It was cold. A wind tugged at the tree branches, making them whistle softly. The three children huddled together in a small cluster, nursing their bruises and conserving heat. Rilla was the worst off: Uncle Henry had managed to inflict a number of injuries upon her before Guin and L'Argent could come to the rescue. L'Argent was mostly just shocked, bewildered and sore. Several times, Guin had to snap her fingers in front of his face to force him out of a trance. "How could he do it?" L'Argent whispered, over and over, "How could /he/ do it? My uncle, the Dark Wizard." Here, a mirthless laugh, disparaging.
For a moment Guin pondered the wisdom of commenting, "Yes, but at least your parents are alive and decent people." She sincerely doubted whether Aviva L'Argent had made her son watch as she shriveled the arm off of a captive witch, expressionless as the woman screamed. No, somehow it did not seem – tasteful. She decided, also for his sake, not to mention the triteness of certain comments he had made. Instead, Guin let him talk while Rilla curled in a ball on the ground, her head resting on a pad of grass. Beside them, the motionless form of Uncle Henry sat, eyes rolling balefully, though he was unable to budge.
"I never thought – I never would have guessed – he... he was in love with your /mum/?" L'Argent was not at his most coherent; he was practically babbling to her. However, both of them were distracted as Rilla's eyes closed, she was drifting off to sleep.
"No! No, Ril, stay awake. If you've got a concussion you can't fall asleep yet—" Guin shook her lightly by the shoulder, pulling the girl upright. Rilla blinked hazily at her, one eye seemed to be lazing off to the side, and her gaze was rather unfocused. The blood in the shallow cut on her throat had dried and crusted in a rust-colored glop; strands of curly hair had become mixed in the mess. "We have to start back. We can't stay here all night.."
"How?" L'Argent asked dryly. "I don't think either of us are strong enough to carry – /that/," he spat, glaring at his uncle; "And Rilla can't walk by herself."
"We.. we could support her, and maybe lift him with a spell?"
"Hmm. Wingardium Leviosa?"
"If we both try it – on a count?"
"Okay."
"Three – two – one – Wingardium Leviosa!" they yelled. Unfortunately, the combined effect of the spell lifted him too quickly, and Henry shot up towards the trees, knocking his head against the branches. Muffled noises of protest emitted from his throat, though he was unable to do anything more. Guin smiled pleasantly, lowering her wand a bit and allowing Henry to drop towards the ground. He halted an inch above the loam, eyes glancing frantically as far to the side as they could.
"Aua?" Guin asked uncertainly, and the water nymph poked her head from the water, looking healthier than she had before. Waving brightly at the three children and the silent man, the creature raised herself up from the depths, balancing delicately on her toes, like a prima ballerina. Now that the water was back to its usual consistency, she seemed more vivid and alive. "I wonder – we need to get across –"
"I have a better idea than before, actually. I have some degree of control over the water – I shall part it, and you will be able to walk down the lane. But you must move quickly."
"Aua?"
"Yes?"
"Why are you helping me?"
"Nymphs are mysterious creatures, Guinivere Marlowe," Aua said with an enigmatic half-smile, "I should not want to tell you our secrets." And, suddenly, the waters parted. It was, Guin reflected later, almost a scene straight out of the Bible. With a silken sound of liquid vacating air, the lake peeled in two, a small rocky path defined by shimmering watery walls on either side. Unnerved, they stepped forward, Rilla's arms thrown over one shoulder each. Uncle Henry floated forlornly behind them.
Though they tried to move as fast as possible, the girl leaning her weight upon her shoulders slowed Guin and L'Argent considerably. Several times Guin stumbled on rocks and potholes, and by the time they reached the shore, she was certainly pleased to have that bit of the ordeal over with. Behind them, the lake water returned to its original place with a squishy noise and a small pop. Aua was nowhere to be seen, and there was nothing left for them to do except begin the long trek back to Hogwarts.
