As per Violet's advice, I remove the watch from my wrist in the morning and place it surreptitiously at the bottom of my trunk. It hasn't worked since I got here, anyway, but I feel naked without it—particularly as my mobile phone is still lying on the dresser in my small bedroom at home. That McGonagall did warn me not to pack, when Mum timidly asked whether there was service at Hogwarts. Apparently an incompatibility exists between magic and all electronics.

I like to know what time it is. I resolve to ask Violet about wizarding timepieces at the first available opportunity. Presumably they run by purely mechanical means...or magic.

If I'm going to blend in here, there's more to hide than that. It's the work of a moment to shove all of my Muggle clothing deep beneath my neatly folded robes. (My fervent hope is that the other students are wearing trousers beneath their robes, but until I'm sure, I'll dress with the curtains drawn.) The next step is restacking my books so that all of the Muggle ones are on the bottom. I like to line my books up according to my own private sorting system, propped up so I can see all the spines, shining invitations. It gives me a sort of hollow feeling to hide them away, and for a split second I wonder if it's really necessary. To some witch like Cassi or Adriana who's never heard of Shakespeare, I suppose the only incriminating thing about the volume is that the pictures don't move. Surely there's a charm for that. How do wizards manage it?

On top of the pile rests my brand-new, leather-bound copy of Hogwarts, A History. The gold-embossed title nags at me. Wizarding history is clearly more relevant to my present than I supposed. But after last night's conversation I'm not sure I want to know what ugly revelations it might contain.

No, that's a pretty lame excuse. If I am to spend my time at Hogwarts lying to everyone else, I ought to at least be honest with myself. And, honestly, I hate history. It's incredibly faulty, dull, biased; written and rewritten by the uninformed and the winners. Vi has already made clear who the winners are here. What else do I really need to know?

But the book looks good on top of the stack. I'll use their lies to make my own more convincing. Lose the watch, get a new one. Already lost the phone, get an owl.

Where's the lie, though? I'm a witch. They're the ones who tracked me down and told me that. And I can bring very compelling arguments against anyone who says otherwise, I think, watching sparks flicker to life on my palm.

Thoughts of timepieces and phones have me thinking about my mother, and I resolve to write to her as soon as I can. But there's no time or privacy before breakfast. Particularly not when you've wandered the castle until two in the morning and only fell into bed six hours ago.

The clock tower strikes eight, and I realize that the dormitory emptied while I repacked my trunk. Vi is hovering behind me, poking her head through the curtains.

"Andrea …"

It takes a dazed moment to register. "What is it?"

"I've just realized…you really never had been on a broomstick before, had you?"

I turn. Violet's expression is colored over by green light from the glass wall adjacent to our beds. A silhouette darts by in the murky water, but we have both learned in past weeks to ignore it.

"Apart from, I mean, flying class the other day…"

"Really?" I turn back to my trunk, grateful that my hair is long enough to fall across my face. "You want to have this conversation now?"

"I just wanted to say…it's totally normal. Really. Loads of beginners fall off the first few times."

"Right," I say, face flushing as I bounce to my feet. It doesn't seem fair that we're having this conversation so soon after last night's revelations. After all, I was perfectly fine on the flight up through the trapdoor yesterday.

"Potter just asked if I would check on…"

Potter? Still interfering? I stop short on my way out the door, and Violet crashes into me.

"Violet," I say, as she bounces off me with a quiet 'ow'. "Please do not ever say that name to me again."

"But I—"

"Breakfast?"

"I…Okay."

I pull a tiny mirror from my bookbag as we walk, and thankfully, by the time we sit down to Belgian waffles, my complexion resembles the cream more than it does the strawberries. Violet does not bring up flying, or James Potter, again.


After classes, while Violet indulges in a much-needed nap, I break into the headmistress' office for the first but not the last time. The patched leather is soft and lifeless in my arms, but the well-remembered voice pours back into my brain when I lift it onto my head. Gritting my teeth, I resolve to remain civil. Ask my question and then leave.

Hello again, Andrea, the hat purrs. Apparently it is unconcerned about the exponential increase in my desire to throttle it over the last twenty-four hours. I'm sure my amygdala is practically glowing.

"You told me I would do well in Slytherin."

I also informed you that I predict, but do not generate outcomes.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Your father stood his whole life on a knife's edge, the one you already are coming to understand. I predict that you will fall as he did.

The hat makes a surprisingly loud thump hitting the wall.


Several weeks pass before Violet manages to catch the key. Any Potter, Weasley or even Malfoy could have done it in seconds, according to her, but we're not on speaking terms with any of the above. I have by and large taken her advice and concealed my ignorance of all things wizard from the rest of our housemates, and they consider me no more of an oddity than eleven-year-olds universally do. Still, the boastful self-assurance of the above families grates on my nerves.

"There!" Violet crows triumphantly, after nearly forty minutes of sticky effort. By my wandlight, I can see the slick of sweat on her neck as she hovers in the air above me, a large silver key clutched in her hand. It's only thanks to the highly mangled wings that she managed to capture the thing at all, but I don't voice this fact, conscious of my own helplessness in the matter. Underground or not, I still close my eyes every time we fly through the trapdoor.

"Way to go!" I cheer. No need to feign my excitement. "You'll be ready for that Seeker position in no time."

