The day was hot for early October, which meant most of Hogwarts—students and teachers, living and non-living—had spilled outside once classes let out. Students rimmed the Black Lake, splashing, diving, wading, sticking their bare legs in up to the knee. Some slept facedown on its bank. Still more sat in small groups, laughing—or in couples, faces melded, hands moving over shoulders, backs, butts.

Albus and Scorpius had chosen a tree a ways off from the commotion. They sprawled out in the shade, cradling textbooks and hating their lives.

"Oh, to be a sixth year again," Scorpius sighed.

Albus snorted in return. "What was sixth year good for, anyway?"

Scorpius didn't miss a beat. "Emmett Cormier," he said, his lips twisting into a nostalgic smirk.

Albus remembered, then. He remembered Scorpius harassing the Fat Lady until she agreed to fetch Albus so that Scorpius, looking flustered, could talk his ear off about the evening he'd had with Emmett Cormier. He remembered yawning through his half of the conversation and swearing, for the dozenth time, not to tell anyone.

"Oh, right, Cormier—the bloke who is, for all intents and purposes, straight."

Scorpius didn't reply right away. He rolled onto his stomach and picked a blade of grass, twirling it between his fingers as his smirk subtly deepened.

"He wasn't straight in the Room of Requirement when I—"

"Hey Louis!" Albus shouted as the lolling figure of his cousin came into view.

Scorpius hissed a "thank you" from the corner of his mouth as Louis jogged over and plopped down between them, the contents of his bag nearly spilling onto the untrimmed grass. He looked altogether too jolly for an afternoon of essay writing.

Albus could feel sweat beading on his forehead. He swiped at it with the palm of his hand, which only made it worse.

"You lot working on the Transfiguration essay?" Louis smiled his part-Veela smile and Albus silently wallowed.

"Charms." "Astronomy." Albus and Scorpius chorused.

"I hate seventh year."

"Mmmmm," Albus and Scorpius agreed.

The boys all looked heavenward, appreciating the clouds and wishing for graduation and blowing off work for half a minute. Then Albus sighed and Scorpius threw the blade of grass he'd been twirling and Louis swept a tendril of hair from his forehead.

"What are you doing after graduation, Al?" Louis began laying all of his books out, spine to fore edge. A brief wind rustled the leaves overhead and tickled the back of Albus's neck. "I mean, you'll work for Uncle Harry, right?"

"Dear Uncle Harry," Scorpius chirped.

Louis furrowed his brow.

"I will," Albus said without hesitation.

"Really?" The squint to Scorpius's eyes betrayed genuine surprise.

"Me too," Louis echoed, ignoring Scorpius; but Scorpius wouldn't be ignored. He pushed himself into a seated position, grass stains dampening the knees of his trousers, and threw a scroll of parchment at Albus. It hit the toe of his trainer.

"Oy, you're really going to be an Auror? I would've thought you'd, I dunno, write biographies."

It was Louis who jumped to the rescue. "Are you kidding? Harry Potter's son write books?"

Scorpius's eyes went dark. "Harry Potter's son has a name."

"I know that, Malfoy. You've got quite a name, too."

"Oh, right. I'm obviously my father's clone, since Al is his father's."

Albus threw up his hands. "Seriously, mates. Can we write our bloody essays?"

Scorpius swatted at a horsefly, already bored with the whole conversation. Louis shrugged his shoulders, but the set of his jaw held all of his unspoken spite.

"I was leaving anyway," Scorpius breathed, languidly gathering his books and slipping them into his bag. "It's too hot out. I'm going to cool down in the Prefect baths." He was standing now, his white-blond head dotting out the sun like an eclipse. "Albus. Weasley." He nodded coldly at both in turn.

Louis looked at his hands as Scorpius trumped towards the castle. A sigh flitted through Albus's nostrils.

"I swear he hates me," Louis voiced once Scorpius was only a pinprick in the distance.

"I hate you," Albus half-teased.

Louis laughed and that was the end of their talking for the next hour.

When it was too dark to read what he'd written, Albus gave up and went inside. Louis had finished his essay and left hours ago, but Albus's essay refused to be written just as his mind refused to focus. He kept fiddling with the note from D.L.Z. stored in the pocket of his jeans and wondering if he'd ever find who'd written it—or why he even cared.

Once inside the castle, he headed for the library. He didn't feel like facing the Great Hall or stomaching dinner. He felt like dwelling. And pretending to write his essay.

As Albus topped off the stairs to the third floor, he heard a commotion—shouts and laughter and high-pitched shrieking. Curiosity peaked, he hurried toward the sounds, feeling a rush of purpose, of need. He turned the corner, his breathing slightly labored, and saw a group of students gathered just outside the library, holding up their arms and squealing as book after book was hurtled into their midst. A crackling whoosh filled the air as pages fluttered, followed by the resounding thud of books hitting the ground. And Madame West, the librarian, stood on tiptoe, swatting at a very smug-looking Peeves.

"Give those back, you miscreant!" she shrieked, glasses askew.

The crowd of students erupted in laughter as Peeves flew a foot or two higher, dangling a book over Madame West's short, flailing arms.

Albus crossed the hallway and joined the group before consciously deciding to do so. He wasn't laughing, though. He felt glued to the floor. He felt the need again—the need to be there, to witness. It was a strange feeling—almost icy in its urgency.

Another pair of books whooshed through the air, arcing beautifully before falling with dramatic booms, causing two mousey girls to squeal and latch onto each other.

