malfoy's ploy was to pull me away from Greengrass' circle, which I'd rather not leave.

But speaking of politics:

"I know for a fact that this old fool Dumbledore is on very thin ice," said Draco, grinning like a shark. "It's only a matter of time before he's booted out as Headmaster!"

"Dumbledore is not an–!" started Goyle.

"Care to explain, Malfoy?" I interrupted.

"The faculty are trying to keep it all on the hush-hush," he explained, shooting a confused look at Goyle, "but I know this from my father, who is in the Board of Governors: apparently Dumbledore was far too quick to claim he'd stopped the Heir: there's been two more attacks since then!"

"Wait, what?!" I all-but shrieked.

"How is that possible?" asked Parkinson. "Everybody would know by now, if two students were attacked."

"Oh, the victims were just house-elves. But it's only a matter of time before the Heir goes after a mudblood, of course. And when that happens, my father will put a motion through the Board to have Dumbledore step down."

I closed my eyes, cursing my unlucky stars.

What had happened here? I figured the book was still contained, unless Dumbledore was completely incompetent, so it was probably the basilisk that was on the loose. The nature of the new targets —house-elves— seemed to fit with that theory: attacks of opportunity by a predator, then. Probably the monster finding the elves when they were at night and on their own, while they performed their cleaning tasks.

But why hadn't the Headmaster stopped the beast? I hadn't outright told him about it, but the message on the wall spoke about the Chamber, and I had given him the hint that I'd first found Luna near that specific bathroom. So he should have been able to find the entrance, at least.

Unless... he hadn't investigated it at all, of course. Say, if he was certain that the bit about the Chamber was simply a misdirection, and thought that the possessed Luna had simply used a spell to kill Mrs. Norris. Or perhaps he simply couldn't access the Chamber, not being a Parselmouth himself.

"Ugh," I groaned, closing my eyes for a beat. Note to self: this is why you shouldn't trust Dumbledore to fix shit.

"Did they die?" asked Parkinson.

"What?"

"The house-elves, what happened to them?"

Malfoy shrugged, in a who-cares kind of way. I could tell that he was getting annoyed at his news not being received with the jubilation he'd so clearly expected.

That was when Crabbe emitted a very impolite noise, standing up ramrod straight and muttering something about his stomach, before simply running away.

"I'll see to him!" said Goyle, following after him.

"Um... me too!" said Parkinson, leaving as well.

Malfoy looked at their backs as the three of them ran across the common room, rushing towards the main entrance.

"What's up with them?" he asked; then he shot me a suspicious look: "Is it something to do with you?"

"Me? No!" I tried to look innocent, but he wasn't fully buying it, so I changed tack: "I guess they probably want to... um... send letters to their own families, share the gossip?"

"Oh, of course," he drawled, relaxing again. "It would be humiliating to them, if their families were the last to find out."

I nodded, my gaze going to the windows behind Draco, to the lake's deep green waters, and the swift shadow of a giant tentacle —there one moment, gone the next. After a few seconds I said: "Hmm... Malfoy... how sure are you that this is the Heir's doing?"

He frowned at me: "Who else could it be?"

"You must admit it doesn't seem too noble, attacking house-elves from the shadows. More like a common criminal, in fact."

"Well... father said to let them carry on, do what they wish and not to intervene. Perhaps they need to practice their spells first, before unleashing on the mudbloods."

" Perhaps," I sentenced as I stood up, taking a page out of Zabini's book and twisting the word just so, the tone conveying what I truly thought.

And as I walked away, I was surprised to witness an uncharacteristically meditative Malfoy, almost as if he was thinking by himself for once. Maybe because that doubt, those suspicions that still lingered about my own involvement in the events of Hallowe'en lent my words a weight, an air of credibility that they wouldn't have had otherwise. For once, it must have been clear even to him that I knew what I was talking about; perhaps even better than his own father.

But I didn't have much time to meditate about it myself, because when the next morning dawned, it was finally Christmas day; and with it came a well-deserved reprieve away from Malfoy, Parkinson, the Trio, and even the basilisk, as Greengrass's invitation meant I would get the chance to escape the castle for one night at least.

I opened my eyes that day to find that Parkinson —the real one this time, I figured— was busy unwrapping box after box, as she worked her way through the little pile of gifts that covered her bed. She had a pair of loafer shoes with frilly bits on her hands, and an expression of disgust on her face that she was quick to hide the moment she noticed I too was awake.

I ignored the girl, though, because I also had a few gifts of my own next to my four-poster bed. A pitiful amount compared to hers, for sure... but still: these were mine.

Tracey Davis had sent me a pair of star-shaped earrings: silver —so they matched the snake brooch— and each with an aquamarine gem in its centre —so they matched the robes I liked to wear, when not in uniform. I didn't bother hiding the smile that bloomed across my face —to the annoyance of the pure-blood girl sitting across the dorm— and I quickly decided that I'd wear them that same night to the feast.

While Tracey's gift had all the hallmarks of having been chosen by somebody who knew me well, Perks' certainly didn't. Instead it was the sort of generic present that I suspected some sort of parental figure had helped her with: a wizarding stationery kit. It included a goose feather quill, parchment paper, a notebook, two inkwells —enchanted to prevent spills!— and a leather bag to put everything in.

To my surprise, Hermione had sent me a Christmas present too: a book on Wizarding etiquette; which would have been an insult coming from anybody in Slytherin, you know, but as she was a Gryffindor I tried not to take it personally.

I had debated over the last days whether I should send the brainy girl something or not, given that the Read-Ahead Club was a thing of the past. I had finally concluded that Snape's classes pretty much counted as shared trauma, which justified the sending of gifts even if we weren't friends, strictly speaking. The book I'd sent her —on Muggle and Wizarding common festivities, such as Halloween and what not— was also sourced from the Room of Requirement, but I hoped she wouldn't mind the slightly frayed edges.

Dumbledore's gift —yep!— was unassuming, but it was possibly the most important of them all. So much so that it almost made my heart leap out of my chest, my hands trembling. A simple, short letter confirming that yes, the Ministry's obliviators had performed memory charms on two Muggle police officers and a passer-by in Epping, on the same night that I'd been found and placed into the foster system. The stated cause was that they had witnessed a wizard disapparating right in front of their faces.

The rest of the letter was the typical Dumbledore spiel: saying that he would keep investigating the matter and wishing me a happy Christmas and such. But it almost didn't register, because I had it at last: the definitive confirmation that my theories were true.

Not only in regards to having a magical origin —I knew that for a fact already, thanks to my blood. But that... somewhere out there, there was somebody with the answers that I'd always been looking for. This mysterious wizard, this strange man who had came out of the woods holding me. Somebody who must know exactly where it was that I came from. What I was.

And I couldn't help but wonder: was he my father? Was the human part of my blood... his?

There were no answers to that, not yet. So instead I folder the letter, placing it with reverence inside my purple-covered notebook deep into my trunk; before finally turning to the last gift.

Daphne had sent me an owl.

And no, the owl hadn't carried in the gift. The owl was the gift.

It —or he, rather— was a young tawny owl, all brown and spotted white feathers. His two beady, black eyes observed me from above a narrow beak, as he patiently waited inside his cage. And how an owl could look so haughty was entirely beyond me.

Bloody hell... she had gifted me an owl!

Probably because at some point in the last months I must have complained one too many times about Snape's shortness with me during our shared outing to Diagon Alley, and how he had refused to indulge my very reasonable requests. And yeah, this was proof that Daphne cared about me, that she had remembered that and acted on it. But still... it made me feel conflicted, because owls weren't exactly cheap. Not a huge expense —especially not for a pure-blood, wealthy family like hers— but certainly more than last year's brooch. And also way more than I'd spent in all the pitiful presents I'd sent the girls myself, put together.

The thing was, I wasn't that sure where to go from this, what the proper response to it should be. My fore-memories weren't of any help here either, as I hadn't been friends with any millionaires in my past life. I should be thankful, surely, but also... did this mean that she saw me as a charity case? That she saw her role, as the circle's highest status witch was to... to help me?

Or was it perhaps because she was ashamed of me, of my lack of means? Of how it reflected on her to consort with someone... well, let's be frank here: with someone who was poor as dirt. Perhaps it was merely so that she wouldn't need to keep on sending her own owl to me first, anymore.

I eyed the gifted owl —more of an owlet, really— once more, my feelings mixed. I might be destitute, for sure, and somewhat of a thief. But I certainly wasn't a beggar. And I didn't care for her charity, if that's what this was.

But was that what this was?

Just like with the matter of my parentage, there was no way to know for sure yet. Not until I could get the chance to talk to her. So I decided to put it out of my mind until we could meet later that same afternoon, and simply carried the caged bird to the owlery after breakfast, handing him a small piece of ham for good measure —which he took in his beak as it was only his due, without even the smallest thankful look at me, the feathery prat.

I passed the day in a cloud of nerves, deciding to return to my dorm two full hours before I had to leave for the feast. I used that time to make myself as presentable as possible, taming my tangly hair with the help of a quick shower, a brush, and some cursing. I applied some cologne, and considered stealing some of Parkinson's cosmetics too, but finally decided against it. I'd certainly need to buy my own sometime in the future, but for now it would have to wait: I simply didn't know enough about the fashion trends in what regarded wizarding teens, and I figured tonight of all days was not the best moment to start experimenting. This would be my first time meeting Daphne's parents, after all.

I then wrapped myself in my good robes, with Tracey's earrings on my ears and a cheap but nifty necklace joining my ever-present skeleton and Gringotts keys around my neck. At the very last moment I decided to also don the winter cloak —it would be useless, because I wasn't going to be outdoors for even a single minute, but it made for a more impressive and witchier look.

And with that, and the rucksack containing my pyjamas and other essentials for the sleepover, I emerged out of the common room and left for Snape's office.

The veritable plague of Christmas decorations that had invaded Hogwarts over the last weeks seemed to have stopped just short of the door to the office of my head of house. Inside, everything looked the exact same as it had on the day of my detention, one year ago. From the assortment of bottles and jars filled with ingredients and mysterious liquids down to the gloomy wizard sitting at his desk, writing on a piece of parchment. It was like this room existed in an entirely different universe than the rest of the world, like time itself had frozen in here a long time ago.

Well, almost. There was one change that I noticed: on a little table behind the professor, between an extinguished candle and a pile of heavy tomes there was a framed picture. A moving photograph, taken on the day of the Duelling Club's first meeting. It depicted an ominous Snape shooting a flow of magic at a completely surprised Lockhart, who was in turn pushed into the air. The scene repeated in a loop, his humiliation displayed time and time again.

I smirked briefly, schooling my expression right before Snape raised his gaze to me. Plausible deniability and all that: I didn't want to make the situation awkward by forcing him to acknowledge who exactly was behind this little, anonymous Christmas gift he'd received out of the blue this very morning.

He probably suspected it, judging by his inquisitive look. But that was okay; I also suspected him of gifting me that one book last year, so now we were even. Sort of.

"I need to use your floo to get to the Greengrass's Yule Ball," I said, seeing as Snape didn't seem in any hurry to break the uncomfortable silence. Then I added lamely: "um... sir."

I knew that he was already aware of this. I had gone through the proper official channels —meaning Gemma Farley— and had received the confirmation that I was indeed allowed to go. Moreover, being difficult here risked him getting an earful from my friend's family, and he had to have known that. But still, he remained motionless for a beat, as if considering whether or not to allow me passage, whether the pros outweighed the cons.

Then he finally sighed, waving with his quill at the fireplace to his side. He asked: "Do you know how to use a floo?"

I nodded, walking up to it and grabbing a pinch of powder from the little urn nearby.

"I suppose I have no choice but to allow it, then. I expect you to be back for lunch tomorrow. Do not be late, or there shall be... consequences, that I'm certain you will not enjoy. Do I make myself clear?"

I nodded again. "Yes, professor. And... Merry Christmas?"

He gritted his teeth, his gaze going to the ceiling as if asking for patience. "I suggest you do not use the word 'Christmas' while you are at a pure-blood Yule gathering, Sarramond."

"I know that!" I protested. Then paused for a moment and added: "But... thanks for the warning, anyway."

This little scene was rapidly becoming awkward enough that I didn't want to linger for a single second longer, and I suspected Snape would be of the same opinion. So I quickly threw the powder at the fireplace, spoke aloud 'The Greengrass Estate' and rushed to cross the flames the moment they turned green, leaving the man-sized bat behind.

Chapter Text

I stepped out of the fireplace and into a spacious room, with floors of marble and a tall ceiling from which an intricately ornate chandelier hung. The air itself felt a couple of degrees colder here than it had been back at Snape's office, and the wall in front of me had three tall windows overlooking an expansive field of grass, seemingly disappearing into the evening's growing shadows.

I took a couple of tentative, cautious steps, and didn't shriek or jump at all when a house-elf materialized right in front of me with a loud crack.

"Ah, you must be the little Miss' friend," the little creature said. He was older than most of the house-elves I'd seen at Hogwarts, his eyes sunken and his voice gravelly. "Please, wait here at the Floo Room; Tolby will take your belongings to the guest rooms, and alert the little Miss of your arrival."

"Ah... sure," I said, handing him the rucksack and winter cloak —which, as expected, had turned out to be completely unnecessary. He promptly disapparated, leaving me alone once again to explore the room: a large wardrobe, a table with a few copies of the Daily Prophet and other assorted publications, an enormous porcelain vase filled to the brim with more floo powder than any reasonable person could consume in an entire life...

"The 'Floo Room'," I repeated under my breath. "What in the wealth...?"

"Hello, Sylvia," said a voice right behind me.

That time I tensed up, but didn't emit any loud noises of my own. I simply turned around, figuring somebody else must have stepped out of the fireplace just then, but no: it was the portrait hung by its right side that was talking to me.

A portrait of Daphne Greengrass.

"Um... hi," I said, approaching it. The girl in the portrait was the picture of perfection —this time literally. She posed with her back ramrod straight and wearing a clear blue dress, hands resting carefully on her lap. Her plaited blonde hair must have taken a team of hairdressers several hours to engineer, even with the help of magic. She gave me a polite smile.

"You look surprised," she commented. "I figured you would be accustomed to talking portraits by now."

"I am. But it's just... all the talking portraits I've seen before were always of dead people. You are the first I meet of someone who is... still alive?"

Or so I hoped.

She nodded. "But you see, when all those portraits were made, the subjects were also still alive. How else could they have been painted?"

