Warning: Cliffhanger. Big cliffhanger. Evil cliffhanger. If you don't want to endure the cliffhanger for the next (probably) six months or so, don't read this chapter.

Otherwise, go ahead. ^_^

Lindsey and Bucket-chan belong to me. No one else does.


7. Broken Hearts

I awoke in the grey of predawn. At first, I struggled to return to sleep . . . but then one small part of my brain reminded me that there were more interesting things to do. Noting the fact, grumbling at myself, I pulled myself all the way awake, got out of bed, and dressed quickly. Picking up Bucket-chan (I know, horrible name . . . but the previous night I had been too tired think . . . and this morning I was still too tired to be original), I made my way toward the door.

Nearly there, I stopped and turned, halted by the combination of voice and a movement caught out of the corner of my eye. Haruka? What are you doing up so early? It looked like Lindsey, though I couldn't see all that well in this light, and certainly sounded like her.

I just woke up and since I doubt I'd be able to go back to sleep anytime soon, I decided to make the best of it and see if I could start in on the common room. Did I wake you up? I'm sorry.

Don't be. I'm a very light sleeper . . . and I need little enough sleep anyway that I probably would have woken up fairly soon on my own. She hesitated. Wait a moment, and I'll come down with you.

So I stood there and after a surprisingly small amount of time, the shifting air currents told me that she was once more standing before me. We headed down the six flights of stairs from our room (the uppermost, of course) to the common room. As we emerged into the room, I was delighted to see that the lights brightened automatically from almost complete darkness. They still didn't shed as much light as I thought they ought to, but they at least provided enough light for me to see where I was going.

Although . . . it seemed like there ought to be an easier way. I pulled out my copy of The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) and flipped through until I finally found the spell that I thought I had remembered seeing before. I held up my wand. It wasn't pure white--slightly yellowish around the edges in fact--but it sufficed.

Using one of the many antique-looking chairs that littered the room, I managed to snag one of the green lanterns that decorated the ceiling. To my surprise, it was not the lanterns, but the light itself that was tinted green. Perfect. Now all I had to do was figure out a nice, self-sustaining light spell . . . and alter these lanterns some, so there wouldn't be any glare in people's eyes if they were for some reason hit with the sudden urge to look up.

Using The Standard Book of Spells and Magical Theory (a book I wasn't quite sure just which class it was for . . .) in tandem, I finally figured out a workable way of brightening the lights and making them less green. I will admit that I did leave them somewhat blue-tinted . . . personal preference I admit, I rather like the cloudy-sky-ambient-light look.

In the mean time, Lindsey had managed to sweat out a way in which to mold the material on the bottom of the lanterns to form a dish-shape, more or less, and at the same time Transfigure the dish' into a somewhat more opaque material. Looked like at least those lessons were showing some practical purpose already.

Lindsey took one look at the work I was doing and shook her head. If you don't mind, I'll keep Transfiguring the lanterns and let you change the lights. Funny. She made it sound almost as if I was doing the harder part of the job.

I just took her first lantern from her hands and handed her mine. Strangely enough, I was thinking the exact same thing.

We had gotten . . . oh, six or seven of the lights done when Michiru came stumbling down. Haruka! You should have warned me. She hadn't taken the time to do much more than throw on her robe before coming down in search of me; her hair was still sticking up in places. Needless to say, to me she looked absolutely adorable.

Sorry. I didn't want to wake you.

She sighed, then came over and kissed me on the nose. Okay. But next time . . . do. When I saw you were missing I nearly had a heart attack.

I pulled her down to my level--seated on the floor--and hugged her. I really am sorry . . . I didn't think. So, want to help now that you're awake?

Considering look, then a nod. Just . . . I need to do my hair and get ready otherwise. I'll be back down soon. I stood along with her and ruffled her hair into even more of a mess purely for the fun of it. She pout/glared at me.

What? You're even more adorable like that. I grinned back and, predictably, her face softened.

Love is blind' indeed. She muttered. You, my dear, need glasses.

