Coven. Ch. 21: Piece

Harry's head was spinning. Admittedly, the purplish fumes coming out from Ron's cauldron might have something to do with it, but he attributed most of the vertigo to the idea of Horcruxes.

After his early-morning talk with Dumbledore, the until now abstract idea of fighting Voldemort felt suddenly real. Gone were the wild – and now embarrassing – daydreams of an incredibly powerful magic known only to himself; gone the fantasizing about an easy and unexpected win. In their place, Harry now saw a plan, a to-do list, a very specific set of objectives.

The locket, the cup, the snake, something of Gryffindor of Ravenclaw's…

"Mate," Ron interrupted. "What's the Prince say? Should it look lumpy?"

Harry did not need to check his book to know Ron's potion was a guaranteed Troll. Still, he remembered Hermione once telling him baneberry essence got rid of lumps, and he suggested it. Ron added the ingredient from a safe distance, and they both waited with apprehension – explosions were never amiss in a sixth year potions class.

"Nice one," Ron said when it seemed likely it had worked. His potion still looked like blueberry jam, albeit an unusually smooth batch. "D'ya reckon she'd know something? About horcruxes, I mean," he added almost as an afterthought, his eyes fastened on Hermione's back.

Harry supposed the mention of baneberries had brought her to his mind, too.

"Maybe," he said, his mood darkening. "Parkinson would. Might have told her."

Ron got a nasty frown to match his own, and kept on stirring his potion, which was darkening in colour, getting further away from the desired sky blue.

"You sure Parkinson would know how to split her soul in half?" Ron looked sceptical. "She's a mean sort all right, but even You-Know-Who had to ask Slughorn for specifics…"

Harry snorted. "Parkinson's got a whole lot of other options besides the Hogwarts' Library, doesn't she? I'll bet she knows all kinds of dark stuff – even more now that she's joined them."

Ron's scowl got deeper, and Harry knew him well enough to understand the gesture as disagreement. "What?" he prodded him.

"It's just," Ron shrugged, looking confused, "don't you think it's strange? How the Slytherins are shunning Parkinson? If she's working for You-Know-Who, then –"

"Maybe they don't know," he said, having thought about it before – he had heard the lot of them call her blood traitor. Crabbe and Goyle seethed when she walked by, and they were not smart enough to act.

"I don't know mate," he said, hesitating, as if not quite daring to bring the topic up. "I just find the whole idea mind-boggling. I mean, Hermione, with You-Know-Who?"

Well, yes, it sounded idiotic when you summarized it that way. But Dumbledore had said –

"And I thought that, I dunno –"

Ron had been one of the angriest, back at the Burrow, when Dumbledore had shared the news. That was when he had been feuding with Hermione, though; it seemed now that they had not spoken in about half a year – goodness, how time passed – his temper had cooled enough to reconsider the situation.

"Hermione would never join Voldemort," Harry agreed, and ignored Ron's wince. "It's Parkinson who has. I reckon Hermione doesn't know."

Again, Ron looked doubtful.

"But – I mean, if she befriended Hermione to spy on you, why would she keep going now?" he asked. "Can't get much information when we don't speak to her, can she? And meanwhile, she only gets herself enemies. Two days ago, I saw a bloody third-year Slytherin try to hex her in the corridors," he said.

Harry could see what he meant, but to him it still made sense – an elaborate plan to keep Hermione away from them, and to gather whatever information she could on his past. Ron, though, kept going.

"And they've joined forces with Davies – she's a halfblood, you know?"

Harry had not known, and was momentarily shaken out of his convictions; it had never occurred to him that Slytherins could be anything but purebloods. Ron, however, kept going.

"And then there's Luna, and Garcia who's another muggleborn, and that other short Hufflepuff who seems nice," he said. "Why?" he asked him again, and Harry had no answers. "Wasn't she isolating Hermione? Why allow her friends that Parkinson herself supposedly hates?"

Harry could not formulate an explanation that sounded solid enough to share. Maybe Parkinson needed allies within Slytherin? If third-years had taken to cursing her… And as for the other girls, could it just be a way to keep Hermione happy? Distracted? To convince her she was not a Death Eater like Malfoy?

"And now there's all those other Slytherin half-bloods, you know? Like fifteen of them, or so… Following Parkinson around like she leads them – Like she's the best thing since racing brooms."

