"How much you want to bet Malcolm doubles our workload?" Sylvia asked darkly as she and Albus made their way to their usual Defence classroom on Monday. Albus used his free hand to knead his forehead in worry.
"God, I hope not. We've already got the thing from Ambrose. And the thing from Professor Crawford in Charms."
"And the thing from Care of Magical Creatures," Scorpius added from behind them.
"I did that one already," Albus informed him.
"When?"
"Saturday. Saturday afternoon, when you went off to… where'd you go off to?"
"I had to check on some...thing," Scorpius hesitated.
Scorpius was naturally cagey; Albus had learned that over the years. He had also learned that trying to push the issue when Scorpius wasn't in a sharing mood would only serve to make him clam up even more tightly. He tried to write it off as Scorpius's personality, and not let it get to him. If he was being honest with himself, though, it did bother him a bit. Not that Albus necessarily needed or wanted to know everything Scorpius was doing… he just felt that, after all this time, Scorpius maybe could have trusted him and Sylvia a bit more.
Maybe he had gone to spend some time with Lena - or at least try to. Lena, from Scorpius's point of view, had been avoiding him since the incident at the Shrieking Shack the last time they had gone to Hogsmeade. To be fair, if Albus had nearly gotten a bunch of people killed, he'd find it a bit difficult to look them in the eye afterward too. But as far as anyone knew, Lena had no idea until they got there that the Shrieking Shack was occupied by squatters. No one knew. Albus doubted even the villagers in Hogsmeade knew. That, or they were still too scared to go near the place regardless. Two or three generations of rumors that a building was haunted tended to have that effect.
That said, the rumors may have had a nugget of truth to them now, if they hadn't before… what in the hell was that disembodied hand? Eamonn Temple had called it 'Silverhand', which was… not the most creative thing one could name a disembodied hand of what looked like liquefied silver. A bit on the nose. Albus also doubted it was the being's true name.
'Being' was the right word, right? It didn't seem to qualify as a 'creature', nor was it a person - at least not a whole person.
One unsettling connection Albus had made, although he wasn't sure if it meant anything, was that the hand had been close to the color of unicorn blood. He hadn't ever seen a unicorn bleed before, but Professor Scamander had mentioned during a lesson that unicorn blood was a silvery color like that.
"Whatcha thinking about?" asked Sylvia.
"What do you mean?" replied Albus reflexively.
"You had that look on your face," she remarked. "Like your head was in the clouds again."
"Trying to remember something," Albus answered vaguely. "When's our next Hogsmeade trip? We get one more before we go off for break, right?"
"Second Saturday of December, I think," Scorpius confirmed.
Albus frowned. November wasn't even over yet. It would be a couple of weeks before they would have the chance to return to Hogsmeade - and even then, there was no guarantee Albus would be able to slip away to investigate the Shrieking Shack. That was assuming 'Silverhand' was even still there. Maybe he - it - had moved on. Albus knew if he were to tell anyone, they would probably advise him to forget about it. The students weren't supposed to go down there, of course - and it hadn't exactly ended well last time they had done it. Temple and that Orla girl might have moved on already - or maybe not. Maybe there was someone or something far worse squatting in that old shack by now.
Try as he might, though, Albus could not put it from his mind; Silverhand had asked for his help specifically. That was significant - or at least strange enough to warrant contemplation.
They were approaching the spiral staircase that led up to the classroom Professor Malcolm had been using at least since Albus had started at Hogwarts. Sylvia released his hand and playfully nudged him through the doorway. Albus let out a laugh, which must have caught the attention of someone a few stairs up - the person turned around.
There was a second's glance - then the girl took off up the staircase - very quickly by the sound of her footfalls. There was a thud that echoed through the stairwell tower, then a grunted profanity. Albus stopped, frowning sadly.
"Excuse me. Hi," a voice said quietly behind Albus.
"Hi," Scorpius responded to it, letting a dark-skinned girl by him. She looked up at Albus and Sylvia.
