Chapter 9: A Fateful Conversation

Albus

The events of that first Friday of term seemed to jumpstart the clock in Albus's world. Before he knew it, a pleasant routine of people, places, and times had begun to embrace him. Albus, Rose, and Scorpius Malfoy went everywhere together as if joined at the shoulders by Permanent Sticking Charms. It was only natural, he supposed. The three certainly did not separate much in their courses. As they were all in the same year and in the same house, they all had the same classes with the same professors at the same time. They were often joined by Sylvia Thomas – most of all on Friday afternoons when Rose was forced back to her flying lessons. (Rose was still a bit lukewarm toward her, and Albus feared that it was simply a conflict of personalities that wouldn't ever be resolved.)

One thing was for certain, though; if Sylvia weren't around, things would have been much less interesting. Albus and Scorpius weren't big talkers themselves, but Sylvia always seemed to have something to say. Her topics of conversation would flip between goings-on in the common room ("Your cousin Roxanne's lucky Greta Stanford has a sense of humor. If she'd pulled that on one of the other Prefects, she might've cost us about a hundred points") and her father's new position on the Hogwarts staff ("He says he's going to try to convince Flitwick to get the governors to put up for Firebolt II's for the flying classes! The Firebolt II, Scorpius! I know they're about ten years old, but those are really good brooms. You think the governors will go for it?")

As passionate as Sylvia could be about Quidditch or anything broom-related, though, she still came up a terribly distant second best to Scorpius, whose eyes would assume a ravenous expression if anyone brought up the sport around him. Albus was a fan, yes, but he wasn't quite so mad about it. His mother had been a professional player at one point, and she had a lifetime subscription to Which Broomstick, but he still didn't know "which broomstick" had the best acceleration, or the minute differences between the Firebolt III and the Cleansweep X-V (yes, according to Sylvia, it was pronounced that way, and she was rather insistent about it.)

"Cleansweeps' top speed isn't as good as the Firebolts," Sylvia explained one Friday toward the end of the month, "but their handling isn't so fickle. Which would you prefer, Scorpius?"

"Neither – have you seen the new model that's come out this year?" asked Scorpius.

"Oh, you mean the Shadowfax?" asked Sylvia, tilting her head.

"The Shadowfax? Those cost a fortune!" replied Albus, who had seen the black-handled broom walking through Diagon Alley. His dad had looked at his mum, shook his head, and walked away muttering something about 'inflation', whatever that was.

"Of course, first years have to have passed the flying lessons to be able to ride a broom legally, and in order to have one of their own on the grounds," Sylvia commented, looking significantly from Albus to Scorpius, "they must have made their House Quidditch team."

"I know that," Scorpius said, regarding Sylvia with a sort of impatience.

"Then you'll also know tryouts are this weekend," said Sylvia.

"You're joking, right?" asked Scorpius, and he looked legitimately angry. "I've only been waiting for this day since I was five years old."

Sylvia's eyebrows popped – that was new information.

"You're trying out, then?" asked Albus.

"I wasn't going to this year – then I found out about that Polkiss bloke getting hurt," Scorpius admitted.

"So you're going out for Seeker, then?" Albus asked.

"Of course he's going out for Seeker – what do you think?" Sylvia had talked over Scorpius's answer. "He's wiry and agile – perfect Seeker's build."

"Except in bad weather," admitted Scorpius. "You probably want a more well-built guy, like… well, like Desmond."

Desmond, in the last week or two, had thankfully not been too overtly foul to Albus or Scorpius. But he had started telling anyone who cared to listen – and a lot of people who didn't – about his plans for the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

Sylvia laughed disdainfully. "I've heard all about Desmond's bluster that he's going out for Beater. Personally, I'm hoping he makes a fool of himself."

"He might actually be good, you know," said Scorpius, almost as if he hated to admit it. "He definitely has a Beater's build."

