A/N: I don't own anything you recognize.

"There're even less students after holiday," whispered Edmund. He stood in between Cora and Adair, watching the thin trickle of cloaked teenagers pass by under the stone arches.

"Everyone's scared," said Cora. "If there's to be a war, parents want their children with them, in hiding."

"A war," breathed Adair. "Y'know, before seeing this...this massive drop in attendance, I was...I don't know, doubtful about this whole Dark Lord business. I mean, you know that. But goodness, just look around."

Cora nodded. "There's a fear in the air. It's grown since we were last here."

"Standing about, are we?" asked the shrill voice of McGonagall. "Class won't wait for you, you know."

The three quickly gathered their things. "Yes, Professor," said Edmund as they hurried off.

"But I don't see how any dark forces could get in here with McGonagall around," said Adair as they scurried away. "Surely even Voldemort is scared of her."

Cora smiled. "I like her."

It was the first morning of classes after their return from Christmas holiday. There was, as the three had observed, a highly apparent lack of students returning to Hogwarts. There was a hesitant, lingering tinge of dread on every breath of air passing along the stones of the halls. A fear had been bubbling for months - years - now, but the worry now hung on every face, tainting every laugh that may have tried to cut through the darker shadows closing in.

The Slytherins, for the most part, seemed very much at ease. Worry didn't cling to their passing glances; they strode through the school in throngs and gangs just as they had every year prior. Some of them, of course, didn't necessarily have the guaranteed protection provided by their parents' status with the Dark Lord, and therefore felt the same fear that swayed at the necks of the other students like an ever-tightening noose. And yet, those unaffiliated Slytherins felt the added pressure, the same danger, of wearing that green tie, but not siding with the children of Death Eaters who slept in the same dormitories as them every night.

And one Slytherin was forced to walk with the other protected Slytherins, living under the frightened gazes of Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, Gryffindors - all of whom he wanted only to reach out to, to tell his inner conflicts. " I am not one of them!" he would shout. And yet I am. I must be, his heart whispered.

And, of course, he would pass by her from time to time, a curly-haired glow among the black cloaks. He would meet her eye as she glided past, and she would look into him. Always there was someone at her side, speaking to her, and he understood the gleam that was always in their eyes when they looked at her; she had a pull. People gravitated towards her. And for all these years at Hogwarts, he'd unknowingly been in a slow orbit - circling, circling, until finally pulled into her, wrapping himself in her light, her wisdom, her comfort. And with every passing glance, every moment of absolute agony as they walked away from each other, he knew he was being enveloped deeper and deeper, with no chance of escape. It wasn't love, surely not. It wasn't that- no, no. He was dark, but she held the same light that had been kindling within him his entire life. And when his sparks met one with a similar flame, they were ignited. That was all; not love.

And she would pass by him in the halls, meet his dark eyes that had somehow grown so much lighter in the past months. She would recognize his pleading gaze; they would hold entire conversations without words in those fleeting seconds. In fact, she wasn't sure if the things they told each other in their eyes could even be words if given the chance. They were simply emotions, the sort of aching you feel in your chest when a far-off, warm memory of childhood: a landscape out of a familiar and distant windowpane, a warm hand on your own, is placed in your head. These feelings, these aches, were sent to each other in the four seconds of looking at each other through the milling students in the halls of Hogwarts, as the rays of midday's sun mingled with the invisible strokes of color that surely rolled on the air between their eyes. Neither had ever felt such conviction within their chests.

And yet, he thought of the glory the Dark Lord offered. Already, he had proven himself to his parents just by not being his brother. And yet, the temptation, the lifelong dream of following the Dark Lord was so real, and so tangible. He could not throw that away.

And then he would remember the light she emits, and his gaze would once again be yanked from the shadows and the ache in his chest would flourish from where it left off. And he knew, he knew, the light was stronger. He ached more for it than he ever had for the dark, more than for the black lines carved into his forearm.

"Heard anything back on your astrology essay?" asked Adair, sitting down beside Cora on a Ravenclaw dormitory sofa.

Cora shifted her feet underneath the blanket. It was the first week of March; cold, no matter how near the fireplace was. Maybe, somehow, it was the sight, through the tall windows, of the barren tree branches silhouetted against the night sky that added to the empty chill in the dormitory. She pulled the blanket closer to her neck. "Not a thing," she said. "Now that essay was art, Adair. You read it. I poured my soul onto that parchment."

"Well, as much soul as you can pour out over the movement of planets," said Adair, taking a corner of Cora's blanket and draping it over her own legs. "You'll get a high mark, don't worry."

Cora laughed, her head resting against the back of the sofa. "Y'know, I can't even find it within myself to care too much anymore," she said. "There's just a handful of months left here at Hogwarts."

Adair sighed. "And I still don't have a boyfriend."

Cora hit Adair's leg with a cushion. "You've had several love interests."

"But hardly a passionate love affair, nothing to last," laughed Adair. "Some girls seem to find their absolute soulmate at Hogwarts. Guess there's just no one quite good enough for us, huh?" She snorted and rubbed her eyes.

Cora let her head roll against the sofa, her smile losing its strength. "I guess not," she said.

"Well, you had Remus. Although I don't know how serious that was, I suppose. It's a logical match, nonetheless," said Adair.

"Oh, I think Remus is a wonderful guy, but he's no romantic interest, not anymore," said Cora.

The girls fell quiet, the hum of the fire matching the tones of the murmured conversations from the other corners of the common room.

"Y'know, Edmund, he's really grown up a lot in these past few years," said Adair nonchalantly.

