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Blind Injustice

'GRINDELWALD MASSACRES DISSIDENT MAGES IN YUGOSLAVIA, GREECE; DEATH TOLL REACHES 700'

Albus Dumbledore threw down the newspaper with an angry sigh and rubbed his eyes beneath his half-moon glasses. With every new headline in the Daily Prophet, he felt a new burden fall heavily upon his shoulders, and it was only a matter of time before the weight of these woes became simply unbearable. He knew he had to do something, anything, to stop all of this, but he knew that the war could end in no way other than a confrontation between himself and Gellert, a confrontation that could end in no other way than the death of one or the other. And as fervently as Albus wished for a prompt cessation of the killing, he knew he would not be able to kill Gellert. He could not. Not a day went by when he did not think of their youth together, and whatever Gellert might have become in the years since their separation, Albus would never be able to separate him from the dashing, rash, charming boy he had known. How could he kill a part of himself?

Some nights, Albus wished he could end his misery in the simplest way possible.

But he couldn't do that either. Too many people were counting on him; just yesterday, Galatea had told him that she would have lost hope long ago if not for the reassurance she received upon knowing that he, Albus, was still alive and there to defend the castle from whatever evils lurked outside. (Neither of them mentioned the evils that lurked inside Hogwarts, almost as if any mention of the menace would jog it to life again; and after the three months of agonized peace within the school, such a risk was something none of the professors were willing to take.)

A sharp knock on the door jarred Albus from his reverie. He had not slept a full night in months; the fatigue was obviously getting to him.

'Come in,' he said wearily, and the door opened to admit Tom Marvolo Riddle.

'You wished to speak with me, sir,' said the boy politely, seating himself across from the professor.

'I do.' Albus folded his hands and looked intently at Riddle's face. It felt like only yesterday that he had first encountered the unnervingly cold child in the London orphanage, yet the being meeting his gaze now had grown, both in size and in power; while then, Albus had seen the fear flickering in the boy's eyes, now each of Riddle's eyes seemed like a metal door that slammed tightly shut the instant Albus's own eyes met them.

'Well?'

'Sit down, Tom,' said Albus heaving, gesturing to the chair across the desk with one hand. Tom hesitated a moment, then slowly lowered himself into the chair, never moving his gaze from his professor as he did so. 'How have you been?'

Riddle tried to keep his face from registering surprise at such a casual question, but he checked it a second too late for Albus to miss it. 'Fine, Professor,' he replied smoothly. 'Why do you ask?'

Albus raised his eyebrows slightly. 'Given the current state of affairs at Hogwarts, I think the question is reasonably apropos.'

'I never said it was not, sir.'

'Tom,' said Dumbledore seriously. 'I daresay you realise how absurdly lucky we've been. It's only a matter of time before someone is killed.'

Riddle's face remained impassable, but his hand passed unconsciously over an elegant signet ring which he now wore on his finger.

'And?'

'Not without reason has it been noted that all of the victims have been Muggle-born,' Albus continued, folding his hands. 'Tom, as your professors, it is our duty to ensure the safety of every student at Hogwarts. We cannot know if this agenda is limited to those of Muggle-born parents, or if it will extend to those of mixed blood.'

Riddle's face tautened and his jaw tensed. 'And why does this concern me?'

'I know you never met your parents,' Albus said, empathetically and yet as delicately as he could, 'but I should tell you that a Mr Tom Riddle and his parents – Muggles, all three – were found murdered in their home last summer.'

Riddle registered no emotion, but his eyes followed Dumbledore's glance carefully as the Transfiguration professor's own gaze darted rapidly to the ring on Riddle's hand, and then back.

'I see,' he said. 'But this is all supposition, I assume, Proffesor?'

'Indeed. But, Tom, if these attacks persist, I fear that Hogwarts will no longer be safe for anyone – Muggle-born and so-called "pureblood" alike. Please,' said Albus, rising to his feet to indicate that the meeting had drawn to a close, 'keep a sharp eye about you, and do tell me if anything comes to your attention?'

'Of course, sir,' said Riddle smoothly, his lips curling into a slight smile.