"'Beater's build'? It's not all about 'build', you know," said Sylvia. "You also have to have intelligence, good aim, and a bit of a mean streak. Like the twins that played when our dads were in school – they turned Beater into a bloody art form."

She grinned at Albus, who knew she was talking about his uncles, Fred and George Weasley.

"Well," Scorpius said, frowning, "we know McLaggen has the 'mean streak' thing down…"

A high-pitched squeal, a bit like a firework going off, preceded a running form into the Great Hall. Scorpius turned to his left. Albus leaned backward and around him.

"Rose?"

"I passed, I passed!" she screamed, throwing herself into Albus's arms, almost before he'd had the chance to stand and collect himself. Rose had watched the second flying lesson from the ground, as she hadn't mustered up the nerve to get on a broom again. But, now, on the third, she had evidently succeeded.

"Good work!" Albus exclaimed delightedly.

"Well done!" Sylvia said, beaming. "Now you can try out for the Quidditch team, too, right?"

"Quidditch team?" Rose uttered, her smile fading. "You're joking, right? If I never get on another broom, that'll be just fine with me."

Scorpius was on his feet, and Rose had turned to him next, with a bit of a strange glow in her facial expression that Albus hadn't seen. Scorpius looked for a second like cogs were working in his brain, almost as if he'd been hoping Rose would tackle him as well. As for Rose, she seemed to be holding herself in, but just barely.

"Congrats," he finally said. "I knew you had it in you."

"Thanks," she answered breathlessly, beaming, and she sat down.

There was a long silence.

"Are you at least coming to watch the tryouts?" Sylvia finally asked.

"Wh – of course I am!" said Rose immediately, as if offended. "Freddy's going to be trying out for Beater, after all."

"Yeah, that's right," Albus remarked, having remembered just then.

"So Freddy Weasley against Desmond McLaggen, huh?" Sylvia looked like Christmas had come early. "Hah… Desmond hasn't a shot now. Freddy's got pedigree and three years' experience on his side. Better luck next year, I guess."

"And James," Rose added.

"James?" Albus asked. James had been a bit adamant over the summer about not trying out for Quidditch, simply because that would be what everyone would have expected him to do.

"Oh, honestly, Al," Rose sighed, almost laughing. "You really think James'll be able to keep himself away? He takes to the air like a mermaid to water. It's almost like he was born for it."

"Will, erm… will James be going out for Seeker?" Scorpius asked. He sounded like he'd almost been afraid to ask.

"James likes Chaser, I know that for a fact, but Seeker's the open spot," Rose mused. "I dunno… and I haven't seen him at length for about two weeks, either. He's a wild card."

"Malfoy versus Potter, round two?" uttered Sylvia, popping her eyebrows upward. Scorpius obviously didn't like this comment and buried his face in one of his palms. "Friends or no… almost seems like the two families are destined to compete against one another until the end of time, doesn't it? I can't give either one an edge at this point. Haven't seen James fly, but if he's as good as you say he is, Rose, then he may be a match for Scorpius after all…"

"You could probably announce if you wanted to," Scorpius sighed. Given his tone, Albus wasn't sure he'd meant it as a compliment. Sylvia certainly seemed to take it as such; her eyes brightened.

"You really think so?" she asked. The brightness of her eyes seemed to fade as she said, "Maybe I'll do that, then…"

"You're not going to try out?" asked Albus, who thought that she'd be the first one in line tomorrow – after Scorpius, whom he was convinced would set up camp at the pitch tonight if he could.

"Longbottom says he doesn't think it's a good idea," she replied sadly.

"Well…" Albus uttered, finding this strange. "He didn't actually say you weren't allowed, did he?"

"No, but…" Sylvia grimaced. "It'd be really awkward if I played. Every call Gryffindor got, people would go, 'oh, that only happened because Sylvia's the Arbiter's daughter.' My dad's fair and calls everything down the middle like a good Arbiter should – but if somebody, say, fouled me really hard during a match, I don't even know how he'd react. He's rather protective of me, you see. Besides…"

She seemed to get some of her pep back.