Ron was getting excited, waving his hands around. Harry realized he must have been thinking about it for a while.

"And it just occurred to me, that maybe they aren't with him. Maybe – Maybe they're just, like, out. Of the whole thing," he finished.

"Out?" Harry repeated, now thoroughly confused.

"Look, if this were a chess board," Ron started again, speaking quickly, "you'd see, all the pieces – they're moving in all the wrong directions! Why sacrifice your pawn structure when its changes are permanent?"

"Real life's not chess, Ron," Harry hissed, frustrated with the whole conversation.

"What I mean is," he kept on, undeterred by his frostiness, "when Parkinson's credibility is compromised, once she's branded as blood traitor, there's no going back. That's a stain that'll follow her for life, a permanent mistrust. And what for? To keep Hermione away from you?" Ron shook his head. "They could just kill Hermione and –"

Harry gasped. "Ron!"

"What?" he defended, unwilling to back out. "What happened to Katie, and to me, could have targeted Hermione with a much easier success than with Dumbledore."

Harry's head was spinning faster than at the beginning of the lesson, and he could only think that he did not need more worries, more doubts. The weight of destroying Voldemort piece by piece was heavy enough to add to it the possibility of having been wrong about Hermione.

"She's doing dark magic," he reminded Ron, latching onto that certainty with desperation. "She told me herself."

Ron nodded, looking displeased. "And that's a problem," he agreed. "And Parkinson's fault. But Hermione said it had nothing to do with You-Know-Who. Actually, the only one who said that was –"

"You think Dumbledore's wrong?" Harry asked, bitter, cutting. A harsh laugh escaped from his throat, a sarcastic sound full of disbelief.

Ron huffed, and would have certainly answered if it were not for the shadow casted by Slughorn's rather large form over their workspace. Harry quickly dropped the muffiato, in time to hear him finish his sentence.

"– rather off. Perhaps, Mr Weasley, you'd like to start over?" he asked him, and then jovially added, "Mr Potter will lend you a hand, I'm sure."

They both nodded, Ron blushing as the whole class turned to check on them, Parkinson's smirk infuriating.

Pansy cheerfully turned back to her potion – a shade off, almost turquoise, but she could easily fix it with a couple drops of rose oil. Weasley being chastised was always inspiring, and since Hermione had told her Potter was cheating his way to Outstandings she could stomach his success.

"We don't own one," she said to Hermione, retaking their conversation, "Penseives are rare. And my father isn't much of a scholar," she added, lips pursed.

He isn't much of anything, she inwardly though, but Hermione had caught her meaning without the need to spell it.

"Then there's only Dumbledore's, that we know of," Hermione said, absentmindedly stirring.

"If you suggest we sneak into his office, I'll drag your Gryffindor arse to the bottom of the Black Lake," Pansy threatened. She knew her too well; she could guess where her thoughts went with just a word.

Hermione's cheeks pinked, and she haughtily added, "Well, have you got another suggestion?"

"Well, yes, indeed," Pansy primly answered, always happy to annoy. "I suggest we wait until summer, a mere two months away, and search for one outside of Hogwarts."

Hermione was surprised at the suggestion, which was expected – Gryffindors never considered waiting an option. A clear mistake.

"Outside of Hogwarts?" Hermione repeated, and then wrinkled her nose. "You mean that place full of Death Eaters that want to drag you back to your parents' house? Sounds like a brilliant idea." Pansy could taste the sarcasm in the air. "Let us freely gallivant through Diagon Alley and try to purchase an incredibly rare item. Not at all noticeable. What could possibly go wrong?"

Hermione and Pansy intended to spend the summer behind the safety and privacy of the Granger's wards, and perhaps use the chance to improve them as far as they could. Indeed, making their presence known anywhere else could lead to trouble – it all depended on how long her father took to go to the Lestranges and admit he could not control his own daughter.

Knowing how absurdly proud he was – proud of what, she did not know – it could take a while.

"Theo's father has one," she said, ignoring Hermione. "Perhaps he could be convinced," she suggested.

It was not fair to ask Theo to risk angering his father, she knew that, but if a quick arrangement could be made, in a safe enough way…

"Or we secretly sneak into his house," Hermione said, and laughed when Pansy glared daggers at her.

