Hermione stifled her cries, wiping her teary eyes into the sleeve of her robe, hoping no one in the library could hear her.

She had done the right thing. Couldn't they see that? There was an insane murderer on the loose after Harry; Harry received a broom that costs as much as a car, and neither Harry nor Ron found it at all suspicious? They were idiots!

What was she supposed to do? She had to tell Professor McGonagall. Harry nearly died every year playing quidditch as it was, add a cursed broom and dementors into the equation and who knows what could happen to him?

It had taken the Professor 2 days to return the broom — Harry and Ron haven't spoken to her in weeks. Over a broom of all things. Surely Harry's life was worth more than an enchanted branch of wood?

Thinking about it just sent her into another bout of tears, the sobs echoing in her own head. It was just like primary school all over again, just like her first year. She was alone. Why did this always happen to her? Everytime she tried to help someone, it was always her who ended up hurt.

A throat cleared in front of her, hardly loud enough to be heard. She scrubbed at her face. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the loneliness aside.

Her breath caught in her throat. "How do you always find me?" Her voice was shaky.

He sat down across from her as gracefully and proper as you might expect from a king. The pools of violet she was becoming so familiar with stared at her intensely through curling locks of hair even darker than Harry's. "You come here when you're upset." She scooted closer so she could hear his perpetually raspy whisper.

Well, she supposed that was true. The library was her sanctuary of sorts; the books that surrounded her lended her their strength and their comfort; they had been her companion for as long as she could remember, and they would never forsake her.

"Trouble in the Golden Trio?" Perseus said, his lips twitching.

She glared half-heartedly at him. She couldn't even muster the ire the name usually provoked in her. "They're overreacting is all."

"What happened?"

The simple question floored her. Weeks had passed since their horrible fight, and still, no one had bothered to ask her what happened. It was always Harry this, or Ron that. She found that when she started talking, she couldn't stop. She explained how Harry had fainted during his last match and his broom had been destroyed by the Whomping Willow(she assumed he didn't know as he was in the Hospital Wing); the brand new Firebolt from a mysterious sender, and how she thought it might have been cursed. She took extra care to avoid implying it was his father that she suspected of sending the broom.

He was silent for a moment, his eyes calculating. "You believe it was my father?"

Why did she even try? She nodded.

He titled his head to the side and stared off into the distance, a surefire way to tell that he was thinking.

"I suppose it could have been him," he said after a moment. "You've read Hogwarts, A History, though. You know getting cursed items into the castle, by owl specifically, is horribly difficult."

Hermione's face burned under his questioning gaze and raspy posh accent. He always seemed so much older than her. "Of course I know that! It's just…Escaping from Azkaban is supposed to be impossible as well."

His lips twitched again. "My father is said to be a remarkable wizard—but I doubt he's remarkable enough to fool Dumbledore."

"Professor Dumbledore, Perseus."

He nodded his head, though she knew he wouldn't listen. He was usually so proper about using the correct titles and decorum, but never about Professor Dumbledore. It puzzled her.

"So, Potter and Weasley have shown their true colors and abandoned you?"

She glared at him. Fighting or not, Harry and Ron were still her friends. "They have not," she said heatedly. "We're just…cross with each other right now. They'll see that I was right sooner or later; they always do."

"I'm sure," he said, his voice tinged in skepticism. "So long as the weather is fair."

She opened her book with a mighty thump, jostling the table. Perseus didn't know Harry and Ron, but he would see. They may be pigheaded and stubborn, but they were her friends, and they wouldn't abandon her. She was sure of it.

He opened a book of his own, and they sat in silence, reading. She caught herself sneaking glances at him; admiring his straight nose, or his thick lashes; watching his perfectly polished fingers turn page after page. He would look up every so often, as if he felt her staring at him and she would look back to her book, praying he hadn't noticed.

She looked up again and nearly choked; he was staring right at her, a frown on his lips. "You're staring at me," he said.

Heat filled her chest and rushed to her face, the thudding of her heart audible in her ears. She brushed a riotous curl out of her face. "I was not."

He raised a brow. "You were."

"I was merely wondering what you were reading," she said quickly.

She knew immediately he didn't believe her. Relief rushed through her body when he handed her his book instead of speaking. What is wrong with me? It's not like I've never seen a handsome boy before!

She took the book, and read the cover. Charms and Enchantments. The author's name was not listed, much to her consternation. She opened the book and read the first few pages, there were things she'd never heard of before, concepts and uses of magic she'd never considered. Anchoring spells? Open Source Enchantments?