"I'm a Chaser through and through… and there's a logjam at that spot," she said. "Maybe some other year – although I will talk to the professor about maybe announcing some matches. I'd like that."

"Well… I guess you can watch with me and Rose, then," Albus said.

"You're not trying out, either?" she asked, looking surprised.

"I don't really have a position," he said. "I don't fly quite like James, so I couldn't be a Chaser or Seeker. I'm not big enough to be a Keeper…"

"…And you don't like causing other people pain quite enough to be a good Beater," finished Sylvia. "Which isn't necessarily a bad thing."

Albus yawned early the next morning as he descended the stairs to the common room, only to find Rose there, sitting on the couch next to the fireplace, reading a book.

"Rose?"

"Al?" Rose looked up from her book. "You're up early."

"M-me?" yawned Albus. "Did you sleep at all last night?"

"Of course I did," said Rose briskly. Albus couldn't tell whether she was lying or not.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Same reason you are," she answered. He clambered down the stairs and made his way toward the couch. Rose slid her feet off almost automatically. He sat down. A couple of moments later, her feet were poking him in the ribs.

"Yeah?"

"Can I tell you a secret?" she asked, peering over her book.

"Um… sure," Albus uttered. He was used to this. Rose had done it ever since they had been very small – except, back then, the secrets had been things like "I smuggled a gnome into Gran's house" or "I nicked my mum's wand and tried a spell with it, and it worked."

"Do you promise you won't tell?" she whispered.

"Do I ever tell any of your secrets, Rose?" asked Albus, a bit exasperated.

"Okay…" she still seemed hesitant. "Well…"

Creak. The door up to the Gryffindor boys' dorms had needed greasing for a while. It was just that the poor old caretaker, Filch (who had apparently been around since at least their parents' generation) just hadn't gotten around to it.

Scorpius Malfoy stood there – white-faced, white-haired in the dim light. Slowly, he descended the stairs as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. He was wearing denim jeans and a shirt that Albus knew now bore the picture of a Golden Snitch upon it.

"Albus? Rose?" he whispered. "What are you doing up?"

"We're going with you to the pitch, of course," Albus said simply.

"It's five-fifty in the morning!" Scorpius managed to exclaim and whisper at the same time.

"Yes, we're aware of that – we can both tell time," Albus answered.

"Are you serious?" Scorpius asked. Albus didn't see the problem.

"Yes."

"Are you serious?" he asked again, this time turning his eyes upon Rose.

"Well, of course we're serious," she said. "You think we'd get out of bed this early for a joke? …Scorpius?"

He had dropped his head and was looking at neither of them for a moment. When he looked up again, his eyes had gone very shiny in the firelight.

"I… really…" he murmured a bit dimly. "I don't know what to…"

Albus jumped to his feet. "C'mon, let's go – we're burning daylight."

So ironic and well-placed was this statement (the sun hadn't come over the horizon) that both Scorpius and Rose burst into quiet but appreciative laughter.

James

James awoke. The only way he knew as much was that his rather bizarre dream had ended. It had involved him hoisting the Quidditch Cup in victory, only for an enormous serpent to emerge from the cup and swallow him whole, while a voice sounding suspiciously like Tommy Jordan's announced the entire event with gusto.

He peered around the dark room a bit pointlessly – it was very nearly pitch black, after all. He groped around him for his wand.

"Lumos."

Setting it on the nearby dresser, he started to pull on the clothes he'd set out for himself last night.

How the bloody hell is anyone supposed to tell what time it is with no windows? He thought to himself, fuming. If I ever see Neville again, I'm gonna tell him to take his 'lessons' and the Sword of Gryffindor, and stick the both of them right up his–

He'd tried to pull his pants on both legs at the same time – big mistake. He toppled, crashing spectacularly into the ground and earning himself a throbbing pain in his forehead.

Tellius Nott's snoring halted for a moment, then continued. James felt like he could have dragged Tellius into the midst of an earthquake and the boy would have still slumbered on.

