AN: So this chapter is partly told from a perspective other than Lena's, which is something that will happen throughout the story.

I'm aware that in earlier editions of the books, Marcus Flint was in Sixth Year during Philosopher's Stone. But as later editions change this to Fifth Year, I'll be going with that for this story.

Monday 16 September, 1991:

"Come on, Neville, McGonagall said she'd give us detention if we were late again!"

"I'm coming!"

Harry Potter watched as Neville Longbottom jogged up the corridor to catch up to where he, Ron Weasley, Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan were waiting for their housemate. Over the past two weeks at Hogwarts, the five First Year Gryffindor boys had decided it was better to travel together through the unfamiliar castle. For one thing, it helped to have more minds working together to navigate their way through the labyrinth of corridors and staircases. And for another, they had discovered that most of the teachers (with the exception of Professor Snape) were less likely to punish them for being late if they all arrived together. Neville had been particularly glad about the new policy of waiting for each other at the end of classes so they could find their way to the next as a group, as he was, the others quickly learned, the most scatter-brained. But Professor McGonagall had made it clear in their most recent Transfiguration lesson that by the third week of term, she expected the First Years to know their way around the castle, and would not accept "I got lost" as an excuse for lateness.

"What floor are we going to?" Dean asked as Neville finally caught up to the rest of them.

"Sixth-floor," said Harry. "Apparently there's a classroom on it that's usually empty, so McGonagall's able to use it for the day."

There had been an announcement that morning at breakfast that Peeves, the school's resident poltergeist, had somehow filled the usual Transfiguration classroom with some sort of purple smoke that the teachers were having difficulty getting rid of, hence the change in classroom.

The five boys walked through the doorway that separated the corridor from the Grand Staircase, and all looked up apprehensively at the many sets of stairs, that every now and again would move to connect different floors.

"So, which one?" asked Ron nervously.

As if it had decided to answer Ron's question itself, one of the staircases detached itself from a landing on the sixth-floor, and floated down to where the boys were standing on the second. The boys all looked at each other, then shrugged and stepped on.

The staircase began to float upwards again. To the boys' relief, it headed straight for the sixth-floor.

"I don't think I'll ever get used to this," muttered Dean, and Harry silently agreed with him. Of all the bizarre things at Hogwarts, staircases that had minds of their own were one of the weirdest.

They were about halfway up when a shadow suddenly fell across them. Harry looked up to see another staircase floating past about two feet above their heads. Neville looked up too, and gave a yelp of shock, stumbling back against the stairs' banister. The sudden movement caused Neville's bag to slide off his shoulder.

"No!" cried Neville, but it was too late: the bag fell over the banister and began to plummet down. All the boys leant over the banister, watching it. Neville looked horrified.

Then something completely unexpected happened – the bag stopped in mid-air. It hung there for a few seconds, as though it was being suspended by strings, before beginning to swiftly ascend.

The boys watched in amazement as the bag drew closer to them. But instead of making its way back to Neville, the bag continued to rise to the landing on the sixth-floor. Several moments later, the staircase reached its destination too.

Hurriedly, the boys got off the stairs and stepped onto the landing. It wasn't empty. In front of them stood a tall girl wearing a Slytherin tie, who had to at least be a Fifth Year or older, and was holding Neville's bag. Harry couldn't help but stare at her. He had never seen anyone who looked like her – at least, not in real life. Her hair was jet-black like his, but much longer, reaching down to her waist. Some of it was pulled back into a large knot on top of her head, in a style that he was sure Aunt Petunia would have called 'trampy'. Her skin was incredibly pale, almost unhealthily so, and there were shadows under her blue-grey eyes. Her cheekbones nearly protruded out of her face in a way that was somewhere between conventionally beautiful and gaunt. Her school robe hung around her loosely, emphasising her thinness, and it all gave the combined effect of making her look slightly unwell, but not weak. In fact, Harry thought, the girl looked like a strange cross between a vampire, a punk rocker, and Snow White. Or, he reflected, what a lot of Muggles would think a witch looked like.

But while Harry was staring at her, the girl's eyes were fixed on Neville, who seemed very uncomfortable under the intensity of her gaze. The other boys looked between them, unsure what to do in the increasingly awkward situation. Then the girl broke the silence.

"Here," she said to Neville, holding the bag out to him.

Neville hesitated, but took it. "Erm, thank you," he said.