Wordlessly, Albus pulled Sylvia out of the other girl's path. She latched her arms around his neck and shoulders - which hadn't been what Albus was going for, but he wasn't about to complain about it. Lilith Cross glanced at them with an expression that at least could have easily been mistaken for annoyance, and continued up the stairs a bit before pausing herself. She peered down at Albus and Sylvia - no, past them - before ascending out of sight. Sylvia glanced at where Lilith had been, then back to Scorpius, who began to follow them, hands in his pockets as he tried to look nonchalant.
Halfway up the staircase -
"You should ask her out."
"What?" Albus and Scorpius both chorused.
Albus palmed his face while Scorpius, sounding legitimately bewildered, asked, "What are you talking about?"
"Don't play dumb," teased Sylvia. "I know you've gone to visit her in the hospital wing this weekend. Twice."
"She was only in there a day," Scorpius answered. "I couldn't possibly have visited her twice."
Albus had gone on ahead, and when Sylvia caught up, he simply glared at her. Brilliant. Real subtle.
Sylvia shrugged her shoulders. What? It was worth a try.
When they arrived in the classroom, they found it mostly empty. They were some of the first. Rose, as usual, was sitting by herself, pointedly not looking at any of them as they entered.
Meanwhile, at the center of the classroom...
"That's not something I'm going to discuss with you, Miss Cross."
Lilith was standing near the professor's podium, watching Malcolm turn his back on her. "Why shouldn't you, when I was involved? I know you know."
"I never said I didn't know," Malcolm answered, turning around. "I said I'm not discussing it with you. For your safety."
"You mean, for his safety," Lilith answered through her teeth.
"Listen - you keep carrying on like this, I'll have to take -" Malcolm started - but Lilith interrupted him.
"Well, to hell with the points!" she exclaimed. "I want to know why I was kept out of Hogwarts for a year!"
"- Ten points from Hufflepuff - If I trusted you not to do anything stupid with that information, I might tell you," Malcolm countered. "Take it from someone who knows: this is way over your head... and contrary to what you might think, I don't want you getting yourself hurt. Or worse."
A tense pause.
"...I'm going to find out anyway," Lilith informed him.
"Perhaps," Malcolm admitted grimly, averting his eyes from her. "But that'll have to be on someone else's conscience."
Lilith shook her head, huffed, and stomped away from the professor.
"Awk-ward," Sylvia said in a singsong murmur.
"You lot gonna move or what?" a growl came from behind them.
"When I feel like it, maybe," Scorpius answered the voice coolly. Sensing danger, Albus and Sylvia whirled around. Standing in the doorway to the classroom, trying to loom over Scorpius, was Desmond McLaggen.
"Listen, you -"
"I wouldn't keep drawing attention to myself if I were you, McLaggen," another voice placidly joined the conversation - this time from behind its addressee, who looked over his shoulder.
"That supposed to scare me?" McLaggen blustered. "You supposed to scare me?"
Rowan shook his head. "I'm just a messenger."
"Oh, really?" McLaggen turned around. Albus, seeing something he didn't like in Sylvia's eyes, got a handful of the back of her robes just in case. "What's the message, then?"
"The message is to leave Phillip Bletchley alone," Rowan replied simply, but firmly. "He's needed - and a repeat of last year isn't going to be tolerated."
"'Tolera-'...Bletchley?" McLaggen repeated at a confused mutter. "The hell are you talking about?"
"I don't know, actually," Rowan admitted. "They said you would."
"Well, you can tell this person, whoever they are," McLaggen sneered. "If they want to deliver me a message, they can grow a pair and do it themselves."
Rowan shook his head. "You don't want that," he said flatly. "Just behave yourself, alright?"
As Rowan slipped past him, McLaggen turned around, mouthing a profane interjection to himself and wearing an expression halfway between anger and bewilderment. Rowan glanced at Albus as well, as he and the others stepped aside to let him by. Scorpius's jaw unhinged for a moment, then his eyes narrowed.
McLaggen had just brushed by them when Scorpius made his move.
Albus and Sylvia were just barely able to hold him back - and, perhaps mercifully, McLaggen was too preoccupied to notice.
"Something the problem?" Malcolm had noticed.
"No," Albus answered immediately, half to address Malcolm, but half to get Scorpius to calm down.