When the boy had departed, Albus sank back into his chair with a wearied exhale. It was not in his nature to suspect people before given reasonable cause, but Riddle made him more uneasy than anyone he had ever met; it was more difficult to read the boy than even Gellert, and the brash arrogance and brilliance the two shared worried Albus more than he would ever admit to another living soul.

'Innocent till proven guilty, Tom,' muttered Albus finally, crumpling the Prophet and tossing it into the dying embers of his office fire.

The rains of March had swept through Hogwarts and left the birches around the lake weeping dainty crystal drops for weeks at a time; the flowers of April had erupted into full bloom in a bright array of colours, and still the Mandrakes were not yet fully matured. Pomona had been taken on as a full-time aide at the greenhouses, and was rarely seen any more without dirt beneath her fingernails and a pair of fuzzy earmuffs on her head or dangling round her neck. Despite her struggles with Herbology, Minerva too was determined to help in whatever ways possible; many a night she was seen carrying trays of sandwiches to the greenhouses for those who were transferring the Mandrakes to larger pots.

More often, Minerva could be found in a certain corner of the Hospital Wing, which she visited every evening. Though not naturally prone to excessive displays of sentiment, upon occasion Minerva felt compelled to lean her head close to Jeff's and tell him about everything that was happening around the castle – any new gossip, interesting stories, even things as mundane as how classes and NEWT preparation were progressing; she knew it was pointless, that speaking to someone so clearly comatose was bound to leave few impressions, and yet treating Jeff as though he was fully capable of comprehending her maintained Minerva's hope that the Mandrakes would perform as expected and restore him to himself.

'I don't know what to think about her any more,' Augusta commented in an undertone to Pomona one day in early May as they left lunch together. 'I mean, we all took it hard, but even more so for Minerva, understandably…' (There was no need for Augusta to specify what she was talking about.)

'I know,' replied Pomona. 'I worry about her an awful lot. Look at her, her entire life has turned into studying for NEWTs and waiting for the Mandrakes to mature.'

'She barely eats, she barely sleeps, her personality's lost all its fire.' Augusta sniffed bitterly and swung her bag rather violently over her shoulder, as if her fury could restore life to how it had been. 'I thought things couldn't get much worse after her father, and now… Merlin, Pomona, don't think badly of me, but sometimes I feel so angry. It's ridiculously difficult for me feel any happiness for myself and Paul, what with all this going on.'

Pomona said nothing. Augusta glanced at her, and burst into tears.

'You think I'm a terrible person, don't you?' she sobbed. 'I'm not, Pomona, I'm really not! I just want everyone to be happy, because then I wouldn't feel so bloody awful about being in love and being so happy about it.'

'I don't blame you in the slightest,' said Pomona quietly. 'It must be lovely to have someone to love like that.'

Augusta opened her mouth to continue, but then she saw the look on Pomona's face. 'Pomona! Oh, Pomona, are you all right?'

'Yes, quite.' Pomona attempted to smile, but the corners of her mouth faltered and drooped trembling. 'It's just… seeing you and Paul together, and… Minerva… well, I just feel rather lonely sometimes.' A single tear squeezed itself from the corner of Pomona's eye and meandered mournfully down one cheek.

Augusta's jaw dropped slightly, and she put a reassuring arm around Pomona. 'Is it something you want to talk about?'

Pomona shrugged one shoulder, muffling her emotions with a fist pressed tightly to her closed mouth. Augusta sat Pomona down on the lawns just above the greenhouses and took a seat next to her.

'Is there anyone in particular?' she asked tentatively.

Pomona looked as if she was going to answer, but then buried her head further into her hands. 'I don't know… no. I can't talk about it.'

Augusta put a hand on Pomona's shoulder and gave her a few moments to sort out her feelings.

'Yes,' sniffled Pomona finally. 'Yes, but this can't be shared with anyone, Augusta. No-one else can know. Promise?'

Augusta nodded solemnly. Pomona smiled weakly, opened her mouth, closed it, gulped down another sob.

'He's already involved with someone else?' guessed Augusta sympathetically. Pomona hesitated a moment, as if about to speak, then simply nodded. 'Oh, no. Well, maybe things will work out for you.'