As Ron, Dean and Seamus began to make their way through the sixth-floor corridor, the girl opened her mouth as if to say something else to Neville, but didn't seem to be able to find the words she was looking for. Another girl, about the same age as her but with much darker skin, walked out onto the landing.

"You coming, Lestrange?" she called to the first girl, without paying much attention to Neville and Harry, who still stood on the landing.

The first girl finally tore her gaze away from Neville. "Coming." They both stepped onto the stairs just before it began to descend again.

Harry was about to follow the other boys into the corridor when he noticed Neville had frozen. He was staring at the girls on the stairs, eyes wide and face white.

"Er, Neville?" said Harry quietly, disconcerted by Neville's evident horror. "You all right?"

Neville turned back to face Harry, staring at him for a second as if he didn't know who he was. Then recognition appeared to dawn on him, and he slowly nodded.

"Yeah," said Neville, an uncharacteristic bitterness to his voice. "Yeah, I'm fine. We'd better get going, Professor McGonagall will start class any second now." Then he quickly walked into the corridor, an odd expression on his face. Harry stared after him for a second, before following him. Why, he wondered, did that brief encounter with the older Slytherin girl shake Neville up so much?

Lena was only half-listening to Professor Quirrell's stuttering lecture on counter-jinxes. For one thing, he wasn't saying anything she didn't know, and for another, she was too distracted by her brief encounter with Neville Longbottom to concentrate properly anyway.

She'd acted instinctively when she'd heard the cry of dismay in the Grand Staircase and seen the falling bag, flinging out a hand to stop its descent, and levitating it up to her. She'd intended to pass it off to its owner with a snarky comment, then step onto the staircase in an impressive exit. But then she had come face-to-face with Longbottom and she couldn't stop herself staring at him like an idiot. For a wild moment, she had wanted to say something to him. But what – her condolences? An apology? Somehow, she didn't think, "By the way, I'm really sorry that my parents and uncle tortured your parents to insanity and deprived you of the opportunity to grow up with them; my mum can be a real bitch like that," would cut it. Once she had regained her wits, she'd thought she could give the bag to the boy and leave without him knowing who she was, but then Skelton had come past and called out her name. It was only for a moment, but she'd seen Longbottom's expression – horrified and hurt. It appeared that no one had thought to mention that the daughter of the Lestranges was at Hogwarts.

And she just left him standing there. Lena almost snapped her quill thinking about it. When her grandmother had first told her of Bellatrix, Rodolphus and Rabastan's arrests, she had just been so pleased about the fact that she was free of her parents that she'd barely given the Longbottoms a second thought. But now their son was walking around Hogwarts, a reminder to Lena of the heinous acts her parents had committed, and every time she saw him, she felt helpless. She knew what had happened to his parents wasn't her fault. But ever since Lena had come to Hogwarts, she had lived in the shadow of her parents' last name. And despite her knowledge and occasional use of the Dark Arts, Lena was not like her parents. Yet she remained attached to the reputation.

Suddenly, Lena snapped out of her distracted state and tensed. She turned her full attention to Quirrell, who had been watching her while he talked, and he quickly looked away. Lena glanced around the class, but to her relief, no one had noticed the awkward exchange.

She leaned back in her chair, and watched Quirrell as he stammered about the counter-jinx for the Jelly-Legs Jinx. It wasn't the first time she had felt his gaze linger on her, and it was making her increasingly wary of the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.

Lena had never interacted with Quirrell during her first three years at Hogwarts when he'd being the Muggle Studies teacher, as she didn't take it as an elective. But since becoming the DADA teacher after his previous year's sabbatical, Lena had begun to notice that Quirrell was paying an unusual amount of attention to her – but very discretely. She often felt his gaze upon her whenever she ate in the Great Hall, which had become an incentive to avoid eating meals with the rest of the school more than she already did. In class, if she wasn't looking directly at him, his eyes would continuously flick over to her, but it was done so subtly that she hadn't heard any of the other Fifth Year Slytherins commenting on it. Every now and again, Lena would look straight into his eyes, but Quirrell would look away, avoiding eye-contact.

Teachers often would keep a suspicious eye on Lena – especially if they had only just begun to teach her – but this felt different. It was more like curiosity than caution, perhaps even fascination. She didn't think it was sexual in nature – she'd never noticed him looking at her body, only her face. In fact, she thought wryly, it would have almost been a relief to know the only reason he was watching her so much was out of some perverted desire, a teacher fantasizing about a schoolgirl; at least then she would know why. Instead, it was a mystery.