"If only we could still access the Room," Pansy mourned. "It could offer one, I'm sure."

Hermione did not seem so certain, but Pansy missed their old meeting point enough to entertain the idea. She wondered if it was risky, trying to enter again. The elves might be patrolling it still, but Potter might not link their attempt at using it with Draco, after such a long time.

"Or it could offer a reading spot at least," Hermione said, already clearing her workspace. Her potion was, as always, annoyingly perfect.

"Where can we even initiate Lovegood and the others?" Pansy was frustrated. Their plans we on stand-by until they figured a way to meet safely. "Your werewolf's den's now guarded by Aurors, the Room's guarded by Potter's little buggers – If only you and your lover boys had found one other secret spot…" she poked Hermione's ribs with a sharp nail, trying to drive the point home.

Actually, she was quite glad they had not – she already felt her school life had been uneventful enough as it was.

Hermione had finished pouring her potion within the small vial they had to hand over to Slughorn, unperturbed by her playful, poking antics, but now appeared to have frozen in place. Her eyes remained wide and her mouth unflatteringly open as she lowered the ladle back to the cauldron.

"Pansy," she said, and that vacant tone in her voice was alarming, "of course!"

Hermione dropped the ladle and stood, grabbing her bag and dropping the vial in front of Slughorn's pleased, content form. She ran out of the room, passing by a whining Weasley – bound to stay overtime to redo his work – and a clearly angry Potter, and Pansy was left behind, speechless. "Of course what?" she wanted to yell at her. She hated being left out of the loop like that.

"Library calls?" Tracey asked her from one seat behind.

Pansy shrugged, but inwardly admitted it was a likely possibility.

Charity walked out of the Divination classroom feeling lightheaded. Trelawney had overdone it with the incense as usual, and she was starting to think she would never again be able to tolerate the smell of lavender. At least she had opted to change from the previous year's orange blossom – that one had made her sneeze.

She walked out into one of the smaller cloisters on the ground floor, its entrance almost hidden behind the Transfigurations classroom, its use made unpopular by the overabundance of overgrown grass. It was a good place to breath in some fresh air, though, and she had never minded weeds.

Surprisingly, it was already occupied.

Despite how very indistinctive her features were, she had never seen a shade of grey as dull as that of her hair; the woman was easy to remember. She sat on the ground, back resting on a now permanently empty fountain, and was busying herself picking at the quackgrass growing in front of her.

"Auror Tonks?" she asked, and the woman looked up at her, startled.

It seemed to take her a few seconds to place Charity, but she did respond. "Hermione's friend."

Charity was genuinely surprised at being remembered. Not even some of her professors quite placed her, and Tonks could despite their very limited contact – she had seen her once as part of a crowd of four girls around Hermione, and they had not exchanged a single word.

"Charity Jones," she introduced herself. "Are you alright?"

She did not look like she was.

"Sure," Tonks said, attempting at a jovial tone.

She looked like she had not seen alright in a very long time. Charity nodded anyway, and sat down next to her. She pulled at a twig growing near her feet, and thought about how to properly get a conversation started.

"Is it exciting?" she asked her, "Being an Auror?"

Tonks looked like she wanted to answer. She opened her mouth, she took in air, and in the end she could only give her as much as a shrug. Now, Charity did not personally know any Aurors, but she could imagine the risks the job implied in the dangerous times they were living. Death Eaters, the threat of You-Know-Who, people disappearing without a trace one after the other, muggles being murder in unexplainable accidents… all neatly summarized in one gesture: a shrug.

She did not know the job of an Auror, but she felt that she knew Tonks.

"Did you always want to be an Auror?" she asked her, because conversation did help, even when you felt like nothing would.

Charity knew the dispassionate, long face of being so far away, so detached from everything to even feel. The dull eyes of seeing life pass you by without it noticing you are there. The wanting to be seen while wanting nothing else but to be left alone.

Tonks shrugged again, but still answered. "Childhood dream. Everyone has one, right?" she pulled on the quackgrass and freed a strand. "Most girls wanted to be unicorn carers, or journalists, or to marry Spencer Woodbridge." Charity ignored who that was, but she assumed he must have been cute. "Some wanted to be Quidditch players," Tonks admitted, "but it was always Auror for me."

Charity nodded, and yet said, "No."