'Oh, don't be silly, Augusta,' said Pomona glumly, rolling a twig between her fingers and not looking at her friend. 'There's no chance on earth. You've seen them together as often as I – that is, before… all this began.'

Augusta's eyes widened. 'You don't mean…?'

Pomona bobbed her head jerkily once.

'Poor dear,' sighed Augusta, her hand dropping from Pomona's arm.

'Don't misunderstand me, Augusta,' said Pomona thickly through her tears. 'I want them to be happy, of course I do. But sometimes I feel so alone when we're all together… when we were all together… Merlin, I can't talk about it.'

The two sat side by side for a time together, neither speaking.

'If I could do anything to help you,' Augusta began.

'No,' said Pomona firmly. She laughed a bit, a shaky laugh void of joy. 'Goodness, no. I accepted things for the way they are, a long time ago, and I couldn't be so selfish as to wish to destroy their happiness for my own sake. But what a pity it has to be one of my best friends! I don't even have the luxury of avoiding the situation.'

'Yes, well…' Augusta smiled encouragingly at Pomona. 'I'm sure there's someone else out there for you, Pomona. You've got such a lovely personality, and you're the best friend anyone could have. He just hasn't found you yet.'

'Perhaps.' Pomona sighed and glanced towards the greenhouses. 'Well, I'd best be off. I'm so sorry for troubling you with all this, Augusta.'

'Not at all,' replied Augusta with absolutely sincerity.

'And you won't say a word of what I've just spoken to Minerva?'

'Of course not,' said Augusta, taking Pomona's hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze

Pomona nodded gratefully and pushed herself to her feet with a slight sniffle. Augusta remained seated as she watched her friend depart, and felt an acute stab of pity upon seeing Pomona wiping her cheeks with her dirt-crusted sleeve.

'Everything all right?' Minerva's voice asked from behind Augusta.

'Yes,' responded Augusta firmly as she turned from Pomona's retreating figure. 'Of course.'

Undoubtedly, Abraxas Malfoy and Orion Black had meant it merely as a cruel joke, but that didn't mean that Riddle couldn't be furious with them for their sheer brashness and stupidity.

'If Dumbledore had caught you,' he hissed, causing both of the older boys to flinch (whether from the proposed scenario or from the speaker, it was difficult to tell).

'I'm sorry, my Lord,' muttered Orion, watching the ground carefully. 'But how were we to know that any of the faculty would recognise the signs…?'

'Have you never seen Dumbledore marching about with a Muggle newspaper under his arm?' snarled Riddle, his eyes flashing dangerously. 'The Ministry itself depends on his word for interspecies relations, including communications with Muggle heads of state. Air-headed as he may appear, the man is no idiot, Black, and by Merlin, he is well aware of current events in both our world and the other.'

'No one would ever expect our fathers to know about such things, let alone be able to procure them; and no one saw us put them there, anyway,' Abraxas argued back under his breath. A second later, he regretted it; in a flash, Riddle's wand was pointed squarely between his eyes.

'You told me not two minutes ago,' seethed Riddle menacingly, 'that Madam Malus gave you permission to enter the Hospital Wing; that you were the only ones there; and that the only reason you did not inflict any bodily damage on that Petrified Mudblood filth was because you feared accusation through circumstantial evidence. Your imbecility, Malfoy, never ceases to astound me.'

Abraxas bit his lip hard, willing himself not to whimper in fear – he had seen his master torture others before. He was therefore completely unsurprised when his legs gave way beneath him in shocked relief the second Riddle had flicked the tip of his wand idly away from its target.

'Fortunately for you two, I foresee certain troubles arising from this situation, namely because of McGonagall's ever-so-touching righteous ire.' Riddle smirked. 'And if it comes to blows, as I suspect it shall, I'll want you two for my seconds, rather than Umbridge. But, mind you, if anything should go awry, you will be punished in ways that even I shudder to contemplate. Do I make myself clear?'

His followers needed no second bidding, but quickly fell to the cold flagstones, muttering their gratitude. Riddle sniffed coldly and twitched the hems of his robes from their servile fingers as he brushed arrogantly past them. He had larger matters at hand tonight.