"Guess you're right," I muttered.

This was... weird. She felt like the girl I knew, but somehow not at all like her, at the same time.

"Tell me, Sylvia: did you manage to resolve your matter with Selwyn? I suppose you must have, seeing as you are here now. I assume you joined Daphne's circle?"

I blinked. "You don't know?"

"No, of course not. I was painted during the winter break of my first year at Hogwarts; so I don't have any of Daphne's memories after that point. I do hear bits and pieces, though, being in the Floo Room as I am."

"Right... well, there was this ritual. I was able to prove I'm a half-blood," I half-lied.

"Oh, that's wonderful news then! I would have loved to be there! I never liked Selwyn much myself, you see."

"Not a likeable fellow," I agreed, nodding.

She gave me a bright smile, one that I'd never seen before on the Daphne I knew. "No, he was quite dreadful... I'm glad Daphne invited you into her circle, Sylvia. I always was of the impression that you were one of the witches with the greatest potential in our entire year..."

Bloody hell was this weird.

"...and told my parents so. But of course, they were more concerned with the traditional family ties and what they called 'optics', and would have never allowed me to invite a Muggleborn into my circle. I can see how– Oh! Hello, Daphne!"

I turned to the room's entrance, where the real Daphne Greengrass had just joined us. She wore a flowing, midnight blue dress that seemed to change colour in subtle waves with every step she took. I blinked for a moment, thinking it to be some sort of optical effect; but no, the dress was really shifting colours, reacting to her movements. She gave a cordial nod to her own painting, then approached me.

"Hello, Sylvia," she said.

"Weird," I said as my only greeting, my eyes going from painting to girl and back. "Weird, weird."

She smirked, just as her painting made a chuckling noise behind us.

"Come," the real Daphne said. "I will take you to the North Wing's ballroom, where the feast will take place. Sally and Tracey have both arrived already."

I followed her, leaving the floo and the portrait behind and entering a drawing room with a few short tables and couches, with a décor that I suspected must have been inspired by the Slytherin underwater lobby.

"Did you like it, my portrait?" she asked, her tone sincerely curious.

"Uh-huh. Only she was somewhat... chattier than you?"

She nodded. "That was my first impression as well. But Mother assured me that these portraits are often over-exaggerated, for artistic effect."

"That explains a thing or two about the portraits at Hogwarts, you know," I mused aloud. "And do you talk to her —or... um... yourself— often?"

"Oh, no; that would be unseemly."

"Right. Stupid question."

She remained silent after that, which surprised me. It wasn't the first time she corrected me on the finer points of wizarding society, and right now would be when she rushed to reassure me that it hadn't been a stupid question in fact, merely the difference in our respective backgrounds. That she hadn't was... odd.

"Now that I think about it," I mused aloud. "Doesn't Professor Lockhart have a truckload of paintings of himself in his office? Do you think he talks to them?"

She let out a soft smile at that, nodding at me. "He does seem the type, does he not?"

But her merry tone didn't last for long, her face quickly morphing back into a serious, tense expression; and I could see some sort of worry, of concern hidden behind her eyes.

As we continued, we entered a longer gallery room decorated with a procession of... not portraits, not exactly. They were... faces, all of them with their eyes closed, sculpted in some sort of off white plaster and framed into the wall. Noble visages of wizened men and women, all of them looking important and prestigious. Something that was soon confirmed by my host:

"These are the mortuary masks of my ancestors. Each one of them were at one time the head of the Greengrass family," she explained. Then, she pointed at an empty frame and added nonchalantly: "That is where my own mask will be placed, upon my passing."

"Upon your...?"

"My death, of course. That other free spot if for Father's. They apply the cast directly to the corpse's face."

I blinked. "Shit, Daphne. That's not morbid at all."

She gave a slight shrug, then said in a low, sombre tone: "Everybody dies, Sylvia."

"Right," I muttered, taking for once the cautious approach instead of saying what I was thinking, as I looked back at the row of stern figures and the two empty frames, patiently waiting to be filled. That sure, everybody dies, but not everybody had this fact thrown at their faces on the regular.

Although perhaps I wasn't one to talk, with the whole deal about my fore-memories, my strange past life and the family I'd lost hiding always right beneath the surface of my mind. Glass houses and such, you know.

The mood shifted after that, in any case, subtly but irrevocably; and we advanced in a silence broken only by our steps on the marble floors along a couple more rooms —I was noticing the house didn't seem to have any corridors, only rooms that connected directly to other rooms— until we entered a wide, large foyer.

It had twin, winding stairs leading to a second floor, and an enormous glass cupola that filtered the few last traces of sunlight coming from the outside, giving everything underneath a subtle green tinge. But it was the fountain that caught my attention the most.

It featured an oversized statue of a lunarjay at its centre, the bird's wings spread wide and its beak open and risen to the sky, as if it were singing. The spout was positioned inside the beak, a continuous flow of water shooting high into the air. Except that rather than fall down due to gravity —you know, like in any normal fountain— the water in this one twisted into figurines, the flow branching impossibly into two, four, eight separate streams, that all moved and danced in the air, twirling and twisting around each other.

I slowed down to watch. At some points, the many streams aligned just so, resolving into recognizable figures: a blooming tree, a gliding hippogriff, a swimming siren...

I thought about making a comment, praising the... well, the incredible, awe-inspiring sight; but I bit my tongue for once. Because I understood immediately that that was precisely the true purpose of this fountain: to awe me. To impress visitors.

To impress upon them the wealth, the power of the Greengrass family. And to do it in style, too.

You see, I might have been only a Muggle-raised, second year witch, but you didn't need to read ahead that much to understand what was going on here; it was quite enough to pay a bare minimum of attention during class, or at the magical world around us.

Enchantments, the kind that placed a charm permanently onto an object, weren't really, truly permanent. You only needed to have a Sticking charm fail on you once at just the wrong time to learn this fact. How long they lasted depended on a balance between skill and complexity: the more accomplished the wizard or witch, the closer they could get to the perfect invocation, the longer it would last. But by the same token: the more complicated the charmwork, the more skill it required. That's why you could earn a salary by virtue of being a professional charmer, your well honed skills enabling you to cast enchantments that the average wizard wouldn't get to last for even a single breath.

And then there was this fountain.

The enchantments must have been layered one on top of another, to achieve all that visual variety, and yet somehow woven together in such a way that they didn't interfere into each other; all of them keeping a perfect, balanced synchronicity. It would only take one of those to wear down slightly for the whole thing to come crashing down —or splashing down, rather. And yet there it was, still working as precise as a Swiss clockwork.

Plus: water was a fluid! And fluids were famously harder to levitate than solid objects. An object you could encompass in your mind easily enough, but a flow of water was always changing shapes, with no end or beginning to it. Professor Flitwick didn't teach the basics of fluid manipulation until fourth year; and that was only controlling it directly with your wand, not bewitching a bloody fountain to do it for you!

So yeah, that they could not only have, but maintain a thing like this sent a clear message; one that any magic user would be able to quickly grasp. A statement not only of wealth, but of power: magical power, at that.

I didn't say anything, and Daphne didn't comment on the fountain, but as we kept walking past all that amazing, exquisite ornamentation I couldn't help but feeling... small. Like I didn't belong, didn't fit in this world, not really. Like I was an interloper. It was something I hadn't felt ever since the beginnings of last year.

My eyes went to my host's magical dress, then to my own 'good' robes —the same stupid ones Daphne must have seen me wear dozens of times already— as I remembered that conversation with Snape at Diagon Alley. Back then I'd thought that he was exaggerating; that sure, the pure-bloods might have had more money and stuff, but I could still fit among them if I put effort into how I presented myself. Do that, I figured, and then my superior magical abilities would cover any remaining gaps.

But seeing this made the truth evident: I was not only poorer than the Greengrasses, I was infinitely so. My best attempts at dressing appropriately would only serve to make them smile condescendingly at me, if not laugh behind my back. And my magic... well. It was evident that they had magic in spades; they didn't need mine.

And that rankled, that realisation: Daphne didn't need me at all. She never did. It was me who needed her; who needed her support, her clout.

Her power.

I had wanted to breach the matter of the owl, but now I didn't know how. I couldn't imagine what I could say, how I could explain it. Because I was starting to realise that to her, it must have all looked the same. What was the difference between gifting an owl, or a brooch, or a bloody apartment? To her, money was inconsequential.

It was a hard concept to wrap my head around. So I didn't say anything, limiting myself to clenching my jaw as I walked in silence by her side, trying to stem the sudden tide of emotions that had flooded me. And Daphne didn't seem like she wanted to break the silence either, still mulling over something herself.

I heard the music first, the soft tunes of a violin accompaniment coming from the room ahead, and then we turned a last corner and the ballroom opened in front of us all of a sudden. A two-stories high, cavernous chamber with dozens of exquisitely dressed wizards and witches mingling around, talking and joking and with cups and morsels of food in their hands.

There were tables full with platers, spread around in a cocktail-like arrangement; but it was the rooms' decorations that grabbed my attention the most. I was half-expecting something both excessive and suitably Christmassy —sort of like the Hogwarts' Great Hall— but the Greengrasses had opted for a more sober, down to earth look.

And I meant that literally, because the entire floor of the ballroom was covered in a layer of dirt —an illusion, as I realized the moment I stepped on it and felt the true marble flooring underneath my feet. That, plus the few trees scattered around the place and between the tables —their branches decorated with large, plump golden apples that seemed to shine under the light of the many candles and sconces— it made the feast look like it was taking place deep within some wild, forgotten forest.

It had a hint of the old pagan traditions, the ones I'd studied about in History of Magic but that I'd never witnessed myself, never seen as anything other than facts in a textbook, despite knowing that the pure-bloods still clung to as many of them as they could get away with, often with a grasp so strong it looked as if born out of desperation.

So this was what Yule was all about, then. Uh... pagan, obviously. I could almost imagine Snape's eyes rolling at my surprise.

"Father looks busy. Come, I will introduce you to Mother instead," said Daphne, taking me back to the present.

For some reason I had expected Lord Thaddeus Greengrass to look just like Lucius Malfoy, perhaps out of a subconscious belief that all rich blokes would simply have great hair. But the man my friend had been looking at was balding and thin, dressed in sober yet expensive robes. A man who was talking to... uh... was that Minister Fudge?

Daphne took me away from them, past some of the other guests and towards a woman who was evidently holding court in a manner reminiscent of some of the older Slytherin students in our common room, surrounded by a small group of friends and sycophants —hard to tell which was which. Her dress was of a vibrant green, her hair so blonde it was almost white.

She was also noticeably younger than her husband.

"May I introduce you to my mother: Evelyn Greengrass," said Daphne. "Mother; this is Sylvia Sarramond, the friend I told you about."

"Nice to meet you," I said, doing a shallow and probably graceless bow under the combined gaze of all the adults.

All but Daphne's mother herself, apparently; because I rose my gaze to discover she'd just given me a cursory look, followed by a curt nod of clear dismissal. Then she took hold of Daphne's elbow and guided her a couple steps away.

"Where were you, Daphne?" I heard her say in a cold tone. "Did you perhaps forget already what we agreed on, this very morning?"

Her voice was scolding, her tone low enough that it was clear it was a private conversation, but loud enough that it was clear she didn't particularly care if any of the other adults around them heard what was said. In any case, her court quickly turned around to give them a modicum of privacy, looking at the contents of their wineglasses as if they had become irresistibly interesting; all the while acting as if they were suddenly deaf or something.

And I was still there in the midst of them, awkwardly rooted to the spot.

"I'm sorry, Mother," mumbled Daphne, sounding contrite and withdrawn for the very first time ever since I knew her. "I went to meet Sylvia and bring her–"

"Yes, you do always seem to have an excuse at hand to leave the Belby boy on his own, don't you?"

"No, Mother; I just–"

"Enough. You promised that you would spend time with him tonight, and I don't want to hear any more excuses. You have the entire year at Hogwarts to play with your half-bloods."

I felt my face flush, my jaw tighten. When Daphne returned to me, her gaze down, it took me a veritable effort to move again, walk alongside her; my hands tightened into fists.

"I'm sorry you had to hear that," she said after a beat. She sounded honest, but a part of me could only bristle at how the girl had remained silent at her mothers' words. Like she approved of them, tacitly.

Daphne's gaze went to a boy across the hall, one that I'd seen before at Hogwarts, sitting at the Ravenclaw table. She said in a tired tone: "I do need to spend time with Marcus Belby, I'm afraid. I did promise my parents that I would."

Her half-bloods.

Like we were her pets. Like we were her playthings.

"That's fine," I heard myself reply, robotically. "I see Tracey and Sally there, I'll go meet with them."

Daphne worked her lip for a moment, as if considering whether to say anything more; but I took the decision off her hands by nodding at her and walking away, with purposefully wide strides towards...

Towards the other half-bloods, I guessed.

I tried to convince myself that she didn't really think that way —Daphne, not her mother; fuck her mother. That she had been simply been too cowed, too polite to be a contrarian in front of an adult parental figure. And hadn't I done pretty much the same thing, when Crabbe had called Hermione 'mudblood' right in front of my nose?

Yeah, I tried to convince myself that Daphne would still see us as equals; that she wouldn't submit to the same poisonous world-view that so much of the pure-bloods in wizarding Britain did. Because of course not, of course she wouldn't see us as mere pets.

But it was hard.

Harder, being there at her family's estate, seeing the wide gulf in wealth and power that separated us. It's not that it made me feel insignificant, but that it made me feel like we existed worlds apart, despite being housemates. Like we would never connect, never truly understand each other well enough to be true friends. Because now there was this... this huge thing between us, that I had intuited but never fully seen, never fully grasped while at Hogwarts. This thing made out of endless ornate, palace-like rooms; of animated fountains and top-ranking Ministry officials.

Trying to distract myself by looking at the other guests only cemented that thought further, with every new face that I recognised from seeing on the issues of the Daily Prophet that the upper-years left lying around the common room —and that was yet another difference: I suspected Greengrass wouldn't need to scavenge for free copies of the newspaper.

Here was an old Newt Scamander, in deep discussion with a young man who probably just about left Hogwarts, there was Celestina Warbeck with a wineglass in her hands. Here was the captain of that one all-female Quidditch team. And there... there was who I heavily suspected to be the one, the only, the great Horace Slughorn, carefully sampling canapés off a long tray.

And here was... me. Just me. Orphan, poor me.