And this mystery was annoyingly distracting her from solving the other mystery she'd decided to investigate – what the three-headed dog was guarding. Lena had done some research into what powerful magical artefacts had unaccounted-for whereabouts, but nothing was jumping out at her. And with thoughts of Quirrell plaguing her mind, it was hard to properly focus on her self-assigned task.

Lena sighed to herself, and looked around the class. Everybody looked bored. She assumed that the combination of Quirrell's dire public-speaking skills and the lack of new information on how to attack people was very dull for her fellow Slytherins. Even a student like Marcus Flint, who probably needed to be paying very careful attention in class if he wanted to pass his OWL, was doodling what Lena presumed were crude drawings on his parchment, and showing them to his friend Merrick Murton.

It gave Lena an idea. She scribbled a note on a piece of spare parchment, and surreptitiously passed it to Skelton, who was sitting next to her. Skelton read it, and raised her eyebrows, before shrugging and raising her hand.

"B-b-but d-despite its similarities, i-if you w-were to use the c-counter-jinx against the D-d-dancing Feet S-spell, it would–" Quirrell broke off, finally noticing Skelton's hand. "Yes, M-m-miss S-Skelton?"

The rest of the class looked at Skelton with vague interest.

"Sir," began Skelton, "I basically understand the theory of what you're saying, but I think it would be helpful if you could put it into a practical context for us."

Quirrell looked nervous. "P-p-practical c-context?"

Skelton smiled at him pleasantly. "Yes, sir. You know, like a demonstration."

At this, Lena raised her hand. "Professor, if you want a partner to demonstrate the casting of a counter-jinx, I'd be happy to assist you," she said earnestly. "I think I'd be quite capable."

By now, the entire class was avidly listening. Quirrell looked even more nervous than before.

He said, sounding slightly alarmed, "I'm n-not sure if that would b-be ap-p-ppropriate–"

"It's fine, sir," interrupted Lena, standing up and walking to the front of the class. "The jinx will be cast, and then removed in order to demonstrate a counter-jinx in a... what was it, Skelton?"

Skelton smirked. "A practical context, Lestrange."

"Right, a practical context. It'll be perfectly safe, Professor Quirrell." She paused for a moment. "I mean, you're confident in your abilities as a Defence Against the Dark Art teacher, aren't you, sir?"

It was only for a brief moment, but Lena saw a flicker of irritation cross Quirrell's face.

'Good,' she thought to herself. 'There is more to him than a turban and a stammer.'

"I am p-perfectly c-capable of using c-counter-jinxes, M-miss Lestrange, but–" started Quirrell, but Lena cut him off.

"Excellent," she said briskly. "Then let's provide the class with a demonstration."

Without waiting for a reply, she sent a non-verbal Jelly-Legs jinx at Quirrell. The speed and stealth of the jinx didn't give him a chance to deflect it, and so Quirrell tottered around for a moment, before crumpling to the floor. There were sharp intakes of breath among some of the members of the class, and sniggers from others.

It was not irritation that Lena saw cross the DADA professor's face this time, but anger. Still, it was gone before anyone else could notice, and Quirrell immediately reassumed his mild-mannered and nervous mask. He pointed his wand at his legs, and hastily said the incantation for the counter-jinx.

"M-miss L-lestrange," he stuttered, standing up, "what on Earth d-do you m-mean b-b-by attacking m-me in s-such a m-m-manner?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir," said Lena, in a completely unapologetic manner. "Skelton said she wanted a practical context, and it wouldn't have been very practical for me to give you a warning that I was about to jinx you. I was trying to put the jinx into a proper context."

Several of the Slytherin girls looked torn between amusement and disapproval, while Flint and Murton grinned nastily at Quirrell, evidently pleased at the misfortune of their teacher. Lena suspected that they, and most of her other classmates, were probably hoping to see her use something worse than the Jelly-Legs Jinx on the seemingly meek teacher.

Quirrell imperceptibly narrowed his eyes at Lena, but simply said, "I s-see. Well, in f-future, M-miss Lestrange, I would r-rather you d-didn't do th-that."