For Malfoy and Black's actions had indeed incited a spark of rage in Minerva. When she had entered the Hospital Wing that morning, on her customary visit to the bedside of the inert Jeff before classes, she drew in a sharp breath to see Professor Dumbledore in serious discussion with Madam Malus by the foot of the bed.

'Nothing to worry about, Miss McGonagall,' snapped Madam Malus as Minerva drew near with a face paled by dread. 'An immature prank, no bodily damage done…'

'Arnemetia, I do not think you understand the full implication of this so-called prank,' replied Dumbledore in a calm voice that could not conceal a frighteningly obvious rage. 'These are not mere mementos from the Muggle world's war; these are an attempt to brand Mr Cunningham as a worthless "other," and to not acknowledge the wrongness of the act would be an absolute offence to humanity.'

Minerva moved carefully around to Jeff, where he lay as he always did, open eyes staring eerily in confusion. Months of resignation had stilled the lurch in her stomach that had so often accompanied the sight of his motionless figure early on, but today, as she ascertained that his distressing state had not worsened in any manner, she could nonetheless feel her heartbeat slow to its normal rate. It was only then that she noticed the objects under scrutiny: a yellow star with six points stuck to Jeff's shirt; and, spread over his blanket, a red flag whose centre contained a sort of odd black pinwheel circumscribed by a white circle.

'Are you accusing me of bigotry, Albus?' Madam Malus demanded. 'People leave their friends presents all the time, and I had no idea that these were anything other than mere get-well-soon gifts!'

Dumbledore shook his head. 'And that is exactly the problem, Arnemetia. You – and, to be fair, most of the wizarding world – cannot begin to imagine the horror that these symbols hold for so many across Europe.'

'But they're symbols, Albus,' Madam Malus sniffed. 'They don't actually harm anyone physically, and any harm they cause is due to whatever significance you give them. My job is to heal those who are physically unwell, and goodness knows I have plenty to do on that count without any other imagined damages being inflicted.'

'I understand,' sighed Dumbledore, giving up on the meaning of his lesson. 'May I remove these?'

'By all means,' replied Madam Malus curtly. 'And if I remember who came into the ward just before I discovered them, I'll be sure to let you know.'

Dumbledore nodded courteously, and waited for the Healer to retreat to her office before the aura of anger flared about him again. With a forceful flick of his wand, the flag furled itself up and flung itself unceremoniously into a nearby dustbin.

'If you wouldn't mind, Minerva,' he said calmly, gesturing towards Minerva's hand, which had fallen onto Jeff's chest near the yellow star. She carefully removed the shoddily-cast Sticking Charm, and glanced at the star briefly before she handed it to her professor. The word Jude could be seen in faded black ink in the centre of the star, but underneath this, someone had much more recently scrawled the words Arbeit macht frei. (Years later, when she had done her utmost to press the memory of the war's bloodshed from her mind, Minerva would still awake in the dead of night remembering the next time she would see those words, and how little they had meant to her at this moment of relative innocence.)

Dumbledore Banished the star to the same fate as the flag, stood contemplating the Petrified boy before him with an indecipherable expression, and then made his way from the Hospital Wing. Minerva instinctually guessed she was meant to follow; and so, squeezing Jeff's rigid hand slightly and swiftly brushing her lips against his perpetually furrowed brow, she hurried after her professor.

'I'm very sorry you had to be put through that, Minerva,' said Professor Dumbledore as they swept through the hallways. 'Perhaps Madam Malus is right; perhaps I shouldn't assign so much fear to signifiers and symbols; but my compassion for those who live with that constant fear always seems to get the better of me. I shall have to work at that.' He smiled grimly.

'What does it all mean?' Minerva asked, realising vaguely that she would likely be late to Charms, and not really caring. She remembered Jeff saying something, an eternity ago, about the Nazis singling the Jews out by branding their clothes with yellow stars; she could only assume that the flag was that of the oft-mentioned Third Reich.

Dumbledore paused for a moment, almost off-balance, a pained expression contorting his face.

