"Miss Zuwaldt," said the eagle, its round, ethereal eyes locked on her, open beak emitting its voice. "Return to the castle. Report to my office directly. You have ten minutes. Your things will be collected."
Without saying anything further it launched toward her, wings spread. She stumbled back, and one wing-beat later it swept past her and faded into the air - not into invisibility, she felt, but somewhere else.
Her heart was thudding.
What?
The eagle had the voice of a man. An authoritative man, like a teacher. Mind racing, she entered the abandoned tunnel (it was faster to cut through than go around) and mounted her broom - what office? Where was she supposed to go? Why was the voice so familiar… had someone caught her?
She shot over the old gate and re-entered the field. Then it hit her - Professor Smith. It was Professor Smith's voice. The eagle was his messenger, or something. He knew she'd been out of bounds.
The flight through the stadium hardly registered with her. Nevermind the jog up to the castle, or the climb up to Gryffindor. She felt numb. Her only anchor to the world was her backpack, still in the equipment closet, and getting further and further away each step she took. How did he find out? How much trouble was she in?
She got to the central corridor of the tower and hurried down. It lengthened before her, arched ceilings stretching away, coming to her just as enormous and ancient as her first day - but now, there was something intimidating there too. She passed the statues and armor suits. She passed the portraits. The Fat Lady waited before her, but she turned, going up one of the narrow spirals for Professor Smith's. It was above the common room, she knew, on the next floor. A solitary Ravenclaw upper-year passed her on his way down, but neither of them had time for each other. Her eyes stayed on the next landing. The light coming down emanated doom.
She re-entered the main tower. The corridor ceiling was lower than the main floor, and its walls more barren to accompany the bustle of students. Professor Smith's door took the place of the Fat Lady's portrait. She went up to it, footsteps slowing, a soul-crushing wave of recognition washing over her: another grown-up's door. Once again, being sent to the teacher's office. Only this time it was at a mystical, magical, secret school - how was she still doing this? She wasn't in primary anymore. She'd told herself she'd do better.
She knocked. A moment passed. The door opened. Professor Smith was there. He gestured toward the interrogation chair with his one-arm.
"Sit."
She swallowed and marched into the strict, militarized office, and only when she climbed into the seat did she realize she'd brought the broom with her. Great. She put it against the armrest. Unease grew little roots in her belly.
Professor Smith walked to his side of the desk. She kept her back straight, heart pumping at a quick, steady rate, and put all other emotions aside. The only allowance she gave herself was to squeeze her hands between her knees. Professor Smith sat and looked at her, and she looked back - but didn't see any anger. His gaze wasn't sharp or hard, like in class. He just looked.
"Miss Zuwaldt," he said.
She tried to sound adult - "Yes?"
"You were discovered outside the school bounds this evening, with a stolen broomstick, over the Forbidden Forest."
Her breath caught.
"Explain yourself."
"I was -" she thought for a second - "I was curious. But I didn't steal it. The broom. I didn't mean to. I'm sorry. I was just using it."
"You were curious?"
"Yes," she said. "It's stupid. I know it was stupid. I'm sorry." She looked at his desk. "I just wanted to see what it was like - in the trees. I wanted to fly around, and see them. It's stupid. I'm sorry."
Professor Smith didn't say anything. The really stupid thing, she realized, gaze hardening, wasn't her flying out there - but her reason for doing it. Because of stupid Potter, and their stupid bet. This was all his fault, or most of it, at the very least - and yet here she was.
"Look up."
She did. Professor Smith's eyes were the same.
"I'm going to ask you a few questions. Answer them honestly. Was this your first time out of school bounds?"
"Yes," she said, before she could stop herself.
"Have you taken school brooms out of storage before?"
"N-" she hesitated. "Yes. I have. But only to practice in the stadium! Some older kids told me where they were, and I thought it was okay. Honest."
"Did these older kids tell you to leave the grounds?"
"No."
"Did they show you how?"
"No."
"Very well," he said, and exhaled through his nose. "The Tuesday before last I received a note telling me you'd missed curfew, and that the matter had been discussed. Are these incidents related?"
She blinked. Last Tuesday?
"No," she said. "That was, erm, because of Peeves."
"You ran into him while returning from practicing?"
"Yes."