Scorpius's face was turning red, his gray eyes narrowing to pinpricks in their whites. Heaving, hissing breaths issued forth from grit teeth. He hadn't even bothered going for his wand so only Merlin knew what he'd been planning in that moment; but by then, McLaggen was quite far away. Albus and Sylvia half-dragged Scorpius to the side of the classroom opposite where McLaggen had headed.
Scorpius was still fuming when the three arrived at a row of open desks.
"What the hell was that?" Sylvia asked strongly.
"It was him. He was the one that sent that fake note to Bletchley," Scorpius snarled, trembling. "He almost got all of us killed."
Sylvia's jaw unhinged for a moment. She glanced at Albus, and mouthed an oath to herself. "Alright. Fair play. I get it. But… right in front of Malcolm during class isn't the best time, is it? You know the club's gonna flip if you get suspended again. Freddy especially."
Scorpius gnashed his teeth so hard, Albus thought for a moment that they might start to crack. "But he can't… he can't get away with that."
"He won't," Sylvia said serenely. "Trust me, he won't."
This sent up alarm bells to Albus, who had seen Sylvia's devious side before. "What are you planning?"
"Nothing," Sylvia said briskly, gripping his hand. "Don't worry about it."
This did nothing to help Albus's sense of foreboding - but he couldn't well stop Sylvia from doing anything if he had no idea what she was thinking about doing.
One problem at a time, he finally told himself mentally. Then he raised his hand.
"This is… uncommon." Malcolm, who must have been curious about their conversation, had been looking in their direction. "Question, Potter?"
"Yes, I was wondering…" Albus said, pausing and biting his lip. "There's no way to leave an… imprint of a soul in an object, is there? Like, if someone dies-"
Malcolm tilted his head. "Strange question for Defence Against the Dark Arts."
Well, not really, if you think about it for more than half a second. "I just figured…" Albus instead answered, much more tactfully, "Something like that sounds an awful lot like Dark magic."
"And you'd be right," Malcolm answered, his tone suddenly becoming very stern. "It's Dark magic of the worst kind. Highly illegal, and a subject we professors at Hogwarts agree not to discuss with students on threat of termination."
"Termination?" repeated Albus in surprise.
"We'd be sacked," Malcolm said bluntly. Albus frowned, irked at the professor's patronizing tone. He knew what 'termination' meant. He'd just thought it was a bit extreme. "I'd guess that you had pure intentions, but… I'd encourage you not to press this question with any of the other professors, Potter. In fact, for everyone's own good, including yours, I'd encourage you not to press it at all. Hello, Misters Mack - Miss Mack. Please find your seats quickly - we've only got a minute or two."
"Are you mad, Al?" Sylvia whisper-yelled at him as Malcolm strode away from them toward the blackboard, using the eraser to go over a spot he apparently thought had not been properly expunged. "The hell did you go and do that for?"
"I thought he'd know," Albus replied.
"Did you forget, we weren't supposed to be there?" Sylvia hissed.
"Be where?" Sylvia's eyebrows joined in the middle. "Exactly. He doesn't know where we were. He didn't even come to Hogsmeade that weekend, I don't think. It was Neville and Professor Ambrose."
"Attention, class, attention," Malcolm called loudly. Albus looked down at him, trying not to give too much mind to the whispering nearby:
"Scorpius!"
"What?"
"What were you looking at?"
"Nothing."
"Now, before we get started - yes, groan if you must, but I'd be shirking my duties if I didn't tell you this," Malcolm interrupted himself in response to some students' reactions. "I think it's important given some of the things I've been seeing recently, particularly in our practical last week. Knowledge is not a bad thing. It's mostly the point of this and every other course at Hogwarts. If you don't leave my classroom knowing more than you did when you came in, then I haven't done my job. But here's the thing about knowledge. All knowledge carries weight - a weight of responsibility to use that knowledge wisely. Sometimes that's moral responsibility, or social responsibility, or even responsibility to self. In other words, wisdom."
Albus indulged himself in a glance around the classroom. The Mack triplets were sitting some distance away, either not attempting to hide their boredom or doing a wretched job of it. Gabe Gordon had arrived as well, with Nina and Liz in tow as usual. He seemed to be paying rather more attention than most, including the girls. Rowan was sitting alone, trying to keep an eye on Malcolm while simultaneously rummaging through his bag for the supplies he knew he would need.
