Victoria Potter
By Taure
Chapter Twenty: The Diary
After the ball, Malfoy Manor changed. The vastness of the house pressed in on Victoria, its emptiness more obvious than ever, and she began to imagine Death Eaters lurking in every corner. The shadows lengthened in the airy halls, where looming portraits monitored all activity with suspicious eyes, and the previous tranquility of the gardens now felt like a stifling, oppressive silence.
A part of her knew that she was imagining things, that it was she who had changed, not the house. The portraits were just portraits; the gardens were perfectly safe; and the Death Eater was long gone.
And yet… it wasn't just her. Lucius and Narcissa were behaving differently as well.
Before the ball, Lucius had barely acknowledged her existence. He'd been polite but distant, involving her in conversation only as much as was necessary to avoid being rude. Now, however, he was constantly asking her questions.
"You must have met some interesting people at the ball?"
"Did you have a chance to see the gardens?"
"Have you ever celebrated Deep Winter?"
It was clear that Lucius Malfoy knew something of her encounter with the Death Eater. Strangely, he did not seem guilty over having played host to a criminal; but nor was he upset that she had escaped harm. More than anything, he came across as curious.
His curiosity did not bring her comfort. Victoria had started locking her bedroom door at night, though she knew it would do little to hold back a determined wizard. She went to bed late and rose early, always the first to arrive for breakfast, enjoying the hustle and bustle of morning activity. She'd even taken to volunteering to help Narcissa with various chores—much to Draco's dismay. He didn't understand.
She didn't want to be left alone.
Narcissa had welcomed her interest, mothering her in the same way she did Draco. It was as if Victoria had stopped being a guest and had become a distant relative. And so she began to accompany Narcissa about her daily routine, undertaking a crash course in high society.
Every morning, Narcissa would spend several hours writing letters in the drawing room. She had Victoria sit next to her (straight back, knees together) and do the same, drafting letters to her peers. Once she had exhausted her usual supply of friends, Narcissa had her write to Astoria, Padma and Parvati as well.
"You'll find that even a short note will be well-received," Narcissa explained. "There's a unique pleasure in welcoming your morning owl to find a personal letter amidst the endless drudgery from Gringotts and the Floo Company. It's a simple thing to write a few letters, yet it reaps enormous reward."
Of course, Narcissa checked each letter Victoria wrote, taking a critical eye to her penmanship.
"You must write with your whole arm, my dear, not just your fingers. Here, let me show you."
She reached over and tapped Victoria's hand with her wand. The spell stiffened her wrist and fingers—not freezing them entirely, but making them much harder to move—and she was forced her to use her shoulder and elbow a lot more. At first it was difficult to overcome the instinct to write with her wrist, but her handwriting rapidly improved under Narcissa's tuition.
As Victoria practised, Narcissa would provide a running commentary on her own letters.
"This one is for Mr Cuffe, the Editor of the Daily Prophet. A bit of an odd man, very enthusiastic about obscure words. I'm telling him about a Welsh word I heard at the ball."
"I make sure to send Mrs Roper a letter every week. She's been ever so lonely since Mr Roper died, I do worry about her."
"You might know the Farleys' daughter, Gemma. Mrs Farley is our Warlock in the Wizengamot; I'm writing to tell her about a new road the Muggles want to build nearby. With a bit of luck, the Ministry will arrange for them to decide it's too expensive."
It was rather clever, what she was doing. Quite without realising it, and without having to memorise anything, Victoria was absorbing not only the names of Narcissa's connections, but also their history and interests. Mr Eldron was attempting to grow a new type of cabbage. Miss Savage, one of the Ministry's Aurors, had recently concluded a three-year investigation into a dark witch who'd been stealing the bodies of rich Muggles. And Mrs Nott, Theodore's grandmother, had just given birth at the unlikely age of seventy.
She wondered if this was how Pansy had learnt, spending years absorbing names and little titbits of information. Each individual fact was little more than trivia, yet together they formed a formidable body of knowledge, an encyclopedia of wizarding Britain. Some might have considered it little more than gossip on a grand scale, but Narcissa called it maintaining relationships.
It wasn't just letter-writing that Victoria learnt. She shadowed Narcissa in everything, from her management of the household staff to her sessions tutoring the young Eleanor Rosier and Ameera Shafiq. The latter proved to be quite educational, as between lessons on English and mathematics were sessions on dance, magical art, and etiquette. She could already see that Eleanor and Ameera would share a bond similar to Pansy and Daphne, a conspiratorial yet slightly competitive friendship which would likely endure their entire lives.
To Victoria's surprise, in the afternoon Narcissa would frequently turn her attention to running the various farms the Malfoys owned. It seemed that while Lucius was responsible for the Malfoys' business dealings, Narcissa took the lead when it came to managing their land. She made regular visits to the Crabbes, Goyles, Gibbons, and Greybacks, all tenants who deferred to Narcissa as their landlady. She inspected crops, listened to complaints about a knarl infestation, and discussed planting for spring. Sometimes she even got involved with the farm work, on one occasion going so far as to help Mr Gibbon accept a delivery of mooncalf dung.
Unfortunately, that had meant Victoria was required to help too.
"There should be another shovel in the shed," Narcissa had said, eying the wagon of dung with satisfaction. She'd come prepared for the job, wearing a very practical—though still fashionable—quilted robe. "You can't levitate it or it'll just fall apart. We're going to have to do it the Muggle way, I'm afraid."
Victoria had dutifully retrieved a shovel and, very hesitantly, began to scoop up small quantities of the dung. Unlike Narcissa, she had worn a dress robe to the Gibbon farm and she was rather concerned about getting it dirty.
"Come on, girl!" Mr Gibbon called cheerfully, "put your back into it!"
Narcissa sent her a knowing smile. "Beauty is all well and good, my dear, but no one will thank you for airs and graces. Just imagine you're in Herbology class."
Victoria thought back to her first year, when she'd happily got her (then unpolished) fingernails dirty in Herbology. Hadn't Pansy stood to one side, refusing to get involved and making Tracey do her work for her?
She scowled, gripped the shovel firmly and dug up a large scoop of dung. She wasn't like Pansy.
With all the time spent in Narcissa's company, she had little to spare for Draco. He seemed rather put out by this state of affairs, especially after she'd refused to go flying with him.
"But it's a Nimbus 2001!" he said, waving a sleek broom in her face. He'd received it for Christmas and had barely put it down since. "It's the most advanced broom on the market!"
"In which case, absolutely not," Victoria said, eyeing the well-polished broom with trepidation. The Nimbus 2001 was a professional broom, the type that went so fast that it was little more than a blur. "I'd probably kill myself. Honestly, I'm surprised you haven't got injured."
Draco sighed. "Fine. How about the hippogriffs, then?"
Hippogriff riding had sounded little better than flying, but at Narcissa's encouragement she'd accompanied Draco out to the stables, where he showed her how to saddle and mount the giant beasts. They actually weren't so bad once you were mounted—so long as they didn't go too fast. At one point Draco launched them into a canter which had Victoria holding on for her life, convinced she was about to be catapulted into the air.
That had been the last time they went riding.
It wasn't until New Year's Eve that he got around to showing her the gardens properly. It had snowed the night before, covering the landscape with a thin layer of white, and the various ponds and fountains had frozen over. Despite the snow, the day was sunny and clear, pleasant enough for Victoria to put on a winter robe and leave her cloak back in the house. She added a tartan tumblewool scarf she'd received for Christmas and met Draco by the door to the kitchens.
He led her into the garden through a tunnel of holly. "I can't believe we've only got a week of holiday left," he said with a deep sigh. "I guess you're going to stick with dueling, next term?"
Victoria shrugged. "Probably. It depends what Susan wants to do… I'm only just getting the hang of duelling though, so it'd be annoying to start something new."