"So sorry, Professor Quirrell," said Lena cheerfully, going back to her seat at the back of the class. "It won't happen again."

"G-g-good," said Quirrell. "N-now, m-moving on – yes, Mr Kahn?"

"But sir," said Fakhir Kahn, the male Prefect in their class, "wouldn't it be more instructive for us to see these jinxes and counter-jinxes demonstrated in an example of a proper duel? And–" he gave Lena a side-long glance, "–Lestrange is a very talented duellist, so it would be a wasted opportunity to not use her for practical demonstrations."

Kahn's words didn't surprise Lena. Although she wasn't really on friendly terms with any of her classmates other than Skelton – and in certain cases, such as Tara Selwyn, shared an open and mutual loathing with them – her exceptional magical knowledge and ability were recognised by them. And none of them were likely to pass up the chance to see Lena use those skills against someone, especially a teacher who no one particularly liked.

"Yeah," chimed in Terence Higgs, who was sitting next to Kahn, "isn't there supposed to be a practical component on our OWLs?"

"W-w-well," stammered Quirrell, looking alarmed, "yes, b-but–"

"So, surely it would be advisable for us to watch an example of a duel in a, uh, relatively controlled environment?" asked Skelton. "You know, before we start practising with each other – to see how it should be done?"

"For safety purposes," added Higgs.

Skelton nodded. "Exactly, for our own safety."

Lena kept her face impassive, but inwardly smirked as she eyed the rest of the class, who were eagerly watching Quirrell.

No, not eagerly, she realised. Predatorily. It was like on the train at the beginning of term, when the group of Slytherins told her Harry Potter was on the Hogwarts Express – they were waiting for blood.

Quirrell also seemed to have picked up on the change of atmosphere in the classroom, and was now looking more anxious than ever. He glanced nervously at a clock that hung above the blackboard. There were still five minutes until the end of class, but Quirrell apparently had had enough.

"I th-think we will end c-class a l-little early t-t-today," he said.

Five minutes ago, this would have delighted the Fifth Year Slytherins, but now they all grumbled in disappointment.

"Oh, come on, Professor," called out Higgs, "there's enough time for a quick duel between you and Lestrange."

Lena heard Aloysius Burke, who was sitting in front of her, mutter under his breath to Thaddeus Accrington, "I think fifteen seconds would probably be enough time for Lestrange to finish a duel with Quirrell."

Accrington snorted in agreement.

But Quirrell evidently had no desire to put himself in such a situation. "N-no, I think you've all l-listened so well t-today that you d-d-deserve an early lunch b-break. Off you all g-go." He waved his hand towards the door.

The class continued to grumble but packed up and made their exits. As she and Skelton walked out, Lena turned back to Quirrell, who was watching her, and gave him her best winning smile – which generally had the effect of unsettling people even more. Quirrell quickly turned away, and busied himself with some papers on his desk.

As the rest of the class made their way to the Great Hall for lunch, Skelton murmured to Lena, "Great Hall or kitchens?"

"Kitchens," replied Lena quietly. "I told Rolf after breakfast that we'd have lunch with him."

Although students weren't banned from occasionally sitting at the other house tables for meals, it was frowned upon, and in their case, Lena and Skelton were especially not welcome at the Hufflepuff table, and the same went for Rolf sitting at the Slytherin's. Thus, the three often went to the kitchens to get food and would sit together somewhere in the grounds for lunch.

Lena had discovered the location of the kitchens about halfway through her First Year. The house-elves had initially been wary of her – the shadow of her parents' last name extended further than just Wizarding society, it had seemed. But Lena had quickly discovered something – people rarely asked house-elves questions about themselves. And it turned out that house-elves, like most humans, enjoyed talking about themselves. All Lena had to do was ask an elf if they had any siblings, and she would be treated to a detailed and extensive talk about their family tree, spanning back several generations. If she asked what was their favourite dessert dish to prepare, she might be drawn into a half-an-hour discussion about the intricacies of making a strawberry mousse compared to a chocolate one. And just asking one what was their favourite colour was usually enough to induce a beaming face. Because Lena understood that even though most house-elves would be offended by the mere idea of not spending their lives in servitude, they were still individuals who had their own likes and dislikes, families and friends, and a desire to be recognised for their achievements in their own right, rather than simply being grouped together. And once Lena had realised this, the elves – so unused to someone taking an interest in them, rather than just what they did – had been more than happy to supply her directly with food whenever she wanted it.