-----
Severus Snape slept soundly in his bed, dreaming. Images flashed past his vision, too quickly for him to see. Suddenly, sharp pain in his leg called his attention. An attack? Voldemort? Bolting upright, Snape was confronted by a small gray kitten, her eyes narrowed at him expectantly. She had been digging her claws into her leg, and when he glared at her and tried to shove the feline off the bed, she said, "Mew."
-----
It was almost dawn by the time the trio returned, with the man still floating behind them. If Guin was expecting any sort of hero's welcome, her expectations were sorely disappointed. It was Filch who found them first; his bulging eyes delighted as he caught site of the bedraggled, bloody, and bruised students. "Ah! On the grounds at night? By the looks of things in the Forest as well. Oh, dear me, you're in for it this time." Guin rolled her eyes at L'Argent; they were both in agreement that predicting horrible fates for the students gave Filch as much pleasure as it did Trelawney. Suddenly he noticed Henry L'Argent and his face turned even bulgier. "What's— what this?"
Professor Snape, up early and wandering the hallways, rescued them, scowling at Filch until the man beat a retreat, muttering to his ugly cat. "I expect you'll want to see Dumbledore," Snape said dryly, his tone reminding Guin very strongly of someone she knew. Glancing at Uncle Henry, he frowned suddenly. "That man – Henry L'Argent!" Snape, however, was not inclined to talk aimlessly, even though they started a frantic string of explanations. "No, no, I'll hear your story in the Headmaster's office."
They were distracted suddenly by a small commotion: Mrs. Norris was hissing and spitting at a younger cat that had thrown herself at the ugly creature. "Liadan! Stop!" Mrs. Norris scratched frantically at the kitten, but she was really too old to be much of a use. With an unearthly screech, Filch, completely ignoring everything else, lunged towards the cloud of dust that was the scuffling cats. Guin was quicker, and she rescued her familiar, cuddling the creature against her chest.
Snape ushered them away before Filch, apoplectic and bright red with rage, could say anything. He smirked at Guin and Liadan, who was washing her face innocently. "Your cat," he said sardonically, "Is quite a pleasant creature. It was she who woke me up." Before them was a large stone gargoyle, and Snape frowned at it for a moment, as though attempting to remember something. "Ah. Whizzbee." The door swung open. "Follow me," Snape said, when the three children hesitated. "No one's going to murder you, though I can't say as much about Mr. Filch, once he gets your hands on your cat."
It took Guin several seconds to realize that Snape had made a joke, if with rather questionable humor. Still, the occasion was so momentous that she managed a small half-smile before they reached the actual office proper. Dumbledore was seated at his desk, concentrated on writing something quite busily. He let the fidget for a moment before folding his hands over the parchment and smiling at them. "Ah, yes – the Terrible Three. Good morning, Severus," he said cheerfully.
"Headmaster," Snape said stiffly, a bit uncomfortable. After all, he was being trailed by battered-looking students and a man floating five inches off the ground, attempting to look enraged but unable to move a muscle. Dumbledore took all this in serenely, the slightest bit of surprise flashing onto his features as he, too, noted the identity of the floater. A sharp glance flickered from Henry to L'Argent, who was staring back impassively, as though determined not to cry.
Noting, as well, their exhaustion, Dumbledore murmured something, picking up his wand and flicking it thrice. Three chairs appeared there, and Guin, Rilla, and L'Argent sat down gratefully. "Thank you, Professor," Guin said, and she meant it with all her heart.
"Now, I would like to ask you some questions, and then Madam Pomfrey will probably want to corner you," he said, with a smile. Their story tumbled out in a disorganized manner; only astute questions by the Headmaster sorted it out in the end. Noticing that L'Argent was still bleeding, and Rilla's eyes were lazing off in different directions, "Mr. L'Argent, perhaps you and Miss Jackson should visit the infirmary now." They got up to leave, and Guin began to follow, but Dumbledore called her back. "No, Miss Marlowe, please remain; I would like to talk to you."