'It means that the parents of at least one student at this school have willingly joined forces with… with the Dark mages across the Channel,' he said finally with unconcealed bitterness. 'I suppose they find it funny, to toss about so carelessly the spoils of the sufferings their Muggle counterparts wreak upon the citizens of tormented nations…'

Minerva had often heard people say that one saw red when enraged, but she had never experienced the sensation personally till now. Echoing through her head were words that she had once heard her own cousin, Orion Black, sneer with a smirk: My father thinks they're going about things the right way in Germany and Austria…

'Minerva?' called Dumbledore as Minerva sprinted off down the hall. He shook his head, hoping (and doubting) that she wouldn't do anything too brash.

Abraxas Malfoy and Orion Black were outside the empty Charms classroom, sniggering at a story Umbridge was telling them about hexing first-year Hufflepuffs from behind a tapestry on the fourth floor, when the latter found himself slammed violently against the uneven stones of the corridor wall, a wand digging painfully into his Adam's apple.

'What the…' he spluttered, his eyes widening considerably and crossing to keep his cousin's face in focus as she leaned forward menacingly.

'Shut up this instant, Orion, or I will personally wrench your tongue out of your head,' snarled Minerva, jabbing her wand a bit further into Orion's convulsing neck. Umbridge's eyes were practically bulging out of her head, Malfoy's jaw hung slightly open in shock; the scene would have been funny if Minerva hadn't been so livid.

'What are you on about?' gasped Orion.

'Don't think you can fool me by playing innocent, any of you,' Minerva snapped, whipping around to accuse the by-standers (Orion slumped back against the wall in relief the instant Minerva's wand was removed from his throat). 'I'm sure you think it's wonderful fun to mock the helpless, and gloat over it when they can't respond, and you're all sick to find it at all amusing when people are being reduced to the status of animals out there for something they can't at all control, and…'

'Oh, please,' smirked Abraxas, regaining some of his swagger now that the shock of Minerva's ire had ebbed. 'Did a little flag really make you that angry, McGonagall? Just because it's flying outside the gates of the ghettos where all your pathetic little friends are being kept in their proper place?' His laugh was cut short when Minerva's hex hit him full in the stomach and he crashed to the ground, bound in tightly-wound ropes.

'Ooh, if that's how you want to play, McGonagall,' sneered Umbridge, pulling out her own wand as Orion peeled himself off the wall to join her with a leer. Minerva bared her teeth in a grimace of rage, brandished her wand a second before her opponents did the same, and felt a leap of excitement as a suit of armour next to the door of the Charms classroom creaked to life and seized Orion under one arm and Umbridge under the other.

'Let me show you how it feels to be the weaker party for once, why don't I?' hissed Minerva, raising her wand, and then…'

'Stop.'

Minerva's heart began to pound even faster as she glanced back over her shoulder to see Tom Marvolo Riddle standing at the entrance to the corridor, his wand pointed steadily at Minerva.

'What do you want?' she snapped.

Riddle raised an eyebrow. 'Let's make this a even fight, please,' he said suavely. 'You and I both know that Orion and Dolores are, er, utterly unable to challenge you with anything remotely interesting; so if you must duel someone, McGonagall, why don't you turn around and leave where they are? No seconds for either of us – fair enough?'

Minerva knew that she should ignore Riddle, that he did indeed pose a threat greater than her three vanquished adversaries combined, but anger and frustration had blinded her judgement.

'I would like nothing better,' she replied savagely, turning slowly and raising her wand. A long moment passed between the two, and then, without warning, Riddle sent a curse at her that she barely ducked in time.

Professor Merrythought had been thorough in her instruction of the basic defensive and offensive curses, but never before had Minerva needed to put them into practice at such a rapid pace: dodging, blocking, attacking, racing up the hallways after Riddle's taunting laugh. In the few seconds where her mind was not clouded by rage, she realised that she was more excited than she had been in months, the rush of combat surging through her veins – she was not a violent person by nature, but this, this feeling of power, was sheer intoxication…

She dashed up a steep spiral staircase after Riddle, gasping for breath but undeterred, and burst onto the roof of the Astronomy Tower, where Riddle was waiting. Minerva could see that he, too, was winded, but the gleam of his eyes was as brilliant as ever.