"Most of you in this particular class are fourteen, maybe fifteen," Malcolm went on. "At your age… your knowledge is increasing by leaps and bounds. And you want to prove how much you know - to prove your maturity. Oftentimes, wisdom - the capacity to use that knowledge responsibly - takes a bit longer to catch up to the desire to prove yourself wise. And that can put you in danger. Using magic at the limits of your power, delving into mysteries that, perhaps, aren't meant for your eyes to see just yet… can be dangerous. So grow - as we all must at some point - but take care not to grow too quickly. Allow yourself time for life and all of its mysteries to come to you. You'll be better off that way. Now - page 127 is where we left off on Wednesday…"
James
"You've got to get your arm out as far as you can," James explained, demonstrating by stretching his left arm outward. He was right-handed, of course. He just didn't want to hit his addressee in the back of the head. "That's what's gonna give you the distance. Bun-sore, Dominique."
Dominique Weasley, passing in the opposite direction, glared at him through her glasses. "It's bonsoir!" She exclaimed, whirling around - but James and his companion were already by her. "Bonsoir. Ducon…"
"Sorry - what?" Isaac Conrad was completely confused.
"Dominique's mum is French. She gets annoyed when anyone butchers the language," James explained. "So, naturally, we all do it on purpose to take the piss."
Isaac laughed. "So about the arm thing… How do you do that and keep yourself safe from a Bludger cracking your elbow or something?"
James cringed. "You don't." Predictably, Isaac's face, despite his best efforts to keep it straight, blanched as his eyes widened. "Bludgers just kind of come with the territory. You can't be scared of them or you'll never be good at Quidditch."
"I know, I've just... never been hit before," Isaac confessed. "How badly does it hurt?"
"Depends where and how," James answered. "Mostly, you'll get hit in the chest or back if you're gonna get hit. I wouldn't recommend it - cracked ribs suck... it's better than taking one off the head, though. But, see, you can't focus on that. You have to trust your Beaters to protect you. If you stay out of too much traffic and they do their jobs, you'll get through most matches alright."
"Easy for you to say," Isaac murmured darkly. "You're bigger than I am."
"Bludgers don't give a damn how big you are," conceded James. "They still hurt. But there's a trick."
"What's that?" Isaac asked eagerly.
"People that haven't really played Quidditch think Bludgers are silent," divulged James. "They aren't. Not completely. They make this little whoosh noise that you can hear sometimes just before -"
"James Potter?" A girl with honey-blonde hair was standing near the threshold of the Great Hall, the blue-and-bronze tie she wore with her uniform marking her as a member of House Ravenclaw. "You haven't seen Murph, have you?"
James tried to control his urge to frown. Only Murphy's closest called him 'Murph.' And not even all of them. Brynne was much more apt to call him 'Richard', especially when he said or did something that needled her. Murphy's own family called him 'Rick' - unless he pissed them off. Then it was 'Richard'. So really, it was only James that called him 'Murph.'
"Nope. I just got here," James answered. For supposedly being very clever, even as Ravenclaws went, Betha Darden sure was pants at reading context clues. James was still in his Gryffindor Quidditch jersey.
"Hmph." Betha pouted and shook her head. "Well, if he shows up, let him know I'm in the library. Closes at eight."
"I'll tell him," James agreed. Betha scampered off, clutching what James recognized as their Ancient Runes text. "Oh, damn it," he whispered to himself.
"What's wrong?" inquired Isaac.
"We've got that Ancient Runes quiz tomorrow," sighed James. "I've just remembered."
Isaac frowned. "That a hard course, Ancient Runes?"
"Hard enough," James murmured. "It's all about details. Like, 'ehwaz' and 'eihwaz' mean completely different things…"
"That's all magic, isn't it?" Isaac pointed out astutely. "Like, Sloper botched Levitation in Charms a couple of months ago. Blew the feather he was working on to bits."