She looked up at him. "You can understand this?"

He nodded. She turned a few more pages, and found she was no closer to understanding what she was reading. She closed the book and sat it down in front of her.

Just how much more than her did he know? Everytime she thought she was catching up, getting closer to the number one spot in their year, he went and did something that should've been impossible. He made her want to pull out her hair.

"How can you do this?" she blurted out. "How can you be so good at magic? And don't say practice! I know I practice just as much as you do, and I know I'm just as smart as you, so what is it? I don't understand."

He cocked his head to the side, and his curious gaze did nothing but add to her frustration. "I don't know." He looked at her fully now. "As far as I can tell, my relationship with magic is…different."

Hermione frowned. "Different how?"

He paused to think. He went into his bag, pulled out a quill and offered it to her. Confused, she took the quill.

"Do you feel anything?"

She stared at the quill. "It's…cold?"

His eyes widened. "What else? Don't just feel it with your fingers, use your magic."

Use my magic? She had no idea how to "use" her magic outside of casting spells. She tried anyway, trying to create the same rushing feeling she felt when casting a spell, but there was nothing. "How?"

"I don't know," he murmured, staring at the quill. "I've always been able to do it, even before I started practicing magic."

She stared at him. Before he started practicing? She had attributed is ability with magic to his years of practice — but he had just completely destroyed her theory. If it wasn't practice, what was it?

"Don't be discouraged," he said. "Most people wouldn't have felt even the Self Inking array you felt."

She looked at the quill again. So that's what the coldness was? It had felt unnatural, like the cold ran deeper than her skin.

"Do you feel anything when you cast spells?"

She nodded. "Yes, a rushing sensation down my wand arm, usually."

He nodded, smiling. "I knew you were good, but I didn't know how good or why." She glared at him. Was it some sort of surprise that she was good at magic? "The majority of people never develop the familiarity with magic that you have. The ICW would probably classify you as Gifted, putting you in the 98th percentile of all magical students."

She blinked. Classify me? She'd never heard of any sort of classification system for students. "And what would you be?" She was slightly nervous about hearing the answer, but she asked anyway.

"I'd be classified as a prodigy, the 99th percentile of all students."

"How do they know? The ICW, that is. What system of measurement is used to determine how you're classified?"

"Your ability to sense magic, to learn magic, and to use magic."

"Is that how you knew Professor Lupin was coming? You could sense him?"

He nodded. "Yes. Professor Lupin's magical signature is rather potent and very distinct."

"How does it feel?"

"I'm not sure I can really describe it — I can just tell."

"Can someone learn to sense magic that way?"

He opened and closed his mouth, his expression thoughtful. "I'm not sure. I don't believe so. It's more like your ability to ride a broom, or your intelligence."

Hermione pinched her brows together, thinking about her own inability to ride a broom. Was there more to it than just her fear of heights?

"Madame Pomphrey says magical ability is a lot like intelligence — some people are simply more gifted than others. Ronald Weasley could read every book in this library and likely would never be a tenth as intelligent as you are. Some people are simply better than others, and no amount of practicing can close that gap, even if practicing does make you better."

"So there's nothing you can do to better yourself? You're just stuck with whatever hand you're dealt?"

"Practice will make you better, but you will never be equal. Neville Longbottom could practice for eternity and he'd never be able to do some of the Transfigurations Dumbledore can do—" she thought about poor Neville, who could barely even do the spells taught in class. "— I could ride a broom for eternity and I'd never be as good as Potter is," he shrugged. "Potion making is just reading and following instructions, but I doubt either one of us will ever match Professor Snape's prowess over a cauldron."

She ignored the jabs at Ron and Neville, and focused on all the new things she was being taught. Magic was so much more complex than she thought, much to her own embarrassment. Of course something that could turn one object into another would be complex. And having been considered gifted her entire life due to her intelligence, it made sense to her that people in the wizarding world could also be gifted. She just happened to be friends with what was arguably the most gifted student in the school, and it did not make her feel any less inadequate. She was used to being the best at everything she put her mind to, so this was jarring.

To be told there were some things she'd never be able to accomplish, simply because she didn't have the talent for it, was a slap in the face. She had wondered how Perseus accepted it so easily, dismissing Divination because he had no talent in it, but she was beginning to understand. That was how magic was, as far as Perseus knew. Even something as simple as broom riding; she had no real interest in actually riding a broom, but being told she'd never be as good as Harry on a broom no matter how hard she tried went against everything she had been taught as a child.