Charity knew the tiredness that delved so deep within you it made a dent in your bones. Too tired to wake up, too tired to eat, too tired to talk and walk and write and listen, too tired to even go to sleep.

Tonks raised her head, confused.

"I don't have a dream," she admitted. "Never had one." Unless you counted being prettier, but she was both ashamed of its simplicity, and aware it did not count as after-Hogwarts plans.

"Not even when you were little?" Tonks insisted.

"Would you count 'being daddy's princess'?" Charity asked, twisting her lips into a disgusted expression. If Parkinson ever heard of this, she would kill herself.

Charity knew the self-deprecation that came with knowing you should be moving, and yet being unable to start.

Tonks laughed. It was short, and just a mix between a snort and a huff, but Charity counted it nonetheless.

"If it was always Auror for you," Charity went on, "how come it's not exciting?"

Charity knew the feel of that deep, dark, hole that pulled you in despite not wanting you – she still, sometimes, felt its edge with the side of her foot as she walked past.

Tonks' brows furrowed and her gaze dropped to her feet once more. She did not seem to have an answer for her.

"Is it just boring? Is it different than expected? Is it harder?" Charity could feel Tonks' eyes on her now, but she did not turn to share a look.

"No. No, It's – There's nothing wrong with being an Auror," Tonks said, her voice taking on an edge of frustration. "It's everything I ever wanted, it's what I expected, and yet – yet…"

"Yet, it's somehow crushing you?" Charity suggested.

Charity knew the weight, the heaviness, the squeezing sensation of being unhappy with your life while it is better than many others'. The not complaining for fear everyone knows you have nothing to complain about.

"It shouldn't," Tonks answered. "It really shouldn't."

"Lately, everything that shouldn't just kind of is."

And, as an Auror, Tonks would know better than anyone else.

Luna followed Hermione and Pansy through the second-floor corridors. Her friends were bickering, as usual, but she was busy contemplating how the old rituals native to Wadi el-Hol had a scripture grammatically similar to modern mermish. She suspected the resemblance must be rooted in the interaction between language and magic; but mermish magic was one of the best-kept secrets of the merpeople – she lacked the data to prove her hypothesis.

"You must be joking!" Pansy's loud voice startled Luna out of her inner musings. "Your great idea is to meet in a flooded bathroom?" And, despite the unlikeliness that anyone in a two-corridor radius had not heard her, she repeated, "A bathroom?"

Luna followed the girls in, casting a waterproof charm on her shoes and stepping into as many puddles as she could, enjoying the sound of her splashing. Too bad the loud moans coming from one of the closed cubicles didn't allow her to enjoy the auditory delight to its fullest.

"Morgana's staff! Does this ghost ever shut up?" Pansy complained. "Look, Granger… I get that we wouldn't be bothered in here – why would anyone in possession of their full sanity even get close to this shithole?" she asked to no one in particular. "And why would we?"

"Pansy, cut it out," Hermione hissed. "I need to focus – I managed to do it yesterday."

Luna's curiosity was roused. She went past Pansy, who was waving her wand around – producing the strongest scourgifies she had ever seen anyone cast, because Pansy never did anything by halves – before daring to step ahead, and joined Hermione near the sink.

"You casted a muffiato," Luna pointed out. She liked the spell; it was the last one Harry had ever taught her.

"I don't want Myrtle to notice we're here."

Hermione stared at the sink tap and, after taking in air deeply, hissed at it. A literal hiss; a sound much like one a snake might have uttered. Luna's brows shot up. Hissing, she had never considered – she should try it with her sprouts, they might like it better than whistling, or singing.

"Have you lost your bloody mind?" Pansy shrieked, reaching them over the now spotless floor.

Pansy looked horrified at the prospect of Hermione's actions springing from craziness, but Luna knew better. Hermione was sane, much like herself; she was just playing with magic, tugging at its strings, reaching for the boundaries of standard knowledge and bending them with a soft poke. She felt warm inside, excitement bubbling up – she was looking forward to her success.

"Ron spent a whole year hissing around Gryffindor tower," Hermione told them, "he liked to retell the story time and time again… It never got old, for him. I remember how it sounded – I can do it."

Pansy frowned and glanced at her, whispering, "what's she talking about?"

Luna smiled reassuringly and patted Pansy's arm. She was strong, willing to bend rules, explore magic in all its branches and step over anyone who tried to get on her way, but sometimes she lacked a bit of faith – they would have to teach her that.