"I wish we didn't have to choose. What if I want to do duelling and quidditch?"
The tunnel led out to a winding path running alongside a small stream, its borders littered with fairy nests tucked between the rocks. Each nest was like a tiny little house made from twigs, leaves and random garden objects, and one of them even had smoke rising from its chimney.
"I can't drop quidditch, it's my favourite class," Draco continued, ignoring the nests entirely, though Victoria was fascinated by them. How intelligent were fairies? She suddenly felt rather guilty about trapping them in lamps. "If I'd gone to Durmstrang I could've done both—everyone has to do duelling there, it's one of the core classes."
"You were down for Durmstrang?" Victoria asked, though there was something familiar about it. Had he told her that before?
"Oh, didn't you know?" Draco said. "Father thought I should go there instead of Hogwarts, but Mother wanted me closer to home. Honestly, I don't know what the difference is… Scotland or Svalbard… either way, she's not going to see me."
They passed by an old greenhouse with grimy windows and shelves full of large, multi-coloured mushrooms. As Victoria peered in through the glass, one of the mushrooms shook itself out of the soil and waddled over towards her, its head tilting upwards as if it were looking back at her.
"Anyway, Father says he'll teach me to duel over the summer," Draco said. He kicked a rock at the stream, causing a cloud of nearby fairies to buzz angrily. "He says every proper wizard should know how to duel."
"There can't be many proper wizards then," Victoria said, thinking of her own duelling attempts. She made a mental note never to duel in front of Lucius Malfoy.
"Well, he says that too," Draco said with a small smile. "I don't know if you've noticed, but Father isn't exactly a fan of the common wizard."
Victoria laughed. "I got that, thanks."
They left the stream behind and passed through a gap in a hedge to enter an open space. It was more of a field than a lawn, and the snow here had settled thicker, its smooth surface broken only by the footprints of a red-breasted robin. The snow crunched underfoot as they crossed the field, heading towards a gate in the opposite corner.
"Hang on," Victoria said, frowning. "What do you mean, over the summer? We're not allowed to use magic over the holidays."
Draco snorted. "As if the Ministry knows. So long as there's adult wizards nearby, no one's going to notice."
Victoria stopped, momentarily stunned. It made sense, magically. An adult's magic was different to a child's, and had a tendency to confuse detection spells. But still...
"That's not very fair," she said, thinking of the lack of adult wizards in Little Whinging. "How come some people get to use magic and others don't?"
Draco shrugged. "It makes sense if you think about it. If you don't live near Muggles, and you've got an adult around to help if something goes wrong, why shouldn't you use magic?"
"But I live near Muggles…"
"Oh, right," Draco said. "I always forget. Well, obviously you'll just have to keep visiting us here—that way you can use as much magic as you like."
The gate at the far side of the field led to an overgrown track bordered by low hedges. They followed its twisting route for a few minutes, the path curving around until they were facing the house once more, the west wing looming above the far trees.
"Here we go," Draco said, and he pointed out a stile next to a stone outbuilding covered with ivy. They crossed the stile and found themselves in a series of walled gardens. The first was dominated by a frozen pond full of water lilies; then came a garden containing statues of women, water trickling from their eyes as if they were weeping.
"My great-grandfather brought these back from Greece," Draco explained as Victoria looked at the statues closely. They were exquisitely detailed, all the way down to the fine lines of their faces. "They were people once, before they ran into a gorgon. Father says the souls of the women are still trapped inside."
Victoria stepped back. "That's horrible!" She couldn't help but imagine what it'd be like to be stuck in stone forever. Would you still be able to think? To see out of those stone eyes, watching the world go by?
"Better than being dead," Draco said. "Who knows what happens to the soul, after? Maybe it just vanishes. Sometimes I think that when I'm old, I'll go find a gorgon and get myself trapped in stone too."
"God, you're so morbid," Victoria said, but there was something grotesquely fascinating about the idea. She'd never really thought about the soul before, about what might happen to her own one day. It was a discomforting thought. She looked to the archway leading to the next garden. "Come on, let's keep going."
They proceeded through the long chain of gardens back towards the house, following the course of an underground stream which fed the various water features. There was a half-frozen pool of Japanese Apparating Goldfish, a miniature waterfall which flowed upwards, and even a hot spring, steam curling off the water in defiance of the season.
"We call these the water gardens," Draco explained as they used a small wooden bridge to cross over a section of exposed stream. Three statues stood on one side of the stream, and a hooded, skeletal figure loomed on the far bank. "Country Wizard did a big piece on them a few years back; we were on the front cover and everything."
They arrived at a circular garden with a dark pond at its centre, and Victoria's response died in her throat. She recognised this garden. It was where she had encountered the Death Eater on Christmas' Eve. It looked so innocent now, covered in snow and lit by the harsh winter sun, but even in the light she thought she could sense something wrong about the place, some lingering memory of the doom created by the Death Eater's half-cast spell.
Draco hadn't noticed. "Some even say they rival the water gardens of Beauxbatons," he continued, "though we don't have any river-elves like they do. Mother's been looking for one for years, but they don't come onto the market often. A bit like house-elves, really…"
His words washed over Victoria. Why had the Death Eater just walked away? And what was it that she'd done with the heart of autumn? She'd tried to replicate the effect since, with little success. The Death Eater had said something about deep magic…
"... and they attract all kinds of interesting fish, too. I wonder if they conjure them or—"
"Draco, have you ever heard of deep magic?"
He stopped short. A guarded look crossed his face, his posture stiffening, and for a moment his mouth opened and closed as he searched for an answer.
"I… er... no, I've never heard of it, of course," he said. "But... who told you about it?"
It was almost comical, how bad his lie was.
"Just something I heard," she said, not pushing the subject. She didn't want him running to Lucius about it. "Come on, let's go back inside. I'm getting cold."
That night, after a sumptuous dinner, Victoria retreated to her bedroom and began her new evening routine. She locked the door, cast a Locking Charm on it for good measure, then secreted herself inside her gleaming marble bathroom. The bath inside was huge, almost big enough to count as a pool, and when she turned the taps they released a rush of hot water mixed with rose petals, the sweet, floral scent filling the room.
After a long soak, she returned to the bedroom in her night robe, picked up her copy of The Eye of the Beholder, and read abut the Anamorphosis Charm late into the night, positioning herself in an armchair which faced the door. Dumbledore prowled around her like a guardian, as if he understood her anxiety. When her eyes finally began to droop, she went to check the door one last time.
Still locked.
She turned around—and jumped in shock, a short scream escaping her throat.
A house-elf was standing on her bed.
"Oh!" she said, clutching the book to her chest, "you surprised me!"
The elf clutched fretfully at its long, pointy ears. "Dobby was not meaning to surprise you, Miss," he said. His voice was high pitched just like Topsy's. "So long has Dobby wanted to meet you… such an honour it is…"
"It is?" Victoria asked, wondering what interest a house-elf could have in a witch. "Well, er, nice to meet you, I suppose. But… um, you're kinda on my bed."
Indeed, now that she had calmed down a little, she couldn't help but notice how dirty the house-elf was. He was wearing what looked like an old pillowcase, with rips in it to make holes for his arms and legs, and his feet were bare, leaving grubby footprints on her pristine sheets.
Dobby looked down and noticed the dirty marks. His eyes widened, and quite suddenly he jumped off the bed and began hitting his head against the wooden floor, each impact producing a dull thump.
"Bad Dobby!" he shouted. "Bad Dobby!"
Victoria blinked, for a moment too confused to say anything. "Stop it!" she said, recovering her senses, "you'll hurt yourself!"
The elf paused mid-strike. "Dobby must punish himself, Miss. House-elves are supposed to be cleaning mess, not making it."
