SILVER AND COLD

There were more than a dozen unopened letters stacked on Angelina's desk. Beside them was an issue of The Daily Prophet. The headline read: "Student Raped At Hogwarts". Angelina couldn't bring herself to read the article, but neither could she bring herself to throw away the paper.

Her mother had told her that she wasn't named in the article, but Angelina knew that for the time being she was infamous. Every witch and wizard knew her name or some distortion of it. Secrets like this had a way of getting out.

Supposedly, she was the first student who'd been raped at Hogwarts in twenty years. Angelina wasn't stupid enough to believe that. There were others. Those who'd picked themselves up afterwards, walked back to their dorms, and tried to pretend as if they'd left that girl they'd been for those horrible minutes behind. She'd known them, kept silent with them. If she hadn't stayed in the Tower so long she would've been one of them.

She cursed and thanked Montague for that.

The infirmary had never been a traumatic place for her until that night. She could still see Madam Pomfrey's expression of sympathy and anger, as well as Professor Dumbledore's grim face. He had no choice but to report it, he'd said, no choice but to let the world know. She'd been angry with him. He'd taken away her right to silence just as He'd taken away her world. Angelina had known then, that it was only the beginning, that more things would be taken from her without her permission, dwindling whatever power she had. She had to wonder if she'd ever had any to begin with.

Her parents still asked her who it was. The Aurors hadn't figured it out and it looked as if they never would. He hadn't come inside her and even if he had it was his word over hers. A fantastic tale he would spin of them being lovers and things getting out of hand. He was a hero, and she just an ordinary witch despite what her bloodline said.

She refused to tell them because she hadn't yet found the words, because some part of her believed that it was some other person, and because she needed to hold on to his name. She needed to hold on to something.

Angelina hated the look of disappointment on her mother's face every time she refused to confide in her. Her mother had given her much more freedom compared to her cousins and other girls of her status. "Do what you must, but keep your dignity," she'd always said. Her dignity being her virginity. Her mother had hopes of marrying her into one of the old families from the Caribbean or Africa, who were rooted in a history that involved more than European wand waving.

The opportunity was lost now. She was damaged. She'd be lucky if she found a suitable husband here in England.

Angelina did not pity herself. Marriage was the last thing she thought about these days. It was always Him, the one she constantly saw but couldn't articulate.

"And isn't this love," Katie had always said whenever George made her angry.

And isn't this love, Angelina thought.

---->----

Of course they believed it was him. How could they think anything else? He was a Slytherin, inclined to acts of violence and revenge and was without remorse. Who else but a Slytherin would take a Quidditch and house rivalry to such an extreme? Though, that did not explain why he'd brought her to the infirmary, why he stayed with her the whole night. So they came up with an explanation: he'd wanted to see the totality of his work, the astonished expressions of the professors, the arrival of the Aurors who wouldn't be able to prove anything against him.

The truth was there, standing among them, eating with them, ducking his head whenever they mentioned her name. They thought he hurt because she did.

How could they not see his guilt? Maybe they did and ascribed it to something else.

His twin brother died in the war, sacrificing himself for the supposed greater good and the survival of useless Muggles who would burn him at the stake if they knew of his existence.

Fred Weasley. If given the opportunity, Montague would kill him.

He'd do it for Angelina and he'd do it for himself. He shouldn't have to dream of Angelina's bloodstained thighs and the image of lying still and quiet, watching everyone in the infirmary with a sort of distant empty gaze.

Killing Weasley, he knew, would not banish the nightmares or the images that came to him during his waking hours, but it would be something.

So far Weasley had avoided him. Montague suspected the other boy knew that he knew. If this was so, then Weasley feared him. He wondered when the inevitable confrontation would take place, what Montague would do to him. Weasley might've participated in the war but he was still ignorant of dark magic. He'd be no match.

It was the thought of killing Weasley slowly that drove Montague. He ignored the suspicious and angry glares from the students from the other Houses, the looks of veiled disgust from some of the professors. It didn't matter that even if the Slytherin girls outwardly supported him they had stopped speaking to him when not required to. The frequent fights and hexings didn't matter either. His reputation might have been tainted forever, but he'd have his and Angelina's revenge.

Two weeks after the incident and twelve days after Angelina had left school, Professor Snape called Montague into his office. He was seated behind his desk, his expression less severe and more somber than usual. Whatever strength Professor Snape seemed to have had disappeared under the weight of the subject they were about to broach.

"You know why you're here," Snape said. "I would've talked to you sooner, but…"

"I understand," Montague replied.

"Do you? I do not take it lightly when others accuse a member of my house of being a rapist, a most vile wretched creature—"

"But you can't help wondering if it's true." Montague rose from his seat and walked to one of the many bookshelves that lined the office walls. "It's not, I assure you. I didn't rape Angelina."

"But you know who did."

"It isn't for me to tell," Montague replied. "It isn't that hard to figure out when you look."

"Weasley, then," Snape sighed.

Montague said nothing.

"All right, then," Snape said, knowing his student would not consent or deny. "So you will go on with this, allowing them to judge and hurt you."

"I don't care what they think of me, neither if they hurt me. I only care about…" he wondered if he should go further. He had never showed any weakness to his head of house, but they were speaking in the tongue of men not Slytherins.

"Have you heard anything of Angelina?" he asked.

A shadowed expression came to the professor's face. "From what I've been told she does not reply to any of her friends' owls. Professor Dumbledore spoke with her parents not too long ago. They are having trouble getting her to eat. When she does eat she does not hold the food down for long. She also has not been sleeping. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson are consulting with the staff from St. Mungo's to see what kind of help they can offer. If you are concerned, you might consider writing to her."

"You said she doesn't answer owls from her friends."

"You are not her friend."

---->----

Angelina,

How are you?

-Galen Montague

Note: Title of this chapter taken from AFI's "Silver and Cold" from their album Sing The Sorrow.