Puzzled, Guin sat down again. Supporting Rilla on his arm, L'Argent walked out, to be followed by Snape, making sure they reached the Infirmary without mishap. Dumbledore's electric blue gaze returned to Guin, and she shifted nervously in her seat. "So, Miss Marlowe. A daring rescue, a mystery solved. Almost worthy of those charming Muggle books that Mr. L'Argent enjoys so much?" Guin's mouth dropped open: Dumbledore knew about the Hardy Boys?
He smiled enigmatically. "I think that perhaps for that heroic conduct, I will award Slytherin House a hundred points— and due to several unfortunate events, Mr. Potter could not make the Quidditch Championships, and Slytherin won—"
"Professor, I can't accept that," Guin interrupted, surprising both Dumbledore and herself.
"You can't?" he asked, brows raising in question.
"I – I can't. I'm no one's hero, Professor. I just did what I had to do."
"You are sure, Miss Marlowe? A hundred points would secure a victory for Slytherin."
"No, sir," she said after a moment, decisive. "Sir? I'm really very hungry – may I go get something to eat, please?"
"You may." Guin slid out of her seat and started for the door. "Wait—" Dumbledore said, and she turned around, to see him smiling quietly at her. "Miss Marlowe, there are certain things that you will learn about life. One of them is that true heroes are only doing what they have to, and second, you need be no one's hero except your own. I would say you're accomplishing that admirably."
Guin couldn't reply, as there was suddenly a small and mysterious lump in her throat. So instead, she nodded, took Liadan in her arms once more, and hastily retreated from the room.
-----
It was only afterward, on her way to the infirmary, that she learned what had happened in the school, between Quirrell and Harry Potter. It was with mixed feelings that she pondered it: now Potter was a /true/ hero; it seemed as though he delighted in every opportunity for attention and every chance to act noble and Gryffindor-ish. Though it was anathema to Guin, she did suppose that he had his purposes: if Voldemort had returned to life in the basements of Hogwarts, it would not be beneficial to anyone. Still, she thought that her way of dealing with adventure was the more sensible one.
Visiting Rilla in the infirmary, she saw Potter sitting on one of the beds, preparing to leave. "Hey," she greeted him warily; unsure of how he would react to a Slytherin approaching him, the Gryffindor of all Gryffindors. Guin was inclined to be friendly that night, for she was still cheerful about rescuing Rilla. Liadan watched him silently, cat-eyes narrowed.
"Hey," he replied, also sounding unsure. She noticed a book resting in lap, but didn't comment on it. Some things, she supposed, were personal.
"Um," Guin said after a moment, then, "Thank you."
"For what?" he asked, surprised.
"For beating Quirrell. And Voldemort. For being a hero." Perhaps he could hear the sarcasm in her voice, though Potter's green eyes, darker than her own, were flabbergasted, embarrassed, perhaps, she thought, just a bit gratified.
"Oh," Potter said uncomfortably, fingers running over the book, "That." A pause, and then: "I wasn't being a hero or anything. Really. I just did what I had to do." Now it was Guin's turn to look surprised, as he had just echoed her words from hours before.
Maybe, she thought to herself, Dumbledore had been right. They exchanged pleasantries, and Guin allowed Harry to continue on his way.
-----
L'Argent was in the Common Room, alone. He had hardly said a word since their return from the Forbidden Forest, and Guin, frankly, was worried about him. The boy's eyes stared blankly off into the distance, and he sat on a couch with his knees tucked to his chest, chin resting upon them. Guin approached him silently, and then sat beside him, glancing at his emotionless face. "L'Argent," she said, quietly, so as not to alert the rest of the Slytherins, who were sleeping.
"Go away," he mumbled into his legs.
"No," Guin said stubbornly.
"Why not? Go away!"
"I'm not going away," she insisted.