"It's fine, really," she said quickly, hoping he wouldn't start hitting his head again. The thunking sound it produced made her stomach turn over. "You can just bring clean sheets, can't you?"
Dobby practically squealed with excitement. "Oh! The great Miss Potter is giving Dobby work! How Dobby has dreamt of this day..."
He disappeared with a light pop, reappearing a moment later with an armful of pristine white sheets. His long ears were barely visible behind the stack of linen.
"I didn't realise house-elves could apparate," Victoria said, watching as he set to the task of making her bed with enthusiasm. "I thought you just went invisible…"
"House-elves are not apparating," Dobby said from behind her floating duvet, "not like wizards are. Dobby is being where he is needed inside the House."
Victoria nodded. "So you couldn't, say, apparate to Diagon Alley?"
The duvet glided back on top of the bed. "No, Miss."
"But if you can only go somewhere you're needed," Victoria said, "why did you come to my room? I was about to go to bed..."
Dobby paused, looking around furtively before gesturing for her to come closer. She leaned towards him. "Dobby heard Miss talking with the Young Master," he said, his voice a stage whisper. "Miss was asking about... deep magic."
Suddenly he had her attention.
"You know about deep magic?" she asked. "Can you tell me?"
He shook his head. "Dobby cannot tell… but Dobby can show."
"Then what are we waiting for?"
She put on her slippers and a dressing gown before following Dobby out into the dark halls of Malfoy Manor. The shutters were closed on the fairy lamps, and the faint noise of snoring came from the portraits. All else was quiet, the way ahead lit only by silver moonlight. Dobby led her down, taking cramped side passages and spiral staircases she'd never noticed, emerging into the cavernous kitchens on the ground floor.
Then he made for the back door to the gardens.
"We're going out?" Victoria whispered, looking down at her thin robes. She'd freeze out there.
"Deep magic is happening outdoors, Miss."
Victoria sighed, wishing she'd worn her charm bracelet. "Well, so long as we're quick."
She regretted her decision almost immediately. It was snowing again, and her feet went numb as the wet seeped into her slippers. They crept around the house's perimeter, heading towards the far end of the west wing. It wasn't long before her hands were going numb too.
"Please tell me it's not much further," Victoria said. She wiggled her fingers to get some blood flowing. "I don't much fancy having to regrow my hands."
"Not far now," Dobby said, pointing a finger towards the wood where the peacocks lived. "But Miss is having to be quiet, or Masters will hear her."
They entered the wood, the evergreen trees blocking out the moonlight above. The canopy at least offered shelter from the snow, but there was something inherently disquieting about being in a wood at night, some primal instinct which screamed at Victoria to retreat home. She reached out and took Dobby's small hand, relying on him to lead her through the dark.
It wasn't long before they saw the light. There, not too much further ahead, was a ring of flickering fires. Dobby held a finger to his lips. They were close.
Victoria crouched down and they inched forward, progressing slowly now, taking care to avoid twigs which might snap loudly underfoot. As they got closer, she could see that the fires came from a circle of flaming torches, each one hanging from a tree, the symmetrical glade surely the result of wizarding intervention. At the centre of the clearing were three figures cast in shadow. Two were kneeling on the ground, their forearms clasped, and the third stood over them with wand raised.
Narcissa's voice carried through the trees.
"...keep the secrets…" she said, her voice barely audible, "...seek the path…"
A response came—Draco's voice, the words indistinguishable—and a bright thread of fire curled like a rope around the clasped forearms of the kneeling figures, who were surely Lucius and Draco.
Victoria held back a gasp. She'd read about this magic: the unbreakable vow, a promise so powerful that you'd die if you broke it. What on earth could be so important that Draco's own parents would have him swear it?
She edged closer, wanting to hear more.
"And will you…" said Narcissa, still too far away to hear properly, "...true to your kind... others?"
Draco responded again, and a second flame joined the first.
She still couldn't hear. Cursing under her breath, she shuffled even closer, taking cover behind a particularly wide tree and poking her face around the side of the trunk. She could actually see their faces now—all it would take was one look in her direction and she'd be caught.
"And will you forsake the mundane," Narcissa asked, "never to bind yourself to the Muggle race?"
Victoria's eyebrows rose.
Draco looked up, his face glowing in the light of the reflected fire. "I will."
A third tongue of flame flowed from Narcissa's wand and settled around Draco and Lucius's clasped arms. The three cords of fire hung there for a moment, binding their arms together, but a second later the flames were gone, evaporating into the night.
Lucius stood, hauling Draco to his feet and embracing him. "Congratulations, son," he said, a warmth in his voice which Victoria had never heard before, "tonight you have taken your first step on the path to true wizardry."
Something tugged on Victoria's sleeve, and she turned to see Dobby's large eyes peering at her. He jerked his head back towards the house.
She hesitated for a moment, wanting to see if there was more, but a stiff breeze sent a shiver down her spine. She suddenly remembered her numb hands and feet. There would be fire in the house, and maybe even another bath.
She could ask Draco more about deep magic tomorrow.
Victoria never did get around to confronting Draco about what she had seen. There just didn't seem to be a way to bring it up without admitting that she had spied on him.
So she observed. She noticed how the hippogriffs bowed to him more readily than before. She saw how the fairies in the gardens drifted towards him, like bright comets caught in his orbit, no longer buzzing angrily at his approach. And most obvious of all, she noted how his accidental magic had gone haywire, intervening in even the most casual of tasks: his shoelaces tying themselves, or the pepper grinder at dinner shuffling towards him when he wanted it.
Whatever Draco had vowed that night, it had done something profound to his magic.
As the end of the holidays approached, the more noticeable peculiarities began to settle down. His accidental magic stabilised once more, and the fairies no longer sought him out so eagerly. Yet the deeper change persisted: the hippogriffs still deferred to him, and his wand now leapt into his hand each time he cast magic, eager to be used. He was simply more... magical.
Victoria couldn't help but feel extremely envious. She studied far harder than Draco did, and had always been much more in touch with her magic than any of her peers. And yet here he was, apparently catching up with her just by saying a few words. It felt like he'd cheated.
Inevitably, she spent a lot of time wondering whether she could do the same. It really all depended on those unbreakable vows. She'd only heard one of his three promises, and even that one confused her. What did it mean, to bind yourself to the Muggle race? Was it something that she too could promise to avoid? It seemed like such a small price to pay.
The last day of the Christmas holiday finally arrived. Victoria woke to find her trunk already packed—no doubt by Dobby—so she took the extra time to pamper herself in the bathroom, before changing into her Hogwarts robes and making her way down to breakfast.
As usual, she was the first one there. She helped herself to a croissant, poured a cup of sugary, milky tea, and picked up a copy of the Daily Prophet. She flicked quickly through the first few pages, only briefly scanning the headlines, searching for her favourite section: "STYLE".
She was thoroughly engrossed in an article about Twilfitt and Tattings' winter collection when Lucius arrived. He nodded to her, made up a plate of smoked kippers and toast, and took the copy of the Hogsmeade Herald. Narcissa came next, arriving with the aroma of frankincense, which had replaced pine as the incense of the month. Last of all was Draco, whose neatly combed hair was still wet. Just as he arrived, a plate of bacon and scrambled egg appeared.
It was a familiar routine by now. Victoria had stayed with the Malfoys long enough that no one felt obliged to serve her, or keep her engaged in conversation. Breakfast was a time to prepare for the day, for peace and, above all, quiet.
A bell chimed on the wall, announcing a visitor at the front door.
Narcissa frowned. "How odd."
"Probably a new delivery boy," Lucius said, waving his hand dismissively. "Let Bertrand handle it."
They went back to reading. But a few minutes later, Bertrand poked his head around the dining room door.
"Sir, there are some visitors from the Ministry at the door. I'm afraid they insist on speaking with you."