"Potter?"

Another Slytherin boy was staring at him from a bed opposite his own (which looked peculiar indeed with the hangings of Gryffindor colors amidst all the green, black, and silver).

"Just me, Bletchley," murmured James, not really feeling like talking. "Go back to sleep."

"No point now," Bletchley murmured. "Tryouts are today, aren't they?"

"For Gryffindor," James corrected him.

"Slytherin's are right after," Bletchley said. "It's almost eight, I think. I need to head to the Great Hall to grab a bite anyway. You coming?"

"Nope," James muttered. "Rather not fly on a full stomach."

This was only a half-truth. He had no intention of eating meals with a Slytherin – even a seemingly decent one like Bletchley. He finished dressing and left immediately – he'd be late at the rate he was going.

He swore to himself repeatedly as he stalked up the stairs to the Slytherin common room. Exactly when was Neville planning on allowing him to sleep in his own dormitory again? It was bad enough that he had no friends down here, but work was becoming difficult as well, with no Murphy to help him. Admittedly, Murphy wasn't the best person with whom to compare class notes, but he was still better than nothing. Professor Malcolm had been in rare form that week as well, and the only thing that had kept James from cheeking him in front of the entire class was the knowledge that Malcolm would have liked nothing better than to give James a detention and schedule it for the day of Quidditch tryouts.

The common room's green light was much more foreboding in its emptiness – although, in truth, the noise level wasn't much different. The silence was not complete, however; a vague humming caught James' ears as he entered the common room.

Standing in the common room's center was Brynne Walter, barefoot, alone, twirling a bit clumsily and singing to herself:

Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,

Teach us something please,

Whether we be old and bald…

Finally, James could not take anymore and asked, "What are you doing?"

Brynne did not jump or scream like James expected. She simply stopped and turned toward him, wearing a vague, demure smile. "Hi, James."

James squirmed a bit; Brynne's serenity was unnerving.

"Uh… hey," he murmured. "Listen, I'd love to talk, but I gotta… uh… Quidditch tryouts."

"Oh," Brynne said simply. James kept walking until he noticed Brynne shadowing him. Everything in him wanted to tell her to go away. "You're still here. It's been two weeks now."

"Thanks for reminding me," James said sourly.

Brynne frowned. "Don't you enjoy it?"

"Of course I don't enjoy it," James grumbled. "I want to be back in Gryffindor Tower – with Murphy and my cousins and friends. I'm tired of living underground like some sort of vampire, I'm tired of barely making it to classes on time because I can't find my way from here, I'm tired of not being able to talk above a whisper when I want, I'm tired of rooms with no windows, I'm tired of you lot, and I'm tired of all this – bloody – green."

He stood there for a moment, fuming. He hadn't meant to vent all of his frustration and anger at Brynne, but she was the one who kept prodding him when he wasn't in the mood.

"You don't have many friends in Slytherin, do you?" she simply asked.

James's lip curled as he started to wonder to himself if Brynne deserved some of his venom after all. "Why would I want to make friends in Slytherin?"

"Well, Slytherins are cunning and resourceful." Brynne seemed as if she'd had this answer prepared. "Those sorts of people are always useful, right?"

"…Until they use that cunning and resourcefulness to stab you in the back," James said disdainfully.

"Do you think Gryffindors are perfect, then?" she asked seriously. James frowned.

"Of course I don't. I'm not an idiot," he said. Thinking mainly of Desmond McLaggen, that bully in his little brother's year, and another of his roommates that he didn't like, he added, "I know Gryffindor's got its fair share of gits."

"So why can't you think there are nice Slytherins?" she asked, almost sounding pained. "I've never done anything mean to you."

James frowned. He hadn't come up here to have this conversation.

"I'm already late," he said, deciding to walk away. She grabbed onto his wrist. He whirled around.

"James Potter. Dance with me," she said. It wasn't a request.