"I'll get the Bloody Baron!" Madame West threatened. Peeves's twisted mouth showed concern for a fraction of a second before he pulled another book from its shelf and tossed it experimentally in her direction. The poor librarian had to nearly leap out of the way.

Then Peeves was back to throwing book after book into the hallway and the crowd outside was growing bigger—so big that Albus was swallowed up in its middle. There were fists pumping, the crowd pulsing and moving, the air alive with an electric anticipation. So caught up in the moment, Albus didn't even notice when a heavy tome came hurtling straight for his forehead. He saw it seconds before it collided with the bridge of his nose and sent stars shooting across his vision.

Then there was a pressure under his armpits. He was moving. Faces appeared and disappeared, his vision expanding and shrinking like the slow inner-workings of lungs. The cold relief of stone was at his back and he felt arms prop him up. A wall of hair fell into his vision. He looked up into the concern of deep brown eyes.

"Can you hear me?" the girl spoke.

Albus nodded. The stars faded, his vision clearing and bringing to attention a stinging pain in his nose. He brushed the back of his hand to his nostrils. He was bleeding.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" the girl continued. She waved a hand in front of his face.

"Four." Albus blinked. "I'm fine, you don't have to—"

"Now follow my finger with your eyes."

"Really, I'm fine, it just… scared me." Albus shrugged. "And I'm bleeding."

The girl nodded and pulled her wand from behind her ear. She cast a quick Episkey spell and Albus felt the pain melt away.

"Aren't you a Gryffindor?" she asked, tucking her wand away. Her face was scrunched as though Albus had presented her with an unsolvable equation.

"Yes."

"And a book scared you?"

Albus huffed. "Thanks for you help." He made to stand up, but the girl pressed her palms against his chest.

"You should sit for another minute."

"No, I should go study." He nodded his head toward the library, where the crowd was beginning to disperse. Either Peeves had tired of his game or Madame West had gotten the Bloody Baron after all. Either way, the commotion had died down and students were hurrying off to dinner.

"You should at least clean up, then." She offered him a hand and he gratefully accepted it. Once on his feet, he felt strangely self-conscious. He was standing in front of an attractive girl with a bloody nose. But his feet held him in place.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Tracy Hopkins. Sixth year, Ravenclaw—because I knew you would've asked." Her smile revealed dimples and Albus felt simultaneously disappointed and intrigued. Some part of him had hoped she would be the mysterious D.L.Z., but of course the universe wasn't so orderly. At least she was cute.

"I'm—"

"Albus Potter, of course. Everyone knows who you are."

"Oh." His cheeks went hot.

"You take care of yourself, Albus." Tracy pointed a finger at him, almost scolding. "I can't always come to your rescue."

And Tracy spun on her heel and bobbed away.

Albus chuckled to himself, swiping at his nose again as he headed towards the nearest bathroom to clean up. The urgency that had held him to the spot faded, and he began to wonder if he'd only imagined it.

Four days passed with very little commotion. He managed to finish his essay, attend Quidditch practice, and remain generally unnoticed by all but Rose. This gave him plenty of time to obsess over the note from D.L.Z. He'd pulled it from his pocket so many times that the parchment was thinning and marked with his fingerprints.

It was times like this that he wished he were a Ravenclaw, or at the very least that he had a close Ravenclaw friend. He needed someone to help him riddle this out—to tell him what to research, what to do—but the only Ravenclaw he felt remotely close to was his cousin, Molly, and if he told her about the note she'd tell the rest of his family. He'd rather not be the subject of the Potter-Weasley gossip mill for the next month.

This is why he was closer to Rose—she could be a nutcase at times, but she was a nutcase who kept his secrets.

"I'm going to throw it away," Rose said one day that week.

"Hmm?"

"I'm throwing it away. The note."

They were sitting in Albus's dorm midday. The rest of the seventh year boys were off being studious while Albus pretended to be a non-person, sitting cross-legged on his bed and staring at the note, willing it to spill its secrets.

"No you're not."

Rose raised an eyebrow. "Is that a challenge?"

"No."

Without warning, Rose flung herself onto his bed. She grabbed at his hands, but he was too quick. He balled the note in his fist and curled his body into the fetal position. Rose changed tactics, grabbing a pillow and hitting him over the head, again and again, while Albus laughed. He couldn't help it—the laughter was like wild fire, catching and spreading until his lungs ached and his face turned a deep red.

"I can't breathe!" he wheezed.

That's when Albus's best mate, Joel Blackwood, walked in.

"Gross. Aren't you two related or something?" he teased.

Rose eased up on Albus, tossing the pillow in Joel's direction instead.

"He's dwelling again." Rose stuck her tongue out at Albus as Joel sat on his own bed, pulling off his shoes one by one.

"We've already asked half of Gryffindor House and nobody knows a D.L.Z.," Joel responded, leaning back onto his own disheveled sheets and closing his eyes. "You're going to drive yourself crazy, mate."

"Too late," Rose said.

She was right, though. Albus felt like he was going crazy—staying up too late, his eyes developing the telltale dark rings; skipping meals; shutting himself up in his dorm while the rest of Hogwarts went to Hogsmeade on the weekends.

"It's not a big deal," Albus shrugged them off. He reached at the foot of his bed for his trunk and shoved the note in, under a pile of clothes. "See, not dwelling."

He waited until Rose had gone and Joel was lightly snoring before digging it back out.