James scoffed. "I bet Gladstone loved that. 'Oh, Merlin's beard, not again…'"
Isaac laughed at what James thought was a fairly spot-on impression of their Charms professor. "She had a basket full of extras. Says it happens at least once a year when she teaches new students that spell."
"She's right," agreed James. "My year, it was Brookstanton."
Isaac smiled, looking comforted. Cecil Brookstanton hadn't been the most encouraging of teammates through Isaac's early struggles and, even knowing it was a bit childish, James couldn't pass up the opportunity to bring his least favorite roommate down a peg.
"You and Sloper don't get on, do you?" James observed.
"Nope," confessed Isaac. "It still bothers him that I made the club and he didn't, so…" Isaac shrugged. "Between you and me, Sloper's an arse anyway. I didn't like him from the off. But I've got other friends in my year. Nat, for one. And I've talked once or twice with Larissa Hawke from Hufflepuff. Potions pairs, stuff like that... She was born in Ayr like I was, turns out - but her family moved to Edinburgh for Ministry work when she was a wee girl, so we never -"
Isaac stopped mid-sentence. James glanced at him, and then at the double doors of the Great Hall, which they were approaching. Three girls were exiting, talking animatedly.
"Oh, you shouldn't," moaned the redhead at the front. "Your hair's so pretty…"
"I don't want to shave bald," the brown-skinned girl, whose jet-black hair was waist-length and indeed very pretty, replied pointedly. "Just… maybe a bit less of it would be nice. It's a pain to take care of properly, you know."
"That's fair enough," Lily, who kept her hair in a braid now mostly for that reason, replied. "I'd actually like to - what?"
The black-haired girl, Parveen, was his roommate Dathan's little sister, and she had made some sort of emphatic gesture to try to get Lily's attention. Lily whirled around and caught sight of James. "Oh!"
"'Oh' yourself," quipped James. "You done eating already?"
"Obviously, or we wouldn't be leaving," Lily deadpanned. "Practice go alright?"
"You think I'd tell you if it hadn't?" James replied wryly. Lily rolled her eyes.
"Clever. You going to join your old folks' club? Read the Prophet together?"
"What?" James was confused.
"I'm talking about Brynne and Rowan," clarified Lily. "One of them must have sent for this morning's issue."
James shrugged. "It's news to me."
Lily rolled her eyes and looked away from him, mouthing 'wow', clearly impressed with her brother's wordplay. "See you later."
"See ya," James replied casually as the three girls started to leave, Lily very obviously at the front. At the last second, though, the last girl whirled around.
"Uh… can you pass on a message for me, please?" Parveen Rama queried. "To Dathan? I guess he's busy doing… whatever Prefects do, so I haven't seen him."
James was a bit wrong-footed by the request, given that Parveen never really spoke to him, but uncertainly replied, "Sure."
"Mum and Dad want an owl from him with his travel ID number," she said. "Even with Dad being who he is, putting that paperwork through takes a while."
"Yeah," agreed James.
"Thanks," Parveen said, smiling nervously.
"No problem." Parveen departed. "Huh. They must be taking a holiday out of Britain over break."
"Travel ID number?" Isaac repeated. James kept forgetting that Isaac, though bought up by a witch, didn't know all that much about the wizarding world.
"It's a Ministry thing," he explained. "Whenever a Ministry bigwig or their family go to another country, the Ministry likes to send word ahead to that government. Remember how I told you I got to go to Patagonia that one time?"
"So they need those numbers to travel?" asked Isaac as they finally crossed the threshold into the Great Hall. James's mouth watered at the wafting scent of roasted chicken. Not his favorite, but at his current level of hunger, it didn't matter.
"Yeah," replied James. "The official and every member of their household gets one. It's so the other country can arrange security. Although I can't imagine anybody'd have a go at Eric Rama of all people. Even on his own, that'd take some serious balls…" he muttered absentmindedly.
"Oh, wow, Nat's still here," Isaac commented, which brought James out of his daydream. "Catch up later?"
"Later." James waved him off. His eyes found Brynne's red curls almost immediately. She was sitting opposite Rowan, and sure enough, pages of a newspaper were spread on the table between them.