Hermione hissed once more, in a slightly different intonation – this one longer, the sibilant ending softer – and the ground vibrated strongly enough for them to feel the shaking in their legs. The sink moved, turning on itself, spreading open like a blooming flower and leaving a large pipe exposed, wide enough for a grown man to slide into.

"Now, hurry up," Hermione prompted, and jumped in.

Luna's heart was beating faster now, the wonder of witnessing a flourishing sink leaving a firm imprint in her mind. She took a step closer and tugged on Pansy's sleeve, ignoring her mutterings of "dirty, slimy pipes," and "people pee in these toilets here," and "I can't even see the end of this hole, but I can smell it."

Luna jumped, pushing Pansy down with her. Pansy clutched at her waist and let out the loudest, shrillest scream of panic – could Pansy have some banshee blood? – as they slid down the pipe, going faster and lower than any of them had anticipated. Luna laughed with glee, despite Pansy's deathly grip on her taking almost all the air out of her lungs. She was reminded of the fun trips to her father's Gringott's vault – the pipe twirled and turned and she saw narrower pipes branching out in all directions; mysterious, dark and inviting.

The pipe levelled out and they shot out, landing wetly on the damp floor, limbs all tangled together. Pansy whimpered as she struggled to stand up and her hands touched only slime while her feet made a certainly uninviting squelching sound as she stepped on something soft.

"I'm wet," she said, voice slow and shaking with disbelief, "in places a lady is not supposed to be wet."

Luna stood too, taking a look around. They were in a stone tunnel, lighted thanks to the floating, burning orbs Hermione must have just casted, its walls dirty with mould and grime, the air humid and stuffy. Looking ahead, she saw the ground littered with mounts of small bones – rat skulls, tiny ribcages, and even what looked like the remains of an owl.

"It does get better," Hermione promised, and walked on.

"By better, are you referring to this gigantic snake skin?" Pansy asked, walking carefully to avoid stepping on anything squishy with her good shoes.

"Wonderful," Luna agreed with Pansy, taking a closer look. The scales, of a vivid, poisonous green gleamed under the light of the fire. The creature must have been at least twenty feet long.

"You'll be singing my praises in a minute," Hermione told Pansy smugly.

They walked on, going past a large pile of rubble that narrowed the tunnel considerably, taking turn after turn in a long trek through Hogwarts' very vowels. Finally, they reached the end – a solid wall, whiter and cleaner than the rest of the cavernous corridor, two entwined serpents carved on it, their eyes glittering green.

Pansy gasped, no longer squeamish, finally revelling in the excitement of the moment. "Don't tell me this is…"

Hermione hissed again, and this time it took her only three tries to get it right. The snakes parted, the wall cracked open – resounding, loud and imposing – and the halves slid smoothly out of sight.

Beyond the wall stood a very long chamber, dimly lit in a greenish gleam – perhaps a bit how any non-Slytherin imagined their Common Room would be coloured, as if natural light was shining through the Great Lake. Flanking the central nave were towering stone pillars carved with hundreds of snakes, which reached the ceiling and smoothly merged into its veins.

What immediately drew their attention, however, were the remains of a very obviously incredibly large basilisk.

"Fuck, that reeks," Pansy said, but she could not lift her eyes from the body of the magnificent creature either.

Luna walked closer. If anyone had promised her she would ever see something grander than a dead acromantula, Luna would at least have assumed it would take her a few years. But, a basilisk? One that had lived for more than a millennium?

Oh, if only her father was there to share the moment with her.

Scattered around the body were small corpses – insects, adults who had had their fill, reproduced and died – stuck on the dark, discoloured puddle where the bodily fluids had seeped out, decomposed and dried.

She stepped closer, avoiding to step on any crunchy insects, and felt an almost irresistible urge to poke the bones. The fangs, though, she was pretty sure she should avoid.

Hermione waved her wand behind her, getting rid of the smell and then the insects. Thankfully, she did not attempt to touch the treasure. Luna would have taken issue with that.

"The Chamber of Secrets," Hermione declared proudly.

"Between the dead, giant snake and the huge statue of Salazar Slytherin back at the end, I'd kind of guessed," Pansy drawled, but even her practiced aristocratic, bored voice could not hide her awe.