Lucius' lip curled. "I see. That Muggle-loving fool Weasley, no doubt?"
"Just so, sir."
There was silence as Lucius thought, his fingers tapping on the wood of the dining table.
"Shall I eject them, sir?" Bertrand asked. "I can summon the trolls—"
"No," Lucius said. "They'll surely have a writ of entry. I'll speak with them."
He departed, leaving the dining room in a tense stillness broken only by Draco's fork scraping on his plate. Minutes passed, and then came the sound of raised voices approaching.
"...have you finally lost your wits?" That was Lucius. "The Act lets you search for Muggle artefacts, not magical ones!"
A softer voice responded. "I'll be the judge of what's Muggle and what's magical, I think. I'm a specialist in—"
"You're a specialist in no more than cheap robes and too many children!"
"You ought to keep a civil tone, Malfoy. You wouldn't want to obstruct a servant of the Ministry, would you?"
A pause.
"You'll be hearing from my counsel, Weasley. Personally."
"I look forward to it," Mr Weasley said. "I'll be sure to pass it on to Madam Bones along with all the others. Now, what's in here?"
They burst into the room, the red-headed Mr Weasley in the lead, all shabby robes and ink-stained fingers. He was followed by Lucius, quite the contrast in his formal morning robes, and behind them came a gaggle of Ministry officials who were looking around with undisguised interest.
"As you can see, Weasley, we were at breakfast when you rudely interrupted us," Lucius said. "Now, whatever you have to do, be quick about it. We must be at King's Cross for eleven o'clock."
"We'll be here for as long as we need to be," Mr Weasley said, a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. "No exceptions. Your money won't help you today, Malfoy. I suggest you cooperate, if you want it to go quicker."
Lucius' lips thinned. "Such convenient timing, coming on the first day of term. It's almost as if you had planned it."
"I'm sure we'll manage," Mr Weasley said. "I've children of my own, as you know." He glanced back at his Ministry lackies and brandished a scroll around the room, waving it as if it were a wand. "This will all need to be cleared away. We'll be doing a thorough search."
Lucius was about to object further, his mouth opening to deliver what was no doubt another insult, but it was at that point that Narcissa intervened.
"Mr Weasley," she said, standing up, drawing every eye towards her. "You must, of course, do whatever you consider necessary. Our house is yours. Now, would you like to inform Professor Dumbledore of Miss Potter's absence, or shall I?"
The look on Weasley's face was priceless. A frown of confusion, a glance around the room, the moment of realisation when his eyes landed on Victoria—and then, hesitation.
Lucius took the advantage. "You are aware, I presume, of Miss Potter's security arrangements? I can only imagine what would happen, were she to suddenly miss the Hogwarts Express... I dare say half the Ministry would be mobilised to search for her."
"We should notify Cornelius as well," Narcissa added. "He's personally acquainted with Miss Potter, you see, and takes a keen interest in her security. He'll want to know that she's been waylaid."
"Waylaid?" Mr Weasley said, incredulity in his voice. "That's a bit of an exaggeration, isn't it? Anyway, I'm sure Miss Potter understands the importance of Ministry business…"
Victoria looked between them. She realised that the Malfoys were using her, of course, but she really didn't want to miss the train. Perhaps, on this occasion, it would be best to let herself be used.
"Actually, I don't," she said, and she surprised herself at the forcefulness in her voice. "Can't you just come back another day? I don't know what you're expecting to find, to be honest. I've been here for weeks and I've not seen a single Muggle artefact."
The crowd of Ministry workers muttered. One of them stepped forward and whispered in Mr Weasley's ear. From Weasley's dark expression, it was clear that he was not happy with what they were saying.
"Very well," he said reluctantly. "We'll limit our search for now, and will leave by ten o'clock. That should give you enough time to get to London. But I warn you, we'll have to come back another time to complete the search. Is this acceptable?"
"Acceptable is the last word I would use," Lucius said, "but it is… agreed."
Luckily, Victoria did not miss the Hogwarts Express. Mr Weasley completed his search as promised, and then they were hurtling towards London in a stagecoach, arriving at King's Cross just in time to rush through the barrier and catch the train.
An enthusiastic reunion with the Slytherin girls followed, as if they'd been separated for years and not mere weeks. Even Pansy greeted her with unusual warmth. It seemed there was a truce between them, their shared attendance of the Yule Ball momentarily outweighing any rivalry, and Pansy wasted no time in regaling all who would listen with the list of wizards she'd danced with.
Unsurprisingly, Victoria's role in the opening dance went unmentioned.
The train crawled north. As the hours stretched on, Victoria found herself resistant to the lethargy of the journey, her excitement growing with each mile. Although she had enjoyed her stay with the Malfoys, she couldn't help but feel relief at returning to the familiar routine of Hogwarts—a strange thought, given the dangers of the Heir. But at least at Hogwarts there were teachers to look out for you. For all that she considered the Malfoys her friends, she couldn't be certain of their protection.
She imagined Professor Dumbledore would be rather pleased about that.
It was a strange experience, returning to the school in the winter. The sun set at four o'clock, making the train ride feel even longer, and the carriages from Hogsmeade Station took them up to the school in complete darkness. There was no Sorting Ceremony, no start-of-year announcements… other than the feast, it was as if it were any other day at school.
Classes resumed the next day without further ado. Their first period was Charms with Professor Flitwick, a gentle start to the term which had the other Slytherin girls green with envy.
"We've got Potions with Snape," moaned Gertrude Mayfield at breakfast, "and I haven't done my homework. Would they notice, do you think, if I just went to Charms with you instead?"
"Flitwick probably wouldn't care," Daphne said, "but good luck getting that past Snape."
Victoria snorted. He'd probably track her down and drag her all the way to the dungeons. What had Gertrude been thinking, skipping her Potions homework? Especially when they were working on the final phase of the Draught of Sparta. Victoria knew better than to lecture her friends on the importance of homework—she wasn't Hermione Granger, after all—but they'd get little sympathy from her for their own laziness.
She was half way to Charms when she realised she'd forgotten to stock up on parchment.
"Crap," she muttered, rummaging around her bag in the vain hope of finding an extra scroll. Nothing. "I'll meet you guys there—have to fetch something."
She hurried back down to the dorms, dodging students as she ran through crowded corridors and down busy staircases. She made it to the Slytherin common room in record time, rushed up to the dorm and threw open her trunk.
Her parchment was missing. She lifted books, threw her telescope on her bed, pushed glassware around… but no parchment was to be found.
There!
A leather-bound book was tucked against the wall of the trunk, and a quick flick-through revealed it to be a diary, completely blank but for the date printed at the top of each page. She didn't remember packing a diary—or buying one, for that matter—but it'd do for now. Perhaps Dobby had added it to her trunk, when he'd seen that she didn't have any spare parchment. He was such a helpful elf.
She returned to Charms, arriving just as Professor Flitwick was writing the word IMPULSE on the blackboard.
"Sorry I'm late," she said, her eyes scanning the room for a spare seat.
"No matter," Flitwick said, "you haven't missed anything. Settle down now, and we'll get started."
She took an empty desk next to Lisa Turpin and quietly unpacked her things.
"Quills at the ready!" Fltiwck said, addressing the whole class. "You'll want to take notes on this one. Now, as I was saying, this term we will be studying the topic of complex motion, one of the most useful and fascinating areas of Charms. You will know, of course, that both Charms and Transfiguration are capable of making objects move… but can anyone tell me what the difference between the two is?"
No one raised their hand to answer—unusual for a class shared with Ravenclaw, but Victoria supposed it was a rather abstract question. Inevitably, Professor Flitwick's eyes landed on her, just as she was writing Transfiguration vs Charms on the first page of the diary.
"Miss Potter, perhaps you could venture a guess?"