Perseus stood from his chair, pulling Hermione from her thoughts. "Where are you going?"

"I agreed to meet Daphne at 7."

Hermione checked her watch, and found it was a quarter until 7. "What for?"

"I don't know," Perseus said after clearing his throat, the harsh, grinding hack causing heat to gather at the back of her eyes. "My guess is that she wants to see how I'm handling the negative attention I've been receiving."

Hermione had noticed the glares and heard the rumors about Perseus. She had wanted desperately to correct them, to tell them that Perseus hadn't let Sirius Black into the castle and that he wasn't some bad guy, but she knew he wouldn't appreciate it, so she held her tongue. "And how are you doing?"

He smiled at her, before shrugging — something she was quickly beginning to associate with him. She'd never met anyone who shrugged so much. Now that she was thinking about it, the majority of his communication was body language and she understood why, much to her dismay. Talking at all was a task for Perseus, it was no wonder he had gotten used to expressing himself nonverbally.

"It doesn't bother me," he said. "Daphne isn't taking it well, however. I think talking to me will be more beneficial for her than it will be for me."

Hermione hummed. She didn't know Daphne, but she supposed that was true. Perseus hadn't seemed bothered, but he almost never did, so it was hard to tell. "You know you can talk to me too, right?"

He raised a brow. "Certainly. We're talking right now aren't we?" A coy smile played about his lips.

She huffed. He was insufferable sometimes. "You know what I mean, Perseus."

His face turned serious, his eyes meeting hers, sending a thrill through her body. "I do." He reached out , gave her hand a squeeze, one last smile, and headed for the exit.

That squeeze was a far cry from the hug he'd given her after their last meeting that had infused her entire body with warmth, but it was enough. As she watched him, she tried to convince herself she wasn't disappointed.


Perseus stepped into the room that Daphne had asked him to meet her in. It was one they frequented pretty often; large and open with nearly floor to ceiling windows. They looked out over the Black Lake, and sometimes he, Daphne and Blaise would go up there and sit, admiring the view. There were desks and chairs pushed to the edges of the room. Perseus suspected previous students had used the room for dueling. Closing the door behind him, he took in Daphne and, unsurprisingly, Blaise. For a boy who was so confident, he sure didn't enjoy being left out.

As he expected, Daphne was looking at Blaise, annoyed at his presence at what she had clearly intended to be a private meeting; and Blaise as calm and blasé as ever, his dark hair slicked back perfectly and his grin firmly in place.

"Bout time you got here," Blaise said. "I was starting to think Daphne was going to curse me if it was even a moment longer." From the way the girl's icy blue eyes flashed at Blaise, Perseus thought he wasn't far off.

"Tell him to leave," she commanded, her voice as cold as her eyes.

"I might not look it, but I worry about Perseus too, ya know." His voice had lost some of its carefree quality, and no longer was he leaning casually on the wall.

Perseus stared at them both. He had never seen the two of them so serious at the same time. Perhaps the school antagonizing them was getting to them more than they thought. He looked at Daphne. "Is it absolutely necessary that our conversation be a secret from Blaise?"

She licked her lips. "Well, no—"

"Then Blaise stays." He ignored her dumbstruck look. "If there's no need to cut Blaise out, then we won't."

Blaise looked smug, and while Daphne didn't look happy about it, she nodded nonetheless.

"Alright, before we get started: I am doing perfectly fine." He held up a hand to forestall Daphne's rebuttal. "My father has no interest in me," the words made his mouth feel like he swallowed ash, "so I'm not at risk. And I'm more than capable of handling the rest of our peers."

Daphne raised a brow. "Is that why we hardly see you anymore? Why you've been keeping your distance from us?"

I was really hoping they wouldn't notice that, Perseus thought to himself. He knew it wasn't likely though; Daphne and Blaise were both smart as can be, and both were particularly good at reading social cues. The school hated him, he had thought with him noticeably distancing himself from them, they'd be left alone. It was a stupid thought.

"I thought—"

"I don't care what you thought," Daphne said sharply, her voice cutting into him like a biting wind. She had never talked to him like that before. "It was far easier to withstand their idiocy with you beside us than it was without you."

Blaise looked away, his swagger seemingly draining from his body, and Daphne rubbed at her arm through her robe sleeve. A wave of ice cold water washed through him. What had he missed?