Professor Smith watched her.
"It's important that you listen to me and understand what I say," he said. "What you did was extremely foolish and dangerous. There are rogue forces out in the forest that could do you serious and lasting injury. There is a reason it is closed to students, and it is not a lesson you want to learn. There are few adults that dare venture out by themselves. In the last fifty years alone, two students have died after going into the forest. One of their bodies was irrecoverable."
Her eyes widened.
"Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Good. Taking a broom outside the stadium was also extremely dangerous. The grounds do not have safeguards. A fall even a meter outside the stadium walls could hospitalize or even kill you. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
He watched her.
"It's my understanding that you have some history of difficulty when it comes to following rules. How would you rate the accuracy of that statement?"
"I, er," she looked away again, face starting to prickle. "Well, I might have gotten in a few fights, but I haven't… I don't…"
Shame crept over her. Professor Smith resumed talking, about all the usual things like parental involvement and her need to do better, but her thoughts went back to the last time she'd been scolded - back to Mrs. Canilly, on the playground. She'd been taken aside, Mrs. Canilly's grip tight around her arm, her face stern. "You understand you need to be punished, don't you, Ray? You can't keep doing this. You must learn to control yourself."
"...Do you understand?" said Professor Smith, finishing.
"Yes."
He paused again. Worry rose in her chest… was there something more she was supposed to say?
"Very well," he said. "Let's bring this to a close. You will report to the Practical Defense Room on the fourth floor, West Hall, after classes on Monday and every day for the upcoming week. You will serve your detention for two hours, then return to the common room until dinner. Am I understood?"
Blood drained from her face - that was going to interrupt with Quidditch practices, she was sure of it.
"You are also not permitted on the grounds during that period," he said.
"WHAT?"
His gaze sharpened.
"The grounds, Miss Zuwaldt. You are not to leave the castle, unless accompanied by a professor."
"Sir - I'm attending the Quidditch tryouts tomorrow - if I get on the team, I'll need to practice! And what about my exercise? Am I not even allowed to go on runs?"
He put his hand on the table and considered her.
"I will allow you your morning exercise," he said, "provided you limit your runs to the field outside the greenhouses. As for Quidditch tryouts, I'm afraid that will be impossible. In addition to the previous restrictions I must hereby forbid you from the use of broomsticks from now until the winter holiday."
She stared at him. His words were like a death sentence. Her heart beat, fury swelling with each pound in her chest. It grew, budded, swelled further, threatened to open -
"By having these privileges taken from you, it is intended that you cultivate a greater appreciation for them in the future. Am I understood?"
"I -" she breathed. "This is so unfair."
"You will learn to respect the rules," he said. "Suffer these lesser consequences, and you may avoid the harsher lessons of reality. There are always outcomes to your actions, Miss Zuwaldt. Now. Am I clear?"
Her breath heaved. Her chest rose and fell. Her anger hardened, turned to indignation, trickled into her arms and hands and made the tips of her ears hot.
She gritted her teeth - "You're clear."
"Good."
He beckoned, and something dropped into her lap. On instinct she flung out her fist, but hit empty air - her backpack had been delivered to her, and she'd just tried to punch one of the tiny, wrinkly, bat-eared house elves, but it'd been too short. It ignored her.
"Return the broom, then you may resume your duties," Professor Smith said.
"Yes, sir," squeaked the elf.
"Thank you."
The elf seized the broomstick away from her and disappeared with a crack. Nothing was left but a shower of golden speckles. Gone. Just like that. Her anger rose further.
"Now, unless you need further clarification, that concludes our discussion," said Professor Smith. "Please return to Gryffindor."
She wanted to argue. She wanted to shout. But it wasn't the safe choice. She funneled her words to action and grabbed her pack, then shouldered it and left the office.
It was so unfair, she thought. Her ears pounded. She went back through the marble hall and down the stairs. Absolutely unfair. All of her practicing, wasted. All her skipped meals and late nights, useless. Stolen.
The Fat Lady's Portrait came into sight.
"Pass-?"
"Chestnut," she spat.
The common room was busy. People nearest the door were surprised to see her, but she ignored them. Kendra and Zach were over in the corner, but towards the middle was Potter's gang. He had his back turned, but after an elbow-nudge from Longbottom he faced her - he'd told on her, she realized. He must have. Her rage opened. She went for him, balling her fists.