"Merry Christmas!" I said when I reached Tracey and Perks, because I was feeling sort of rebellious by then. It had the welcome side-effect of pushing both Flora and Hestia Carrow away from our group —after a look of disgust by one of them. And good riddance.

"Hi," greeted Tracey.

"Sylvia, you are here!" said Sally.

"Sorry if I'm late. It's all Snape's fault, he wouldn't allow me to leave any earlier."

"No, it's fine, we just arrived ourselves," explained Sally.

There was an awkward moment of silence after that, as if none of us knew exactly what to say next, how to start breaching that distance that had grown within our ranks. As if we were too out of practice. I noticed Tracey's eyes going momentarily to my earrings.

I decided to force myself to speak; I had wanted to try and be more forthcoming after all: "There are some news I need to tell you about."

"Shouldn't we wait for Daphne first?" asked Sally.

I turned my gaze to the heiress. She was still talking with Marcus Belby, smiling and doing all the right gestures, as if she had chosen to spend time with him of her own volition rather than being pressured by her mother.

"She's busy, we'll tell her later," I decided, quickly urging the girls to follow me towards the trunk of one of the trees where we wouldn't be overheard. "There have been more attacks at Hogwarts: house elves got hurt, apparently."

"What?!"

"But didn't you deal already with... the Heir stuff?" asked Tracey.

"Yes!" I replied, not bothering to hide my indignation. "Dumbledore dropped the ball, it seems."

"So the Heir's still around?"

"I don't know? I mean, I don't think so; I believe it's just the monster acting on its own, which might actually be worse," I explained, the girls' faces growing more worried with my words. "I hope the Headmaster will get his shit together and fix it soon, but in the meantime we should always stick together; cover each other's backs and never become an isolated target."

"And nobody else knows this? Maybe I should tell my parents, if it's so dangerous," said Tracey, shaken, and looking across the ballroom towards her two parents. Well, towards his father, at least. I didn't recognize the tall, dark haired witch to his side —wearing a burgundy three-piece suit with a cape on top— but I figured she probably was her mother. That, or her father's mistress.

"They might decide to keep you from returning to the school," argued Sally. "Besides, the story says that the monster only targets Muggleborns."

Tracey went silent at that, her expression a mix of guilt and relief, but I wasn't so sure myself. Because yeah, that's what the legend said all-right, but could it be trusted? I feared that it was only Tom Riddle's orders that had ensured the basilisk's targets in the original timeline all had the same particular blood mixture. Or had Salazar Slytherin conditioned the creature so thoroughly that even after a thousand years it would still pass on a tasty morsel, just because they happened to be pure-blood?

Not that the girls were pure-blood themselves either —except for Greengrass. They were half-blood. And me... well, suffice to say that if the basilisk had seen fit to attack the elves, then I myself must definitely be in the menu too.

But speaking of menus; we were forced to stop discussing the touchy matter and move into more inoffensive topics, because soon enough the welcoming cocktail ended and the Feast proper started. The tables were rearranged with the help of some magic spells, and we found ourselves sitting at what was evidently the designated kid's table.

Daphne presided it, of course. And I had to give it to her: she was an excellent actress; if it had been me sandwiched between Belby on one side and the Carrow twins on the other, I doubt I could've kept the disgust from showing across my face.

I myself was next to Tracey and Ernest Macmillan, of all people; with Cassius Warrington sitting right across me. I didn't have much to say to any of them: Warrington because he was two years my senior —which for kids our ages, it might as well mean we belonged to different generations altogether; and Macmillan because he was a Hufflepuff and —like Belby— so far I had only been vaguely aware of his existence as yet another face in the Hogwarts' halls.

Besides, I had a more immediate conundrum to focus on: that of deciding which of the three silver spoons of different sizes I was supposed to use to eat the bowl of steaming hot mushroom soup placed in front of me. My fore-memories weren't going to come to the rescue here either, as my only experiences with fancy dinners were the couple of disastrous dates I'd endured with that bloke Julien —or was it Jules?— Whatever, I mostly remembered that it was just too easy seeing through his act, that of pretending a higher station than what he really was.

But now I was realizing that the posh restaurants he'd taken me to, back when I'd been an adult, were posh but modern, going for fancy minimalism; while this... this was posh and old-fashioned, everything covered in layer after layer of obtuse etiquette.

In the end I simply pretended to fuss with my serviette as I waited for any of the other guests to give me a clue, then I promptly followed their lead. The clatter and clinking of cutlery and plates quickly filled the ballroom, along with the soft melody of the enchanted instruments, conversations drifting back and forth. I found it odd at first, as if something was amiss; until I realised that I was just missing the wild noise, the racket that always filled the Hogwarts's Great Hall every evening. I'd gotten so used to it that now I could only find this much gentler version as somewhat unnerving.

And then there was the food itself:

I eyed the piece of meat on my plate with suspicion, poking it softly with my fork. Blanketed by a smooth layer of gravy, it reminded me of venison or something along those lines. But then again, to the best of my knowledge venison didn't have hard, chitinous scales.

My confusion must have been obvious, because Macmillan clarified in a low voice: "It's dragon."

"Dragon? Aren't those protected in sanctuaries and such?"

He shrugged. "There are some allowances, but... Well, I don't know how it is, but you can't really find this much dragon meat in Diagon Alley, can you? The Greengrasses must have imported it from somewhere else."

Right... probably skirting whatever Ministry laws there must be about killing dragons and selling their meat, as it was. Bold, doing that when one of the guests was the very Minister of Magic himself.

Or perhaps that was precisely the point, I ruminated: to deliver a pointed message merely through the choice of menu.

But whatever the Greengrasses were up to, I had my own reasonable concerns regarding eating dragon meat: "Hmm... this is magical food, no?" I argued. "What about its magical properties?"

"What about them?" replied Warrington with a shrug, as he smoothly cut a thin slice. "It promotes healing and is fortifying; you will study dragons next year."

I hesitantly cut a little piece myself and placed it in my mouth, chewing carefully. It tasted... like chicken, but heavier. More filling and savoury.

"Chunky chicken," I muttered to Tracey, who hid a smile and replied with a shushing motion, eyeing Daphne.

The heiress was far away from us that there was no way she could've heard us, but still I figured it would be wiser to refrain from criticizing her family's choice of main course, being their guest and all. Not that they deserved all that much respect from me, I thought.

But still, Daphne herself was my friend... wasn't she?

I shook my head slightly, as if pushing the conflicting feelings out of my mind, and took another bite of dragon meat. An animal that I'd never seen before in real life, but that I was now eating.

Dragon was hardly the only magical food served that night, it turned out. There were also some semi-transparent eggs, a side-dish with some kind of frog-shaped leafs that crawled around slowly, attempting to escape the bowl, and the Yule Logs they served as desert came directly from some of the branches of the trees around us.

I managed not to embarrass myself through the evening, and when the music picked up —some of the adults and most of the older teenagers crowding the open dance floor by the centre of the ballroom— we instead retreated to play a few rounds of Exploding Snap. We were quickly joined by some of the other young kids around, which made for a more lively competition, but it also meant we couldn't discuss any of the topics that were more private to our circle.

But slowly, little by little the guests trickled out, and at some point bloody Belby left with his parents, so Daphne finally joined us for good. And a while after that, she must have judged her presence was no longer needed, because she suggested we left the ballroom to go to her own rooms.

"I had Tolby move your guest rooms close to mine," she said as we left the remnants of the feast behind; you know, as if that was a totally normal sentence. "That way we can stay close together, and you won't get lost on the way to your rooms."

Something that was a very real risk, given the sprawling size of the Greengrass Estate. She took us through an elegant library, shelves filled to the brims with tomes of all kinds, then upstairs and down a carpeted corridor —the first corridor I saw since my arrival— until we entered a smaller drawing room with walls painted in a soft green hue. There were a couple of comfortable-looking couches, some chairs and tables, a set of shelves surrounding a desk... It evidently doubled as a play room, judging by the handful of dolls and other toys on some of the shelves.

The room ended in a short hallway, with a few doors leading to what I figured were the bedrooms —I could glimpse the end of a four-poster bed through one of the open doors. It all felt surprisingly homey, as if here, so deep within the mansion, the Greengrasses could afford to lower their standards of polite order and stately luxury just a little bit. Just enough as to allow one to breath a little lighter.

My eyes went to the framed pictures decorating the walls. To one of them in particular: a candid photograph of Daphne, sitting at the Hogwarts Library as she read from a thick textbook, studiously taking notes with her fancy quill.

"You had it framed already?" I asked. Because she must have only received it this very morning.

"Oh, of course! It's a lovely picture," she replied. "Thank you so much for it, Sylvia."

"I loved mine too," added Tracey. Her picture had been one of her atop her broomstick, playing Quidditch and twisting in mid air as she intercepted a flying quaffle. "It looks like I'm a professional player!"

"How did you take them?" asked Sally. "I never noticed when you took mine by the lake!"

I gave them a mysterious smirk. "Oh, but where's the fun if I just went and told you?"

"It must have been that first year Gryffindor," commented Tracey. "The one with the camera? I don't remember his name."

"Spoilsport!" I protested, slapping her shoulder, but without heat. She winked at me.

And I felt a tension, a knot deep within my body loosen just a bit.

Daphne invited us to sit down, while she walked up to a Wizarding Wireless set on one of the tables.

"This was also a Yule gift, from my mother," she explained as she fiddled with its controls. Soft, suitably Christmassy tunes filled the air. "I was thinking about bringing it to Hogwarts after winter break."

"Might liven up our dorm," I agreed.

"Did you receive my gift, by the way, Sylvia?"

Her gift: the owl. I nodded, unsure as to how to breach the issue. After a beat, I went with: "It must have cost you quite some money."

Daphne's hand made a dismissal motion. "Oh, that's not an issue."

"But it is, for me," I said, causing her to pause and blink at me. I bit my lip, then decided the cat was already out of the bag, so I might as well forge ahead: "It's just... I appreciate it, of course; but I'd rather you don't gift me things that are so much more expensive than what I can give you. It makes me feel..."

'Like I owe you,' I thought. But I simply shrugged, refusing to say it out-loud. Not that it wasn't clear enough, at any rate.

"Oh," said Daphne.

There was a moment of awkward silence after that, and I cursed myself for plunging us back into this right when our little group was finally perking up for good, after all the fuss from Hallowe'en. But I didn't feel that guilty over it, because the truth was that this... difference in our relative status couldn't really stand like this. It couldn't remain something that only I was aware of, could it? Something that only I felt the impact of.

"But you're keeping him, right?" asked Tracey. "You better!"

I nodded, which seemed to mollify Daphne somewhat. "Of course."

"What are you calling him?"

"I'm thinking Teegee. Short for Telegram."

Aaand none of them got the joke; all the girls puzzled as they eyed one another, as if looking for a clue.

"Teegee sounds... good?" said Sally at last.

I sighed and leaned back on the couch, closing my eyes. "Wasted, I tell you. My wit is wasted on you three."

There was some confused chuckles. But when Daphne sat down herself, she was acting somewhat... odd? It took me a few seconds to place the uncommon expression on her face: she looked sheepish, as if ashamed. It was so strange seeing her like that, that for a moment I wondered if it was one of the Golden Trio masquerading as her, somehow having managed to Polyjuice their way into the Greengrass feast.

"I... must apologise, Sylvia," she said to me. "For not being considerate enough with my gift, and the obligations it placed on you; and for what my mother said. It was quite impolite, and I am sorry you had to overhear that."

Then it was my time to pause and blink.

"It doesn't matter," I replied reflectively. But then I shook my head slightly, because that was a lie. It did matter, after all...

"It wasn't your fault, but thank you," I amended; and this time the words rang true. I quickly rushed to talk about something else: "What's with this Belby anyway?"

That got the interest of the others too, all of us looking expectantly at the heiress; we had been wondering about it during the entire dinner.

"Marcus Belby? Oh, my parents are considering a betrothal, and–"

"Wait, what?!"

"Belby? Are you serious?!"

"You mean, like an engagement?!"

Daphne paused for a beat at our combined cries of surprise, then resumed her explanation in a measured tone: "Not quite an engagement yet, although that is the expectation. My parents want me to marry a pure-blood, and my father insists it be a matrilineal marriage, so that my children inherit our family surname. But that of course rules out the heirs of the most respected families, such as Draco Malfoy. Marcus Belby is a good, suitable match, and his family would accept the terms of the marriage."

She said all that in a flat, even tone; like it was all very reasonable. But also like those weren't her own words, her own thoughts. Like if she could repeat it to herself a few more times, she would start believing it.

"Tell me you aren't going through with this," I said. "Daphne, it's not right to have your marriage arranged already! You are only twelve! Hell, it's never right for your family to force you to marry–"

"Force? Oh, no, Sylvia; they aren't forcing me. They only want us to spend time together, but if we don't like each other, we won't have to marry."

"Well, that's easy then. Just tell them you hate each other. Problem solved."

"I won't do that," she protested. "If I reject him, I might not get as good a match again. There aren't that many pure-blood wizards our age that would accept a matrilineal engagement, and I vastly prefer Marcus to the likes of Gregory Goyle."

I clenched my robes in my hands, in an effort to calm myself, not to grab her shoulders and violently shake some sense into the girl. I had the feeling she wouldn't appreciate that.

I said: "You don't need to marry any of them, Daphne; you can just wait until you find some boy you fancy. Or some girl! I mean, you are still too young to know for sure if you even like boys!"

"But–"

"And forget about Goyle, or stupid Belby. Plenty of fish in the sea, y'know? What's wrong with marrying someone who isn't a pure-blood? Hell, you could marry a Muggle; or not marry at all!"

"You are being silly," she said, shaking her head. "I'm the Greengrass heiress. Of course I need to maintain my family's blood purity, and to bear children of my own."

"That's rubbish, Daphne! You are your own person, not a... a mare for them to pair and breed! If your family can't understand that, then–"

"No, Sylvia, it's you who don't understand!" she exclaimed, raising her voice and losing her composure for the first time ever since I'd first met her; the polite and demure Daphne Greengrass all but disappearing. The sight was so unlike her that I subconsciously edged away from the girl. "I have responsibilities, and I'm not going to shirk them! I have a family, I'm not like you!"

Funny, how Daphne herself looked surprised at the very words she'd just said out-loud. A surprise that quickly turned into horror, as she no doubt realized she'd just thrown my orphan status straight at my face.

"I– I'm sorry," she muttered. "I didn't mean–"

I sighed, shaking my head. "No, you are right. I can't understand it."