But why, when I already see you through rose-tinted lenses?

Roses are fine, as long as you don't throw them at me.

But for that, I'd also need a cane and a tuxedo.

Who would you be then? Tuxedo Un-masked? She laughed. Fun as this wordplay is, dear, I really do need to clean up. See you soon. Her fingers lingered in mine as far as we could stretch, then she made her way up the stairs and soon out of sight. I turned back, only to see Lindsey looking at me with a rather strange expression on her face.

You love each other. She volunteered tentatively.

Oh boy. Here it comes. Now that I'm no longer making even the slightest effort to hide my true gender, there will be the inevitable strange looks and drawing away and nasty comments and . . . ooh! Sometimes I really hate how close-minded the world can be at times.

That's nice. She blinked. But aren't you a bit . . . young?

I nearly facefaulted. That, I had not been expecting. Well . . . um . . . I don't know. All I know is that I've never loved anyone as much as I love Michiru, and she's never loved anyone as much as she loves me . . . and that our love will last, in spite of any obstacle that is put in our way. We've known each other for nearly three years . . . almost from the beginning, she has been one of my closest friends. But even when I avoided her because of what she represented to me, I still felt drawn to her. She is the one for me, Lindsey. There is no one else.

What did she represent to you? Lindsey asked. Perhaps idle curiosity, perhaps because she wished to change the subject . . . I didn't really blame her. I suppose listening to me rant about how much I love Michiru would be pretty boring to anyone but me.

I busied myself replacing one of the lights, ignoring the blue-black-haired girl's look of mild impatience. Finally, I looked back up, knowing she would wait until she received an answer. My Destiny.

* * *

The week passed by so quickly, it seemed. Just like most (if not all) of the rest of the school, we first years had all the typical' classes, if not any of the more interesting electives that students get to start picking up in third year. Professor Flitwick, a rather small, excitable man, taught us Charms. He seemed rather impressed with me for having been able to pull off such an advanced Charm' as the translation spell. I tried to tell him it was just because I didn't know any better, but I don't know that he believed me. Tuesday and Thursday mornings and Wednesday afternoons we had Herbology with Professor Sprout--the Head of Hufflepuff.

Then there was Defense Against the Dark Arts with Professor Quirrell. He stutters, and seems to have no idea what he's talking about half the time. For someone who is supposed to know so much about Dark creatures and spells, he doesn't seem to bother with passing on that information--if, that is, he even knew anything to begin with. That first lesson, he attempted to lecture us on vampires. Despite the fact that he was supposedly attacked by one in . . . Albania, was it? No, Romania . . . at least half of the information he passed on to us was either not quite right or downright wrong.

Lindsey, who seemed to have extensive knowledge of the subject (she claimed self-defense--evidently there are several vampires roaming around her area of Germany, so it was only smart to learn as much about them as possible), corrected him nearly every other sentence. Even I, on half-remembered knowledge of the few sections of the textbook that I had skimmed through, was able to correct him once.

Then there was stargazing on the roof on Thursday--perhaps my favorite class'. We brought out our telescopes (each student had his or her own) and observed the different stars and planets. To my surprise, these telescopes had considerably greater resolution than the Muggle equivalents in size--we could actually see Pluto as a vague dot, far better than I had ever managed before in ordinary telescopes . . . oh, three to four times this size at least. And the views of Uranus and Neptune, not to mention the rest of the planets . . . truly awe-inspiring.

And then every spare hour, of course, was spent improving' the common room. From whenever we woke up until breakfast, spare minutes snatched between lunch and the afternoon class, and whatever time we had left after we finished our daily allotment' of homework. Hm . . . that sounds rather more driven than we were. It's true, we took what time we could to work on it, but we didn't always work hard and we'd take breaks and just chat--or complain about how it seemed like nearly every single teacher had some sort of prejudice against Slytherin.