'My my, but you must really hate me, to have climbed all those stairs after me,' he sneered breathlessly. 'And look, now we really are all alone, in a part of the castle that no-one ever visits by day… I daresay anything could happen up here, couldn't it?'

Minerva deflected a jinx thrown at her, her nostrils flared angrily. 'You're behind them, aren't you,' she panted. 'The attacks, I know you are. How are you doing it?'

Riddle smirked. 'And even if I was behind the attacks, how would you prove it to the rest of the world?'

'What did you do to them?' Minerva insisted. Flashes of light dashed themselves against the stone of the tower as the duellers circled, attacked, eyes locked, jaws set.

'Persistent, aren't you?' Riddle flicked his wand idly, deciding how much to give away. 'Tell me, McGonagall, have you ever heard of the Chamber of Secrets?'

But Riddle's moment of inattentiveness had cost him; Minerva's next hex slammed him violently against the wall of the tower, and he gritted his teeth to keep from crying out in pain as he slumped to the ground.

'Expelliarmus,' spat Minerva, stepping forward to catch Riddle's wand as it flew towards her. 'You're pathetic, Riddle. The Mandrakes will be ready in two days, and then it'll be like nothing ever happened… all your hard work to stamp out "impurities," and none of it will last.'

'There's much more to be done,' gasped Riddle, glaring up at her. 'This is only the beginning, McGonagall, and I assure you that one day, when I've made my name a permanent and prominent fixture in history, you'll regret not having joined my side when you had the chance.'

'Bold words, considering I've just won the duel,' said Minerva scornfully.

Riddle cocked his head challengingly.

'Have you?' he asked, and with a deft move, he kicked Minerva's leg out from under her, causing her to crash unsteadily down to her knees.

'You cheated,' she hissed, scrambling to snatch up her wand.

'All's fair in love and war,' Riddle quipped, seizing both wand and pointing Minerva's directly at its owner's face.

'Are you going to Petrify me too, now?' Minerva challenged him, her voice dangerously calm though her eyes flashed.

'Well, that depends.' Riddle rose to his feet pensively. 'The principle was to target only Mudbloods; but then again, you're such a Mudblood lover that you practically are one of them, and I suspect your children will be far from pure-blooded, which is disgraceful.' Riddle frowned slightly. 'Oh no, I don't think I'd want to ruin their expectations, not with you. But that doesn't mean I can't amuse myself in other ways.'

Before Minerva knew what was happening, Riddle had cried, 'Crucio!' and she was writhing on the ground, screaming, forgetting everything she had ever known except her consuming hatred for Riddle, the one who was putting her through this unbearable pain…

'I gave you enough warnings, McGonagall,' said Riddle carelessly, lifting the wand and leaving Minerva gasping on the flagstones. 'And you wouldn't listen and wouldn't listen, even when I told you there'd be a price to pay, for both you and your precious little Mudblood pet.'

'You leave him out of this,' whispered Minerva with as much force as she could muster.

'Bold words, considering I've just won the duel,' mocked Riddle. He aimed the wand again at Minerva, and smirked in satisfaction when he saw her flinch. 'Apparently, even wild kelpies can be tamed with enough persuasion.'

Minerva pushed herself up by her forearms, intending to retort, but she began to shake so violently that it was all she could do to continue propping herself off the ground in silent concentration.

'Excellent work, Miss McGonagall,' sneered Riddle in imitation of Professor Dumbledore. 'You're learning your lessons quicker and quicker now, aren't you?'

'Give me back my wand,' she replied softly.

'Oh, I'm not done with you yet, McGonagall. And, by the way, no professor will believe you if you tell them about anything that's happened up here. The Cruciatus Curse, as you know, leaves no physical damage, and as you've undoubtedly noticed, the casting of the curse cannot be traced back to my wand…'

'You're evil,' snarled Minerva, finding her way to her feet with the wall for support. 'You're absolutely evil.'

'Now, now, McGonagall…' Riddle leered at her. 'Can't we just kiss and make up over this whole unfortunate misunderstanding? Before you go back downstairs to your Mudblood filth, let's finish this on a friendly note.'