"Who was it?" he demanded in a cold, soft whisper. When neither of them would even look at him, he walked closer. "Who was it?"

It was Blaise who spoke. "It was McLaggen," he spat, his dark, hateful eyes boring into Perseus' own. "He hit Daphne in the back with a tripping jinx, and she fell down a bloody flight of stairs. She's probably broken her wrist, but she refuses to see Pomphrey."

He cut his eyes to Daphne, who was staring attentively at the floor. He walked closer to her. He knew she hadn't seen Poppy; he was the one that kept the logs. No one came and went from the Hospital Wing without him knowing. And he knew she would never go; she was a pureblood Heiress, Poppy would have no choice but to inform her father about her injury, and Daphne would never worry him with what she surely thought was a trivial matter.

"Let me see," he said, releasing his wand into his hand. She glanced up at him, her eyes shiny, before she yanked up the sleeve of her robe roughly, grimacing silently in pain.

It was unmistakably broken. Her wrist was swollen and painted purple with bruising and from the size of it, it had been like that for at least a day. His lips thinned. How could he have missed this? His friends, being attacked right under his nose. McLaggen, the arrogant ponce. He pushed those thoughts away with a bout of Occlumency; it would be impossible to heal Daphne in such a state of mind.

He took a deep breath and set his wand on Daphne's wrist, ignoring her wince. He slid the wand along her skin in a figure 8, muttering the incantation to himself. Slowly, the skin regained its creamy complexion, the purple fading. He continued the motion, picturing in his mind the bone mending. He was so focused he almost didn't hear the creak of the bones shifting. The more he made figure 8s, the more the swelling went down , until eventually, it was back to normal.

He stepped away, releasing a breath and returning his wand to his holster. He watched Daphne flex her wrist back and worth, swiveling it around, a look of wonder on her face. He glanced at Blaise; the boy was staring at him, his face just the slightest bit awestruck.

"What?" Perseus asked. They were looking at him as if he'd done something special — Poppy would've had the bone mended in half the time, without either the incantation or the wand movement.

Blaise shook his head, his grin returning. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

His response got stuck in his throat as Daphne stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his middle. He was so shocked he had to remind himself to return the hug. It was the first time Daphne had ever hugged him, the first time he'd been hugged by anyone other than Hermione, and it was different. Daphne's slender arms slid firmly around his rib cage, holding him closely but not squeezing him the way Hermione did; her head lay flat against his shoulder, strands of her golden hair tickling his chin. She didn't pull him tighter when he returned the hug, but held him steadily. After a moment, she stepped back, releasing her hold on him, and after a moment, he did the same.

She looked up at him, her pale blue eyes softer than he'd ever seen them. "Thank you." She slid gently past him, her arm brushing his own, and exited the room without a second glance.

He turned to Blaise, who looked equally as surprised. Blaise shot him a mischievous grin that Perseus didn't quite understand, and he too made his way to the door after giving him a pat on the shoulder and saying, "Don't be a stranger."

Perseus watched him leave, his mind full of confusion. He walked over to the desk that was in the corner of the room, sat down, and gazed out of the window into the starry sky. He didn't know what that was all about, but he wasn't going to worry about it right then. McLaggen had broken Daphne's wrist. The very thought released the dam he had put up to contain his fury, and it came rushing back. He knew he wouldn't be able to let it go. He would have to do something.

So as he sat, staring into the clear night sky above Hogwarts, he plotted. McLaggen would have to be taught a lesson; you don't mess with Perseus Black's friends, and he would make sure he never forgot.


Albus Dumbledore sat at a long, square table. He was at one end and his Deputy was at the other. It was time for the Midterm Reports, and his staff looked at him expectedly.

He smiled at them all. He so loved these get-togethers; rarely did he have all his Professor in one place. It was simply a delight.

"Hello all," he said, smiling merrily. "The time has come to take measure of our pupils." Seeing no one had anything to add, he continued. "Well let us not dally, who would like to start?"

Not to anyone's surprise, Minerva began immediately, her voice as terse as ever. "At the rate he's going, Ronald Weasley is going to have no choice but to attend Summer Remedial Lessons." Albus frowned as there were nods and mutters of agreement from almost the entire staff, minus Hagrid, who looked down guiltily, and Severus, who had quite the nasty look on his face. I wish we could've started off on a happier note.