Cora's head shifted to look at her friend, her hair brushing against the fabric of the sofa. "Well...yeah, yeah, I suppose he has," she said.

Adair nodded slowly, studying her fingers fiddling with each other in her lap. "Mentally, of course, but...but physically, too." Her tone was as casual as she could possibly make it, an air of forced nonchalance bringing a surprised smirk to Cora's face.

"I guess that does happen when people age," she said.

Adair finally met Cora's gaze, and a scolding expression took over her own. "Cora, don't look at me like that and don't be ridiculous - I know what you're thinking," she said. "Absolutely ridiculous."

Cora held up her hands in apologetic surrender, but smiled still. The fire popped.

The second week of March brought mildly warmer temperatures and a new essay assignment in Slughorn's potions class. The essay gave the students a choice, however - a choice of topic. The popular ideas were Felix Felicis, Amortentia; these were the potions that appealed most to the more simplistic, excitable minds of many students. Regulus watched the peers at his table convene to discuss the possible dark magic subject matters. He, on the other hand, had no idea what to write about. On one hand, Slughorn would be easily pleased with whatever Regulus put on the man's desk, for he would be blinded by his love and enthusiasm for the boy. On the other hand, Slughorn held high expectations for anyone in his club, and Regulus felt a pressure to keep the professor's level of regard he held him in high.

The restricted section. Surely here he would find a topic suitable for an impressive paper. One that was a rare subject for students to ever choose, something with edge and depth and an impressive sound. He'd received a note from Slughorn granting him permission, and now, as he moved the heavy rope out of his way, he realized every dusty book held promise.

Page after yellowed page. Ancient wizards, strange legends he'd never heard of until now. So far, he'd come across several topics of interest relating to potions, but nothing perfect. Until he opened a heavy book, tucked in a deep corner of a shelf and bound in leather so dark it nearly blended into the shadows. And he came across something whose name itself felt inherently twisted, as if speaking it would turn his tongue into the black one sickly etched onto his forearm. He furrowed his brow as he read the very short, vague description in the ancient book. This didn't relate to potions, but it was so much what Regulus was looking for in a topic. He flipped through the rest of the book, finding only the one brief mention; he would need more.

"Professor Slughorn, I found something interesting in the restricted section this evening."

Slughorn was admiring a glass bauble on his desk, his chin moving up and down. "Ah, ah, yes! Yes, did you find a topic for the essay like you were hoping for?"

"Well, possibly," said Regulus. He paused. "Professor, what exactly is a horcrux?"

The glass bauble slipped from Slughorn's right hand, being barely caught by his left. "Well, my boy, that is...that is very dark magic indeed...and not exactly pertaining to potions," stumbled the professor.

"I realize it doesn't exactly pertain to the subject, but I want this essay to be about something rare, something different. Professor, all I could find of this magic was a brief mention in a single book. I'm curious, is all," said Regulus.

Slughorn sat down behind his desk, his eyebrows tilting almost sadly. "I know you're curious. Intelligent, is what you are. I'm just not sure you want to go around writing an essay on something such as...well, on something so dark."

"Suppose I don't write about it. I just want a better understanding than that vague book description could give me," said Regulus.

"You're not the first to ask me about horcruxes, you know," said Slughorn.

"Recently?" asked Regulus.

"Recently enough," said Slughorn. His fingers fidgeted along the edge of his desk. "Tom Riddle, you know."

Regulus felt his entire body still, as though every internal, automatic function had suddenly switched off. "The Dark Lord," he said.

Slughorn nodded. "Yes, I suppose that's what they're calling him these days."

"What did you tell him when he asked?"

"Well, I...I told him the truth," said Slughorn. "As, I suppose, I'm going to tell you." He folded his hands. "A horcrux… is an object in which a person has...concealed part of their soul. One takes a, a section of their soul and hides it within an object."

"For protection? From what I understood in the book's explanation, a horcrux prevents you from being able to die," said Regulus.

Slughorn nodded. His face then contorted, his brows furrowing. "That-that's enough, you really shouldn't be reading into these sort of things. This is too dark of stuff, Regulus."

Regulus opened his mouth to speak, faltering. "I just, I don't understand...how it works, Professor. How are you supposed to split your soul?"

Slughorn hesitated, and his hands stilled. "There is a reason the topic of horcruxes is shrouded in such darkness, Regulus," he said. "To split one's soul, one has to kill. Killing tears apart the soul."

Regulus swallowed, pausing. Thinking. "Perhaps I'll find another essay topic, sir," he said.

Slughorn's shoulders slumped. "I think that would be a better idea," he said. "You know I respect your interest in education, but some things are better left in the restricted section."

Regulus watched the flames lick and flutter around each other in the common room's hearth. Horcruxes. Taking souls to tear apart your own to make you immortal. A sick, dark power. One inquired about by the Dark Lord himself, once a supposed curious boy.

It's nothing, thought Regulus. Just because Tom Riddle once asked about a type of magic doesn't mean he ended up using it. It's only natural that the Dark Lord should express an interest in dark magic from an early age.

And if it was something, if he did split his soul - shouldn't that be good to Regulus? The leader of Regulus's cause would be immortal, infinitely strong.

Regulus smiled sadly down at his fingers running along the seam of the chair's arm; he needed to stop lying to himself. He knew; he knew the prospect of the Dark Lord being immortal meant death for the world. It meant a never ending shadow of black clouds looming over everything in every corner.

But it was nothing, surely nothing. He pulled his eyes from the fire; the fire popped.

A/N: Thank you to everyone who reads this! Review if you'd like; it's more appreciated than I can explain.