"Wow, you lot really went late," Brynne said with a concerned frown as he approached, her eyes focusing on something past him (presumably the large clock above the Great Hall's doors) to right at him. "You alright?"
"I'm fine," he answered. "Isaac Conrad just asked me for pointers with shooting, so we stayed back a bit."
"I thought you all were training him at Seeker?"
"Well, yeah, but just about everyone plays another position," James explained. "You never know what can happen during a match and you only have eleven players to start with. One injury, one ejection, then you have two people on your bench. Before Isaac came on, I was supposed to be the backup Seeker if something ever happened to Scorpius."
"It's all over my head," Rowan commented.
"You can learn about history, politics, and Latin, but you don't understand Quidditch?" James probed.
"Latin's useful," Rowan said, not looking James in the eye, probably because he expected his reaction.
"Latin hasn't been used in, like, a thousand years." James glared at Rowan.
"That's not entirely accurate. I haven't learned a lot," said Rowan, "but it seems Latin has a significant hand in a lot of the magic we use today here in Britain."
"Yeah, well, that's only because -" Brynne began to cut in.
"It is what it is. Don't start again," Rowan interrupted flatly.
"...I'm just saying, things would have been different if Queen Buddug had won," Brynne murmured.
Who in the hell is Buddug? James thought. But he wasn't about to ask that question and get a two-hour-long lecture with Rowan sitting at the table. So, instead he asked, "What's with all the newspapers?"
"That… uh…" Rowan seemed hesitant. "It looks like there was a break-in at Nottingham. Ministry official's place."
"Oh." James uttered, frowning. Speaking of Eric Rama... "Damn, right under the Chief's nose?" The Ramas lived in Nottingham - or close to it, from what Dathan said.
"The odd thing is…" Brynne started. "It doesn't look like anything was even stolen. Whoever it was just broke in and ransacked the place. And they did it with no magic, which means there's nothing for the Ministry to trace."
"That is weird," James agreed. Important Ministry officials had Fidelius Charms placed over their homes. As such, few people from outside the Ministry could even find them. At least in theory. Fidelius Charms were delicate magic that weakened with how many people knew the secret in question. "So, who was it?"
"They didn't give a name in the report," Rowan replied. "You wouldn't, would you? They did say the person worked in the Animagus Registration Office. Strange person to attack, I think. Animorphism is an extremely rare ability."
"But anyone who has it has to register with the Ministry," James said. "Not that all of them do…"
"Your grandfather was an Animagus, right?" Brynne asked. Rowan's head whipped around toward him. Even James was stuck for a moment. He hadn't remembered mentioning that to her. Then again, they'd had a million offhand conversations over the years that James probably couldn't recall.
"...Yeah," James uttered. Brynne must have seen something on his face, though, because a cringe crossed hers.
"Oh… was I not supposed to say anything?" she murmured, glancing toward Rowan before looking at James again, who shrugged.
"I mean… it doesn't matter now, does it?" What were the Ministry going to do, after all - dig up his dead grandfather's bones and arrest them for not registering properly?
"The registration is kind of controversial, from what the article says." Rowan adjusted his glasses. "Some people in the Ministry insist that Animagus powers can be used for criminal activity and for fugitives to evade justice. But people on the other side feel like it just assumes that wizards who become Animagi are going to use the power for some sort of mischief, and question if the law is even enforceable. Apparently Gawain Robards was one of its staunchest defenders. But the new head of Magical Law Enforcement - that's your aunt, right, James? - she's thinking about striking it down entirely. Or at least limiting the requirement to people tried and convicted in a court of law."
"The pro-registration side's got to be nervous," Brynne mused, glancing at James. "I mean, even if your aunt doesn't have to sway to make a change like that now… being in her current position..."
"Right," Rowan murmured. "She could be Minister of Magic one day not too long from now."
For some strange reason, that hadn't entirely occurred to James over the summer when he had gotten the news that she had been appointed to be the full-time Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Aunt Hermione, Minister of Magic? History was in her favor, too. There was a long list of people that had been in her exact position that moved on to be the Minister of Magic next.
"Like… run against Shacklebolt?" James queried.