Because yeah, I might remember having had a family in my fore-memories; but it was nothing like hers. Our responsibilities back then had been only to each other, not to the family as a thing. Because my family surname had never been in the history books. We'd had no Estate to our name, and no Minister had ever visited us. We'd had no rooms full of mortuary masks, no ancestors to judge us with their dead stares.

Back when I'd first met Daphne last year, I'd quickly realised how her parents must have trained her, must have instructed her into being this little politician, this little princess. And back then I'd found that as somewhat amusing.

But now, now I was starting to realize the true, horrifying shape of it. The depths of it. All this pressure she must have been subjected to, just by virtue of living here, within these walls. A pressure to conform, to become what they needed her to be. A pressure that would bend anyone out of shape, turn them into something else.

All the wealth and magic and luxury in the world, all at the cost of being yourself. Of getting to choose.

She was right. I couldn't understand. Of course I couldn't.

And yet...

"But you have to find a balance," I insisted, my tone softer this time, trying to find the right words. "You can't just be... the Greengrass heiress all day, all the time. You also need to find a way to be just Daphne too, or... or someday you might grow to hate your family."

There was a deafening silence after that, broken only by the absurdly festive music still coming out of the wireless. Daphne's gaze was down, her eyes watery and her body still as a statue. Sally and Tracey were frozen too, as if trying not to breath too loud, and probably wishing they'd never agreed to this sleepover in the first place.

Of course, I couldn't manage the impossible feat of being polite for a single night. I couldn't manage to be a proper guest; to simply keep my thoughts to myself, my mouth closed.

"I think she's right, Daphne," said a new voice, breaking the silence.

We all gazed at the newcomer: a rail thin, young girl with messy long dark hair. She was barefoot, wearing a dressing gown over some pyjamas. But her eyes...

For a moment, I wondered if she had fore-memories of her own too, if like me she'd had a life before this life. Because her eyes felt deep, her gaze somehow mature beyond her years. Or maybe it was just those faint, dark circles under her eyes that made her look older.

Daphne was the first to react, quickly rising up to walk up to her. "Oh, Tori! I'm sorry, did we wake you up?"

"No, I was already awake. I told Mother that I was feeling better than this morning, but she insisted I miss the feast. I asked Tolby to bring me some food."

"You shouldn't have. He'll get into trouble."

"What for? It was me who asked... So, are these your friends from Hogwarts?"

Daphne nodded, motioning the girl to approach and sit with us. "Yes. This is my sister Astoria. Astoria, these are–"

"No, wait! Let me figure it out," she said, eyeing us. She pointed a finger at me first. "You must be Sylvia, obviously..."

"Hey! What do you mean, 'obviously'?" I protested in mock anger.

But she ignored me, turning towards the other two girls: "And you... you're Tracey, and you're Sally-Anne!"

"Close," said Daphne. "She is Sally; this is Tracey."

"Oh... you looked more like I imagined Tracey would. My sister told me many stories about all of you."

"Any of them juicy?" I asked, wiggling my eyebrows.

"No. She never tells me the truly juicy things." She narrowed her eyes. "But now that you three are here..."

A mischievous smirk bloomed across Tracey's face: "Oh... so she never told you about that magazine that Livia Ashford asked her to hide from the prefects?"

"Tracey, don't!" said a blushing Daphne, her eyes suddenly wide.

Astoria looked like Christmas had come early... or, well... like Christmas had come twice, I guess: "No, she didn't. What was it?"

"Well, it was this Muggle magazine with... uhm... pictures of some boys that–"

"Tracey!!"

In the end it was Astoria Greengrass who probably saved our circle from stepping too deep into the disaster we'd been spiralling around for all these past weeks. She saved us through embarrassing stories at first, which then morphed into more earnest ones as the night progressed. And when we returned to the topic of families, to that dragon-headed monster, Tracey admitted that she was worried her parents didn't like each other that much, anymore. And I told them of the Mirror of Erised, admitting for the first time what I'd seen reflected on its surface: a family.

I didn't tell them that I remembered them from before this life, of course. But in the end that didn't change the truth at all, did it? Because in the end, the family that I'd seen in the mirror wasn't mine; not really. Not any longer.

But it was okay; because when I went to sleep on my four-poster —in the massive guest bedroom adjacent to those of my friends— I realised that despite it all, despite all of our differences and our missteps... that Christmas Day had been the first one where I hadn't felt alone.

Chapter Text

When school resumed, it seemed as if Hogwarts was holding its breath, waiting with anxious anticipation. The rumour mill doing its work, it only took one week into the term for news of the attacked elves to reach the ears of even the less well-connected of the Muggleborn students in the castle.

And yet nobody said anything, not overtly, as if afraid that by merely raising their voices they'd become the very next targets, that they might incur the ire of the Heir —that most suspected still was at large, despite Dumbledore's announcement during last term. So the news travelled in whispered words and hushed conversations, and the fear in the air manifested into corridors that were emptier than before everyone had left for winter break, as the students opted to remain in the company of their housemates; hallways and expansive grounds outside abandoned for the safety of the classrooms, the Library and the common rooms.

Not that you'd think anything was amiss if you judged it only by the faculty, at least at first blush. The professors went through the motions —imparting lessons, patrolling the school and adding and subtracting house points— as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, as if there was no monster loose somewhere in the castle. And at moments, it even seemed to do the trick: when we were at the Great Hall for dinner —among the noise of the Gryffindors and a Dumbledore that looked upon us with placid eyes— you could almost forget about it for a while. You could almost believe that they'd already caught the beast, or chased it away perhaps. That everything was back to how it should be. And that was an easy, relieving belief to indulge in.

But then you'd notice the tension underneath McGonagall's stiff posture, or the way Flitwick's eyes seemed to dart around during Charms, as if constantly scanning the classroom's dark corners and crevices, and just like that the illusion would break once more. Just like that, the heavy reality of the situation would reassert itself: that the whole of Hogwarts was simply waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Well, almost the whole of it. Because there was one exception to the rule, one single person who dared break the unspoken rule not to speak about the whole... tenseness that had seized the school ever since Christmas, and who decided to single-handedly put an end to it with a heavy dose of misguided optimism: Gilderoy Lockhart.

And so, on Valentine's Day —just a few days ahead of my own birthday— Hogwarts was still tense and fearful, but now there were pink ribbons decorating the foreboding hallways, and a bunch of grumpy, cupid-dressed dwarves roving the school, harassing students left and right as they handed valentine cards around.

The most incredible thing was that amazingly enough, stupidly enough... it worked. Not because people decided to indulge in the spirit of love —as our professor of Defence had put it— but because of the sheer, fucking audacity of it. Because the contrast was so jarring that you had to laugh at how absurd the situation was.

Like when a very harried Blaise Zabini burst into our Transfiguration classroom, the last student to arrive and drawing all the stares. He was unusually dishevelled and sweaty, his robes all rumpled as if he had run all the way there. His eyes were wild and panicked, and he rushed to shut the door right in front of the figure of something that was chasing him, hot on his heels.

Everybody held their breath, and I saw out of the corner of my eye how McGonagall rose to her feet, wand aimed forwards and with a focused determination written on her face.

And then a gruff voice said from the other side of the door: "Oy! I still need to sing you the serenade!"

There was a moment's silence, before the entire class burst into wild laughter. A loud, almost hysterical and unhinged kind of laughter, propelled by fear. McGonagall visibly deflated with relief, sitting down at once as if her legs had suddenly failed her. She didn't even say a word when Zabini threw a crumpled valentine to the bin and loudly grumbled: "Morgana's bloody tits! It's the sixth time today!"

"Aww. Too many admirers, Zabini?" Tracey asked out-loud, prompting another wave of laughter, as I relaxed the grip on my own wand and tried to calm down my own wild heartbeats.

It was short-lived, though, because soon enough McGonagall had recovered from the scare and put an end to any lingering mirth, as she reminded us that we were about to begin a new chapter of our textbook, this time on the transfiguration of smells. And it didn't get any better from there: the class that followed leaving me with a lingering headache, both from having to follow the intricate mathematical expressions in the book, and from the pungent, heavy smells that quickly filled the air the moment we began the practical portion of the lesson.

It was mind-numbing, and by the time the hour ended most people were bouncing in their seats to leave the classroom behind, monster or not. I was quickly putting away my parchments, quill and textbook when I felt the foreboding gaze of Professor McGonagall fall on me.

"Miss Sarramond," she said, in an even tone of voice that made me immediately suspicious, "Please come to my desk, there is something I wish to discuss with you."

"Uh-oh," muttered Perks.

"Go. We will wait for you outside," said Daphne. Because we had reached the very sensible agreement that none of us in our circle should at any time be on their own, while in the corridors.

Because you know, being eaten by a monster was a totally logical concern for twelve —almost thirteen— years old girls to worry about. Stupid wizards and their lack of common sense.

Still, I couldn't help but feel that it was a different kind of monster that was now threatening to devour me, as I tentatively approached the stern figure behind the desk. McGonagall eyed me over her glasses, and waved with her hand at a couple of essays laid in front of her, one of them in a very recognisable handwriting.

"This," she said, pointing to the one on the left, "is your housemate Sean Higgs' essay on the five Exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration. And this," she pointed to the other one, "is your own essay on the same topic, from last year–"

"Oh. Do you still keep those?"

"Yes, Miss Sarramond; I do keep them. Now... can you spot the differences?"

I looked at them closer, and remained silent. Hell... even the first and last word of every line were identical. Bloody Higgs the Younger, I was going to murder him. He was supposed to rewrite it in his own voice, switch things around; not just copy it straight!

"Care to explain?" prompted the witch, after a few seconds of me staring at the pieces of parchment.

"Er... great minds think alike?"

There was a beat of tense silence after that, in which I fully expected her to explode at me in a rain of fury. And I wondered, not for the first time, where that need of mine to needle McGonagall came from. My best guess was that her no-nonsense, holier-than-thou disciplinarian attitude simply rubbed me the wrong way. It was instinctual, her whole stitch reminding me of the bad times of my past: too close to Mrs. Coverdale, my short-lived foster mother. Too judgemental for me to feel comfortable, at ease around her.

But maybe those similarities didn't go much deeper than the surface, though. Because rather than raising her voice at me, or stand up menacingly to make full use of her higher stature, as Mrs. Coverdale —or the Giraffe— would have done, the witch simply let out a deep sigh, fixing me with a stare. A stare that didn't seem hostile, as much as it was... concerned?

"I am perplexed, Miss Sarramond," she said softly, gathering up the parchments with the evidence of the crime and putting them away. "You are certainly a capable, talented student; and yet you insist on squandering your potential, continuously challenging the norms, defying the established rules and risking disciplinary action for little gain. Very well, then; since it appears that you and Mister Higgs have so much in common, it is only just that you both share your detention together, along with a deduction of a hundred points from Slytherin." She lifted a hand, forestalling my protests and handing me a slip of parchment with the details on the detention. "I would remind you that cheating is strictly forbidden at Hogwarts, and that persisting in this path might very well lead to your eventual expulsion... although whether this will deter, or encourage you further remains unclear."

I stood there, paralysed after her short speech as if I'd just seen a basilisk, my fist scrunching up the note she'd just handed me, my heart beating fast. I wanted to reply to her, to shoot back something clever, just like I always did to Mrs. Coverdale. But I simply couldn't find what to say, couldn't conjure up any words.

McGonagall quirked an eyebrow and said: "That will be all."

Then she lowered her gaze to the parchments and textbooks still on her desk, as if I was now beneath her notice. And I had a crazy, completely bonkers, batshit insane impulse:

I could obliviate her.

The thought came unbidden, out of the blue, but I realised that it was fundamentally true. She wasn't looking at me anymore, now that she'd dismissed me, and we were alone in the room. It was evident she didn't consider me to be any threat at all, so I just needed to reach for my wand. And from all my duelling I knew that I was quick at casting; quicker than most. So even if she noticed the movement, it would already be too late by the time–

No. No, this line of thinking was stupid; dangerously so. I repressed the idea, sending it back to whatever dark crevices of my soul it had emerged from, and simply turned around and filed out the classroom, stepping hard on the flagstones as if to unleash my fury onto the world at large instead. Or perhaps as if to root myself, go back to my senses. The other girls joined me outside, exchanging worried glances when I didn't say a word; but my thoughts kept circling back to what Dumbledore had said to me the year before, his warning about standing at precipices.

"So...?" ventured Tracey.

That took me back to the present. I replied with a curt "Detention, she caught Higgs copying my homework," as I eyed the crumpled note, reading the words on it.

"Oh, fuck her!" I exclaimed aloud. Sally quickly looked behind us, terrified, but thankfully McGonagall hadn't emerged yet out of the classroom. Not that I cared right then, because I was reconsidering giving in to that impulse, after all.

"That bad?"

I showed them the slip of parchment. "Herbology! My detention is another remedial Herbology class!"

"But you were finished with those already, were you not?" asked Daphne.

"Yes! Sprout said it was only for the first term. She even congratulated me on my 'adequate progress' and everything," I explained, doing air quotes with my fingers. "McGonagall must really, really hate me."

"It's probably because of the monster," said Tracey, annoyingly reasonable. "She wouldn't want you and Higgs returning to the common room late in the day, on your own. But those remedial classes are in the morning, and there are more people around and about."

"Higgs won't be there," I said under my breath as I started to walk away from the classroom. "I'm going to feed him to one of the trolls in the Forbidden Forest."

"When is it, this detention?" asked the Greengrass heiress.

"Next week, the day after my birthday. Not that Higgs will be celebrating any new birthdays either, after I push him off the Astronomy Tower."

"It could have been worse, Sylvia. You are lucky she didn't discover you were sharing your homework with so many people."

"Not with Higgs, anymore. He'll soon be sharing his grave with the Giant Squid, once I drown him in the middle of the lake."

"Yeah," agreed Sally. "Just imagine if it'd been Snape instead. Detention until you come of age."

"I will rip out his teeth first, to use as potion ingredients," I muttered darkly.

"Uh..."

I paused, turning my gaze at them. "What, too much?" But then I saw the reason they'd stopped: a dwarf with those stupid fake wings hanging off his back was approaching our group. The girls tensed up, no doubt wondering which among us was about to be serenaded, but I simply sighed and started digging through my pockets. When the dwarf finally reached us and opened the palm of his hand, I placed three sickles on it.

"Three?" he growled, rubbing the coins against each other with his calloused fingers. "You said six, lass."