It saddened him to hear such news; the boy was such a great friend to Harry, helping distract him from his hardships, helping him be the child he was supposed to be. With all that was going on, he needed any relief he could get. "Have you offered the boy any extra help?" He asked, stroking his beard. "Or perhaps asked Miss Granger? I'm sure she'd be more than willing to help the boy."

Filius said in his high, squeaky voice, "The two don't speak to each other anymore, at least not in my class and certainly not in the Great Hall. She's not speaking with Mr. Potter either."

Another round of nods. He hummed. That was unfortunate news. He quite liked them as friends. "I'm sure they'll mend fences in their own time."

"Those two are absolute dunderheads," Severus said, sneering. "I'm no fan of the know-it-all, but she's better being left alone than with those two."

Albus smiled at the man, his eyes twinkling. Severus could play the sourpuss all he wanted, Dumbledore knew him best; he was pleased Miss Granger had separated from the two, for whatever reason. "And how is Miss Granger doing?"

"She's a genius that girl is," exclaimed Bethesda Babbling, the Ancient Runes Professor. She was the youngest member of his staff, and it showed in her childlike exuberance which could only be matched by Filius. Her young face was beaming at the thought of Miss Granger. "She has already memorized all three Elder Rune languages, and often comes to me with all kinds of theories and projects, her enthusiasm is almost infectious!" He returned her grin with a smile, the interaction filling him with mirth.

"I must agree," the Arithmancy Professor Septima Vector said, her voice prim and proper as usual. "She entered my class with a grasp on arithmetic that was already far ahead of what most muggleborn enter with, and they're already much farther ahead than the pureblood students. I struggle to find work for her to do — honestly the girl could sit for her OWLs right now."

That seemed to be the general consensus for Miss Granger, bar Severus who claimed her to be "merely adequate," and Professor Sprout who said she had no natural aptitude for Herbology but was a hard worker. They talked next of Harry, and he couldn't say he wasn't a bit disappointed with the boy's performance — but he was under an amount of stress no one twice his age should have to experience, and still the boy performed on average with his peers. It was admirable, and he felt a bit of pride in the boy he had taken to watching over.

They went year by year, discussing each and every student. However, two hours later, a name they had skipped stuck prominently to the front of his mind. "And what of Mister Black? How is the young man doing this year?"

Silence reigned in the room. His staff looked almost nervously at each other. This time Filius was the first to speak. "He's the same as he was the previous two years, Albus. He's shown a mastery of all the charms we've studied so far. He does not struggle, he doesn't even seem to try. Frankly it's getting difficult to have him in the classroom; the other students see him completing his task, and whatever other tasks you may set for him with no effort, and become discouraged." He shook his small head, pushing his glasses back up. "I've yet to give him an assignment too difficult to complete. His summer homework would've stumped my OWL students, Albus. The boy explained the practical applications of an Advanced Charms theory in only twelve inches of parchment."

Albus's eyebrows rose. Every year since the boy entered the school the staff had asked him to accelerate the boy's education, but he had refused. He knew what the boy was — he had been looking for the individual who would come after him, the next prodigy, the next great wizard, and he had finally found him. He had thought—hoped—that it would be Harry, the child of prophecy, but he was so ironically wrong. Perseus Black took to magic like water; Albus and Gellert had been the same many years ago, and so too had a young Tom Riddle. No, he wouldn't accelerate the boy. It would do him no good. Being great at magic was worthless if you weren't good with people, and Albus couldn't in good conscience remove the boy from peers his own age.

"The boy is nothing more than an above average potioneer," Severus said as if the words hurt him. Albus wished he'd drop his childhood feuds, but it was not to be. Holding on to them was the only thing anchoring the man to his past, he supposed. "He is lucky to be friends and partners with Miss Greengrass."

He looked to Septima and Aurora, wanting their opinions on the boy. He was exceptional in courses that required a wand, how was in those that relied more heavily on the mind? Albus himself as a teen had favored Arithmancy, but he knew Gellert loved Runes.

"He is head and shoulders above the class with the exception of Miss Granger," Aurora said. Septima nodded quickly in agreement.

They had all told him much about how exceptional the boy was at magic, but nothing at all about what he was like. As far as he could tell Perseus Blakc was quiet and stayed to himself. But his staff spent considerably more time with him, perhaps they had noticed something he had not. "And how is the boy?"

It was silent again. Albus looked at each Professor individually, before finally resting on Minerva, his once apprentice and long time friend, who huffed. "The boy speaks very little. It is clear his voice strains him, and he does not use it needlessly. He completes his task and sits in silence. He will occasionally help Mister Zabini and Miss Greengrass when they request it, but seems to do little in the way of socializing. The rest of his classmates are wary of him. He has little in the way of friends." Once again, the table seemed to be in consensus.