"Yes, you are."
"I'm not."
"Look, Marlowe, I'm not going to argue with you about this. I don't feel like talking right now."
"You might not feel like it," she told him, "But you have to."
"Why?" he said bitterly. "You saw what I have for an Uncle."
"I know. He might not be a bad person, really deep down—"
"Oh, don't bullshit me, Marlowe!" L'Argent said angrily. To his evident surprise, Guin looked pleased.
"Yes! Yes, that's it! You have to let out your emotions. Your anger. The pain. It's not healthy to keep it all inside." She had heard that somewhere, and it sounded right. "I won't say anything to anyone else. It's okay.."
It was as though a watershed had broken. She had expected something, but not tears. L'Argent cried quietly, the ugly sort of crying that grownups make, when they're ashamed of the emotion but can't help it. He choked back the sound, causing hiccups. Nose and eyes streaming, the boy looked horrified at the sudden show of feeling, while Guin patted him uncertainly, awkwardly, on the arm. She didn't know what else to do. Hugging him never occurred to her, and after a moment, she returned her hand to her lap. L'Argent regained control of himself, as well, pounding his fist on the couch arm.
"That bastard. That selfish, unbelievable bastard!" the boy growled. "I can't believe it. And what he said about your mum – that was just crazy. Why would she be happy if he bought Voldemort back?"
Guin bit her lip, than said, "No, it's not. Mother – Angeline's – she's a Dark Witch." Guin whispered the words, not wanting them to travel beyond his ears. The tears had stopped, and L'Argent ran his hand, palm back, over his nose, wiping away the mucus.
"/What/?"
"Keep it /down/!" she hissed. "But yes. That's why she'd be happy. Mother's.. well. She's been involved in that for a long time."
They sat, bleak and morose, and waited for the night.
-----
Once L'Argent cleaned off his face, they changed into their dress robes and walked to the Great Hall. The boy looked much better, he even had a tiny smile on his face as they saw that the Hall was decorated in silver and green: Slytherin was winning the House Cup for the seventh year running. Above the high table hung the Serpent, which seemed weirdly alive as the banner fluttered in the slight breeze that passed through the room. Above, the sky was dark and star-studded, and the Slytherins, boisterous and happy, cheered until Dumbledore managed to get them to stop.
"Another year gone!" he began, launching into a sentimental speech for several seconds. Guin tuned him out until he got to the part about House points. "In fourth place, Gryffindor—" Something about his twinkling blue eyes struck her as odd. Some strange feeling, a premonition almost, struck her suddenly – Guin could guess what he was about to do, but could only cross her fingers. "With three hundred and twelve points; in third, Hufflepuff, with three hundred and fifty-two; Ravenclaw has four hundred and twenty-six and Slytherin, four hundred and seventy-two."
Though all of Guin's house was celebrating, herself included, Draco Malfoy took things slightly too far, banging his cup against the table and smirking. "Yes, yes, well done Slytherin," Dumbledore told them, "However, recent events must be taken into account." For a moment, Guin's stomach twitched nervously: would he break his word and award the points and recognition to her? And then, a second later, profound relief. It wasn't about Guin at all! Only about Ron Weasley.
"Ahem. I have a few last-minute points to dish out. Let me see. Yes... First – to Mr. Ronald Weasley..." Weasley blushed, causing Guin to roll her eyes. "For the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years, I award Gryffindor house fifty points." Guin had been right. She could guess what was coming next, easily. It would be Granger, and then Harry.
She was right, to some extent. She hadn't expected the winning points to go to Neville, though in retrospect, it was a wise decision. Neville reminded her somewhat of Rilla: eager, a little nervous, and cheerful, never really standing out but wishing it with all their hearts. The Slytherins, stunned, gaped at the Headmaster as though he had lost his mind, and many of them noted, with some anger, the tiny smile that graced the face of Guinivere Marlowe.