"Well, you didn't sing him the song, did you?"

He muttered something unkind under his breath, but closed a tiny fist over the coins and walked away, his wings wobbling in sync with his steps. For a moment I wondered if Lockhart would have taken the precaution to warn the dwarves about the monster, then realised that he most likely hadn't; but by the time I considered whether I should do it myself the dwarf had already turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

Oh well... he would be fine, probably.

I made to resume walking towards the Potions classroom, but the girls didn't follow; instead, they simply remained planted there, observing me with wide eyes.

"It was... you?" accused Tracey.

"What?" I replied, trying my best at projecting confused innocence, but to no avail. They were probably immunized to it at this point.

"Zabini! Do you... fancy him?"

"What?!... No! No way! Don't be silly, Tracey!"

"Then why–?"

"Because it's fun! I'm just messing with him, that's all. It's payback for not teaching me that duelling spell."

She narrowed her eyes at me. "...Right."

"Yes right," I said, nodding firmly. "Now, can we finally move on?"

There was another pause for the girls to exchange meaningful stares, but I simply ignored them and started walking ahead, forcing them to either follow me or risk leaving me on my own to fall prey to the predator from the Chamber, which the way the day was going was starting to sound more appealing by the minute.

I huffed and shook my head, as if to remove the idea, the image that Tracey had just planted inside of it. I had never even considered... and I had been an adult, besides! Or... well, had the memories of one, at least. That made the prospects of romance —the theoretical, purely imaginary prospects— much more ickier, much more confusing.

Just stupid; all of it, the whole notion. It was better to simply forget about it all.

But thanks to McGonagall and the dwarf it meant we arrived late to Potions; not by much, but just enough that Snape was already in the classroom, getting ready for the day's lesson. He paused in his preparations, looked straight at me and said, singling me out: "Nice of you to join us at last, Miss Sarramond; I see that you managed to delay your friends as well. That will be five points for your tardiness. Now sit down and open your textbooks."

Well, fuck him too. I shot him an angry stare, but walked up to Hermione's desk in a resentful silence. I knew better than to protest his unfairness by now; it would only give our head of house an excuse to punish us further, and I'd already lost too many house points today.

And yeah, it was a big contrast to how I'd reacted with McGonagall, sure. So go ahead and call me a hypocrite now. But the thing was, Snape was so morally grey as to not get that same allergic reaction out of me. He was a twat, yes, but not a self-righteous one.

Besides, his unfairness also worked in my favour at times. If we'd been Harry Potter and company arriving late instead of a bunch of snakes, he'd probably had deducted ten or more points for each of us.

It wasn't like I really cared that much about the points and the House Cup at all, but I couldn't deny that it was an effective tool at ensuring discipline, because most of the students did care about it —stupid tribalism and what have you. And that meant that, even if you didn't give a flying crap about it yourself, you were made to care by your own housemates turning their backs on you if you did something severe enough as to impact your house's chances at winning.

Something like losing more than a hundred points in a single day.

Yeah. Going back to the Slytherin common room after this wasn't going to be pretty, but I still vastly preferred facing Prefect Farley's anger than risking a new encounter with the basilisk if I decided to strike out on my own instead.

I sighed, rubbing my forehead softly, my gaze lost on the brewing diagrams spread on the textbook in front of me, Snape's voice droning monotonously in the background as he began his lecture. The frizzy haired girl next to me bit her lip for a moment, then whispered: "Don't worry about it, Sylvia. Snape is always a git to everyone."

"Yeah, I know." I nodded, eyeing the foreboding professor as he turned his back on us to write on the classroom board with nothing but his wand and some magic. His hand movements —and the matching white strokes— were so sharp and violent that I wondered if he was silently casting Sectumsempra. "And the whole deal with this monster isn't helping shit; the bat's getting grumpier by the day."

"Oh," she exclaimed, searching through her bag to extract a thick tome that was definitely not a book on potions, "that reminds me... I figured out what the monster is!"

She opened the book —Scamander's, apparently— deftly running through its pages until she reached one with a diagram depicting a very particular, serpentine creature.

"Basilisk," I read aloud. "Are you sure, Granger?"

Yeah, I was trying to act clueless, trying to play it off; but internally I was jubilant. Or well, somewhat relieved at least. I'd already shared a lot of info on this case with the other girls —and Dumbledore— and I didn't want to give out more information. At a certain point people would start questioning how it was that I knew so much. In fact, you could say that had already happened: it was the whole reason behind my falling out with Tracey after Hallowe'en, after all.

But Hermione finding out on her own and then telling me gave me a convenient excuse. Now I could warn the girls what exactly to be on the lookout for, without having to justify why I hadn't done so before, if I'd known it all along.

"Yes. Harry is pretty sure it's using the pipes to move across the school, because he– uh... nevermind. You should use a mirror to look around corners, though, that's what we've been doing since I found out."

I nodded. I had been wearing my sunglasses more often than ever, and taken to be the first of our group to turn corners and such, but she was right that a mirror would be a good extra precaution too. I asked: "Have you told any of the professors?"

"Yes. We told McGonagall. She listened to us, but warned us not to involve ourselves any further in the matter."

I shook my head. Stupid McGonagall, always thinking she knew better. "What about the Headmaster?"

"Well, Harry tried to–"

She was interrupted by a schoolbook crashing flat against our shared desk with a loud bang, making the both of us jerk in our seats. I rose my gaze sharply to find the dark, ominous figure of our professor standing right beside us, somehow having managed to approach our desk without neither of us realising.

He said: "I would advice you two to start paying more attention to the lecture at hand, if your inadequate minds are so easily distracted by trivial gossip."

"We were discussing one of the ingredients, sir," I lied smoothly.

He gritted his teeth, fixing me in a stare; then asked in an icy tone: "Indeed? And which ingredient might that be?"

"Um..." I risked a glance towards the classroom's blackboard, but before I could read any of the names written there Snape had already stepped sideways, placing himself in my line of sight and blocking the view with his own body.

"I am... waiting," he warned, after a few seconds of silence on my part.

"The snake fangs!" exclaimed Hermione. "I was wondering whether the type of snake made any difference when brewing; for example, fangs from a venomous serpent might prove themselves less stable than–"

"Clearly it does," he interrupted, sounding somehow even more irritated. "That you two aren't already aware of this fact only highlights how little attention you pay to the subject, how poor your education is."

Then his eyes narrowed slightly, a twisted, smug smirk tugging at his lips. I closed my eyes and sighed in anticipation. And sure enough:

"Perhaps it would be prudent to remedy this lack of knowledge, now that you two have so thoroughly demonstrated the deficiencies and ignorance of this class. Let's see... every student in this room shall write a two-foot essay on the differences of potency among ingredients derived from different breeds of serpents," he said, to collective groaning. "You can thank your two fellow classmates for this... enlightening task. Now, as I was saying before I was interrupted..."

Granger's face flushed red under the combined glares of almost every Slytherin and Gryffindor in the room. I simply gave them a defiant shrug, satisfied when most of them averted their gazes —one more advantage of my duelling exploits and fame. And besides, it wasn't like it was truly my fault: like Hermione had said, Snape was always a git to everyone. I'd already written my fair load of essays just because Potter had mouthed off one too many times.

But it was probably wiser to keep a low profile for the rest of the lesson. And the rest of the day as well, seeing the shape of it. So I remained politely silent in Potions, didn't say anything rude to Malfoy when he actually went and passive-aggressively thanked us for the new assignment, and on our way to the Great Hall for dinner I kept my eyes down and forced a fast pace as we walked past the cluster of Slytherins gathered around our house's hourglass, interrogating each other as to how it could be that we'd just lost our lead.

For whatever good that did. Losing points wouldn't be nearly as effective if it could be kept a secret, so there wasn't much I could do to avoid Gemma Farley's sequestering and public humiliation of me the moment I stepped foot into our common room, later in the day.

But on the bright side I had to share the spotlight with Sean Higgs —since it was all his fault, really. And my hopes lied in Higgs being someone who Farley couldn't exactly rail for too long against, given that his brother was our Quidditch team's Seeker and one of our most respected housemates; someone who our dearest Prefect wouldn't risk crossing, in other words.

As it turned out, though, that notion was a little too optimistic: Farley did rail against us, publicly, the two of us standing side by side with our gazes lowered as she made it clear she wasn't miffed at us because we had cheated, but because we'd been caught. But when I made the —very wise— argument that it wasn't my fault, but Higgs', she paused in her tirade to face me fully, all sharp cheeks and burrowed frowns. Then she quickly grabbed me by the scruff of my robes and took a few steps to the side, forcing me to follow her until we were by the stairs to the dorms.

"You don't get it?" she asked, a hint of astonishment in her voice. "You truly don't?"

I released myself with a quick push to her arm. "What? The reason why you're putting the blame only on me? Yeah, I do: you don't want to make enemies of the Higgs."

She paused for a moment, then shook her head. "No, you idiot. It's because it's your network. If you're going to get ambitious and recruit followers, it's your responsibility to make sure they don't make mistakes that end up hurting our house."

"What are you on about, Farley? I'm not recruiting followers! I'm just trading homework for favours and some money."

"Oh, really? Is that why you spent an entire hour teaching them the full body-bind curse the other day: because it was in their homework?"

It was a trick question, of course, as that particular curse was not taught in the first-year's curriculum. I shrugged and said: "They paid for it."

And they had. After the monster's existence became public knowledge, most students started paying special attention to their safety. There was safety in numbers, of course, in never being on your own. But there was safety too in honing your skills.

So by the end of January, the uptick in attendance to the Duelling Club was undeniable, as many students sought a more practical approach to defence. And after that, it didn't take long for first-year Thomas Avery to approach me one evening, and suggest I begin teaching him and his friends some of my combat spells.

I had already been teaching some of my tricks to the girls in my circle —we were currently working through the Summoning charm— and I could see the clear opportunity in Avery's request. Another source of income, of favours and good-will from the first-years and their influential families. It was win-win, so I had obviously accepted.

"It's not like I'm leading them or anything," I explained.

Farley tilted her head: "So you didn't give them a talk on the risks of assuming people's abilities from their blood purity."

"But... that was just me rambling on! Doesn't really go anywhere, does it?"

She shook her head once more, muttered an "Unbelievable," and walked away, leaving me feeling odd and confused. A state that wasn't lifted one bit when Sean Higgs approached me a few minutes later to own up for his mistake and apologise, and asked me not to expel him from the 'group'. A group I hadn't even realised existed in the first place, not as anything more than a network of one-to-one bargains.

Well, if it was going to be something official...

"It's all right," I replied to him. "We might need to ease off the blatant cheating for a while, but you are still a trusted member of the 'Order of the Hydra'."

He paused for a moment, as if taken aback, then quickly said "We are not calling it that," before walking away.

Right. So much for me being a leader.

It did mean that I wasn't as surprised as I could've been, when some of the first-years congratulated me on the day of my birthday. This time we celebrated it in our common room, rather than the creepy classroom by the dungeons —ironic, how which of these two places felt safe and which dangerous had simply switched around from last year.

All in all, it was a nice cap for the day before my detention, the girls and me sampling sponge cake and pastries while we listened to the music from Daphne's wireless.

And so I was already officially thirteen when I left for the greenhouses alongside Higgs the Younger, the morning of the day after. The castle was still cold, a faint morning mist having managed to invade the Entrance Hall through the wide open main doors. A sullen Filch —with a caged rooster by his feet— observed us walk past, his body still and his suspicious eyes following us as the bird crowed.

This was a new development, the roosters. The faculty had finally seen to do something proactive, placing them at key points across the castle. It wasn't lost on me that this had only happened after Hermione told them about the basilisk, though, which probably meant that during all this time Dumbledore was aware a monster was at large, yes, but not just just which kind of monster it was.

It was progress, nevertheless, and a step in the right direction. And that wasn't my only defence against the basilisk, either. Like many other students recently, I also held a pocket mirror to check corners with. And besides, I was wearing my sunglasses.

But there hadn't been any new reported attacks since those against the house-elves —and our regular social visits to the kitchens confirmed that to be the case— and so I was starting to tell myself that perhaps, if we were lucky, the basilisk might have left the castle already. It might have started to see it as an increasingly hostile place to be —what with the roosters and the powerful wizards hunting it— and left for greener pastures.

It was with that hope in my heart that we entered the greenhouses, the thick, humid warmth inside hitting us like a wet slap to the face, a stark contrast to the chill drafts from before. The place was empty when we arrived, but the soft noises of tools being taken out of cabinet drawers coming from the adjacent storage room told me that Sprout couldn't be far.

I stifled a groan once I glanced at the workbench, though. Upon it were twin rows of empty pots, and a large sack of dirt, which told me our detention would probably consist on repotting plant after plant. As long as they weren't Mandrakes —or Venomous Tentacula, or Spiky Bushes, or Devil's Snare— it might not be that terrible a task, but I'd rather prune dead leaves instead. Repotting always left me with traces of dirt stuck under my fingernails for the rest of the day.

I made for my usual seat when I noticed Sean Higgs remaining still, right behind me. I frowned at him, confused. I didn't know that much about the first-years' respective academic prowess, but I didn't think Higgs was particularly bad at Herbology. He certainly couldn't be half the blunderer as I was, at any rate; so what was his problem now?

I was about to voice my question when I noticed he wasn't looking at the workbench, at me, or at the door to Sprout's storage room either. No, his gaze was fixed on a point past the last workbench, near the floor. I followed it, and saw a leg sticking out from behind the table, the foot pointing up to the ceiling.

It was as if all sound had suddenly ceased, except for my heartbeats. I rushed ahead, unthinking but still with enough presence of mind as to position myself in front of Higgs and extract my wand. I advanced towards the leg, then, and discovered it was connected to a body. The body of a young boy my age, fallen to the greenhouse's floor, frozen stiff in an unnatural position.

Neville Longbottom's eyes were open, but unblinking, his paralysed face stuck in an unmoving expression of shock and surprise.

Chapter Text

"So... petrified, uh?"

I nodded. "As in 'not dead'. That's what Sprout said, at any rate. Dumbledore, too."

She had said it over and over, Sprout, almost like a prayer; always bringing up her Mandrakes and how they would be fully grown very soon. And 'I only left for a minute.' She had also repeated that, quite a few times.

The Headmaster had been more circumspect, more measured in his tone, in how his gaze lingered on Longbottom's fallen body as he examined the scene of the attack; but now and then his stare would jump back to me, as if perennially surprised to find me standing there by the workbench. As if I was some sort of eerie apparition myself, there only to foretell ruin and destruction.