By the time Friday morning rolled around, I was actually beginning to look forward to Potions. Surely, being Head of Slytherin, Professor Snape wouldn't be prejudiced against us. I thought. I had overheard some complaints about him from students who had had him already, and it seemed like nothing they had to say was good. Still, I had not yet run into him, so I was reserving judgment for the moment. He was said to show clear favor to Slytherins and detest everyone else, but I rather hoped that particular rumor wasn't true--such clear bias leaves me feeling rather dirty, as if I somehow cheated. Admittedly, a lack of prejudice against us would be very nice. Only one thing stopped me from looking forward to Potions wholeheartedly.

We shared the class with Gryffindor.

If anyone was willing to listen to my opinion, I would willingly have talked their ears off about what a stupid idea that was. As it was, our conversations got to the point where Lindsey, Michiru, and Usagi devised a schedule as to whose turn it was to suggest I shut up or at least talk about something else for a while. That is, when they weren't complaining about it themselves. I mean, Gryffindor and Slytherin being expected to remain in the same classroom for several hours . . . heck, even for more than five minutes! . . . without seriously maiming each other?

Sharing with Gryffindor meant that we had to be in the same class as our princess and Minako. It also meant watching Draco antagonize all the Gryffindors--something he seemed uniquely suited to, as he could do so without even half trying . . . and if there was one thing about Draco, above all others, that remained constant, it was that he was always trying to antagonize the Gryffindors. Well, that's not entirely true. He alternated between antagonizing the Gryffindors and annoying me. Still, this was not going to be an enjoyable period of time.

Friday morning started off so well, too. As usual, the four of us woke up much earlier than almost everyone else--certainly earlier than either Millicent or Pansy. We ate an early breakfast in the Great Hall--I haven't figured out the mechanism yet, but somehow something knew when people sat down . . . and even, roughly, which people. As soon as we sat down, dishes would appear in front of us, from which we could get as little or as much breakfast as we pleased.

I waved jauntily in the general direction of Ami, who was also in the habit of getting up, coming, and eating fairly early--quite a few of the Ravenclaws seemed to be in this habit, unlike the rest of the school. I noticed that Mamoru and Hotaru didn't seem to be up yet, however. Of course, she pointedly did not acknowledge me at all, but the others sitting close to her immediately turned to her and started chattering. Probably wondering when she had become close enough friends with a dreaded Slytherin to where said detestable person would wave at her.

Michiru's lips twitched. Was that wise?

I made a pretense of considering the question seriously. Probably not. But I don't care. It was fun!

Usagi shook her head, her eyes glinting with laughter. Poor Ami. Just imagine the interrogation she must be suffering through now.

Lindsey watched in silence. After breakfast, we went back to the common room. Because the Potions room was so near Slytherin Tower, we had a couple of extra minutes in which to work, even. Lindsey and I finally managed to finish resetting the lamps, Michiru had finished outlining the snake motif she was planning on painting in around the doorway, and Chibiusa had finally managed to convince the bucket to create a fabric dye that layered like paint, allowing her to re-dye all the chair cushions a nice, cheerful leaf green.

We set out for the classroom with a couple of minutes to spare--no sense in being late to class, after all. Hermione, Harry, Ron, and Neville--the Gryffindors from the train--were already in class, as were (surprisingly enough!) Usagi and Minako. I wondered who had managed to get the two blondes down here on time . . . whoever it was, I was considering suggesting that they forget about school. They could already make quite a decent living performing miracles.

The four of us came in and found our seats--quite purposefully as far away from the other Gryffindors (read: two of the other Gryffindors in particular) as we could manage. Soon enough, Draco entered with his two ever-present hench-goons dogging his every step. After that, alone and in clumps alike, the rest of the Slytherin first-years and what looked like the remainder of the Gryffindors as well, drifted in. I checked my watch. Almost time--Professor Snape ought to be appearing any second now.

I admit, at that point I halfway expected him to suddenly appear from a cloud of black smoke or enter in some other sinister-seeming way. No such luck--he just walked into the classroom through a door I had not noticed before--most likely connected to his office or something similar.