"What's with the face, Zuwaldt?" he said.
"Why'd you do it?!" she shouted. "We agreed. Why'd you tell?"
He stood from his chair.
"What are you -"
She yanked her wand from her pocket.
"Flipendo!"
A bang sounded and Potter flew back over his table, crashing chairs and scattering parchment. People gasped. She continued forward as Potter got to his feet.
"You're mad!" he shouted. "Off your bloody rocker! You're the maddest girl I've ever met!"
"YOU GOT ME DETENTION!"
An upper-year grabbed her at the chest, and someone else shot her wand out of her hand.
"Let me go!" she shouted, kicking at whoever was holding her. "Get off -"
Suddenly, something caught her attention. The dormitory doors had closed. Riley had gone up the stairwell a second earlier. Slowly, as if it had been there the whole time, an empty pit of understanding opened inside her.
Riley, who'd said he'd judge their race.
Riley, who'd wanted them to do it elsewhere.
Riley, who'd thought the forest was dangerous, and had fought and argued with her up until the last minute.
Somehow, she knew. It hadn't been Potter at all. It was him. Fury overtook her. She squirmed out of the boy's grip and pulled away from the crowd, then entered the stairwell. White anger was obliterating her vision. Her only thoughts were traitor. Betrayal. Coward.
Suddenly she was on the balcony. Riley was there, standing out in the open, haunched as ever.
"You," she said, marching toward him through the wind.
He pulled his shoulders back.
"How could you?!" she yelled, and shoved him with everything she had. "I trusted you!"
He planted his hands on her shoulders, stopping her. She punched his chest. She punched his ribs, hitting bone through soft uniform. She punched at his stomach. She tried to bash away his arms, screaming, but his grip was solid.
"Stop," he said.
"You fucking traitor," she fummed. "You bloody, fucking -"
His face was close, and she swiped at it and scratched him across the nose.
"Stop!"
"No," she said. "No! You're a piece of shit. You could have told me. You could have said you'd tell. No wonder everyone told me to steer clear, no wonder nobody likes you -"
Suddenly, Riley lifted her and smashed her against the stone wall.
"Don't talk to me like that," he growled, breath hot.
"You're crazy!" she shouted, trying to shove him away. "I thought we were friends! I thought you were cool, but you're a miserable coward, a traitor! Ben was right! You're always up here by yourself, never talking to anyone, creeping around -"
She stopped - he was towering over her, eyes livid, teeth bared, face contorted in rage. Riley was a lot bigger than her. It was actually scary.
"You've no idea what it's like being me."
They were up here alone. She hadn't told anyone where she'd gone.
But the next second he dropped her and backed away. The door banged open. Kendra was there, with Abby and Samara.
"Oh," said Abby, looking between her and Riley.
Wind blew. Her heart pounded in her ears.
"There's someone here for you," said Kendra. "Out in the hall. With the Fat Lady."
Professor Smith again.
"See?" she said, whirling on him - "You got me in trouble!"
Riley's back was turned. He'd gone to the railing. He wasn't going to look at her. For some reason, it made her heart break.
"Fine," she said.
She went back inside. Samara led the way down the stairs. Her shoulders and the back of her head hurt from the wall, and she checked her hair for blood, but her hand came out clean. Her mind whirled from how rough he'd been. It was so sudden. He was like a wild dog.
Her eyes watered, her face hot. What the fuck. She looked down at herself and pulled and smoothed her robes to make sure they hadn't been stretched or ruined. They kept down the stairwell.
"Are you okay?" asked Abby.
"I'm fine," she said.
She pressed at her eyes to make sure she wasn't crying.
They got back to the common room. Potter was nowhere to be found, and everyone was looking at her.
Kendra touched her elbow.
"Ray. They're out in the hall," she said.
Her insides were burning to ashes. Ignoring everybody, she walked past the stares and mutters and climbed into the portrait hole. The Fat Lady swung open, and she entered the cool, silent hallway, and the portrait closed again to seal all of Gryffindor off behind her.
She stopped. It wasn't Professor Smith at all.
"Hey," said Douglas.
He was standing at the end of the main corridor, one hand on a lion statue's head, the other in his pocket.
"There she is."