-----
Angeline was waiting at the station, and when they saw her, Guin and L'Argent exchanged a wordless glance. "You'll be okay," Guin whispered to him, and went to hug Rilla goodbye, for now.
"Thank you," the curly-haired girl said.
Guin smiled. "I just did what I had to do."
For a moment Guin pondered the wisdom of commenting, "Yes, but at least your parents are alive and decent people." She sincerely doubted whether Aviva L'Argent had made her son watch as she shriveled the arm off of a captive witch, expressionless as the woman screamed. No, somehow it did not seem – tasteful. She decided, also for his sake, not to mention the triteness of certain comments he had made. Instead, Guin let him talk while Rilla curled in a ball on the ground, her head resting on a pad of grass. Beside them, the motionless form of Uncle Henry sat, eyes rolling balefully, though he was unable to budge.
"I never thought – I never would have guessed – he... he was in love with your /mum/?" L'Argent was not at his most coherent; he was practically babbling to her. However, both of them were distracted as Rilla's eyes closed, she was drifting off to sleep.
"No! No, Ril, stay awake. If you've got a concussion you can't fall asleep yet—" Guin shook her lightly by the shoulder, pulling the girl upright. Rilla blinked hazily at her, one eye seemed to be lazing off to the side, and her gaze was rather unfocused. The blood in the shallow cut on her throat had dried and crusted in a rust-colored glop; strands of curly hair had become mixed in the mess. "We have to start back. We can't stay here all night.."
"How?" L'Argent asked dryly. "I don't think either of us are strong enough to carry – /that/," he spat, glaring at his uncle; "And Rilla can't walk by herself."
"We.. we could support her, and maybe lift him with a spell?"
"Hmm. Wingardium Leviosa?"
"If we both try it – on a count?"
"Okay."
"Three – two – one – Wingardium Leviosa!" they yelled. Unfortunately, the combined effect of the spell lifted him too quickly, and Henry shot up towards the trees, knocking his head against the branches. Muffled noises of protest emitted from his throat, though he was unable to do anything more. Guin smiled pleasantly, lowering her wand a bit and allowing Henry to drop towards the ground. He halted an inch above the loam, eyes glancing frantically as far to the side as they could.
"Aua?" Guin asked uncertainly, and the water nymph poked her head from the water, looking healthier than she had before. Waving brightly at the three children and the silent man, the creature raised herself up from the depths, balancing delicately on her toes, like a prima ballerina. Now that the water was back to its usual consistency, she seemed more vivid and alive. "I wonder – we need to get across –"
"I have a better idea than before, actually. I have some degree of control over the water – I shall part it, and you will be able to walk down the lane. But you must move quickly."
"Aua?"
"Yes?"
"Why are you helping me?"
"Nymphs are mysterious creatures, Guinivere Marlowe," Aua said with an enigmatic half-smile, "I should not want to tell you our secrets." And, suddenly, the waters parted. It was, Guin reflected later, almost a scene straight out of the Bible. With a silken sound of liquid vacating air, the lake peeled in two, a small rocky path defined by shimmering watery walls on either side. Unnerved, they stepped forward, Rilla's arms thrown over one shoulder each. Uncle Henry floated forlornly behind them.
Though they tried to move as fast as possible, the girl leaning her weight upon her shoulders slowed Guin and L'Argent considerably. Several times Guin stumbled on rocks and potholes, and by the time they reached the shore, she was certainly pleased to have that bit of the ordeal over with. Behind them, the lake water returned to its original place with a squishy noise and a small pop. Aua was nowhere to be seen, and there was nothing left for them to do except begin the long trek back to Hogwarts.
-----
Severus Snape slept soundly in his bed, dreaming. Images flashed past his vision, too quickly for him to see. Suddenly, sharp pain in his leg called his attention. An attack? Voldemort? Bolting upright, Snape was confronted by a small gray kitten, her eyes narrowed at him expectantly. She had been digging her claws into her leg, and when he glared at her and tried to shove the feline off the bed, she said, "Mew."