Or maybe that's just how I felt.

They had interrogated us, and I'd expected a full inquisition; but no, Dumbledore took us at face value, apparently. Perhaps because he'd taken a quick look at a nervous, pallid Sean Higgs and ruled him incapable of such levels of deception as lying about this would require. The old wizard had theorised that Longbottom must have been lucky enough to only glimpse the creature through the glass of the greenhouse, the monster slithering past, right outside the classroom.

He also assuaged Sprout's obvious distress and guilt, telling her that it was probably her presence in the storage room that had dissuaded the monster from coming in and finishing its meal up. But it went unsaid that, had Longbottom been just a tad unluckier, he might have glimpsed it through an open door instead. And that would have put a permanent, early full stop to the boy's story.

The inquisition had come afterwards, for me. The nervous anticipation infecting Hogwarts had finally exploded into some sort of unrelenting, panicky avalanche. Everybody was well aware that something very serious had just happened, but they didn't know exactly what. The faculty had quickly sequestered the entire student body and rushed them back to the safety of the dormitories and common rooms —which had the side-effect of cutting the links of the network of gossip and rumours. And in lieu of truth people just made shit up. I even overheard an older Slytherin girl, very seriously explaining to her friends how Professor Lockhart had just saved Mr. Filch from being devoured alive —but not before the man had already lost an arm.

But slowly, my involvement in this new situation —and that of Sean Higgs— trickled down, little by little. And by the time when we finally were allowed to leave to the Great Hall for dinner, all of us marching together and escorted by Prefects and Professors, I was already fielding questions left and right.

"So it is a basilisk, then?" asked Grace Crabbe. "Did you actually see it yourselves?"

"Of course not," replied Sean. "If we had, we would be petrified ourselves too!"

"No, you idiot," explained Adrian Pucey, not unkindly, as he towered behind him. "It needs to look at you to petrify you, not the other way around."

That was when the food finally manifested in front of us, breaking apart the little group of older housemates that had been swarming our end of the communal table, hungry for news. I was half-aware of the gossip extending, radiating outwards to the rest of our house —as student talked to student— and then from there to the nearby Ravenclaw table.

I had a moment to wonder what distorted version of the truth would reach the Gryffindors, at the opposite end of the Great Hall, after the game of telephone was through and done. I noticed the Weasley Twins in particular, eyeing me now and then, as if they had learnt something already. Not that it was surprising, given that the victim was a lion too.

But the whole encounter at the greenhouses and everything that followed afterwards had left me shaken, almost flatfooted, so it wasn't until Tracey mentioned it —after elbowing me softly when I didn't react at first— that I realised Dumbledore wasn't present in the Great Hall.

"He must be dealing with the Longbottoms," theorised Greengrass, to my other side. "I have met Neville's grandmother before; she must be quite furious."

"Everyone else is here, though," I muttered, eyeing the entire faculty assembled behind the high table. "And they look..."

I paused, searching for a word. Worried, yes... but it was more than that. Snape's eyes were glued to his own soup, staring it as darkly as he would Potter's cauldron in Potions. Flitwick played with his fork continuously. And McGonagall...

McGonagall looked haunted. Lost.

And I had a good grasp of Dumbledore by now —as much as one could reasonably have, after reading the books, watching the films, and seeing him in action day after day for about two years. So I knew there was just no way in hell he wouldn't have wanted to give out an encouraging —albeit sombre— speech right now. This was the very first time that the whole school was together in the same room, after such a grave event; so he wouldn't have missed it, not voluntarily.

Which meant there was something else going on, something that had prevented him from being here. The formidable Augusta Longbottom was a candidate, certainly... but it just didn't seem like reason enough.

But then my eyes fell on Draco: on his satisfied stance, chest puffed and nose raised up in the air, his shit-eating smirk written across his face. He had obviously heard us, and was obviously waiting for a prompt, dying for any of us to ask him just what it was that he knew.

I could pretty much imagine what he was about to tell us, so I didn't feel the need to indulge him, opting to ignore him instead as I focused on filling my glass with some apple juice. Parkinson however bit the hook: "Do you know something, Draco?"

The boy preened for a beat, looking around the table to gather more attention towards himself, the prat; then he finally said: "He's out for good, Dumbledore. The Board of Governors finally got wise and suspended the fool. That old disgrace's not coming back after this, ever."

"Oh! That's simply brilliant, Draco!"

"Your father's doing?" asked Zabini.

"Obviously."

"Do you think that's wise?" said Daphne.

Zabini nodded. "Right. No love lost for the Headmaster either; but I trust the likes of Sprout or Flitwick even less, to keep us safe from a wild basilisk."

"But it's not a wild beast, is it?" argued Draco. I could see his growing annoyance at being second-guessed —or at least, at having his father be second-guessed, which might be even more of a crime in his eyes. But he surprised me by biting his tongue and replying in a measured, albeit condescending tone: "This is the Heir of Slytherin's plan; they must know what they are doing."

Hmm...

Tracey eyed me, waiting to see if I'd correct the blond boy, but after a beat of my silence she said: "That's not true. The Heir of Slytherin was–"

I placed a hand on her arm, forestalling her. Because yeah, we could tell him that the monster was actually on the loose, that there was no dark, clever wizard planning these attacks from behind the curtain. And that, as a result, his father's misguided schemes were just as likely to come and bite us back in our collective arse.

But the thing was, I had glimpsed an opportunity right now, staring me in the face. I wanted to turn Malfoy away from the path of the dark side, so to speak, and this seemed like an unexpected, handy lever I could use to help me in that task.

What I needed to do was impress upon him the inherent danger of these sort of schemes, that when you played with Fiendfyre, as it were, you shouldn't expect to walk away unscathed. That very idea had been the core of Duskhaven's teachings in regards to dark magic, last year, and it also held true for the dark wizards themselves.

But I had to put it in other words. He hadn't paid any credence to Professor Duskhaven, and he wouldn't heed my warning either if I sounded too moralizing. It had to come from an angle of self-interest instead. I waited a moment, working quickly through the possibilities, assembling the words in my head.

Then I said: "I thought the Heir's plans were to attack the Muggleborns, drive them away. But Longbottom was —is— a pure-blood. So... it seems like you people are also in the menu." I then took a large bite of a piece of bread, as if to emphasize the point.

"Hardly," he said, rolling his eyes. "The Longbottoms are blood traitors, everybody knows that."

"Oh. I wonder then, what the Heir's opinions on loyalty must be. Important to know that after today, no?"

He sighed. "What do you mean?"

What, did I really need to lead him all the way up to the conclusion? Zabini over there seemed like he had already picked up my meaning.

"Well," I explained, "Just that the Heir's definition of traitors might be wider than yours, and include those that they consider disloyal too. Like all those families that supported You-Know-Who at first, then turned their backs on him and the whole Death Eater schtick the moment he was defeated? You know which ones, the ones who claimed they were Imperiused and such..."

Like the Malfoys, of course. I didn't have to say it outloud, though: the tense, frozen moment that followed had a silencing, chilling effect on the table, as the scions of the pure-blood families crossed stares with each other. Draco tried to play it cool, but I saw him noticeably gulping and straightening up his posture, his earlier satisfaction having seemingly vanished.

Surprisingly, it was Thomas Avery who spoke next, from three seats away. The first-year boy said: "She is right. You should write back to your father, Malfoy."

Uh. Was he publicly supporting me because he was in the homework-sharing group? Followers had some uses indeed; who would have thought?

More surprisingly still, Theodore Nott also nodded and spoke aloud: "Either the Heir is more... zealous than he believed, or they have lost control over the monster. In either case, we are in danger too."

"My father would not put me in danger!" protested Draco, crossing his arms and scowling like a petulant child.

"Maybe he didn't know himself," I said. "Dark wizards are known to be notoriously cagey about their intentions, you see."

That worked too. Making him used to the idea of his father being fallible, of him being mistaken. Because Merlin knew he would be, in the future. It would only help Draco to be aware of this fact sooner rather than later.

The boy looked conflicted for a few long seconds, as he searched with his eyes for some escape, for someone who would side with him; assuage his newfound fears and doubts. Parkinson averted her gaze, using her fork to play with the beans in her plate, as if digging for the place in which she'd left her spine.

And then something impossible, something amazing happened. It was like the boy had bit into a lemon, like he was fighting his own throat to prevent the words from escaping. But eventually, he said in a shaken voice: "Very well; I will write to him tomorrow, since you lot are so worried. But he probably is already well aware of what the Heir plans to do."

It was a triumph, that I managed to school my features into calm indifference rather than outright celebrate my victory, burst into jubilant dancing right then and there. Not because of his letter —nothing at all would come out of that; as I quite suspected Lucius Malfoy would rather lose a son than lose face. But because for the first time ever, Draco had stepped out of his father's shadow. Not entirely, mind you, just a little toe to test the waters with. But you know, baby steps and all that.

So despite the strange events of the day, that night I went to bed feeling somewhat satisfied with myself. But after that, things changed deeply at Hogwarts, and for the worst: we were no longer allowed free reign of movement, instead we were escorted to and from the classrooms, the Library, the Great Hall or wherever we should be. Always in large groups; always with a Professor, or a Prefect, or both, and always with a rooster at hand. Even something as simple as going to the loo was supervised.

I knew it was wise, and cautious, and the right measure to take given the situation. But something about it being enforced, about having my freedom stripped away just like that, it simply angered me. It was irrational, for sure, as given the choice I knew I wouldn't want to be on my own either. But since I hadn't been given the choice, it made me grumpy and annoyed as all hell.

Also snappy to my friends. And although I would apologise then and now, at some point even the ever polite, measured Daphne Greengrass must have had enough, because she joked that if she ever heard the words 'gloomy gulag' again, she'd have no choice but to poison my tea.

At least I hoped she was joking; she wasn't smiling when she said it.

My Potions partner also felt the brunt of my indignation. And I figured that was the probable reason behind Hermione giving me the silent treatment a couple of days later. But when I cared to pay more attention to her, I realised that she was actually observing me out of the corner of her eye, as she worried her lower lip and fidgeted with the ingredients on the desk.

It harkened back to her behaviour earlier in the year, and so I didn't pressure and simply gave her ample room to gather her courage and say whatever was in her mind. She waited until we were already bottling the day's potion to hand off to Snape; then she said: "Erm... Sylvia. We... overheard from a Slytherin that you might know where the Chamber of Secrets is?"

Sure. A Slytherin all-right. I decided to make her sweat a little, replying with a simple: "Oh?"

"And... well, that only a... a Parselmouth can open it?"

"That's right," I said after a beat. "Why? Do you know of any?"

She fell silent once more, then turned in her seat to look at Potter and Weasley across the room. There was some silent communication there, one that I wasn't privy to, before Hermione turned back to me once more, nodded to herself, then whispered: "Harry, he is a Parselmouth."

I didn't have to fake my surprise at all; because while I was aware from my fore-memories of Potter's little gift, I hadn't expected her —or him, really— to trust me enough as to share it with me outright. Unlike in the original timeline, this Harry was keeping the secret under wraps, possibly aware of how it would sour the public perception of him should it go widespread.

Hermione forged ahead, saying: "So all we need is for you to tell us where the entrance to the Chamber is, and then he could open it and we'd be able to get inside–"

"And then what?" I challenged her. "Fight the basilisk head-on?"

"Of course not, don't be ridiculous. Harry believes he could talk to it, convince it to leave the castle and head for the Forbidden Forest instead, just like Hagrid did with his own... well, nevermind that. But it would be the best solution, wouldn't it? The basilisk would leave us alone, and it wouldn't be harmed itself either."

Uh.

That... wasn't that bad a plan, all things considered. It would depend on how thoroughly conditioned the creature was; but giving that it was already ignoring the Heir's orders in what respected to pure-bloods, I gave it a fair chance of working.

I didn't need to ask why they hadn't gone to a teacher with this, though. Without Dumbledore, it would fall to McGonagall to allow it, and she would never take that risk.

But should I take that risk?

On the one hand, they —we— were twelve years old, and the monster was a blasted giant snake —a venomous snake that could petrify and kill you with merely its gaze, and wrapped in an armoured skin capable of deflecting magic. So yeah, the answer seemed obvious.

But on the other hand, I was well aware of the threads of destiny, fate, or whatever you'd wish to call it, tightening all around us. Like the world itself wanted an encounter between the beast and the Boy Who Lived. Like preventing it from happening could end up being the worst choice, in the end.

And so if there was going to be one, perhaps this —a controlled, planned one— could be the better option.

Or perhaps I was simply trying to convince myself to go ahead with it. Because in truth, I too was tired of living under the shadow of the monster. I hadn't fancied my chances alone against the basilisk, but... this could work, right? And besides, I could think of a plan B to fall back to, in case Potter's persuasion skills didn't quite cut it.

"Fine," I said after a beat, "but I'm going in with you. And you'll have to bring a rooster."

"Brilliant! We could go just before Defence Against the Dark Arts."

"Lockhart is an idiot, but even he would get suspicious if four students were suddenly missing from his class; especially if one of them is the Boy Who Lived. No, we will meet on the second floor corridor at midnight, by the staircase. Oh, and make sure to also bring your broomsticks."

The rest of the day passed as in a haze, unable to focus on my lessons, the worry and apprehension settling into a knot in my stomach. Time itself seemed to slip through my fingers, the hours quickly passing by as they hurled me towards what could very well be the end of me. The end of this short, second life.

And perhaps it was this strange, odd sense of bold invulnerability that casting bloody magic granted one, that prevented me from going into paralysis right then and there —no basilisk needed. The mistaken sense that I could face anything, as long as I had a wand in my hand and an incantation ready at my tongue.

Maybe because of that, the girls didn't notice anything out of the ordinary —or maybe it was because the feeling that we were all living on borrowed time was pervasive enough through the entire student body. I almost hoped they'd confront me, force me to come to my senses; but they never even realised.

And so, sooner that I had hoped for, I laid awake on my bed in our pitch black dorm room as I waited patiently for everybody else to fall asleep. Then I slowly, smoothly got out from under the covers, wrapped myself in my dressing gown, grabbed my broomstick —that I had previously hid under the bed— and stepped towards the room's door.

And then I paused.

I was very aware that this —going behind the girls' backs, joining the Golden Trio in a harebrained adventure— was pretty much another betrayal, a dagger to the back of our circle. All day I had been trying to push the thought out of my head, telling myself that they'd never need to know, that I'd be back in my bed well before morning.