Even if his entrance left something to be desired, though, no one could deny that he had a very noticeable Presence. There was something about him that drew the eye, that caused people to almost involuntarily stop talking. They just couldn't help it. Sure, he might not look like much--he was rather skinny, somewhat pale, had hair greasy enough to look like it hadn't been washed in weeks and cold, distant black eyes--but he exuded Don't Cross Me' vibes even more strongly than Professor McGonagall.

Like all the rest of our teachers on our first day with them, one of the first things he did was call roll. No surprise there. I admit my tentative opinion of him lowered abruptly when he smiled--more of a smirk, really, but at least not quite what seemed to be his habitual sneer--at Draco. Well . . . perhaps he just didn't know yet.

Then he reached Harry's name. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the black-haired boy cringe. To a certain extent, I sympathized--it's hard trying to develop a good working relationship with people when they persist in idolizing you. I'm just lucky that a lot fewer people follow racing, so there are many people back in our original world who had no clue that I was anything other than a high school dropout with some external means of support--rich parents, perhaps.

Harry, now . . . he was famous in a way that made sure that everyone in the wizarding world knew his name as well as just why he was so famous. Only in the Muggle world could he find any relief from the constant regard. And if anyone remained who still followed Voldemort's dreams . . . Harry could very well be in quite real danger. Then there's jealousy . . .

So perhaps this explains why, when Professor Snape reached Harry's name, I expected him to react in an Oh my!' sort of way. Instead, he smiled--and this sneer had none of the tentative good feelings of the one directed towards Draco. Ah, yes. Our new . . . celebrity. His cold eyes glared with a new emotion, apart from the complacent (more or less) neutrality with which he regarded the rest of us. Hatred. Pure and cold and all-consuming.

Did I mention that Snape didn't like Harry?

Then again, from his demeanor, he didn't seem to like much of anyone Gryffindor. I was beginning to fear that all those rumors (about favoritism toward Slytherin) were right. What a drag . . .

Because I didn't have any real plan, I just sat and watched uncomfortably as Snape tried his hardest to make a fool out of Harry. What else could I do? I was still trying to retain a certain amount of respect toward him--he was our teacher, after all--and that made me reluctant to just disrupt class. I knew, from watching Hermione waving her hand in the air (like an elementary school student who's really gotta go!!) that anything less than completely disrupting class would not interfere in his . . . vendetta? . . . against Harry.

Then too was the question . . . should I? Considering the fact that I was Slytherin, my interfering on his behalf would not be gladly regarded by what friends he had (I had no clue how many and how good of friends he had made in the past week, although from what I had seen, he seemed to be getting along with the Weasley kid--Ron--fairly well), and perhaps not even by himself. And . . . face it, everyone has to learn sometime that not everyone's their friend. Would I truly be doing him any favors by interceding?

While I argued with myself, by my side Michiru was getting more and more restless.

What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?

Michiru jolted out of her seat in such a way as to draw the attention of everyone. Monkshood and wolfsbane are two commonly used names for the plant aconite. Her hands came down on her desk, not quite a slap, but hard enough to create a quite noticeable noise. Now that we've demonstrated, Professor Snape, that Harry Potter knows no more than the rest of us, perhaps you could get on to the real lesson?

Snape reddened, and I silently applauded my partner. She had done a better job of distracting Snape than I ever could have--I knew probably even less of the herbs and fungi than Harry, whereas Michiru, for some strange reason, was almost fascinated by them. Her disruption finished, Michiru sat back down and demurely crossed her legs.

One point from Gryffindor for your cheek, he growled, Miss . . . ah . . .

Michiru Kaiou. Her voice remained demure, calm, and sweet. And that's Slytherin.

* * *

After we got out of Potions, Lindsey declared her intention to go out and do battle with the sun once again this afternoon. Her face was still somewhat pink from our last sojourn outside, admittedly in a rather . . . interesting . . . patchwork pattern--I would have thought that the hat she wore was tightly woven enough to block out all light, but reality seemed determined to prove otherwise. Poor girl. I don't know that I've ever met someone who sunburns quite so badly.