-----
It was almost dawn by the time the trio returned, with the man still floating behind them. If Guin was expecting any sort of hero's welcome, her expectations were sorely disappointed. It was Filch who found them first; his bulging eyes delighted as he caught site of the bedraggled, bloody, and bruised students. "Ah! On the grounds at night? By the looks of things in the Forest as well. Oh, dear me, you're in for it this time." Guin rolled her eyes at L'Argent; they were both in agreement that predicting horrible fates for the students gave Filch as much pleasure as it did Trelawney. Suddenly he noticed Henry L'Argent and his face turned even bulgier. "What's— what this?"
Professor Snape, up early and wandering the hallways, rescued them, scowling at Filch until the man beat a retreat, muttering to his ugly cat. "I expect you'll want to see Dumbledore," Snape said dryly, his tone reminding Guin very strongly of someone she knew. Glancing at Uncle Henry, he frowned suddenly. "That man – Henry L'Argent!" Snape, however, was not inclined to talk aimlessly, even though they started a frantic string of explanations. "No, no, I'll hear your story in the Headmaster's office."
They were distracted suddenly by a small commotion: Mrs. Norris was hissing and spitting at a younger cat that had thrown herself at the ugly creature. "Liadan! Stop!" Mrs. Norris scratched frantically at the kitten, but she was really too old to be much of a use. With an unearthly screech, Filch, completely ignoring everything else, lunged towards the cloud of dust that was the scuffling cats. Guin was quicker, and she rescued her familiar, cuddling the creature against her chest.
Snape ushered them away before Filch, apoplectic and bright red with rage, could say anything. He smirked at Guin and Liadan, who was washing her face innocently. "Your cat," he said sardonically, "Is quite a pleasant creature. It was she who woke me up." Before them was a large stone gargoyle, and Snape frowned at it for a moment, as though attempting to remember something. "Ah. Whizzbee." The door swung open. "Follow me," Snape said, when the three children hesitated. "No one's going to murder you, though I can't say as much about Mr. Filch, once he gets your hands on your cat."
It took Guin several seconds to realize that Snape had made a joke, if with rather questionable humor. Still, the occasion was so momentous that she managed a small half-smile before they reached the actual office proper. Dumbledore was seated at his desk, concentrated on writing something quite busily. He let the fidget for a moment before folding his hands over the parchment and smiling at them. "Ah, yes – the Terrible Three. Good morning, Severus," he said cheerfully.
"Headmaster," Snape said stiffly, a bit uncomfortable. After all, he was being trailed by battered-looking students and a man floating five inches off the ground, attempting to look enraged but unable to move a muscle. Dumbledore took all this in serenely, the slightest bit of surprise flashing onto his features as he, too, noted the identity of the floater. A sharp glance flickered from Henry to L'Argent, who was staring back impassively, as though determined not to cry.
Noting, as well, their exhaustion, Dumbledore murmured something, picking up his wand and flicking it thrice. Three chairs appeared there, and Guin, Rilla, and L'Argent sat down gratefully. "Thank you, Professor," Guin said, and she meant it with all her heart.
"Now, I would like to ask you some questions, and then Madam Pomfrey will probably want to corner you," he said, with a smile. Their story tumbled out in a disorganized manner; only astute questions by the Headmaster sorted it out in the end. Noticing that L'Argent was still bleeding, and Rilla's eyes were lazing off in different directions, "Mr. L'Argent, perhaps you and Miss Jackson should visit the infirmary now." They got up to leave, and Guin began to follow, but Dumbledore called her back. "No, Miss Marlowe, please remain; I would like to talk to you."