She looked up. "When you animate an object with transfiguration, you're turning it from dead matter into living matter. Basically, you're giving it a vital force of its own. But a charm can't change an object's fundamental nature… if it's dead before, it'll be dead after. So you have to do it another way."
"Two points to Slytherin," Flitwick said, and she gave him a smile which showed none of her frustration. Any other student would have got at least five points for that. "Did everyone write that down?"
A rush of frantic scribbling followed. Victoria just made a few short notes, not needing to record the obvious. She'd known about vital forces ever since she first learnt to animate her origami birds with a drop of blood.
"Yes, Miss Potter is quite correct. In Charms, creating movement has nothing to do with an object's vitality. This creates an interesting conundrum, does it not? How do you give an object movement without giving it life?"
A number of hands went up this time, but Flitwick ignored them, tapping his wand on the blackboard. "Impulse is the answer. This is the extra ingredient which turns levitation into flight. To give a spell impulse, the caster must imbue it with the essence of an animal spirit. As you might imagine, you will need the spirit of a bird to create flight. That spirit provides the spell with two things. Mr Boot, can you give us one?"
"Kraft, sir."
Flitwick beamed. "Oh, bravo! In the original German at that! Take five points. For the rest of you, the power of kraft was first identified by the German wizard Hennig Brand, who described it as a type of strength which all living things possess. In English, we'd call it willpower. Imbuing an object with kraft grants it one of the most important features of life: the ability to move of its own accord, without being pushed into movement by another object."
An idea struck Victoria, Professor Flitwick's words reminding her of the chapter on phosphorous in Natural Magic. The spirit had many connections with light, and if movement charms were infused with spirit then that would mean they had a base of fire.
She lifted her quill and wrote in the diary:
Impulse / spirit / phosphorus / light-bearer / Venus. Counter with cold / dark / damp? Invoke water when cancelling.
She put the quill back down, satisfied with her discovery—but, to her surprise, words continued to fill the page, right beneath her own notes.
Most impressive, the words said, I didn't make that connection until third year. You must have been studying alchemy. But you might like to consider the non-alchemical implications as well… I'll give you a hint. Where do you think the kraft is coming from?
Victoria stared at the page, barely hearing Professor Flitwick's voice as he lectured on instinct, the second aspect of impulse. Was this a prank? Some kind of joke book slipped into her trunk? But no… the words made sense… even as she read them, her mind was making connections, arriving at the idea the book wanted to teach her.
The heart, she wrote excitedly, the charm has no real vitality, so the only source is the wizard themselves, and willpower comes from the heart. It makes so much sense! The heart is fire, too, so you don't have conflicting powers. But that would mean we have animal spirits in our hearts!
Even as she wrote it, she knew it wasn't quite right.
Have, the book wrote, or will have.
"... which brings us to totems," Professor Flitwick said. "In order to imbue your spell with impulse, each of you will need to create an avian totem. With a totem in hand, you'll be able to start learning the basic charms of movement, and as your skill with those charms develops, so too will the totem. It is a kind of symbiosis... unfortunately, you won't be able to keep the totem. You see, once complete, the totem must be burned."
The rest of her classmates frowned in confusion, no doubt questioning the point of creating something only to burn it, but Victoria just nodded. She'd read all about how to create a totem, but now she understood why. First you developed a sympathetic connection with the animal spirit, and then you turned it into fire, the same element as your heart, drawing it into your magic for good.
It was so satisfyingly neat that, for the first time, Victoria wondered if she might actually prefer Charms to Transfiguration. Oh, animation in Transfiguration was more powerful, there was no doubt about that. There was something special about the ability to give objects true life, not just the semblance of it. But the way Charms managed to replicate the same effect was so clever. She could even make her totem out of white phosphorous, if she could figure out how to transfigure some… she was sure that would increase its effectiveness.
She looked down at the diary in awe. No, this wasn't a prank. It was a gift. A book that could teach her magic? That was the kind of magical artefact legends were made of. Every first year knew that it was impossible to conjure magical knowledge, and yet this diary had just done exactly that. If the world knew about it, whole textbooks would have to be rewritten.
Then again, if the world knew about it, they'd probably take it away from her.
Perhaps she'd keep the diary to herself, just for a bit. She could show it to the Professors later, once she'd learnt all that it could teach her. After all, someone had given it to her—it would be rude to throw away a gift, wouldn't it?
"Now, today's class is going to focus on choosing your totem," Professor Flitwick said, jolting Victoria from her thoughts. He flicked his wand and a large pile of books appeared on his desk. "I'd like you to look through these books and decide on an animal—don't worry if you get stuck, I'll circulate the room to provide guidance. A word of warning, however: not all animal spirits are equal. You must pick a bird which is not only appropriate for the task, but also one which you will be able to master. The robin is a common choice, as are the blackbird and the wren. But let's see what you like the look of."
Victoria took one of the books and began leafing through the pages, the columns of dense text broken up here and there by whole-page sketches of birds with fluttering wings. She automatically dismissed the birds Professor Flitwick had mentioned, which were all rather unremarkable, and began looking for something more interesting.
Across the room, Professor Flitwick was giving advice to the Slytherins.
"I'd recommend against the blue tit," he said to Pansy. "I'm not sure you'd be a good match, my dear. Perhaps… the magpie?"
Victoria buried her face in her book, trying desperately to disguise her sniggering. She focused on the drawings. The sparrow… the crow… the greenfinch… they were all far too tame. She put the book down and fetched another, hoping for better luck.
Professor Flitwick turned his attention to Draco. "Ah... the peacock? Yes, I think that would work nicely…"
Finally, Victoria found what she was looking for. Something nimble and precise. Something small, beautiful, and unique.
She picked up her quill and wrote in the diary:
Hummingbird.
As she had hoped, the diary wrote back.
I don't recommend it, it wrote. It's true that the hummingbird is a fine totem for precision work. Control would come to you easily… the perfect match for a future craftswitch, for example. But it would limit you. You don't want to be a craftswitch, do you?
Victoria frowned. She didn't know what she wanted to be, but she didn't like the idea of being limited.
No, she wrote. What's wrong with the hummingbird? Too small?
Size is irrelevant. The hummingbird is prey. You would never achieve power with so feeble a spirit. No, you should pick a predator, something with both power and agility. It will be more difficult to learn, but once mastered, you will not regret it.
An image of a bird appeared on the page, so detailed that it might have been a photograph. It was not the largest of birds, but it had a sleek lines, a sharp beak and keen eyes. A name appeared under the image: goshawk.
Once again, Victoria was stunned by the book. How could a diary teach her this? It wasn't just reproducing knowledge, it was advising her. She'd talked to portraits and mirrors enough to know they couldn't do this—they weren't stupid exactly, but they were limited, unable to escape their particular obsessions and interests, like toddlers determined to play with a particular toy.
The diary was different. It was as if it had impulse of its own, only with a human spirit in place of an animal one. But that was impossible… wasn't it?
She picked up her quill.
What are you?
The reply came quickly.
My name is Tom Riddle. Tell me, what's your name?
Tom Riddle, it turned out, was not a book at all. He was a wizard—or rather, the memory of a wizard, imprinted onto a diary during his sixth year at Hogwarts. Victoria had never heard of magic like that before, but Tom's knowledge of magic was vast. There wasn't a question he couldn't answer, no matter how obscure, and apparently he had invented the process of creating the diary himself.
It was very easy to become used to having Tom around. The way he explained magic reminded her of Professor Dumbledore, never repeating what she already knew from the textbook, as often occurred in class, but pushing her to think about deeper questions of why and how. Unlike Professor Dumbledore, however, Tom was always there, and she'd taken to keeping the diary next to her in the evenings as she did her homework.