"Dance?" James now could not resist looking at Brynne like she was mad. "But… I can't. And there's no music."

Brynne's pull, as light and as delicate as a feather on his wrist, exerted more control over him than pure force ever would have done.

"You know, James Potter," she said as she started to move to her own rhythm and he tried to follow her. "I don't hate you at all."

"What?" James uttered, bewildered by this statement. "You should?"

"If we're playing by your rules," Brynne said simply, her face growing a bit somber for the first time. "Do you know my mum's name?"

"Uh… no," James stammered. "Why would I know that?"

"Her birth name was Carrow," Brynne said. "Her name was Carrow, and she was a twin, too. Terrible coincidence. I don't even know if she – we – were related to… them, but my mum shared the name… that was enough for the lot that came, looking for revenge about ten years ago…"

She explained this story with a strange detachment, but the smile was noticeably gone from her face.

"My father tried to help – they murdered him. They tortured her until she went mad, I hear," Brynne explained, her voice no more than a whisper. "Then they killed her."

"Who were 'they'?" asked James, almost afraid to know the answer.

"A few Gryffindors," Brynne said, "Acting, they said, for the Carrows' victims."

James frowned. A lump was forming in his throat. "But your mum wasn't a Dark witch, was she?"

"Sometimes, when I sleep, and I dream," she said very deliberately. "I can hear her. My mum, I mean. I was in my crib when it happened. I can hear her screaming…"

"Stop," James withdrew from Brynne as if she had burned him, whirling around and turning his back on her. "Just… stop it."

"Funny thing, they didn't touch me," she said, looking straight up at the ceiling curiously. "Maybe it's because they've heard things… it's very old magic, when someone dies to protect another…"

"Shut up already!" James exclaimed. "Why are you telling me all this?"

Brynne dropped her head. "I thought you should know – that's all."

More silence. James wanted to escape, to run, yet at the same time, he felt rooted to the spot, unable – or perhaps unwilling – to move a muscle.

"If it matters to you at all," Brynne said, "I grew up very happy. My Aunt Flora raised me like her own daughter. Still hasn't married, though…"

"What happened to them?" James asked. "The people that killed your parents?"

"Oh, one of the Ministry's Aurors saw to their capture," Brynne said casually. "The Minister put him over the whole Auror Office not long after that."

James whirled around and faced her again. Math wasn't his strong suit, but it hadn't taken him that long. "My dad."

"Yes," Brynne said. A bit dreamily, she remarked, "They were here together, you know. My mum, my aunt, and your father. Aunt Flora says she didn't know him well, but..."

"I don't understand how you ended up in Slytherin," James finally said. "You just don't seem like… like the type, I guess."

"'Type'?" Brynne asked, tilting her head. "There's supposed to be a 'type'?"

James couldn't believe his ears. "All houses have a 'type' – that's how we get Sorted. Slytherins are cunning, resourceful, ambitious… and they lean toward the Dark Arts. Voldemort himself was once in Slytherin, you know…"

"So were my mum and auntie," Brynne said. James was surprised by the lack of malice in her voice. "They didn't use the Dark Arts. But… my mum died because people like you thought she did. Just because she was a Slytherin. Don't you think there's something wrong with that?"

She looked right up at him. The expression in her blue eyes was so innocent and guileless, yet it penetrated James like the sharpest of swords.

"Neville put you up to this," he said suspiciously. "He's having you feed me this story to make me feel sorry for you."

Brynne sighed heavily. "I wish that was true."

James swallowed hard, backing away from her.

"I've gotta go," he muttered. "Tryouts are at ten…"

"I'll be there… watching," she said a bit dreamily.

James frowned. "You can't… if the team sees you're not in Gryffindor, they'll probably run you off."

"But I'm a Slytherin, remember?" she whispered blithely. "We're 'resourceful'."

She put a finger to her lips, giggled, and skipped off toward the hallway that led to the dormitory staircase, leaving James alone in the common room once again.