But the truth was that I'd been delaying the decision, the choice I had to make. Until I found myself standing there in the darkness, by the door, and I simply could not procrastinate on it any longer. I had to choose, right then.

I closed my eyes for a moment, then nodded to myself and walked up to Tracey's bed. I shook her arm softly, and under the glimmer of the weakest wand-lighting charm I could produce, I muttered to her to meet me in the common room. Then I left the dorm.

The common room was hauntingly empty, lit only by the fireplace, the large windows showing the unfathomable, abyssal darkness of the lake. It wasn't an auspicious sight, and I welcomed the company when a bleary-eyed Tracey finally joined me, still very much wrapped in the cobwebs of sleep. She grunted an interrogative noise at me.

"I talked to Granger before," I explained. "We are going into the Chamber of Secrets; they have a plan for dealing with the basilisk that might actually work, you know. But I need you to stay here and awake, in case it doesn't, and to raise the alarm if I'm not back in a couple of hours... give or take."

That woke her up all-right. And I had to shush her so that she wouldn't wake the entire house in turn. Then I had to explain the plan to her in detail —twice— before I convinced her that no; that I wasn't under the Imperious spell or something.

"And Potter is a Parselmouth?!" she repeated. She seemed stuck on that particular point.

"Yes. But it's his secret, so please don't tell anyone."

"... Okay," she muttered at last. "Okay. I'm going with you, then."

"What? Tracey–"

"No, Sylvia; this is crazy, I won't let you go on your own to fight a basilisk!"

"It's not a fight–"

"It might turn into one!"

"–and I won't be alone!"

"They are Gryffindors! If things turn bad, they might abandon you there!... Is it... is it that you don't trust me?"

I sighed and shook my head, "No. I... I just remember last year, how... how it hurt you, what happened. And you are right, this might get dangerous too. I don't want you to get hurt again."

There was a pregnant pause after that, Tracey's eyes going to the very same seat by the fireplace where she'd taken refuge, during those sleepless nights. Then she stared at me with renewed resolve and declared: "If I can get hurt, then so can you."

"But–"

"And you know I'm also good at duelling, better than Weasley and Granger. If they are going, then I'm going with you. You know I can help, like I did last year."

"You'd also help if you stayed here, to raise the–"

"No. I'll wake Daphne and Sally. They can wait here for us."

I nodded at last, shrugging and muttering a "Fine." I knew it was a lost cause, that she wouldn't budge; I had known it ever since I woke her up. Odd then, that I felt relieved. Relieved that she hadn't been furious at me, for even thinking of going behind their backs.

And relieved that I wouldn't be on my own, too. That I would share this with her, no matter what happened next.

"Give me your wand," she said, reaching with an outstretched hand. "I'll go and wake them up."

"What?"

"You heard."

I blinked. "Wait... you don't trust me to stay here and wait for you?"

She rolled her eyes, and motioned with her fingers. I muttered a curse under my breath, but extracted my wand and placed it on her waiting hand; then plopped down on the closest couch with my arms crossed.

"Right," she said, turning towards the stairs. "It will just be a moment."

"Don't you dare losing it," I muttered darkly.

It only took a few minutes, after that. Sally was as confused and sleepy as Tracey had been, but Greengrass looked fresh and annoyingly alert, despite the hour. They were equally surprised at the daring plan; but while they suggested —in the strongest terms— that we remained within the safety of the common room, and they offered to join us, none of them pushed back too hard when I told them to stay behind.

Partially because it was true that we needed someone to warn everybody else, should things go awry. Partially because we all knew Tracey would be more effective at this than them. Tracey had been there at every session of the Duelling Club so far, while Sally's interest had quickly dwindled in the weeks since winter break. And as for Daphne, she had never even cared about defensive magic at all.

But mostly because our friendships were unequal. It had been Tracey with me last year, under the forbidden corridor. She had taken the risk, and she had suffered through those nights after. There was a connection there, an unspoken link between the two of us that Daphne and Sally didn't fully share.

And so it was just the two of us who left the common room that night, advancing through the eerie, dark corridors of Hogwarts, broomsticks in our hands. This time I didn't enjoy the escapade, the school at night feeling not freeing, but menacing and dangerous like never before. But we moved quickly and smoothly, thanks to there being not as many patrols at night as it was the norm —the prefects had begun sticking together too, not to become themselves a target for a basilisk on the prowl.

The meeting point by the second floor was empty when we arrived, but just a few seconds later the three Gryffindors appeared out of the sudden, as if they'd just walked out of a corner's shadows —or, more likely, out of Potter's invisibility cloak. They seemed taken aback at Tracey's presence, but only Weasley —who was carrying a birdcage covered in a dark cloth— reacted openly, muttering "great, another snake," as he shook his head.

"Come on," I said, urging the group to follow me. "Speaking of snakes, it would be ironic if the basilisk killed us here, while we are on our way to its den. I refuse to die in such an embarrassing way."

"I'd rather not die at all," said Potter. But they all got in motion after me without protest.

All but Weasley, who was in front of me. He did a double take, then spat out: "You are wearing faeries!"

"Yes, and?" I shot back, maybe with a little too much bite. He raised his hands and said: "It's nothing! I just... well, didn't think you'd be into that, is all."

"Next time I'll make sure to wear my other pyjamas, the ones with skulls and crossbones," I grumbled. It wasn't even a lie, I did have a pirate-themed set back at the Residence.

He shut up after that, joining us, and together we entered the infamous bathroom, not too far away. The horrifying, creepy state of the bathroom was even more intimidating at night, illuminated only by my wand, and everybody paused by the door, eyeing the place like it could be full of boggarts.

"This is Moaning Myrtle's bathroom," announced Hermione, as if expecting one of us to award her some house points for the titbit.

"Yes; and she is probably nearby," I said, motioning vaguely to the soft gurgling sounds I could hear coming out of one of the stalls. "So lets be quick now, and don't provoke her into making a scene. Come here, Potter."

The boy eyed his friends for a beat, then took a deep breath as he stepped up to me. "What do I need to do?"

"Just tell the sink to open."

"Open."

"In Parseltongue, preferably."

He nodded, squared his shoulders and then pronounced a sibilant, uneasy noise, dripping in malice. A noise that made my arm's hairs stand on end.

"Merlin, it's true," whispered Tracey, her eyes wide. "I knew you said it was true, but I... I didn't think–"

But she stilled as the sink opened up with a deep scrape, revealing the wide pipe underneath. And now that I could see it, this idea sounded even crazier. Because it was dark like ink, my wand only managing to illuminate the first few feet of it.

"Um... Right. Follow me, slowly," I said, stepping ahead and mounting on my broom. Then I paused, reached for my pocket, pulled out my sunglasses and put them on.

"Really?" asked Tracey, unbelieving. "That's what you're thinking of now?"

I shrugged. "Leave behind a pretty corpse, no?"

She shook her head in exasperation, but mounted her own broom, as did the Golden Trio. And together, we started our descent.

It was slow going, the pipe barely wide enough for the broomsticks to fit without scraping the sides, and always twisting this and that way. It was also way, way longer than I expected, going on and on seemingly without end. And while I was sure Potter might have been able to fly its full length at speed, it was me on the lead; and I wasn't that agile a flier.

But we made it out, eventually, the five of us landing on a damp tunnel, the air cold and humid.

Everyone paused to stare, looking around in anxious fascination —even me. Because I might have had the advantage of my fore-memories, but that's not to say finding myself a mile deep into the Earth wasn't making me seriously reconsider the wisdom of this little outing.

"Here," said Hermione, handing me her pocket mirror. "If you are going to walk ahead, it's better if you use this to check the way."

Oh. So I was going to walk ahead here too, it turned out. Good to know.

"It's too dark, Granger. I can't see shit in this."

"You would, if you took out those silly spectacles," said Ron.

"Yeah, not happening," I muttered. But still I took the mirror, handing her my broomstick back, then raised the intensity of my light to compensate. I noticed Hermione was looking at my sunglasses with a curious expression, but I pre-empted any questions by simply forging ahead.

We walked for a few minutes in reverent silence, only broken by Ron's whimper and Tracey's curse when we passed the enormous snake skin.

The tunnel bent and narrowed for a while after that, and we kept advancing, doing our best not to step on the bones of rodents that littered the floor. And then the tunnel twisted one more time, and I saw it. A wall, and the door on it, surrounded by two carved snakes.

"It's already open," muttered Hermione, who seemed to enjoy stating the obvious.

I said: "Uh-huh."

"Why do you think that is?"

"Because the Heir never returned to close it again, after I kicked the shit out of Luna. And don't give me those looks, you lot know it wasn't really her on the driver's seat."

"I'm going in," said Harry Potter, ignoring the rest of us as he took a step ahead. "Wait here. I will try to talk to–"

"No, I'll go first," I interrupted. Then, because I couldn't exactly explain that I was better protected, I added: "I'm better at duelling. So if the basilisk's not in a listening mood, I might be able to do some damage to it."

"But we are not here to fight it!" protested Hermione.

"Sure. Tracey, you take charge of the rooster and wait outside with Granger and Weasley. If we shout, jinx the bloody bird until it cries its lungs off."

"Got it," said my housemate, picking up the cage and aiming her wand at it with a focused expression.

Hermione looked appalled between the two of us: "What?! We're not going to hurt–"

"Ready, Harry?"

"Yes," he said, his voice sounding more confident than I felt myself. I nodded, and moved ahead, looking through the mirror into the chamber as I crossed the entrance. I walked slowly forward, the sounds of my hesitant steps echoing against the walls and the far away ceiling; the sounds of my hasty heartbeat echoing against my own ribs

Then, when nothing moved or attacked us, I finally raised my gaze.

It was majestic, and creepy as all hell. The powerful pillars with engraved, twisting snakes, the greenish hue that bathed it all, the enormous sculpture of Salazar Slytherin in the far end —mouth agape, giving the wizard a disfigured, inhuman expression. It was a sick monument to... I wasn't sure what. Inferiority complex, I supposed.

We took a quick look around the room, doing our best to dispel the thick shadows behind the pillars with our combined wand-lighting charms. But I was aware we were procrastinating, and soon enough I pointed with my wand at the mouth hole in Slytherin's statue and whispered: "Your turn, snake charmer."

He nodded, took a few steps ahead and spoke again in that hissing, maddening language. Louder, a longer sentence this time. We waited in silence for a beat after that, but nothing happened.

Then he tried again, even louder, the words —if you could call them that— merging into each other. And again we waited, ready for an attack, for a reply. And again, nothing.

After a third try, I started to relax. The fourth one only confirmed it. By then, the rest of our group had entered the Chamber of Secrets, joining us. They all looked around as in a trance, taking in all that absurd ostentatiousness.

"It's not here," I explained, not bothering to hide the mix of relief and frustration in my tone as I kicked a pebble with my foot. "It's probably left for good, the bloody pest."

Not that I blamed it, after... what was it, a thousand years or thereabouts? Yeah, I'd be dying to move out of this place too, given the chance.

We still spent over twenty minutes looking for it, making noise and going so far as to throw stones into Slytherin's mouth —just in case it was asleep, as Hermione put it. But to no avail; the chamber was annoyingly, completely safe.

And I wondered whether Dumbledore had visited this place, too. Was this why he'd been unable to stop the monster, put an early end to its attacks? Had he been just as frustrated, just as defeated as I felt right then?

The walk of shame, as we retraced our steps back to the pipe and then rode our brooms up to Myrtle's bathroom was silent and meditative, nobody willing to admit that we weren't sure where to go next from here, what to do after this. My fore-memories were of no help, for once. And when Harry ordered the sink to close, and we exited the bathroom to the corridor outside, the reality of it was clear to read on all our faces: tomorrow, the basilisk would still be loose at school. Soon, it would attack again.

And perhaps the next victim wouldn't be as lucky as Neville Longbottom.

We parted in that strange, weird companionship of failure, and Tracey and I descended together the spiralling stairs towards the dungeons, only having to pause for a minute to let the Bloody Baron past us by. The ghost looked at us for a moment, but then ignored us as he went straight through one of the closed doors.

I was wishing for the respite of my bed, when we finally entered our common room, for the sweet embrace of sleep, of not having to worry and stress, to plan and strategise for however many hours remained until morning. We hadn't fought the creature, in the end, but all that coiled tension from the little escapade had done a number on my nerves anyway.

That didn't mean I wasn't preparing to rail at the girls, too. At Greengrass and Perks, who I was sure we'd find asleep. I had some very sharp darts ready to throw at them, to give them some good ribbing for not being able to stand watch.

But no, I was denied of even that little pleasure. Daphne was sitting by the fireplace with a book on her lap, reading at leisure, and she stood up the moment we entered.

"Well?" she asked. "What happened? Did you manage to get the basilisk to leave?"

"No luck," I said. "It wasn't there."

"But we found the Chamber!" said Tracey, a little more enthused than I felt was warranted. "We were inside the Chamber of Secrets! It's real, Daphne!"

She then began a recounting of the whole adventure, not skimping on any details of what we'd found that deep under the school. I myself turned to look for Sally, who I found sitting in front of the windows to the lake. Odd, that she hadn't reacted to our arrival. Slowly, I approached her.

And then my body froze, my heart skipped a beat. A keening noise leaving my lips as I took in her rigid, stiff, life-less posture; her wide open eyes, her unblinking gaze fixed ahead, into the depths of the black waters outside the room.

"It's in the lake," I heard myself whisper.

Chapter Text

I had always considered myself a decent liar, able to spin a tale on command whenever I needed to, or to simply redirect attention away from whatever it was that I needed to hide. But it dawned on me, as I stood there in the common room alongside most of our house, listening to Daphne's explanations to the adults and prefects, that I was still but an amateur.

At first glance, the girl looked and sounded as calm and measured as ever —despite the late hour— and yet anybody paying the slightest bit of attention would immediately realise that something was off: her tone subtly tinged with worry and distress, her mouth tripping, stuttering over the odd word here and there, her hands continuously tugging at her silver dressing gown, her eyes darting towards the windows to the lake —currently covered by the hideous yellow drapes that Professor Flitwick had just conjured up.

And that subtle anxiety —as if she was trying, and failing at acting composed— proved the best misdirection one could ever wish for, as she told Snape a rubbish story about how she'd woken up to find Perks missing, went to the bathroom in case she was sick, then finally wandered to the common room to find her friend petrified there.