"Is there more than one?" Luna asked, and then added when she correctly interpreted their expressions as confused, "secrets."

Hermione frowned. "That's a good question."

"I can't believe you kept this place to yourself until now," Pansy went on, ignoring their conversation. "How dare you?"

Hermione huffed. "I'd never even been here before yesterday – it slipped my mind. What? Drop the look – it's not like we came here every other day to have a chat. This place is creepy."

"I like it," Luna said. And she really did.

"Well, it could use some work," Pansy admitted. "It's way too empty," and the way the walls echoed empty, empty, empty, seemed to prove her point. "But it'll do."

"When are we bringing everyone else down?" Luna interrupted, excited.

Hermione and Pansy exchanged a careful glance.

Luna had the terrible feeling that meant they were back to pretending they were not a well-established group of six yet again.

Ginevra Weasley had lived through too many life-threatening situations in her short life to let the small, little, every-day problems of school-life frazzle her. She had once hosted a monster within her head – an ugly, dark, clammy presence sucking the magic out of her. She had learnt loneliness and despair and utter hopelessness at the tender age of eleven, and while she knew it would always be the darkest spot in her memories, it had also taught her pragmatism.

Ginny was logical, practical and efficient. And when she saw a problem that could be fixed with a swift, quick action, she acted.

She eyed Harry, brooding alone in a corner of the Common Room. Her mouth twisted with displeasure – a gesture, she had been told, reminded people of her mother. The situation, clearly, required action.

Hurt could turn people into fools. Her brother's jealousy had made him hurt Hermione. Hermione's pain had made her join Pansy Parkinson, which had angered Harry. And now Harry's anger was making him turn away from Ron.

Fools, the whole lot of them.

Five years of the strongest of friendships, shattered so easily. If only they knew how it felt, to be alone, they would have fought for their ties instead of digging at their cracks.

But now Ginny could not take it anymore. Their relationship with Hermione might be unsalvageable, if it proved true that she had taken a liking for the Dark Arts – because, while Ginny was pragmatic, the feeling of dark magic on her skin still woke her up at nights. That, she could not forgive – but Harry and Ron just could not fall apart.

"Harry," she called him.

He was surprised, to be called out by her. He could see his cheeks blush slightly, and he stuttered as he stood to say "hi." She remembered Hermione's advice, such a long time ago, to go after other boys and let Harry go after her. With a shiver, she also remembered the written words of her Tom, promising he would give her the world at her feet, and Harry along with it. She shook her head, and wished the thoughts away.

"What's wrong?" she asked, not expecting a straight answer.

"Wrong?" He was surprised again, but joined her when she sat by his side. "Nothing. Just – Ron." He shrugged.

"And Hermione," Ginny rolled her eyes. "And everyone, apparently."

Harry frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

"You're angry at the world," she told him. She knew the feeling; she had worn that anger like her own skin. Harry looked like he might disagree, so she added, "You've been glaring at Seamus' chess set all afternoon."

Harry hesitated, and then gave up on his attempt to deny it.

"He's been missing a pawn," he told her, grumpy. "Apparently, it's a tragic incident."

Ginny laughed. Seamus and Ron had been looking for it for a while; his friends having such trivial worries must have got under Harry's skin. However, that he was still in the mood for sarcasm was a good thing. They quieted, the mood somewhat lightened, the air easier to breath.

They sat side by side in companionable silence, enjoying the privileged view of the usual, boisterous ruckus of their Common Room.

"Ron's having doubts," he told her, out of the blue. "About Hermione."

Ginny frowned. She was under the impression that Hermione's new alliances were clear enough, and Dumbledore had not left them much room for doubt. Ron and Harry knew her better, though – she would trust their judgement first.

"And you?" she asked him, because he had sounded disapproving.

Harry shrugged. "I don't know anymore."

Ginny noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the pallor of his skin. It was the look he had worn since the day she first met him, even though she had been way too dazzled by her hero to notice back then. She wondered if Harry had ever known a stress-free life.

"You don't need to know," she told him. "You don't need to shoulder every single decision. You don't need to fix every problem on your own."

She wondered if anyone had ever told him that. Judging by the look on his face, by the sound of his scoffing, she doubted it.