"That wouldn't make sense. They're political allies. He's basically her mentor in terms of the Ministry," Rowan said, shaking his head. "What might, though… Shacklebolt's been Minister for, what, twenty-five years? Something like that. He's the longest-serving Minister of Magic in modern history. And he's got to be seventy or close to it. If he were to retire, and he endorsed her as his replacement for the next election, though…"
"...There's probably not a wizard in Britain that'd be able to beat her," James finished.
"She'd have her opponents," Rowan acknowledged. "Some people don't think there's any need for someone with her career path in the Minister's chair in peacetime. She's obviously done a lot in wizarding law enforcement over the years - along with your dad, obviously - but some people still get nervous about the law arm having a Minister. It's been a strike against Shacklebolt for years. You could see opposition support fall behind someone like… Aethelstan Baines, for instance. He's over International Magical Cooperation."
"Seems an alright bloke, for what that's worth," Brynne remarked. "You know his youngest grandson's here at Hogwarts -"
"Back to the break-in, though…" James waved his hand, regretting having gotten Rowan started on Wizarding Britain's politics and desperately trying to stop the train before it got too far off the platform. "You're saying you think it was some kind of statement?"
"Wouldn't be the first time," Rowan replied, stealing an uncomfortable peek at Brynne for some reason. "People have done a lot worse to try to make a point about policy."
James and Brynne looked at each other significantly…
Brynne
"Oi, break it up over there!"
She felt his warmth leave her, and her lips, now lonely again, parted in a frustrated sigh.
Fifth-year, probably… she thought to herself, opening her eyes.
Strictly speaking, public displays of affection weren't allowed in the Hogwarts halls. But given that Prefects more often than not had their own sweethearts and dalliances, the only ones that actually enforced that to the letter were the most junior of the groups, still trying to prove themselves on their first terms on the job. Or jealous singles.
His hazel eyes darted to their corners. But some distance behind him, a dark-haired girl sporting Ravenclaw robes stood stubbornly, arms folded.
Brynne watched his eyebrows jump, an expression of mischief taking over the hazel rings underneath them.
"Don't get yourself detention," she advised wryly. "Go on. We'll catch up later."
She could see the look in his eyes, that he was seriously contemplating leaning in again and daring the nosy Prefect to do something about it. But he had gotten into enough trouble on her account for a lifetime. They would have other days, with far fewer prying eyes. By his own admission, he had studying to do anyway. And so did she.
He backed away with eye-rolling capitulation. She finally decided to break their gaze and start down the stairs. Someone had to, or else they would stand there looking at each other forever.
Even with the Headmaster's odd request and his busy schedule, he seemed more at ease than any point since they had met. There was a patience about him now, a willingness to let things come to him. He had told her for months he felt that he had lost something fighting Wenster.
He had even tried to leave once. "I don't think I'm who you met anymore," he had said.
Halfway down the stairs, sure the nosy Prefect wasn't going to harass her, she slid her shoes off and padded the rest of the way home in stocking-lined feet.
Of course not. We grow, we suffer things, we survive them, we change. And maybe that's not such a bad thing.
She certainly had. She understood herself better now. She understood why the Sorting Hat, flawed as it was, had placed her in Slytherin, after some contemplation.
She stopped before the mirror amongst the portraits of former Headmasters and other great wizards from House Slytherin. It had been placed there as constant reminder for its ambitious members that they, too, could one day occupy a place on these sacred walls… or it was one last chance to make sure one looked smart and presentable before braving the potential embarrassment of the castle halls and the outside world. It depended on who you asked.
Brynne rather liked the first theory.
She meant to become Headmistress of Hogwarts one day. But not just that. She meant to work to make Wizarding Britain a safe place for wizard children to grow up. The next oldest of the orphanage children was turning eleven in the spring. She would be coming to Hogwarts in less than a year. And she would need someone to watch over her.
Brynne, in her own way, was very ambitious. And very singleminded in that ambition. He kept her grounded - probably without realizing it. He made sure the burden of what she felt was her future did not crush her.
And that, she had realized lately, was what she needed. Not a protector with a shield. Nor a soldier with a sword. Not even an instrument to make her many dreams come true. He had, at some point or another, tried his hand at all of those things. And she had nearly lost him.