The first time she had brought Rolf to the kitchens with her, the delighted response of the house-elves at seeing her had both shocked and amused him – as had her interactions with them.

"It's so weird," he had said as they'd left the kitchens. "You're like a whole other person around them. I mean, you're actually nice to them – way nicer than I've ever seen you be to another human. And they love you! Like, genuinely adore you! They're not even a little scared of you. I mean, that was like... basically the opposite of every interaction you have with everyone else. It's just..." he had paused, shaking his head, "... you know, bizarre."

Lena had just shrugged, and said in a bored manner, "Flattery gets you better results with a house-elf than intimidation. Being nice to them, it's just a means to an end."

But although Rolf had said nothing, she had seen out of the corner of her eye his disbelieving expression. And the truth was that his scepticism was warranted.

Because when she and Skelton finally reached the kitchens, entering through the portrait that hid its entrance, and were greeted warmly by a large number of house-elves, Lena smiled back at them – and it wasn't unsettling at all.

At dinner that night, Harry was scanning the Slytherin table, looking for the girl they had seen that morning in the Grand Staircase – Lestrange, the other girl had called her. He had asked Ron during Transfiguration if he knew the name. Ron had said it sounded familiar, but wasn't sure why, so for the rest of the day Harry had been left with a burning curiosity.

He looked over to where Neville was sitting with Hermione Granger, near the end of the table closest to the entrance. Harry had been watching Neville closely since Transfiguration, and had noticed whenever the round-faced boy thought no one was watching him, that odd expression he'd seen at the Grand Staircase returned.

Now, as they ate dinner, Harry realised that Neville, while pretending to be listening to Hermione prattle on about whatever they'd learned in class that day, was doing the same thing Harry had just been doing – searching the Slytherin table for the Lestrange girl. As Harry watched, he saw Neville freeze like he'd done that morning, and immediately followed his gaze across the hall.

And there she was, sitting next to the girl she'd been with on the stairs, their backs facing the Gryffindor table. There was nobody else sitting directly either side of them or opposite them, which Harry found a little odd, as he couldn't see any other such obvious gaps at the table.

He looked back at Neville, who now appeared to be focused on whatever Hermione was saying. But Harry could see there was a tenseness in the way he sat, and felt bewildered. What was it about this Lestrange girl that made Neville so on edge?

Harry glanced at Ron, who was sitting next to him and devouring a baked potato with relish, and then looked around at the other Gryffindors sitting around him. Fred and George Weasley were sitting across from him, and their friend Lee Jordan was next to him. Harry wondered if the Weasley twins, who knew so much about the castle itself, knew as much about the inhabitants of it. On the other hand, he thought as his eyes turned to Percy Weasley, who as sitting a couple of seats away from them, their older brother was possibly in the same year as the girl, in which case he was likely to know more about her.

"Hey, Percy?" he called over to the Prefect.

Percy quickly swallowed his mouthful of lamb, and turned to him. "Yes, Harry?" he said, smiling genially.

"I was just wondering if you knew who that girl was," said Harry, pointing at where the girl was sitting.

Percy turned around, perusing the hall. "Which girl?"

Harry hesitated. "Erm, the Slytherin one. The pale one, with long black hair."

Percy, realising who Harry was talking about, whipped his head back around to frown at Harry. But it wasn't Percy's usual disapproving frown, Harry noticed. Instead, it was a more worried one.

The other students sitting near Harry, including the Weasley twins and Lee, suddenly stopped talking, and all looked at Harry too, before exchanging significant looks with each other. Harry instantly felt the change in mood. He looked at Ron, but his friend looked just as clueless at this response as Harry felt.

Percy cleared his throat, and asked cautiously, "Any reason you're interested, Harry?"

"Er, no," said Harry, confused. "I mean, yes. Just that I saw her today, and... noticed her. Lestrange, I think her friend called her?"

Percy slowly nodded. "Yes. Lena Lestrange." He paused, as if carefully choosing his words. "She's in Fifth Year, like me." He looked at his youngest brother. "Did you tell him anything about the Lestranges, Ron?"

Ron stared at Percy, clearly baffled. "Tell him what? I mean, I recognise the name, but I don't know from where."

Percy rolled his eyes, and the patronising tone that Harry had come to associate with the Prefect returned to his voice. "Honestly, Ron, does information just go in one ear and out the other for you?"

