There was a heavy silence in the corridors. Michael could never decide which was most terrible, the oppressive hush weighted down with the promise of pain—like a long and shaky inhale before the tormented scream—, or the tortured cries themselves, which echoed solemnly off the stone walls and seeped through the floors and ceilings. The quiet set him on edge as he walked slowly through the castle that had once held for him such enchantment. His rage and his frustration began to fade though, as he defiantly climbed staircases and crossed hallways. No one was permitted to leave the common room save for classes or for meals, extending the sense of being caged, reinforcing that they were captives—like frantic ants in one of those plastic Muggle toys.

And all to the credit of Headmaster Snape. How many times had Hermione and Ginny raised their voices in his defence? He hadn't deserved their concern, their attention, their bloody notice. He thought of the Carrows as his blood began to turn to ice and boil in a frigid rage. Of Voldemort, whose name he could no longer say because of the taboo, but whom he longed to spite in some meaningful way. Perhaps he was going mad, but the idea of punching him in his snakelike face was a recurring one, come what may after the act.

"Peeves," he greeted quietly, with a respectful nod of the head.

"Corner," Peeves returned the gesture and floated silently past. He hadn't pulled a prank in ages. He hadn't denounced a student since last year. He hadn't laughed, or joked, or sang in months. And somehow seeing how defeated the poltergeist was only made it all the worse for everyone else's morale. Filch was now the one who sang, gleeful in the "appropriate discipline measures" now being taken with the students. More than once Professor McGonagall had seemed on the verge of cursing him till his own stupid cat wouldn't recognise him, as he danced exuberantly through the halls with a student to be punished.

McGonagall. Now there was one woman he didn't want to run into. She put so much effort, so much energy, into keeping them safe whenever should could—the fierce lioness who had adopted every student as her own cub. He would feel ashamed to be caught repaying her efforts by recklessly stalking the halls. She was brave, every bit the Gryffindor, and she lent them all encouragement, lent them all strength. But never hope.

Michael walked, and walked, and as he did he thought. About everything. And his anger faded once more into something far worse. For it tempered itself into a sort of decisiveness, thought he couldn't tell what he'd decided. Somehow, though, it still felt good, as though he'd decided on a course of action. Perhaps he had subconsciously.

Then the screaming started.

It occurred to him that one of his friends might have followed after him, hoping to convince him to return to the safety of the common room. What if they'd been caught? He strained to hear a familiarity in the screams, but it was never possible even to distinguish gender or age beneath the pain. The faces of those he knew in the school—well, or only in passing—flickered behind his eyes. His mind cleared. This was what he'd decided. This was the conclusion he'd drawn. It didn't fucking matter who it was. It didn't matter whether it was his best friend, or some kid he'd never met. It didn't matter if it was a guy or girl, if they were young or old. It didn't matter. Because it changed nothing. But he was going to. Now. Tonight. He was going to end his uselessness.

He ran into something hard and fell with it to the ground.

"'Lo, Michael."

He blinked. Once. Twice. His mouth gaping in surprise. "Neville? But you're—We thought—"

"I was dead?" Michael nodded numbly as the boy stood. Was this a trick? "Nah, mate, just caught. I escaped, we have a hideout."

A feeling of hope surged through his chest. Neville, Ginny, and Luna, they'd been the 'leaders' of the DA, but everyone had disappeared. Luna at Christmas, contraband Prophets telling them she'd been abducted. Ginny at Easter, he'd been relieved to see that she was just in hiding. Neville only shortly later, after doing much screaming of his own. After that, their ring leaders gone, the DA had fallen apart, the last of their hope dwindling to nothing. A few resurgences of defiance had burst briefly through, but nothing substantial, and nothing permanent, and soon they had all given up.

"We?"

"There aren't many of us there—I haven't been gone all that long—but there's more than just me."

"Anthony?"

Neville shook his head. "Sorry, mate. I tried. I doubt he's dead though, so best keep hope."

"Hope? In this place?"

Neville smiled. "You lot stopped defying it. Of course you have no hope left. Time to start again, I reckon."

Michael grinned at him, remembering the graffiti and the rescues and other such acts. "Definitely."

"Come on then. They'll stop torturing soon, and leave them alone and locked up. We'll act as soon as they're gone."

Michael squeezed his shoulder tightly. "Mate, you're bloody something."

The look on Neville's face was strange, indiscernible, as they strode silently forward into the darkened corridor.