"Beater, maybe." Violet touches down with more than the usual grace and shows off a few long scratches on her arm—courtesy of the other keys. "I'm better at smacking into things than catching them. You ready for this?"

The answer turns out to be yes, if only by a narrow margin. Chess has never been my favorite game. At home I only keep in practice in case my least-favorite uncle turns up to play his mind games, and I'm grateful for the fact now. We both survive.

But the last room is something of an anticlimax. After the life-size chess game, we find ourselves in a tiny room—more of a hallway, really—sporting nothing more than a dusty wooden table. Nothing indicates its function save for a few old stains. I bend over it for a moment.

"There are rings here, like someone forgot to use a coaster…"

"Great," Violet snipes. "We've got here too late for teatime."

I grin in spite of myself, remembering the Alice in Wonderland nightmares I used to have as a child. There's no point in mentioning the analogy to Violet, as she would just remind me not to talk about Muggle entertainments in front of the other Slytherins. I'm still a little unconvinced that keeping such a low profile is necessary. But Violet is serious about this in a way that she is about few other things. Like probable death traps in an ancient castle.

"Violet, wait up! We should probably stay togeth—"

I break off, jogging after her, as the echoes of my own voice tell me what my eyes confirm a moment later. We've reached the end of the tunnel. A passage leads from the tea room into a large chamber that opens out like an auditorium, shallow sets of steps leading to a platform below. Violet is at the bottom of these, gazing at the apparent aim of our mission. A mirror.

I start down the steps, slowly. It's as large as any mirror I've ever seen, and looks as though it belongs in Buckingham Palace. Certainly it's ancient enough. Thrice the width of the full-length mirror in Mother's bedroom at home, the thing stands seven feet tall, not counting the elegant bronze feet and the intricate scrollwork that runs up the side.

Violet is too transfixed to turn at my entrance, and as I draw nearer I understand why. The mirror exudes an irresistible force of attraction. A sweet sort of longing sweeps over me as I draw closer, and I think simultaneously of pure, early-morning air on the Hogwarts grounds, of soft lamplight and worn bookshelves in the flat back home, of Tobias' purr and the photo on the mantle…

Next to me, Violet lets out a shuddering sigh, disturbing the pristine clarity of my memories.

"It's a bit of an anticlimax, I suppose," I say, coming up behind her.

I read her expression reflected back at me. Calm. Thoughtful. It's not an expression you see on Violet's face often. But I'm not mistaken; the glass of the mirror is crystal clear despite its obvious antiquity. Behind her, behind me, a shadowy echo of the room around us.

For long minutes I circle the mirror, certain there's an illusion here and wishing I knew the spell to reveal it. But this does seem to be the end of the trail.

"See anything out of the ordinary?" I ask Violet, exasperated, when she breaks out of her peaceful stillness to do the same.

"No…" Her eyes drift toward the mirror again, and then she turns back to me and her expression clears. "Except a potentially epic hideout."

I laugh. "I can hold that key captive in my bookbag as long as you like, and you're coming along nicely with the Incendio spell, but we still have to win a chess game every time we come down here."

"I have complete faith in you," Violet assures me absently, still scanning the room. "Do you get the feeling something is missing?"

"Negative space," I say, resting my hand against the stone. "That's what this place feels like."

"I thought you weren't good with feelings," Violet teases.

"I'm not good with emotions. Or humans. There's a difference."

"No chance of getting you a boyfriend, then, huh?"

"We're eleven, Vi. But don't let me cramp your style."

"Absolutely not. I'm already on the prowl."

"Just don't go for anyone annoying," I say absently, crossing back to the mirror. I light my wandtip, and a dusty inscription, invisible in the darkness, pops out at me. I read it silently, and give my reflection a critical glance. Perfectly ordinary.

"So…" Violet pauses. "Any idea what this thing is here for? Top-secret makeovers? Fashion week, maybe?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing."

Across the room, Violet lets out a cackle.

"I'm serious," I protest. "You have eight older brothers, and you're a pureblood. You know more about magic than I do."

"Not for long I don't," Violet snickers. "You're the one intent on memorizing the entire first-year curriculum."

"There is a distinct difference between healthy academic interest," I snap back, "and—"

"Sanity, yes."

"You're hardly the expert on that either. But it is weirdly peaceful down here. I don't know if it's all that suitable for raves."

"Shame," says Violet, twirling a short lock of hair around her finger. "Maybe on the next adventure. There are all sorts of rumors about this castle. My brothers even told me about a secret tunnel to Hogsmeade somewhere. Tell you the truth, I was hoping this was it."

"Surely that's a bit banal," I say, as we reluctantly retrace our path up the steps. "Given all these precautions, I mean."

Violet, like me, is long accustomed to the understatement of referring to giant magical beasts and homicidal plants as 'precautions'.

"But consider the possibilities, Annie. Chocolate Frogs…Pepper Imps…All the Jelly Slugs even your heart could desire…"

That particular addiction, born on the Hogwarts Express, is a dark secret and Violet knows it. I ignore the jibe, however, casting one last glance at the mirror, a lone, straight-backed soldier in the darkness.

The one object in the castle that might hold more secrets than the Sorting Hat, silent at my fingertips. It feels so wrong to walk away, but I tell myself I'll be back soon. Work before candy, after all.

…Well, maybe work and candy.