Oh well. It was her skin. Seeing as we did have homework that rather needed doing, and I think we were all happier outside at that point, even if the common room wasn't quite as intimidating and gloomy anymore. There's just something inherently nice about sunlight. Or clouds. Just . . . the sky in general. And the wind is nice too, of course--this is me, the senshi of the winds, who's talking, after all.

Most of the rest of my homework was done; just about all I had left was the stupid History of Magic essay. Sigh. I really didn't want to do that essay . . . but I wanted even less to get bad marks in any class, much less that one . . . so I really had no choice.

After far too long a period of time in which I did nothing but stare blankly at a piece of parchment that was equally blank, I sighed and jumped to my feet, beginning to pace. I do tend to think better on my feet. Michiru, used to it, didn't even look up; Usagi and Lindsey looked up briefly, ascertained that I wasn't doing anything to be worried about, and turned their attention back to their work.

Gradually, I found I was pacing farther each time back and forth, until I began to circle the entire section of roof. And still no ideas. I knew I had to defend the existence of the Silver Millennium, my pride wouldn't let me do anything else, but how? As I had noted earlier, all the evidence seemed to point in the other direction. A magical kingdom on the moon? Psh. Yeah right.

I'm still not sure exactly what it was that caught my attention, but suddenly, on the far end of my circuit, I became abruptly aware of the fact that I was no longer alone.

She asked, standing there, hair blowing gently in the wind, calm and self-contained as she has always been. No Apparition is possible within Hogwarts grounds . . . but if anyone could have managed, it was her. She always was in the habit of appearing unexpectedly out of nowhere.

Why what? I asked, genuinely confused. Although I did have a question of my own beginning with that word--Why are you here? Why now? And perhaps What do you want? Why did I kill you? I paused, asked with growing dread, It was you I killed, right?

She shook her head, pierced me with those red eyes of hers. So, you don't remember. I wondered. She closed her eyes, then continued quietly, With those golden bursts flying all over the place, it was hard to tell even at the time just who was hit by what. But you were aiming for Hotaru.

I sank to my knees. Until she uttered those words, I had put off my grief and self-hatred, allowed myself to be comforted by the lack of memory that surrounded the event. But now . . . I killed my daughter. I killed my daughter. It repeated itself over and over in my head, a grotesque parody of a mantra.

She knelt before me, seizing my shoulders, forcing my eyes to rise and meet hers. Why do you think I can bear it, bear to be in your presence? Only the knowledge that it wasn't you. No, I just thought you'd be most likely to know, since I cannot bear to ask her myself--why did Michiru break the staff?

Of all the things I had feared, that was not among them. The Time Staff is broken? My eyes, I'm sure, were wide--how could they not be? It was like one of the foundations of reality had suddenly crumbled--which simile was probably not too far from the literal truth.

You didn't know? She examined me closely, eyes piercing my soul. You really don't remember anything, do you?

I shook my head, smiled weakly. Just brief flashes. Even that much, I'd love not to have . . . except memory is what makes a person who they are. If I let my memories be destroyed--even, or perhaps especially, the bad ones!--then I would no longer be who I am. Just some happy little hollow shell.

The talk of broken objects recalled to mind something I had tried my hardest (for the most part successfully) to suppress my thoughts of. For practically the first time since that battle, I drew my Space Sword.

For some reason, whenever I look at it now, I tend to think trite phrases about broken hearts. There it was, the crack that engulfed nearly half the blade, all the tiny lines radiating out from that one place where Galaxia had caught it. If I looked closely enough--which I had already, only once before refusing to do so again; it hurt too much--I could see the dents. Such was the strength of Chaos. Two of the three Talismans, broken or badly damaged . . . that could hardly spell good for the world.

The Mirror? For a moment, so caught up was I in my thoughts, I didn't realize Setsuna had spoken. She repeated her query about the time my mind caught up with the first time.

I shrugged. As far as we can tell, it's as good as new. Hard to tell for certain, seeing as there hasn't really been anything happening that it would pick up.

She nodded. Well, that's something, I suppose.