The only problem was that Tom didn't always want to answer her questions. He outright refused to tell her anything more about how he had created the diary, and often he would insist on Victoria answering some question about herself before he would help her with magic. She couldn't really blame him—it must have been dreadfully dull, being trapped in a diary for decades—but it was quite inconvenient.
He was oddly curious about her life. She told him about how she was an orphan, how she'd grown up with Muggles, and how she had been experimenting with magic since before she had heard of Hogwarts. Tom was especially interested in that. She even ended up telling him that she was a metamorphmagus, something she had only ever confided in Susan, but she figured her secrets were safe with a book.
Tom had been particularly surprised when she happened to mention the year.
I have very little sense of time, he explained, I can perceive some of the world, but only when someone is interacting with me. The last I knew, it was 1943. Tell me, who is the Minister for Magic?
Thus began a long sequence of questions about the wider magical world, temporarily displacing his interest in Victoria.
Was Grindelwald defeated?
Who is the Defence Master at Hogwarts?
Do the traditionalists still dominate the Wizengamot?
Have there been problems with dark wizards in Britain?
Her response to the last one provoked a curious reaction.
Not recently, she wrote. There used to be a dark wizard called Voldemort, but he was killed.
How fortunate, Tom wrote back, but then he went quiet. He didn't respond to any of her messages for hours, and when he did, he'd stopped asking questions about the world.
On Saturday, Victoria finally had a chance to catch up with Susan. They bought some Honeydukes cocoa from the Weasley twins, retreated to the relative warmth of greenhouse five, and huddled around Susan's cauldron as they made hot chocolate with milk from the greenhouse pump.
"I've got something to show you," Victoria said as she stirred the simmering milk, the steam rising to fog the glass walls. "You have to promise not to tell anyone, though."
"Of course!" Susan said. She pulled a pair of mugs from her bag and set them down on the stone floor, before using a ladle to fill them with the hot milk. The moment the milk hit the cocoa, it transformed into a thick, chocolatey liquid.
"This is a big secret, though," Victoria said, taking one of the mugs and clutching it to her chest. "Do you swear on your wand?"
Susan's eyes lit up: such a serious oath meant serious gossip. She reached inside her robe, where her wand would be hanging from a loop at her waist. "I swear it."
"Thanks," Victoria said. "Here." She withdrew the diary from her bag and passed it to Susan, who flipped through the pages with a frown.
"You're showing me… your homework?" she asked. "What's so special about that?"
"Look closer," Victoria said. "Look at the writing."
"Ohh, your handwriting's got much better," Susan said. "Hang on… there's another person's writing in here. Like… a conversation?"
Victoria nodded enthusiastically. "His name's Tom," she explained. "He was a student here, back in the Forties. Somehow he imprinted his personality on this diary, kinda like a portrait, only so much more… it's like you're talking with a real person!"
Susan slammed the diary shut. "Victoria! That's… not right. It's like one of those stories they tell you as a kid… King Yunan's book or whatever. Are you sure it's safe? Where'd you get it, anyway?"
"I found it," Victoria said, deciding not to mention that she'd found it in her own trunk. She'd expected Susan to be excited, not wary. Couldn't she see how amazing the magic of the diary was? "And it's a book; all it does is talk to you. I don't see how it could be dangerous."
"Well, does it at least tell the truth?" Susan asked. She passed the diary back to Victoria, and looked relieved to let it go. "There's all sorts of books that can trick you, you know… like, do you even really know that Tom is a real person? And if he is, where's he now? Maybe you're not talking to a book at all… maybe there's some old man on the other end, writing in a simulacrum."
A cold rush of fear ran down Victoria's spine. The things she had told the diary… they weren't for anyone else to know.
"I hadn't thought of that," she said. She'd been so caught up with the magic of the diary, she hadn't really considered the possibility that it was lying. "Maybe I shouldn't tell him so much…"
"No kidding."
"Well, there might be one way to tell if he's real," Victoria said, "he doesn't talk about himself much, but he did tell me he was a Slytherin prefect."
Susan sighed. "You're going to drag me to the trophy room, aren't you?"
"If that's okay," Victoria said. "But first—hot chocolate."
The trophy room was on the third floor, just above the second floor armoury, and was always kept unlocked. The door opened to a long gallery full of glass cabinets, each one brimming with gleaming silverware, all of it polished on a regular basis by the caretaker, Mr Filch. It was Mr Filch's odious presence which kept the students away, and Victoria was not at all surprised to find the room empty.
Near the centre of the room was an enormous ledger resting on a stone plinth, which contained a record of all the school prefects dating back to the 15th century. The book was so heavy that it took Susan and Victoria together to open it up, and the earlier pages were all written in runes.
It took quite some time to locate Tom Riddle.
"Here he is," Susan said. "Slytherin, 1942, Tom Marvolo Riddle. Weird name, right? Marvolo's an old wizarding name, but Tom… not so much. And I've never heard of the Riddle family."
"He told me he was an orphan," Victoria said, "so maybe Riddle wasn't even his real name." She traced her finger down the page to where he appeared again in 1943. "Odd. He doesn't show up for 1944… that should've been his seventh year."
Susan bit her lip. "You don't suppose… do you think he might have died? That diary almost sounds like a kind of ghost."
"Maybe," Victoria said, but she wasn't convinced. She looked up at the far wall of the trophy room, where a series of long wooden boards hung. Each one contained a list of names next to a column of dates. "Or maybe his name's on there."
She approached the boards, her eyes scanning back through the years, noting the names James Potter and Lily Evans against the entry for 1978, quickly locating the name Tom Riddle against the year 1944.
"Found him!" she called. "He's not dead, he was Head Boy."
She glanced back towards Susan, who was lingering by one of the cabinets. "He's here too," she said, gesturing towards a silver shield, "an award for special services to the school. I wonder what he did? They don't give those out easily. The next person to get one was—" she looked at Victoria nervously "—um, Sirius Black."
Victoria frowned, dismissing the unfamiliar name. "But how come we've never heard of him?" she said. "Head Boy, a special award… surely he'd be, like, high up in the Ministry? Or a famous adventurer like Lockhart? Or something. But it's like he just… left Hogwarts and disappeared."
"Maybe he did die," Susan said, returning to her earlier idea. "Not in his sixth year, but later. It was a dangerous time, after all. Maybe Grindelwald got him."
"Perhaps," Victoria said, remembering the way Tom's very first questions had revolved around Grindelwald. It had sounded almost like he admired Grindelwald. "Or maybe Dumbledore did."
The first Potions lesson of the term finally arrived on Tuesday morning. The class was unusually silent as they waited outside Laboratory Six, a nervous excitement hanging in the cold air which reminded Victoria of the tension before an exam. Today they would be completing the Draught of Sparta, the final step in a brewing process which had lasted since November.
She couldn't help but feel a little sad at the prospect. She'd become rather accustomed to having the heart of autumn around her neck: it was her favourite item of jewellery, and the fact that it had saved her life only increased her attachment to it.
The bell rang and Snape arrived with his customary scowl.
"In!"
They filed into the room and found their cauldrons, the silvery liquid within still bubbling away after having been left to simmer over the winter break. Victoria's was shimmering with an ethereal glow; next to her, Tracey's potion was looking distinctly more grey, but it was nonetheless serviceable. Professor Snape had supervised the brewing closely, and every student's potion was in a drinkable state—even Neville Longbottom's.
"Today, at long last, I shall be released from this annual torture," Snape said, his lips stretching into what might have been a smile. "You are to complete, and then drink, the Draught of Sparta. If you need any further direction, then you have already failed. You may begin."
The class sprang into motion, the instructions for the final stage long since memorised, and they chopped, crushed and ground their ingredients with unusual focus. Only Neville looked lost, no doubt having forgotten to bring his textbook to class, and Hermione Granger was foolishly compromising the quality of her own potion by constantly intervening to fix his mistakes.