"Severus?"

His dark eyes glittered, he glared at Remus, who sat directly across from him. "The boy is nothing like his father."

Albus shook his head at their byplay, and looked at Remus who looked ready to speak. "Actually, since Miss Granger's falling out with her friends, the two of them have spent a great deal of time together."

Albus' eyes widened, and he joined the other Professor's in looking at Remus in surprise. Albus prompted him to elaborate with a nod of his head.

"I caught them in the corridor a few weeks ago, near curfew," he said. "Now, I don't normally eavesdrop on students, but when I heard the name Sirius Black, naturally I was curious. I trailed behind them, listening to their conversation. They seemed quite close to each other."

"Did they say anything in particular?" Albus asked. Any little clue might give him a hint as to what Sirius Black wanted.

Remus shook his head. "No. I went to speak to the two of them, but he was gone. I'm not sure how, but Black knew I was coming, and after disillusioning himself he made a quick exit, leaving Miss Granger for me to find."

"My word," Septima muttered. "The two of them? Friends? Together?" Remus shook his head. "We should all be very scared."

Albus looked at her, his lips twitching. "And why is that my dear?"

"Don't you all see? His magic and her mind? They could probably do anything!"

Albus chuckled, far more relieved than he was fearful. He had been afraid the boy was antisocial and harbored beliefs of pureblood supremacy. To hear he spent his free time with Miss Granger was a breath of fresh air, and took away much of his worry, at least for the moment. He knew better than most how quickly things could change. The boy's father was evidence enough of that.


Cormac McLaggen whistled a jaunty tune to himself as he headed to the Great Hall. Occasionally he'd stop and admire himself in a suit of armor. After his fifth stop, Perseus had grown annoyed. The trip from the Gryffindor common room to the main staircase was no more than a five minute walk, and somehow the older boy had already stretched it to ten.

If Perseus hadn't followed the boy for a week beforehand and accounted for all his odd behaviors, it might've put his plan in jeopardy. Unfortunately for McLaggen, he had.

Perseus trailed silently behind the boy, disillusioned and silenced. The boy was so self absorbed Perseus probably could've forgone both and went unnoticed. He went over every facet of the plan in his head. In 20 minutes, he was due in the Hospital Wing for his training with Madame Pomphrey. Within five, he'd have cursed McLaggen and been on his way.

When they turned a family corner, Perseus began. He cast a spell he had read in his family library, an earlier variation of the Bone Breaking Curse. An uncle of his had discovered if you cast the spell with a twist and flick, rather than a twist and jab, the spell merely made bones fragile. With proper effort, it could be made to affect more parts of the body than just where it struck. It took a tremendous amount of concentration to alter the spell in such a manner, but Perseus had been studying Occlumency since he was five. If there was one thing he could do, it was concentrate.

With a twist, flick, and muttered incantation, a sickly grey spell shot out of his wand and slammed into McLaggen's back just as he reached the top of the stairs.

With a strangled cry, the boy was launched off his feet. Perseus listened as his body collided repeatedly, bouncing from step to step; each time he made contact with the ground the sickening sound of bone meeting stone and snapping rang in the air, followed by cries that Perseus knew well: agony. By the time McLaggen finally came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, there was silence.

Perseus walked down the stairs, slowly and calming. He came to a stop directly beside the boy, and stared at his broken form. Bone had broken through the skin in many places; blood leaked steadily from his ears, mouth and nose. His head hung at an odd angle, but his shoulders still rose in a staggered fashion. Perseus wouldn't be surprised if he had snapped a rib and punctured his lung.

Perseus squashed any feelings of regret he felt, and pushed down the bile that rose in his throat. He got what he deserved, he told himself. He had broken the wrist of someone important to him, Perseus had merely returned the favor. He pulled out his watch, trying his hardest to ignore his own reflection in the polished gold. Opening it, he looked at the time. Right on time. He snapped the watch closed with a snap.

He grabbed McLaggen's freshly polished shoe and cast a delayed Caterwauling Charm on it. In five minutes, the boy's shoe would cry so loud the entire floor would hear it.

With one last glance at the broken lump at his feet, he stepped over him, and headed for the Hospital Wing. It wouldn't do to be late. He had a feeling he and Poppy were going to be in for a busy evening.