Ron scowled at his brother. "What?" he said indignantly. "You can't expect me to remember every single name I've ever heard–"

It was George, not Percy, who spoke. "Actually, Lestrange is a name you probably should have remembered, Ron. Dad's mentioned them a few times."

Before Ron could snap back a reply, Harry quickly said, "Neville seemed to recognise it. And he started acting kind of weird after he heard it."

Percy didn't seem surprised by this. "Well, most children from Wizarding families–" he gave Ron a pointed look, "–know the name of You-Know-Who's biggest supporters."

Harry suddenly felt sick. "His biggest supporters?"

Percy nodded. "Lestrange's parents. Currently imprisoned for – well," he furrowed his brow, "I can't quite remember the specific charges against them–"

"Torture, murder," interrupted Fred, "and just generally being terrible people, I imagine."

"And is she," asked Harry in a low voice, "you know, like her parents?"

The other Gryffindors listening in on the conversation all looked around at each other again, as Percy immediately replied, "Oh yes. She's certainly a dangerous individual. You'd do well to stay out of her way, Harry."

"If she's so dangerous, why does Dumbledore let her come to Hogwarts?" inquired Ron.

"Because it's bloody difficult to catch her doing anything wrong," said Fred. There was almost a begrudging admiration in his voice.

Harry frowned. "Then how do you know she is doing anything wrong?"

It was Lee Jordan who answered this time. "For one thing, there's been way too many incidents involving people who've crossed her for them to be coincidences. And there was that time at the beginning of your First Year too, right, Percy?"

"You mean that Sixth Year Slytherin girl?" asked Percy.

Harry felt like he was going to burst from curiosity. "What happened?"

Percy hesitated. "Well, it's really only a rumour..." he said, in a tone that suggested it was not entirely Prefect-like to engage in the rumour-mill of Hogwarts.

"It's not a rumour that nobody's seen the girl since it happened," pointed out a Fifth Year whose name Harry didn't know.

"But what happened?" persisted Ron, evidently as curious as Harry. "What did Lestrange do?"

"That's the thing," responded Percy. "Nobody can prove that Lestrange did anything, otherwise she probably would have been expelled in our First Year." He paused, but obviously realised that Harry and Ron weren't going to drop their line of questioning, and continued, "In the third week of my First Year, some students discovered this Slytherin girl in Sixth Year lying in one of the corridors in the dungeons. When they went over to her, they saw that.. well, they say it looked like she'd been poisoned with something, but nobody knew what it was."

"I heard that all her veins had turned black," Lee put in. "And so had the inside of her mouth, and the whites and irises of her eyes."

"Yes," agreed the Fifth Year who had spoken before. "And she couldn't speak anymore. Didn't know who she was, or who anyone else was."

"Anyway," said Percy with authority, clearly trying to regain control of the story, "nobody at Hogwarts knew what had been used to make the girl like this, or if it was even a poison, or a very Dark curse. Not Madam Pomfrey, not Snape – not even Dumbledore. So she was sent away, presumably to St. Mungo's–"

"What's that?" interrupted Harry.

"The Wizarding Hospital. But it doesn't look like even they were able to find a cure for it, because she never returned to Hogwarts, and nobody's seen her since."

"And what, people think Lestrange was the one who poisoned or cursed her?" asked Harry.

"Apparently," said Lee, "she had argued with the girl the previous week. Some people say the Sixth Year had questioned whether Lestrange would be able to live up to her parents' reputation."

"And she decided to poison her to prove that she was?" said Ron, sounding sickened.

"Probably," answered Fred. "But like I said before, she knows how to avoid getting caught."

"The investigation into what had happened," explained Percy, "could only come up with a possible conclusion that the Sixth Year had consumed an experimental variation of Liquid Luck – hence it was self-inflicted."

"So that's the official story?" demanded Harry, incredulous. "That she was messing about with potions and accidently poisoned herself?"

"Yeah, but nobody believes that," said George. "I don't think even the teachers do."

"But everybody's known since then," said the unknown Fifth Year, "that you don't mess around with Lena Lestrange."

Harry looked back over to where Lestrange was sitting at the Slytherin table, a sick feeling in his stomach. Now he didn't blame Neville for acting so strangely, like she was some kind of dangerous monster.

Because if the rumours were true, she was.