Squinting her eyes against the pinprick lights from the eyes of the stone figurine in the distance, she made her way down the last torchlit hallway. Rowan had been so engrossed in the Prophet article about the Nottingham burglary, she had never gotten an answer from him on the Muggle Studies question she had on an upcoming quiz. She could always read the text, she supposed, but Rowan had grown up in a Muggle house, so he would have just known the answer and it would have saved her a lot of -
Her heart gave a panicked pound as she teetered forward.
She had just enough time to get her hands down and avoid mashing her face and teeth into the stone floor.
Hissing in discomfort, she rolled over onto her back. Seeing her legs first, her eyes instantly went to a milky pale ray breaking the black outline of her knee.
"Damn it," she sighed, cursing her own clumsiness. "I just got these…"
"Hogwarts should get you lot some hallway carpet," a girl's voice said. Brynne followed a pair of legs that went by her head, attached to shoes that somehow made no noise as they found the stone. "Don't you think, Walter?"
Brynne sighed. "You could've just said you wanted to talk. Then again, it's you. So maybe not."
The girl squatted down in front of her. Her dark eyes shone with the green flames, her skin taking on a nearly sickly hue. Her hair sprang out behind her head in coils that looked like dancing shadows in the dim firelight.
"You must have known today was coming, didn't you?" the other girl asked, an odd half-smile flashing across her lips for a moment and not meeting her eyes. "I've got some questions. About the fire."
Brynne didn't answer.
"It's funny," the girl said airily. "One minute I'm having a practice duel for class, the next I'm waking up in the hospital wing. Passed out and hit my head on the ground, they said. But it was strange. I remembered things I couldn't before. Like those blanks you told me about were… filled in all of a sudden."
"If you remember," Brynne finally said. "...Then you know you're talking to the wrong person."
But this time, she smiled fully. This one did not reach her eyes, either.
"Am I?"
Her smile disappeared.
"Saturday, half-past-eight," she said. "Tell him to meet me at the Astronomy Tower. And to come with answers."
Brynne's face shifted. "What if he decides he doesn't want to do that?" He must have had some reason, she thought, for not telling her...
A grimace crossed the other girl's face. "Maybe he will, if we both go."
Brynne heard the unspoken threat. "Lilith, don't -"
"Somebody wants me dead," Lilith Cross interrupted through her teeth. She did not raise her voice, but both it and her body were suddenly shaking. "Do you know what that feels like? Have you ever had to fight for your life?"
"Which is why I'm telling you, leave me out of it," Brynne warned.
"But you know him better than anyone."
"That's exactly why you should leave me out of it," Brynne answered grimly. "That won't end well for you."
This might have given Lilith pause. Her eyes jumped uncertainly for a moment. She closed them and muttered, so softly that if not for the corridor's silence, Brynne might not have heard her:
"Desperate times…"
Reacting a bit too late, Brynne flailed for her own wand -
"Lumos Maxima!"
Blinding light assaulted Brynne's field of vision. She shut her eyes tight, braced, and yelled, "Protego!"
The discomfort she was awaiting never came, and she finally dared to force her own eyelids open. The light - and Lilith - were both gone.
"Brynne?"
Brynne scrambled to her feet, her knee still smarting from the fall. Phillip Bletchley was approaching, wearing a frown.
"What are you doing out here on your arse?" he asked.
"What are you doing out here on your - erm - feet?" Brynne countered, realizing immediately how feeble it sounded.
Bletchley, to his credit, ignored it. "You fall over?"
"Yes," said Brynne, still actually unsure whether she had tripped herself or been helped. "You know I'm clumsy sometimes, Phillip."
"I know walking everywhere in stocking feet isn't helping you," Bletchley answered. "C'mon. You don't want to give Pucey something else to whinge about. You know how she is."
Brynne glanced over her shoulder. Contrary to what one might think, this was probably a positive development.
"You look pretty chipper for having your hands scraped to hell," he remarked. "Some dittany powder should clear that right up. I've got some if–"
"I'm alright," Brynne declined. Now that she was looking at them, her hands were scraped pretty badly. But she'd survived worse. Much worse.