A misdirection that was laced with truth, as all the best lies are, because she was indeed worried, and distressed at our discovery. But I knew Greengrass well enough to know that she would have never allowed her anxiety to show like that in front of our gathered housemates, no matter how frightened she really felt. She would have bottled it, hiding any weaknesses deep inside her soul, well away from sight.

Except that right now it suited her, to hint at them. Now her reputation as the composed, unflappable heiress was something that she could weaponise. Successfully, judging by how I couldn't see any traces of suspicion in Gemma Farley, or Professor Flitwick, or Madam Pomfrey —who was tending to Sally-Ann— or even Gilderoy Lockhart, hovering awkwardly by the secret entrance, as if afraid to fully step into the vipers' nest. And while I could see suspicion in Snape's dark eyes, it was wholly directed at me instead. Which... fair enough, I guess.

I —and by extension, Tracey— were sticking to our own story, one that we had quickly assembled as we rushed back to our dorm right before Daphne went to look for Prefect Farley: that we'd been sleeping peacefully like the well-behaved pre-teen girls we were. Full stop. A story that most people had believed without further questioning, too focused on the drama in the common room to pay us an iota of their attention.

Snape was just that perceptive, it seemed. A double-edged sword, as it had been his perceptiveness that had put an end to my housemates' wild search of a basilisk all across the Slytherin dungeons, right before they could stumble upon the two broomsticks hidden underneath my bed. His curt "stop with your clattering, you fools; the creature is obviously in the lake" had been enough to save our hides.

Snape let Daphne walk away to join us when Pomfrey approached to tell him that Perks was safe, but needed to be moved to the Infirmary Wing. Professor Flitwick quickly volunteered to help, perhaps noticing that the attention of our Head of House had gone elsewhere. To the yellow drapes —which didn't fit the Slytherin décor at all— or most accurately, to what lied behind them.

He seemed to reach a determination then, striding fast towards the main entrance as he extracted his wand. He said: "This trouble has gone on long enough; it ends now. Farley, make sure none of these idiots," he paused, his gaze lingering on me briefly, "get any bright ideas."

"Ah... are you going to hunt the creature, then, Professor?" asked Lockhart, sounding eager. "Perhaps I could join you, offer my help in the..."

He trailed off when Snape didn't pause to listen, didn't even acknowledge his presence as he walked past the blond man, his dark robes melting into the deep shadows of the corridor outside. And for a second, for a brief moment there was this look of pure, loathsome rage in Lockhart's face; there one moment and gone the next.

Then, a few seconds later, Lockhart too walked away from the common room.

Uh.

"Very well," said Farley, clapping her hands once to grab everyone's attention, as soon as Flitwick and Pomfrey had removed our petrified friend from the scene. "Time for you to go back to bed."

"Oh, please," protested Burke, making a show of very slowly walking up to his usual chair and sitting down, "as if anyone could sleep now after all these disturbances."

"Burke–"

"Professor Snape has gone to hunt down the monster, hasn't he? So I say we wait for news here," he added, waving his arm magnanimously at the common room, as if it belonged to him and he was inviting us to join him. "Who knows... we might need to evacuate if he fails to find and kill it. I for one don't wish to be drowsy with sleep, if that's the case."

The prefect crossed her arms, and I could see the calculation in her eyes: she wanted us safely contained within our rooms, but Burke's logic was hard to argue against. Plus, there was just too much nervous energy in the air for her to expect us to peacefully go back to sleep. People wanted to stay awake, to talk and discuss about the new development, the new twist to this year's drama; to air out their fears in the best way that Slytherins knew how to: by pretending there was nothing at all to worry about, while at the same time stealthily gathering as much information about the threat as possible.

"Fine," she conceded at last with a carefree shrug, seating down on a nearby sofa. "But don't complain to me when you can't stand on your own feet tomorrow."

That was enough of a green light for many of the students to remain, circles and cliques taking up their usual spots. Others though, seemed hesitant to enter the very same chamber where Perks had just been attacked —less than half an hour ago, even— and so they instead gathered in the stairs and corridors leading up to the different dormitories, crowding them.

I simply stood there, not paying much attention to the jockeying for influence and control over the common room. My mind was far way: still stuck in that foreboding, eerie look of Lockhart, a sense of undefined danger surrounding everything. The vague notion that something was off, and not only because of what had happened to Perks.

Closing my eyes and focusing, I tried to picture what Snape would do next, what his coming steps would be: get himself a rooster, probably —the one by the Entrance Hall would do. And then walk up to the lake's shore and... what, exactly? Use some sort of bait, perhaps, to lure the beast out of the water? I could almost imagine him there, Snape, huddling behind a tree as he waited for the creature, the lake's surface still and reflecting the moon's–

And then the picture in my mind shifted to one of Diagon Alley, out of a sudden, without any conscious thought on my part. A large crowd was gathered by the door to Flourish and Blotts, and a sign on the bookshop window announced... something. I scrunched my brow, trying to make out the shifty, blurry words. It was hard, like there was something I had to... push against, in order to focus.

"Brawling with Basilisks," it read. "Buy now your copy of the latest book by Gilderoy Lockhart, the famed Hero of Hogwarts!"

The surprise I felt made me stop focusing for a beat, stop pushing. And it hit me like a shockwave, then; the image dissolving in front of me as I was summarily sent back to the surface of my own mind, the sound of blood rushing into my ears filling it all for a moment. When I opened my eyes to the normalcy of the common room, I took a deep breath —as if I'd just emerged out of a deep dive into the lake myself— and stumbled back, suddenly filled with a sense of vertigo and a deep unease. I reached with my hand for one of the marble columns, steadying myself against it.

"Sylvia?" asked Tracey. "Are you all-right? You look a little... green."

Nauseous, rather. I was reminded of when I'd first met with the Weasley twins in the Transfiguration Courtyard last year. But unlike then, my stomach wasn't so upset that I'd need to rush to the loo. Still, I suspected there were... implications, in this.

Ones that I decided to shelve for a later time. I took a few, deep breaths to calm myself. Then, in lieu of answering, I simply grabbed hold of her sleeve, tugging at her. I signalled Daphne to follow us as I lead them towards our own dorm, pushing through the crowd blocking the stairs.

I thought I heard some clatter from within as I opened the door, but a quick look revealed the dorm to be empty. And Parkinson and Bulstrode had been in the common room, thankfully, so we had the entire place to ourselves.

I sat down on my bed, trying to regain my bearings and find my words, absently running a hand through the tangles in my hair. Both Daphne and Tracey remained standing in front of me, their expressions growing more worried by the minute.

"Lockhart," I muttered at last, because I had to say something to the two girls before they carted me too to the Infirmary Wing.

"Lockhart?" asked Daphne.

"I... I think he's going to attack Snape."

They traded looks, their incredulity written on their faces.

"Didn't you notice how he looked at him, as he left?" I insisted.

Daphne shook her head, but Tracey adopted a pensive stance: "He was angry, wasn't he?"

"Yes!"

"But Sylvia, that doesn't mean he will attack–"

"He will. It was..." I shook my head, looking for a way of making them understand. "He wasn't just angry, he was furious! He looked like... like those pictures of people as they get sent to Azkaban."

Another shared, sceptical look. They still didn't fully believe me.

"Well... but what is the matter then, if he's angry?" asked Daphne. "There isn't much he can do to hurt Professor Snape."

Tracey nodded. "That's true. It'd be his funeral, if he tried anything."

And just like that all the disparaging of Lockhart I'd indulged in during the whole school year —making fun of his antics, snorting at his rambling nonsensical stories, and overall making fully certain the girls would be aware he was nothing but a charlatan— came back to bite me in the arse. Because of course, what could useless, pathetic Lockhart do to Professor Severus Snape? Nothing at all, right? Nothing, except...

Except stealing his memories away; his one trick. And the effects of that could range anywhere from simply forgetting about the basilisk itself, to... what? Forgetting he was supposed to be a spy, and not a real Death Eater? Now that would suck, if it happened.

But I didn't want to explain the whole memory charms angle to the girls. Among other things, because they'd be able to put two and two together and deduce that must have been what Lockhart had taught me, in between classes. And yeah, you could argue that I was falling back into old habits, withholding information and all, but what can I say: at least I was aware of that, and self-awareness is always the first step towards rehabilitation. I could deal with the following steps later.

"He's not completely useless," I argued instead. "There must have been a way for him to claim all those successes, no? It wasn't by actually defeating the creatures, so this must be his pattern: stealing glory from other, more capable wizards and witches. And Snape will be focused on the basilisk, won't be expecting a betrayal."

"He must be using memory charms, then," reasoned Daphne after a beat; and I could have hugged her right then and there. "Otherwise somebody would have exposed him as a fraud by now."

I said: "All the more reason to stop him. And besides, if Snape gets magically lobotomised, would you still trust him to brew the Mandrake draught for Sally?"

That gave them pause. Because sure, if Snape got sent to St. Mungo's because of a too strong obliviation, Sally —and Longbottom too— would end up getting unpetrified by somebody else, at a later time. But there was always the risk that Snape's mind would be merely destabilized, not outright broken. And in that case, he'd brew the concoction with the same finesse and care to detail as that of a drunk Peeves. With nobody being any the wiser until it was too late.

Yeah, a worst-case scenario... but still one that was possible.

"We could tell the prefects," suggested Tracey.

I'd thought about that, but... "Too slow. By the time we finish explaining ourselves and they believe us, it will be too late. No, I have another plan."

Tracey pinched the bridge of her nose. She muttered: "Here we go again..."

I got to my knees, extracted my broomstick from below my bed, and turned to face the two suspicious girls. "I go out there, and–"

"Fight him?" asked Daphne, unbelieving. "Inept or not, he is still a professor, Sylvia."

I crossed my arms. "What, do you think I'm a Gryffindor? No, I will just distract him. Give time for Snape to finish with the beast."

"He'd just obliviate you," said Tracey.

"Not if he wants to know where the Chamber of Secrets is he won't," I replied, giving them a wide grin, as I revealed the pure, undiluted Slytheriness of my plan: "He wants glory, right? Well, then what better triumph than not only defeating the basilisk, but also unveiling the Chamber to the whole wizarding world? Imagine, the headlines in the Daily Prophet. He won't be able to resist that temptation."

They still seemed undecided, but the window of opportunity was quickly closing, the clock running out. So I forged ahead, opening the door to the corridor before they could gather their wits: "I need you two to go ahead of me and talk to Prefect Farley. Tell her of Lockhart's plans, so that she can put a response into motion. Also... that way she'll be distracted."

"Distracted? Oh..." said Daphne, as I cast a quick disillusionment charm on myself, becoming almost see-through.

Getting back to the common room was more difficult than I'd anticipated, having to step around the crowd without any of them noticing my presence. In the end the girls were kind enough to lead the way, with me right behind them. I skittered towards the main door as they approached the prefect; Farley's mood already crashing down in anticipation the moment she saw them both.

I waited, my hand holding tight the broomstick, my heart beating fast. Wait... wait... and now! Daphne was smart enough to subtly position herself towards the now draped windows, forcing Farley to turn to her. The moment I was out of her line of sight, I opened the door and slid outside.

To the dungeons. The empty, cold, dark and foreboding dungeons.

No time for those thoughts, however. I was very aware of those massive walls that were the threads of destiny, fate or what-have-you closing down on me like an avalanche. Closing down on us.

I needed to move.

I dispelled the charm, sat on the broomstick, and flew forwards, aiming towards the end of the corridor, the spiralling stairs.

Flying on a broom within the confines of Hogwarts was strictly forbidden, and I quickly learnt why: because this was bonkers. There was no way in hell I'd have been able to do this on one of the school's worn down broomsticks, and my own antique Comet was barely managing to pull it off. I was moving faster than I could react, desperately pulling on the neck of my broom as I dashed up the stairs, a hair's breadth away from colliding outright as its bristles scrapped against the stone walls.

I was flying purely on panicky instinct and my own familiarity with the dungeons' layout, with no way at all to dodge if I shall come across anybody —say, Filch— taking a stroll around. Which I hoped would not happen, being this late already and all. But still, I let out a breath the moment I emerged into the wider space of the Entrance Hall, finally being able to raise higher. Then, twirling in mid-air —a move I was finally good at, after having practised it ad nauseam in our Quidditch games— I aimed myself towards the single open door and dashed out of the castle.

I was hit by the cold air of the Scottish highlands' nights the moment I emerged to the world outside, raising even higher to get a better view of my surroundings. I realised with a start that I was still wearing my pyjamas and dressing gown, and so I was utterly unprepared for the outdoor weather. The thought of casting a heating charm on my attire crossed my mind, but I pushed it aside in favour of focusing on my task: my eyes scanning the grounds as I willed the broom slowly forwards, towards the lake.

It was a clear night sky, a waning gibbous moon —yes, that was something I'd learnt in Astronomy— casting its silver, eerie pallor across the landscape. The lake's surface was still, reflecting the moonlight and the few stars that shone alongside it. Beyond the lake, the Forbidden Forest rose suddenly, a dense wall of trees; thick, inky darkness trapped under their branches.

I took two wide, slow loops as I impatiently waited for my eyes to adapt to the darkness, and patted my pocket to make sure the sunglasses were still inside —I was going to be gallivanting right by the lake, after all. Behind me, the windows dotting both the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor towers shone with warm light. I guessed the faculty must have waken up the other houses too after the attack on Sally, to do a headcount at the minimum.

Not my concern, though. I turned my gaze back towards the shore of the lake, and the expanse of land that stretched between it and the castle's main doors, trying to catch any movement. I didn't expect any of the two men to have any light on them, Snape because he was Snape, and Lockhart because he too was on a hunt, albeit of a different–

Uh.

Lockhart was carrying one of those lanterns that Filch liked to use, as he ambled by the shore and in the direction of the forest.

Well, that made this easier. I landed a good distance behind him and dismounted my broom silently. Upon some consideration, I stashed it away under a shrub; I didn't enjoy having to leave it behind, but I liked the thought of having my hands and mobility hampered by it even less. Instead I put on my sunglasses —immediately losing much of my hard-earned night vision— grabbed my wand, and advanced at a good clip towards the lone figure facing away from me.

I must have rushed too much, in my impatience and anxiety at what was coming, because Lockhart heard me coming. He turned quickly, his wand aimed my way, his other hand holding the lantern aloft.

"Sa– Sarramond?" he asked, frowning at me in surprise. "What are you doing here?"