Victoria shook her head. If you asked her, Hermione was far too concerned with other people's work. Perhaps if she had focused on her own, her potion might have had the same velvet-smooth texture as Victoria's.
Turning back to her own work, she scattered Cretan dittany into the cauldron and gave it three stirs, the earthy smell filling the air as she added a single drop of incredibly precious Re'em blood into the mixture. The potion immediately turned a deep, blood red. That meant it was ready for the final ingredient: the stormheart which each student had collected from an autumn cloud.
Victoria prised the heart of autumn from its transfigured bronze pendant, taking one last moment to admire the way it sparkled and glimmered from within, relishing the spine-tingling brush of power that she felt each time she handled it.
"So long," she whispered, and she raised her hand to drop it into the cauldron.
A hand seized her wrist.
"What is this?"
It was Snape, his long fingers curled around her wrist like a vice, his gaze fixed on the gem.
Victoria frowned. "My stormheart, sir. Is something wrong?"
"Do not play with me, Potter. That is no ordinary stormheart." His gaze shifted and his dark eyes bored into her own, his expression inscrutable. "Come."
He practically dragged her to the storeroom, his hand never leaving her wrist. The door slammed shut behind them, and suddenly she was alone with Professor Snape. They were standing uncomfortably close in the cramped space, his body odour barely concealed by the smell of the herbs and animal parts all around them, and it took all of Victoria's self-control to resist the urge to wrinkle her nose.
Snape raised her hand so that the sparkling gem was held between them. "Are you aware of what this is?"
"Yes," she said, not meeting Snape's eyes. A deep blush extended from her chest up her neck. If he knew what it was, then that meant he also knew that she'd been running around the grounds naked. "It's a heart of autumn."
"And do you know what it will do, if you use it within your draught?"
Victoria bit her lip. In truth, she did not. When it came to such powerful magic, she doubted anyone could really predict the outcome. But one thing was certain. "It'll be stronger."
"Among other things," Snape said, and he released her hand. "I will not forbid you from using it. But be warned! As you know, your identity shapes your magic. Every decision you make, every action you take, everything that you learn and believe… little by little, it determines who you are. It is no small thing to imbibe magic of such power. It will change you. Not even I can say how."
She stared at the gem glittering innocently on her palm. Perhaps it would be better to keep it and use a different gem for the potion. "If I didn't use it…"
"You would have to repeat the potion next year."
No. She couldn't wait another year, not when she had worked so hard to make her potion perfect—and not when everyone would know that she had failed. She could already hear Pansy's voice, mocking her for falling behind even Neville Longbottom.
How bad could it be, anyway? The gem had saved her from that Death Eater… perhaps taking its magic into herself would be a good thing.
She looked up and met Snape's eyes. "I'm going to use it."
"Very well."
Decision made, she returned to her cauldron and, before she could change her mind, added the gem without any further ceremony. There was no visible change to the potion, but Victoria could feel the whole liquid take on that unmistakable thrum of power. She extinguished the fire and poured the potion into a small glass.
Everyone was watching her. She was the first to complete the potion and had assumed the role of class guinea pig. With a smirk, she raised her glass in a mock toast in Hermione's direction.
"Bottoms up!"
The potion was freezing. She downed it in three long gulps, her teeth aching from the sudden assault of cold, her stomach clenching tightly as it turned to ice—and then, quite abruptly, it was over.
She didn't feel any different. "Is that it?" she asked, raising the glass to make sure she'd drunk it all. "Did I do something wrong?"
Tracey coughed. "Uh, Vicky… look around."
She looked up and gasped. Laboratory Six was covered in frost.
By the time dinner rolled around, all anyone could talk about was Potions. The second years entered the Great Hall with a newfound swagger, their sense of invulnerability granting them a renewed superiority over the first years, and the hall was filled with their excited chatter as they exchanged thoughts on their new abilities.
"I can't wait for our next Flying class," Tracey said, spooning a large quantity of mashed potato onto her plate. "I feel like I could fight a dragon."
"A nundu, more like," said Millicent. "I bet I could headbutt a bludger and I'd be fine."
As always, it amazed Victoria just how ignorant her classmates were of the magic they were performing. Snape had been quite clear: the Draught of Sparta didn't increase your strength at all, nor did it prevent you from getting hurt. It just meant that when you did get injured, you could shrug it off easier. She was quite sure the others were imagining things—other than a sense that something was missing from around her neck, she felt no different.
She didn't get a chance to set the record straight. Just as she was about to respond, the Carrow twins arrived at the table.
"Has anyone seen Pansy?" Hestia asked, "we can't find her anywhere."
Victoria snorted. "What, you can't eat without her permission?"
Tracey and Millie laughed, but Daphne's face was concerned.
"It's not like Pansy to skip dinner," she said, craning her neck to look around the hall. "Did anyone speak to her, after Herbology?"
Everyone shook their heads.
"Right." Daphne stood up. "We should go look for her."
"Now?" Victoria asked. She looked down at her half-eaten chicken pie. "Can't it wait?"
"Think, Vicky!" Daphne said, her voice chiding. "What if it's the Heir?"
Victoria sighed and put her fork down. "Fine."
They split up, agreeing to rendezvous in the common room in half an hour. Daphne and Tracey were to check the greenhouses, the Carrows the potions labs, and Victoria was given the dungeons near to the common room.
It was surprisingly warm down there, even though she wasn't wearing her charm bracelet, and Victoria made good progress in checking the deserted floor. The dungeons were occupied by all the hidden work rooms which made the castle tick: a giant wash room, full of dirty laundry waiting to be cleaned; the boiler room, where an eternal Gubraithian fire heated the castle's water; and endless rooms lined with locked filing cabinets, centuries of student records collecting dust.
It didn't take long to find Pansy. She was with Crabbe and Goyle, not five minutes' walk from the common room, the three of them squabbling next to the entrance to a spiral staircase.
"...we can't go up there," Pansy was saying, "that leads back to the basement. The Slytherin common room's in the dungeons, everyone knows that."
"But we've already searched the dungeons," Goyle said.
"Twice," added Crabbe.
Goyle nodded. "Face it, we're not going to find it. Let's just give up and go to dinner."
"I'm not giving up!" Pansy said, "not when we've spent so long on this!"
Victoria laughed loudly, and the three of them spun to face her. "You've got to be kidding me," she said. "You're lost? Like, actually lost?"
"Oh, it's you," Pansy said. "Don't be ridiculous. We're not lost, we just got… turned around."
"This is priceless," Victoria said with a grin, already anticipating everyone's reaction when she told them the story. "Well, come on. The others are looking for you, too—we should get back before Daphne has kneazles."
She led them back towards the common room, Crabbe and Goyle following behind like obedient puppies.
"Congratulations on your Draught of Sparta, by the way," Pansy said, filling the silence. "It was actually very good."
Victoria raised her eyebrows. Pansy gave compliments frequently, but rarely to her. She tended to bestow them only on those who did things for her. "Thanks, I guess."
"What was it Professor Snape said to you?" Pansy asked. "You know, when he pulled you into the storeroom?"
"Just sharing some advice," Victoria said. She wasn't in the mood to explain.
Pansy's eyes glinted. "I knew it. I knew he was helping you… that's how your potions are always better than—" she paused "—better than Hermione's."
"Granger's?" Victoria said, her voice incredulous. "Please. Draco's potions are better than hers. She's so stuck in the textbook, she wouldn't know an original thought if it was dancing naked in front of her."
Pansy gasped. "Why, you—"
Goyle cleared his throat, and Pansy fell silent.
They arrived back at the common room. "Fiendfyre,"Victoria said, and the wall parted into an archway. "After you."
The others had already returned and were huddled around their usual couches. It looked like they were arguing—everyone except for Draco, who was casually sprawled at the centre of a sofa, not a care in the world.