I sank to the roof, taking a seat and staring out into the blue sky, hardly aware that she might object to my presence so near by. And even here, there's no definitive peace. Just a new set of problems. That reminded me. Setsuna . . . have you heard of Voldemort?

She nodded. There's a section on him in several of the more common History texts. That boy, Harry Potter, too. You know . . . when I accepted the invitation to come to Hogwarts, I kind of expected it to be, I don't know . . .

Peaceful? A pleasant break away from a place that held too many bad memories as it was? I couldn't keep the ironic smile from forming.

She laughed. Oh . . . and then to see Minako as practically one of the first people . . . that must have been a shock.

I tried my hardest to glare, but somehow it just didn't work. It wasn't funny, you know.

I know. How do you think I felt when . . . her name was called? Or even before that, when you came up to cast the translation spell? A pause. Nice work, by the way.

Thanks. I learned it from Michiru's mom--though, evidently, it's too complex a spell for me to be supposed to be able to do at this stage in my magical development. I wrinkled my nose. That's what Professor Flitwick says, at least.

We're probably our real ages as far as magical development is concerned. Then again, that's not exactly information Professor Flitwick would be privy to, is it?

One would hope not. I agreed dryly. Though I wouldn't put it past Dumbledore to know. He acts senile, but that just makes it all the harder to try to figure out what he knows and what he doesn't. I shook my head. Then again . . . how would he find out? Certainly there are very few outside the senshi who know . . . and I doubt any of them would think to contact Dumbledore about it.

I read somewhere that there is a break in conversation approximately every seven minutes. It is a factoid that I always seem to remember when--as ours did--a conversation I'm participating in dies. While not comfortable, neither was it a wholly hostile silence. For the first time since that night, I began to believe there might actually be a hope of regaining Setsuna's friendship.

Idly, my fingers brushed along the length of my sword, catching at and feeling every individual crack; each a brand new rent in my heart. Looking over, I saw that Setsuna was looking down at my sword with the oddest expression on her face.

She visibly jumped. Oh . . . I was just thinking. I think . . . I may know a way to fix your sword. That's right . . . she always was interested in weaponsmaking.

. . . How did I know that?

Do you trust me?

I turned my regard, temporarily diverted towards staring over the edge at the ground, so far below, to her face. Did I trust her? I always used to, more completely than I trusted anyone besides Michiru.

But did I now, when I knew she had a perfectly good reason to wish me dead, and that--given the tone of her question--this might very well provide her with the perfect opportunity to kill me?

I nearly shook my head, belatedly remembering to keep it a purely mental movement. Did it matter if I trusted her? Either she'd fix it--for which I'd be eternally grateful--or she'd fail, possibly killing me in the process, possibly on purpose. But . . . once I returned to life, I swore to myself that, if the time ever came that Setsuna or Hotaru wanted to claim my life, I would do nothing to stop them.

They deserved that much, at least. And with that thought in mind, the decision was no decision after all.

She put out her hand. Give me the sword. I handed it over, seized by a sudden reluctance that I ruthlessly drove down. I know the theory . . . the Talisman ought to have separated itself fully from your heart crystal, so you shouldn't feel a thing, but if it hasn't . . . She trailed off. Haruka, are you sure you want to go through with this?

I nodded. In its own way, the Space Sword was nearly as important to me as Michiru. To see it wounded like this . . . and, if I let this opportunity pass me by, to know that I might have had a chance to heal it, had I just had the courage to take it.

She nodded in response, face pale and lips tight. One hand gripped the hilt, the other held about three-quarters of the way down--just past where most of the cracks stopped. Both held the sword so tightly that her knuckles has turned white and blood was seeping out where her fingers came into contact with the sword's sharp edges.

Brilliantly red blood, that ran down the blade, funneling itself into the cracks and casting them into sharp relief.

Everything seemed suddenly, violently, clearer and brighter than before. As if in slow motion, Setsuna's grip tightened even further.

Her eyes were sad.

With one mighty wrench, the sword snapped in half, and my heart with it.

And I fell.


2/9/2003