Puzzled, Guin sat down again. Supporting Rilla on his arm, L'Argent walked out, to be followed by Snape, making sure they reached the Infirmary without mishap. Dumbledore's electric blue gaze returned to Guin, and she shifted nervously in her seat. "So, Miss Marlowe. A daring rescue, a mystery solved. Almost worthy of those charming Muggle books that Mr. L'Argent enjoys so much?" Guin's mouth dropped open: Dumbledore knew about the Hardy Boys?
He smiled enigmatically. "I think that perhaps for that heroic conduct, I will award Slytherin House a hundred points— and due to several unfortunate events, Mr. Potter could not make the Quidditch Championships, and Slytherin won—"
"Professor, I can't accept that," Guin interrupted, surprising both Dumbledore and herself.
"You can't?" he asked, brows raising in question.
"I – I can't. I'm no one's hero, Professor. I just did what I had to do."
"You are sure, Miss Marlowe? A hundred points would secure a victory for Slytherin."
"No, sir," she said after a moment, decisive. "Sir? I'm really very hungry – may I go get something to eat, please?"
"You may." Guin slid out of her seat and started for the door. "Wait—" Dumbledore said, and she turned around, to see him smiling quietly at her. "Miss Marlowe, there are certain things that you will learn about life. One of them is that true heroes are only doing what they have to, and second, you need be no one's hero except your own. I would say you're accomplishing that admirably."
Guin couldn't reply, as there was suddenly a small and mysterious lump in her throat. So instead, she nodded, took Liadan in her arms once more, and hastily retreated from the room.
-----
It was only afterward, on her way to the infirmary, that she learned what had happened in the school, between Quirrell and Harry Potter. It was with mixed feelings that she pondered it: now Potter was a /true/ hero; it seemed as though he delighted in every opportunity for attention and every chance to act noble and Gryffindor-ish. Though it was anathema to Guin, she did suppose that he had his purposes: if Voldemort had returned to life in the basements of Hogwarts, it would not be beneficial to anyone. Still, she thought that her way of dealing with adventure was the more sensible one.
Visiting Rilla in the infirmary, she saw Potter sitting on one of the beds, preparing to leave. "Hey," she greeted him warily; unsure of how he would react to a Slytherin approaching him, the Gryffindor of all Gryffindors. Guin was inclined to be friendly that night, for she was still cheerful about rescuing Rilla. Liadan watched him silently, cat-eyes narrowed.
"Hey," he replied, also sounding unsure. She noticed a book resting in lap, but didn't comment on it. Some things, she supposed, were personal.
"Um," Guin said after a moment, then, "Thank you."
"For what?" he asked, surprised.
"For beating Quirrell. And Voldemort. For being a hero." Perhaps he could hear the sarcasm in her voice, though Potter's green eyes, darker than her own, were flabbergasted, embarrassed, perhaps, she thought, just a bit gratified.
"Oh," Potter said uncomfortably, fingers running over the book, "That." A pause, and then: "I wasn't being a hero or anything. Really. I just did what I had to do." Now it was Guin's turn to look surprised, as he had just echoed her words from hours before.
Maybe, she thought to herself, Dumbledore had been right. They exchanged pleasantries, and Guin allowed Harry to continue on his way.
-----
L'Argent was in the Common Room, alone. He had hardly said a word since their return from the Forbidden Forest, and Guin, frankly, was worried about him. The boy's eyes stared blankly off into the distance, and he sat on a couch with his knees tucked to his chest, chin resting upon them. Guin approached him silently, and then sat beside him, glancing at his emotionless face. "L'Argent," she said, quietly, so as not to alert the rest of the Slytherins, who were sleeping.
"Go away," he mumbled into his legs.
"No," Guin said stubbornly.
"Why not? Go away!"
"I'm not going away," she insisted.
"Yes, you are."
"I'm not."
"Look, Marlowe, I'm not going to argue with you about this. I don't feel like talking right now."
"You might not feel like it," she told him, "But you have to."
"Why?" he said bitterly. "You saw what I have for an Uncle."