"Yes, I do," he corrected her, but sounded bitter. The kind of bitterness one carried for way too long; corrupted, acid, darkened by the time spent in the shadows of one's own mind.

"Why?" she scoffed. She knew Harry had issues. He had been raised to fend for himself, to get himself out of trouble – no adult had even given him reason to do otherwise. But Ginny thought he should ease the pressure on himself, let the Order do their job, trust them a little bit.

Harry went quiet once more.

It was not the kind of quiet that admitted defeat, though. Nor of those too tired to argue an old point. It was the kind of silence that came with secrets.

"Let me tell you, it's never a good idea to keep secrets to yourself." She knew secrets too well; they sunk their teeth on your soul and ripped it apart from the inside out. If the burden of them did not crush you before that.

Harry looked into her eyes – his green, shining, the only part of him to never dim. He hesitated. Ginny smiled. Harry swallowed, and gave in.

"You more than anyone," he said, grim, "deserve to know."

And Ginny learned that the presence in her mind, the darkness that had sucked her dry, had been a literal piece of soul from Lord Voldemort himself.

Hermione flipped the pages of Guide to Advanced Transfiguration, trying to get a last-minute review before Professor McGonagall's weekly test. Breakfast was proving to be a quite affair, with Garcia's attention focused in the latest copy of Monthly Notices of the British Academy of Arithmancy and Luna reading the Quibbler as per usual. Tracey and Pansy were discussing Slytherin business – which Hermione knew meant they were having trouble with the blood purists – in low, quick whispers, and Charity was writing what looked like a long letter.

Their silence was, as usual, interrupted by the arrival of the mail. Garcia, who Hermione had deduced must hate owls, cursed out loud as she got her magazine out of the way. The Prophet was a necessary read every morning – all students wanted to know if anyone they loved had been attacked. The Great Hall came to life with the hoots and screeches of owls, the rustling of pages and the muttering of rousing students.

"Quidditch results on the front page? Really?" Tracey scoffed.

"The Harpies always make the front page," Charity said. "Isn't it good that it's not murder, for once?" she sounded snippy, but she did always get a bit defensive about Quidditch.

Tracey teased her about Gwenog Jones' unusually poor performance in the game, Garcia made her not-fucking-Quidditch-again face, and Luna speculated on the possibility of the player having caught invictus influenza.

Hermione, however, was not paying attention to the news.

Pansy had received an envelope; white parchment, no return address on it, not even a written addressee. The owl who had carried it – a huge, grey, majestic eagle owl none of them had ever seen before – had dropped it unceremoniously, without waiting for an answer. Hermione could sense Pansy's dread, and found she shared it.

She reached over across the table and cast a couple diagnostic spells. Pansy's face was scrunched up in suspicion, but the spells were not triggered – it looked clean. Besides, anything too dark should not be able to bypass the Hogwarts' wards.

Pansy cast a cutting spell to open it and levitated the contents out. Inside was one single pressed flower. Blue and white, dried and then hardened through a spell – it was a dried pansy.

"Your mother?" Hermione asked her in a whisper, curious. She knew they usually spoke through flowers, but had never seen it taken quite so literally.

Pansy frowned. "I don't think so," she said.

Then who? It was obvious Pansy did not know either.

"What's that?" Tracey asked, leaning over to take a closer look. "Someone sending you flowers, Pans?" Her smile turned smug, suggestive. She wiggled her eyebrows for additional emphasis.

That was bound to draw everyone's attention.

"An unimaginative admirer," Garcia laughed. "I mean – a pansy?"

"I like pansies," Luna contributed, eyeing the flower curiously.

"Weasley and Bell also received anonymous gifts this year," Charity reminded them. "It might be poisoned." She sounded more hopeful than worried, though.

"Don't you worry your huffles," Pansy drawled, "I'm witch enough to check."

And despite the retort, Hermione knew Pansy was sharing Charity's thoughts. A dried pansy.

How ominous.

A/N: I confess to not knowing anything about chess. I googled to try and get Ron to say something sensible. If any expert is reading this, feel free to correct me (or say I simply make no sense). I took the description of how a four-year-old corpse should look like from Jeffrey A. Larson (Quora)

Thank you all for your words of support regarding my thesis. I found some time (more like, I procrastinated) to write another chapter. Sorry I didn't get to answer all reviews, it's been a busy month. I appreciate every single one of your comments, they make my day!