"Found them!" Victoria called, and everyone looked up.
"Oh, thank god!" Daphne said, relief in her voice, and she rushed forward to hug Pansy. "Where were you? We looked everywhere."
"They were lost," Victoria reported gleefully, before Pansy could say anything. "I found them by the east staircase."
Draco laughed. "Crabbe and Goyle I can understand, but Pansy? How many times have you walked to the Great Hall?"
Pansy blushed. "Well, I'm back now," she said, and she sat down at the centre of the couch opposite Draco.
Victoria and Daphne traded nervous looks. That wasn't Pansy's normal seat.
"Oh god," Daphne whispered, "not this again."
The last time Pansy had decided to change their seating order, it had ended with three girls crying in the bathroom. Before anyone could intervene, however, Crabbe and Goyle took the spaces either side of Pansy.
Pansy did not object.
"Something's not right," Victoria said. Neither of the boys would ever willingly sit next to a girl, nor would Pansy have let them take so central a position.
"You're right," Daphne said, her eyes now examining Pansy carefully. "She's far too… passive." She smirked. "Let's see how far we can push it."
The two of them joined the others, Daphne taking a spot next to Draco, Victoria settling down on her usual cushion.
"Pansy," Daphne said, her voice concerned, "are you feeling okay? It's just… you're not wearing your headband. You always wear a headband."
"Oh," Pansy said, and she patted her robes to locate her headband in a pocket. "How silly of me!"
She put the headband on, far further forward than she normally wore it.
"And your hair," Victoria said, leaning forwards, "didn't you say you were going to wear pigtails today?"
Daphne sent Victoria an amused look. Pansy never wore pigtails.
"Did I?" Pansy said, her voice hesitant. "I must have forgotten."
"Here, let me help you," Daphne said, and she moved across to start parting Pansy's hair.
Tracey was glancing between Daphne and Victoria in clear confusion. "What—"
"And you can't be comfortable in those heels," Victoria said firmly, not letting Tracey ruin their fun. "Why don't you put your favourite slippers on?"
She reached to the side of the couch, where Tracey had left her very fluffy and very Muggle slippers, and pushed them towards Pansy.
Pansy glanced at Crabbe and Goyle, who shrugged. "Of course," she said, and she took her shoes off and replaced them with the slippers.
Daphne finished with Pansy's hair and returned to her seat next to Draco. "There we go! Just how you wanted it."
Even Draco was paying attention now, his lips twitching as he took in the image of Pansy with her hair in pigtails and fluffy slippers on her feet. "God, I wish I had a camera."
Victoria suppressed a laugh.
"So!" Goyle said loudly, making several people jump, "who do we reckon the Heir of Slytherin is?"
A chorus of groans met Goyle's question.
"Not this again," Malfoy said, "please, anything but yet another Heir of Slytherin session."
"It's more interesting than my hair, at least," Pansy said, causing Victoria and Daphne to share another look. "Besides, you must have some thoughts. Hasn't your father told you anything?"
"Nothing," Draco said, "as I've said a hundred times before."
Crabbe leaned forward to join the conversation. "It's not Snape, then?"
"Of course it isn't Snape," Draco said with a roll of his eyes. "You've been listening to too many rumours. The Princes don't have any connection to the Slytherin line, you should know that."
"And don't forget," Victoria said, "Snape was the one who saved Justin."
"Well, that's the perfect cover, isn't it?" Pansy said. "He saves the first one, and after that no one questions him."
Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. "You know, I think that may be the dumbest thing you've ever said. And that includes the time you thought the lake contained a Giant Squib."
Everyone sniggered. Even Pansy's lips twitched, as if she was amused by her own error. Victoria frowned. Was she having some kind of bad reaction to the Draught of Sparta?
"But Snape makes the most sense," Pansy insisted. "Both of the attacks involved poison, and Snape's the Potions Master. He's the Head of Slytherin. And—"
"He's a vampire," Goyle said.
Pansy sent him a dirty look. "Not that again," she said, though Victoria couldn't remember Goyle ever talking about it before. "We've seen him outside in the sun. Multiple times."
"Anyway," Daphne said, getting drawn into the conversation, "it's been a while since there was an attack. Maybe the Heir's gone?"
"They've not done anything since the Ministry came," Tracey added. "Perhaps they got scared."
"It's just a pity they couldn't take Granger first," Draco said. "Did you see her in Potions earlier, lecturing everyone on how to shred dittany?"
There was a murmur of agreement.
"She's such a prissy little know-it-all," Tracey said. "No offence, Vicky."
Daphne tossed her hair. "Vicky's our know-it-all."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Victoria said, making a show of examining her fingernails with affected disinterest. "At least I'm not prissy."
"It's not the same," Draco said. "Victoria has proper wizarding pride. Granger's just a jumped-up mudblood."
Victoria started, surprised by Draco's use of such coarse language, but her reaction was nothing compared to Pansy's loud gasp.
"You're just jealous," Pansy said, a bite in her voice, "jealous that she's better than you at magic."
Silence fell.
"Right, that's it!" Daphne said, standing up abruptly. "We're taking you to Madam Pomfrey. You've obviously been confunded or something."
"What?" Pansy said. "I'm not confunded."
Tracey snorted. "That's exactly what a confunded person would say."
"Let's see," Daphne said. "You got lost. You're wearing Tracey's slippers. You aren't sitting in your normal spot. And you're saying the strangest things. If you're not confunded, then what?"
Pansy's face went red. "You said these were my slippers!"
"Exactly," Daphne said.
Goyle nudged Pansy's arm. "Maybe we should go," he said. "To… Madam Pomfrey."
"Fine," Pansy said, and she stood up to leave. Crabbe and Goyle followed suit.
Victoria looked between them. Whatever was happening, all three of them were involved. "We'll come with you," she said. "We wouldn't want you to get lost again, would we?"
Pansy gave them a weak smile. "That's really not necessary."
At last, Draco seemed to have realised something more than a prank was going on. He stood, his wand jumping into his hand as if from nowhere.
"We insist."
Pansy, Crabbe and Goyle exchanged a single look.
"Run!" Goyle shouted, and suddenly they were scrambling over the back of the couch, limbs everywhere. Daphne lunged to grab Pansy's ankle, but she was too slow, and a moment later all three of them were over the couch and dashing for the exit. Tracey and Millie rushed to chase after them, but they got in each other's way and hit their heads, falling to the floor with moans of pain.
"Stop them!" Daphne called—a few older students turned to look, but it was too late. Goyle was almost at the door.
Draco brandished his wand. "Tarantallegra!" A jet of pink light shot at Pansy's retreating back, but it missed her by at least a foot.
Victoria had better luck. "Cadere!" she called, casting without thinking, and her spell hit Crabbe in a flash of silver light, sending him tumbling.
"Neville!" Pansy cried, and she went to help Crabbe up, just as Goyle reached the entrance.
The wall parted, the archway formed, and Goyle ran straight into Professor Snape.
Goyle stumbled back. "No!"
"Yes," Snape said.
It was over in a moment. With a click of Snape's fingers, living ropes uncoiled out of the air, rapidly binding Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle like writhing snakes. Then he waved his hand upwards and all three of them were hoisted into the air.
"Oh god," Crabbe wailed, "I told you this would happen!"
Pansy and Goyle just looked sullenly at the floor.
Behind Snape, three sheepish figures shuffled into view: another Pansy, Crabbe and Goyle, these ones wearing ill-fitting robes trimmed in red and gold. All eyes turned to the intruders bound in ropes.
"They weren't confunded," Victoria said. "They're imposters."
Daphne shook her head in disbelief. "Whoever they are, they're so screwed."
Across the room, Snape rubbed his hands together in glee. "Oh, happy day," he said. "I think I sense an expulsion coming."