"I know. He might not be a bad person, really deep down—"
"Oh, don't bullshit me, Marlowe!" L'Argent said angrily. To his evident surprise, Guin looked pleased.
"Yes! Yes, that's it! You have to let out your emotions. Your anger. The pain. It's not healthy to keep it all inside." She had heard that somewhere, and it sounded right. "I won't say anything to anyone else. It's okay.."
It was as though a watershed had broken. She had expected something, but not tears. L'Argent cried quietly, the ugly sort of crying that grownups make, when they're ashamed of the emotion but can't help it. He choked back the sound, causing hiccups. Nose and eyes streaming, the boy looked horrified at the sudden show of feeling, while Guin patted him uncertainly, awkwardly, on the arm. She didn't know what else to do. Hugging him never occurred to her, and after a moment, she returned her hand to her lap. L'Argent regained control of himself, as well, pounding his fist on the couch arm.
"That bastard. That selfish, unbelievable bastard!" the boy growled. "I can't believe it. And what he said about your mum – that was just crazy. Why would she be happy if he bought Voldemort back?"
Guin bit her lip, than said, "No, it's not. Mother – Angeline's – she's a Dark Witch." Guin whispered the words, not wanting them to travel beyond his ears. The tears had stopped, and L'Argent ran his hand, palm back, over his nose, wiping away the mucus.
"/What/?"
"Keep it /down/!" she hissed. "But yes. That's why she'd be happy. Mother's.. well. She's been involved in that for a long time."
They sat, bleak and morose, and waited for the night.
-----
Once L'Argent cleaned off his face, they changed into their dress robes and walked to the Great Hall. The boy looked much better, he even had a tiny smile on his face as they saw that the Hall was decorated in silver and green: Slytherin was winning the House Cup for the seventh year running. Above the high table hung the Serpent, which seemed weirdly alive as the banner fluttered in the slight breeze that passed through the room. Above, the sky was dark and star-studded, and the Slytherins, boisterous and happy, cheered until Dumbledore managed to get them to stop.
"Another year gone!" he began, launching into a sentimental speech for several seconds. Guin tuned him out until he got to the part about House points. "In fourth place, Gryffindor—" Something about his twinkling blue eyes struck her as odd. Some strange feeling, a premonition almost, struck her suddenly – Guin could guess what he was about to do, but could only cross her fingers. "With three hundred and twelve points; in third, Hufflepuff, with three hundred and fifty-two; Ravenclaw has four hundred and twenty-six and Slytherin, four hundred and seventy-two."
Though all of Guin's house was celebrating, herself included, Draco Malfoy took things slightly too far, banging his cup against the table and smirking. "Yes, yes, well done Slytherin," Dumbledore told them, "However, recent events must be taken into account." For a moment, Guin's stomach twitched nervously: would he break his word and award the points and recognition to her? And then, a second later, profound relief. It wasn't about Guin at all! Only about Ron Weasley.
"Ahem. I have a few last-minute points to dish out. Let me see. Yes... First – to Mr. Ronald Weasley..." Weasley blushed, causing Guin to roll her eyes. "For the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years, I award Gryffindor house fifty points." Guin had been right. She could guess what was coming next, easily. It would be Granger, and then Harry.
She was right, to some extent. She hadn't expected the winning points to go to Neville, though in retrospect, it was a wise decision. Neville reminded her somewhat of Rilla: eager, a little nervous, and cheerful, never really standing out but wishing it with all their hearts. The Slytherins, stunned, gaped at the Headmaster as though he had lost his mind, and many of them noted, with some anger, the tiny smile that graced the face of Guinivere Marlowe.
-----
Angeline was waiting at the station, and when they saw her, Guin and L'Argent exchanged a wordless glance. "You'll be okay," Guin whispered to him, and went to hug Rilla goodbye, for now.
"Thank you," the curly-haired girl said.
Guin smiled. "I just did what I had to do."