Minerva replied by spitting in Riddle's face. Riddle slowly drew his sleeve across his cheek, then seized Minerva by the wrists and shoved her against the wall, crushing his mouth against hers violently as Minerva protested weakly. After a moment, he released her, dropping Minerva's wand unceremoniously before her feet.

'I'm more powerful than you think, McGonagall,' he said softly. 'Whatever you may think, I will leave my mark on the world. And once you see what I'm fully capable of doing, you'll be ever so sorry I don't give people second chances.'

With that, Riddle swept to the stairwell and moved out of sight with steady, brisk steps that echoed up into the tower to where Minerva sagged against the wall, tears of humiliation and rage coursing silently down her cheeks.

Minerva's only class that day – Potions – was long over by the time Minerva descended slowly down the stairs of the Astronomy Tower, her physical strength long since fully-recovered but her pride shattered. It was around lunchtime, and the corridors were mostly empty; instead of moving towards the Great Hall, Minerva headed back towards the Gryffindor common room, staving off tears by imagining several placating scenarios in which she eviscerated Tom Riddle. Feeling ever so slightly cheered by this, she entered in a bathroom on the second floor to wash her face, and frowned as she heard a taunting voice.

'Ugly, pimply Myrtle! Ugly, pimply Myrtle! What, can't see without these, four-eyes?'

A jeering girl was dangling a pair of spectacles before her homely and clearly myopic peer, who was crying with rage much more audibly than Minerva had an hour before.

'Give them back, Olive!' she raved, swiping the air far off the mark as she squinted to make sense of the bathroom's interior.

'Ooh, Myrtle! What if I flushed them, eh? Would you dive into the toilet after them?' Olive rushed into a stall and dropped Myrtle's glasses into the toilet, placing her hand on the flusher as she did so. 'Come and get them, Myrtle! And please don't drown when you're going after them, I'd be ever so sad…'

'What,' snapped Minerva, her eyes flashing behind her own spectacles, 'is going on?'

Myrtle's tormenter whipped her head towards Minerva, her expression akin to a deer caught in the headlines of an oncoming car. 'Oh, damn it…'

'Hornby, isn't it?' Minerva stared down at the girl, who cowered further back into the stall. 'Fifty points from Ravenclaw, and I'll be speaking to Professor Merrythought about your disgraceful conduct. Do I make myself clear?'

Olive Hornby nodded jerkily.

'Good. Now say you're sorry, and get out of here.'

Olive shot Myrtle a nasty glance, and dashed out of the bathroom without a word to Myrtle. Minerva sighed and turned to the recent victim.

'Are you all right?' she asked wearily. Myrtle's lower lip trembled as her eyes filled with tears, and she rushed into the stall that Olive Hornby had just vacated, slamming the door behind her. As Minerva washed her face with a sinking feeling in her stomach (the memories of her own humiliation returning with Myrtle's immediate peril over), she tried to ignore the sounds of Myrtle sobbing as she fished her glasses out of the toilet.

When Augusta entered the dormitory an hour later, Minerva was lying listlessly on her bed, feeling utterly empty inside.

'Minerva?'

'Yes, I know I missed Potions today, Augusta,' said Minerva wearily, 'but please, don't tease me about it, I'll explain why eventually…'

'Minerva,' Augusta repeated.

'I just keep thinking that in a few days, life will be back to normal, like this was all a bad dream, won't it?' Minerva rolled over onto her side and froze as she caught sight of her friend's face.

'What's happened?' she asked, sitting up.

Augusta looked down at the ground and started to cry.

'I just thought you should know, there was another attack,' she wept. 'A little girl with glasses in a bathroom downstairs, I think they said her name was Marty, or Mary…'

It was as if Minerva's insides had been replaced by icy water. 'Myrtle.'

Augusta nodded.

'Well, Augusta, think of it this way,' Minerva said, trying to be rational but sensing that something was terribly wrong. 'The Mandrakes will be ready in only two days, and then Myrtle will be revived, and all will be well…'

Augusta shook her head violently.

'Not this time,' she said bitterly. 'Myrtle's never going to be revived, Minerva. She's dead.'